I face her. “You need a break from me.”
Her cheek twitches with the accusation. She’s paler than normal and deep, purple circles color the skin under her eyes. “This is hard on all of us. You’re not the only one going through it.”
“Never said I was.”
“Why are you so angry? This isn’t like you.”
“It is me. You don’t want to see it. Just because you want me to better, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”
Something breaks in her eyes. “If you look at the world—”
“Mum.”
“Let me finish.” Her tone cuts me deeper than a surgeon’s scalpel. “This pessimist viewpoint you’ve adopted won’t get you anywhere. In fact, it’ll interfere with your healing and I won’t tolerate it anymore. We’ve come too far—we crossed the bloody ocean for god’s sake—and we’ve waited too long for a donor heart to give up now.”
“I’m not giving up.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” She crosses her arms. “You really think no one notices how you’re acting? It’s obvious you’re not telling the truth and you’re doing a piss poor job at pretending.”
“I’m not the only one pretending.”
Her mouth drops.
“You want honesty? Well, the truth is that I can’t take any more of your ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ philosophy. You need to stop pretending we’ve got the happy ending, because we haven’t.” My chest tightens in progressive notches with each jab I throw at her, twisting like the wires holding my sternum together.
Her lips thin. She grabs her coat and shrugs it on, fighting with the collar a bit before it folds the right way. “I think Doctor Shaw needs to adjust your medications again. No matter what you say, I know this isn’t you and I want my old son back.” She turns on her heel and stalks out of the room.
I’m left alone to suck on the chalky bitterness of our conversation. Mum will be on the mobile with Dr. Shaw before she reaches the lift. Should be an interesting meeting when I see her next.
I move back to my windowsill perch to watch night fall. The snow has stopped, but dark clouds obscure the sky, blocking out the stars.
There’s no light for me.
* * *
After snoring all night, Dad leaves at five AM. I pretend to be asleep. True to form, he doesn’t bother me, not even to press a hand against my shoulder or whisper a goodbye. He didn’t say much last evening either. Except for three little sentences that have run through my mind all night, shocking me awake when I teetered on the edge of sleep.
“You should be more grateful. Not everybody finds a donor. And you should give your mum a break.” He said it between bites of his chicken salad sandwich.
I’d barely eaten half of mine. The taste of it had instantly shifted to sawdust in my mouth, so I’d abandoned the idea of finishing it. Dad either hadn’t noticed or decided not to comment on it. He’d spent the rest of the evening working on his computer.
I toss back the covers, tense from spending several hours in a small room with him. I don’t intend to be a disappointing son, but it’s what I am. What I’ve been. New heart or not, I’m still broken. Ruined. Useless.
The window faces southeast, so the sunrise greets me, unashamed in its nakedness. I boldly stare at the pale yellow orb as it crests the horizon, daring it to blind me. A veil of haze diffuses its power so I end up with a couple darkened spots in my vision that fade in a few seconds.
When Dr. Shaw arrives late morning, I’ve accomplished five laps around the unit, a bath (no showers because of all the bandages and wires and things), and half of my History reading assignment. The gist of it is that Brits are bad and Americans are brave and relentless in their righteous quest for freedom. Good for them, dumping a bunch of tea in a harbor. Mum calls it a bloody waste. I’d say the same, if it was coffee.
A quick knock comes on the door. Shaw prances in with a bright smile on her face. “It’s good to see you out of bed.” She plops her coat and purse on the cot. “Looks like you’re working on some homework?”
I stick a pen in the book and shut it. “Yes.”
“What subject?”
“History.”
“What part?”
“Um … ” I shrug. “You really want to talk about my reading assignment?”
“Ah, don’t like your studies?” She joins me on the windowsill and crosses her legs. Her pencil skirt stretches taught around her slight hips and her black leather knee-high boots cover her calves. She clutches something small in her hand, but I don’t ask what it is.
“I don’t really like the subject. Makes us Brits looks bad.”
She chuckles. “Fair enough. We can talk about something else. How are things going?”
I scrunch into a ball, wincing at the pulling sensation across my chest that any movement makes. “Fine.”
The corners of her mouth turn down like she smells something rancid. “We’ve discussed not using words like ‘fine.’ Describe how you’re really feeling.”
Thoughts bubble and churn, but none emerge fully formed or coherent.
“Come on. Spit it out. It doesn’t matter how stupid you think it sounds.” She nudges my toe with a manicured fingernail. Blood-red polish. “We have to break you out of this. You’re parents are worried and frankly, I am too.”
I chew on my lip ring. Cars congest the street below, along with a steady stream of pedestrians, filing in and out of a corner café. “I feel … caged, like I’m locked away in a tower. I don’t remember what fresh air is like. Food tastes bland. If I’m supposed to start acting normal, I need to get out of here.”
She hops to the floor. “All right, then. Let’s go outside.”
I turn my gaze to her, wide-eyed. Hadn’t expected that twist. “Yeah?”
“I’ll get you a mask. You have a coat and shoes?”
I nod.
“Get dressed.”
Five minutes later—and with the permission of the nursing staff—I walk through the main doors of the hospital with Dr. Shaw by my side.
She slides on a pair of designer sunglasses while I adjust the surgical mask that I have to wear in public. At least it provides a small barrier against the biting November cold. My pajama pants, on the other hand, don’t.
Since the transplant, I’ve started a new regimen of immunosuppressant drugs that prevent my body from rejecting my new heart. Wearing the mask blocks airborne germs. Touching things is potentially dangerous too. Microscopic bugs are everywhere. Hell, the common cold could kill me. Maybe I should wear a biohazard bodysuit or spend the rest of my life in a bubble.
I press the mask’s bendable nose piece tighter over the bridge of my nose, stuffing the idea of how unnatural it is to have someone else’s heart pumping inside and how taking a handful of pills twice a day confirms it.
It’s hard to believe my ribcage was splayed open and someone rifled their hands through my internal organs. It’s also hard to believe how much stronger I feel. I have a heart that can adequately pump blood through my system. Despite the soreness in my breastbone from the wires and stitches, I can take a breath and be refreshed from it.
I don’t have to worