This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

The detective stares at him like a stray dog he wants to take home but can’t. Matt leaves feeling worse than when he came.

  18

  The familiar tap-tap sounds against the office door and Dr. Hughes walks in.

  I pocket my phone and look up. I’ve been mentally sitting on the edge of my seat, wanting to call Matt since Cassie called. I left Mom at lunch and went to the bathroom to call. Then I didn’t.

  I’m not sure what to say to him. I’m not sure if I think Cassie was hiding something. I’m not sure … not sure Matt and I have a chance of being anything. I’m scared that the kiss might be the last one I’ll get from him. Scared to … hope.

  For so long I didn’t allow myself to hope. Hope wasn’t for someone with a dying or dead heart. At least not one with AB blood.

  Now I’m afraid of … hope. How sad is that?

  “No Dumbo or Mickey?” Dr. Hughes’s smile is contagious.

  In my state of mind, I’m surprised she pulls one out of me.

  “They were sleeping in when I left.” I tug the paper gown together.

  She pulls a chair beside the exam bed and sits down. She’s unlike any doctor I’ve met. She always seems genuinely happy to see me. She’s never in a hurry. She doesn’t just talk about my health. She talks about my life.

  Probably because she saved it.

  “How are you?” she asks.

  “Fine, I think.”

  Her smile loses its sparkle. “What’s going on?”

  Dr. Hughes, a cardiologist who specializes in children, is a member of the transplant team. She requests to see her patients without their parents for the first half of the visit. Just in case they have concerns or questions they don’t want the parents to know. I’ve never really had questions I couldn’t ask in front of my mom.

  Until now.

  If I can find the courage to ask them.

  “Spill.” She lifts a brow.

  I swallow. “Yesterday I woke up and remembered one of the dreams and then when I took my blood pressure it was high.”

  “How high?” she asks.

  “One sixty over a hundred.”

  She gets that look I’ve seen on her face so many times. Like the time I came in and couldn’t catch my breath. Or the time after I got my artificial heart and returned with a fever. “That’s high. Was the dream upsetting?” She stands and pulls the blood pressure cuff from her white lab-coat pocket.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you retake it?” She fits the cuff on my arm.

  “It was lower, but still high. Then when I took it that night, it was normal. Well, five points from my regular pressure. And it was normal this morning.”

  She’s quiet as she checks my blood pressure. “It’s fine now. Your bloodwork’s fine too. It was probably from the dream.”

  “That’s what I thought.” I smile.

  “I’m surprised your mother didn’t call me.”

  I shrug with guilt. “I didn’t tell her. I … You know how she is. She’d freak.”

  She cuts me a serious look, reminding me of how Mom looks at me sometimes. “Better to freak than to ignore things.”

  “If it’d been high later, I’d have told her.”

  “No other symptoms? Heart palpitations? Breathing issues? Swelling?” She reaches down and touches my ankles. “Tightness in the chest?”

  I’ve had plenty of that but only … “None that aren’t tied to the dreams.”

  She sits back down. “Are the dreams the same as before? Running? Then the headaches?”

  I nod. Part of me wants to tell her everything, but …

  “How often do you have them? Are they keeping you up?”

  “Two or three times a week, but I usually go back to sleep.”

  She leans back. “I could give you something to help you sleep, but—”

  “No. Sleeping pills make me groggy.” Then I might not remember my dreams.

  She presses a finger to her chin. “Maybe we should do another biopsy.”

  “No. You said I wouldn’t need another one for nine months. Like you said, it’s the dreams.”

  They’ve gone in once and snagged a few pieces of Eric’s heart to make sure it’s not in rejection mode. It requires a hospital stay. The last thing I want is to go back there.

  She considers it. “Okay, but if your blood pressure goes up again, you call me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Are you ready for school?”

  I nod.

  “Excited?”

  “And scared.”

  “Why?”

  I decide to confess a bit more. “I went to a party on New Year’s and hung out with my old friends.”

  “And?” she asks.

  “And I felt different. Like I didn’t fit anymore.”

  “What you’ve been through is life altering. You don’t go through something like this without growing up. And when we grow up, we’re different.”

  “I don’t know if it’s growing up. I’m just … different. People I used to know and accept now annoy me. For so long, I’ve wanted to get back to being me. Now I feel like I’m trying to live someone else’s life.”

  “Then don’t. Live the life you want. Be who you are now.”

  “I still haven’t figured her out,” I say.

  “You will.” Confidence hangs on her words.

  I remember my other question. I open my paper gown. “How long until it fades?”

  “It was around nine months when mine became less angry looking. Some take a year. You’re using the cream, right?”

  I nod.

  She studies me, and I swear she’s reading my mind. “What about the boy who you used to date? Have you seen him?”

  Yup, a mind reader. The fact that she knows I’m thinking about getting naked with someone has me squirming inside and out. “How did you remember that? We talked about him a year ago. Do you remember everything your patients tell you?”

  She smiles. “Just the good parts. Have you seen this guy?”

  “He was at the party.”

  “And?” she asks.

  “He’s one of the things I don’t think I fit with anymore.” Before I even think about it, I add, “but there’s another guy.” I don’t know why I throw that out there, except I don’t like sounding pathetic. Or maybe I’m excited?

  She smiles.

  I don’t.

  “I’m not really sure we fit either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because school starts Monday and we’re not … in the same league.”

  When she looks confused, I add, “He’s a quarterback and I’m…”

  “Totally awesome,” she says.

  “You say that just because I’m your patient.”

  “Please. I have lots of not-awesome patients.” Honesty rings in her voice. “You do realize that after high school that whole clique stuff goes away.”

  “But I’m not out yet.”

  “Have you two dated? This new guy, I mean?”

  “No. We walked his dog and had lunch … twice. But that doesn’t—”

  “Is he hot?”

  “You a cougar?” I grin.

  She laughs. “Depends how hot.”

  “Yeah. He’s hot.”

  She pulls out her stethoscope. “How do you feel about birth control?”

  I choke on air. “I … We’ve only kissed … twice.” But I clearly recall the “more” feeling when kissing him.

  She rubs the end of the scope on her sleeve to warm it. “Is he a good kisser?”

  “Yes, but…”

  She lifts one eyebrow. “Good kisses lead places.”

  My face warms. “But my parents wouldn’t … If Mom knew I kissed him, she’d flip because of the germs.”

  “As long as he’s not sick, I’m not going to tell you not to kiss. Not that you should kiss just anyone. Only the really hot ones.” She pauses. “As for the birth control … Let me handle that. The thing you need to remember is that, while sex is on the table, pre
gnancy isn’t.”

  “I know.” I remember the little boy watching fireworks. “About the pregnancy.” Not so much about the sex. Besides, the scar just might be all the birth control I need.

  She listens to my heart. I wonder if it’s too fast from thinking about sex. And Matt. I do the routine of breathing deep, holding it, breathing normal.

  She pulls back. “You sound good.”

  I nod.

  “Have you and your parents talked about college yet?”

  I sort of sink into myself. It’s not that I haven’t thought about college, but when the thought hits, my mental brakes screech to a halt.

  I realize she’s waiting for an answer. “I had plans before I got sick. Dad and Mom both went to University of Houston. I was going to follow in their footsteps.”

  “Let me guess. You’re going for an English degree?”

  She’s got me figured out. Maybe even better than I do. “That or journalism was a consideration.”

  “Was?”

  “I…” I don’t know what to say, but then it falls out of me. “I lived one day at a time for so long. I’ve moved up to a week at a time. I haven’t gotten to months, much less years yet.”

  “That’s a great way to put it.” She sets her warm hand on my shoulder. “My job is to make sure you get years. Your job is to plan them.”

  Emotion crowds my throat. I don’t even know why. I don’t think I’m dying anymore. Do I? Maybe I just can’t let go of what it felt like to … watch your dreams shrivel up and die, because you don’t have time. Because some freaking virus that you’ve never heard of stole your life. To suddenly find yourself where those dreams didn’t even matter anymore. To be at a place where your biggest goal was getting up enough strength to walk to the bathroom, because using a bed pan was humiliating.

  “I’ll try, but I don’t think my parents are ready to talk about college either.”

  Dr. Hughes sits back. “I think going to a local college for a year is wise. But after that, the sky’s the limit.”

  She squeezes my hand. “You’ve got a future, Leah. Plan for it. Figure out who you are and what you want. Then go do it. Do it large. It’s people like you who make a big splash. Don’t be afraid to take a chance. Win or lose. That’s what life is, a bunch of chances.”

  “You sound like my grandma.”

  “As long as I don’t look like her,” Dr. Hughes says.

  I smile. Emotion stirs in my chest. My emotion. Mine. I can feel the difference from this and what I felt when talking to Cassie.

  “Any other questions or concerns?” she asks.

  I hesitate. I swallow. Dare I ask her? My own best friend doesn’t believe me. Take a chance. “Sometimes I feel … Have any of your other patients felt as if…” I put my hand on my chest and start over. “I have someone else’s heart and I think this heart feels things and I’m not feeling.”

  Dr. Hughes uncrosses her legs and her shoulders tighten, making her appear taller. I wish I could suck the words back in. Instead of looking at her face, I stare at her name embroidered on her white coat.

  “Have you been reading the Internet?” she asks.

  I look up. “Only after I started feeling like this.”

  “What exactly are you feeling?”

  “Just emotions.”

  She studies me. “The dreams part of this?”

  I nod.

  She crosses her arms. “What do you think the dreams mean?”

  That someone killed Eric. I hold back. “I’m not sure.” It’s a lie. How many does that make today?

  “Leah, medically, there’s no proof that the stories you read are true. The claims are based on the fact that all cells have memory and that hasn’t been proven. Experts believe it’s nothing more than anecdotal evidence.”

  I hear what she’s saying, and I think I hear what she’s not saying. “So what do you believe?”

  Dr. Hughes exhales. “I just told you.”

  “No, you said ‘medically’ and that experts believe. I want to know what you believe and if other patients experienced this.”

  She sighs. “You’re going to put me on the spot, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Okay. Yes, I’ve had patients tell me things like this.”

  “How many?”

  “Less than ten, and I’ve worked on over a hundred transplant cases.”

  “And you still don’t believe it?”

  “In most cases, the patients were highly susceptible to believing anything. The stories were vague and lacked substance. Like a patient who suddenly developed a sweet tooth, so the donor must have loved candy. They don’t realize the prednisone they’re taking increases appetite.”

  I wonder if that could explain the Indian food. Probably. I wonder if I’m one she considers highly susceptible.

  “And the other cases?”

  She frowns. “A few have been more convincing.” She hesitates. “I’m not saying I believed it. I’m saying my patients believed it and their stories held more merit.”

  “So you think it’s possible?” I ask.

  “I didn’t … What I think is that I offer hope to people who didn’t have any. I offer life. And the last thing I want is these unproven cases to cause even one person to be afraid to take the chance modern medicine offers them.”

  “It wouldn’t have stopped me, even if someone told me this,” I say.

  “Not everyone is as brave as you are.”

  I laugh. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

  “No,” she says. “Would you like to talk to someone about the dreams? A psychiatrist?”

  “No.” I answer quickly.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  At least I know I’m not the only heart patient who has experienced this. Dr. Hughes may not completely believe it, but I see the glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes.

  Then I hear her words of wisdom: Don’t be afraid to take a chance. Win or lose. That’s what life is, a bunch of chances. Am I really going to take a chance on Matt?

  * * *

  Mom’s quiet on the drive home. Too quiet. I’m guessing it’s the talk Dr. Hughes had with her when she sent me out to the waiting room. The birth control talk. A couple of times, I see Mom look at me as if to say something. Then she turns back and faces the road.

  I’m normally all for speaking your mind—especially lately—but right now I’m glad she’s holding back. I’m not ready to have this talk.

  She pulls up in our drive. “We’re running late,” she says. “Your dad wanted us to be ready to go when he gets home. So grab your stuff. We have less than an hour.”

  “Okay.” I’m mostly packed, but that gives me time to call Matt. I have to tell him about Cassie calling me.

  We get out and walk into the house.

  I start toward my room and Mom says, “Leah? Uh, can we talk a minute?”

  I swallow. “I thought we had to hurry.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  19

  I follow her into the kitchen. “Let’s get some hot chocolate.”

  Oh, damn. Whenever Mom brings hot chocolate into a conversation, she means business.

  My pulse races. I don’t know why. We’ve had the sex talk. But then we haven’t had the get-you-on-birth-control talk.

  I drop into a chair. Mom puts two cups of hot water in the microwave and busies herself gathering spoons, hot chocolate, and marshmallows. She’s rubbing her palms on the sides of her jeans. I’m not the only one who’s nervous.

  She sets everything down in front of me, but stares at the microwave, waiting for the ding. The only noise in the room is the electric hum of the appliances. The beep breaks the silence, and she delivers the hot water and sits down.

  We add the chocolate powder to our cups. I even pour a handful of marshmallows from my bag. They bob up and down, then start to melt. I wish I could melt away.

  “Dr. Hughes sugges
ted I take you to a gynecologist and get you on birth control.”

  I knew what this was going to be about, but I panic hearing it. I snag my spoon and run laps around my cup, watching the last of the marshmallows dissolve into sweet white foam.

  I need to say something. I have choices. I can probably nip this conversation in the bud by telling the truth. Tell her I’m not having sex. That I wasn’t the one to mention birth control. But if I do that, she’ll decide it isn’t necessary. Then when I start thinking about having sex, I’m going to have to bring this up again. And then she’ll know I’m planning to have sex. I so don’t want my mom to know when I’m planning to have sex.

  “Yeah.” My tongue feels too big for my mouth. My mouth is too dry. I take a sip of hot chocolate. It burns my tongue and I can’t taste it. The marshmallow foam coats my upper lip.

  “Are you and Matt, uh, that serious?”

  I open my mouth to explain. Nothing comes out.

  “Two days ago you said he wasn’t your boyfriend.”

  “Yeah.” I’m not sure what I said “yeah” to. By the look on her face, Mom isn’t either. “I like him,” I spit out.

  “So he’s your boyfriend?” She looks confused.

  “I don’t know. When we start school … He’ll have his friends.”

  “What do his friends have to do with it?”

  “He’s quarterback and they normally date cheerleaders. I don’t know if he’ll still notice me then.”

  She nods like she understands. “I see.” Her brows tighten. “I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I’m not having sex with him,” I blurt out. Don’t leave it there. Don’t leave it there. “But…” Damn, damn, damn. I can’t do it.

  “But what?” she asks.

  “But I’m almost eighteen and…” I can’t say more, and not because it’s about sex but because … it’s months away. I’m barely thinking a week at a time.

  I take a deep, shaky breath. Don’t be afraid to take a chance. Win or lose. That’s what life is, a bunch of chances. “Maybe it’s not a bad idea,” I finally finish.

  Mom’s pupils dilate. I don’t know if it’s disappointment or shock. Part of me feels she’s about to ground me.

  “I’ll … make you an appointment. I just don’t want … Being on birth control doesn’t mean you should do something before you’re ready.”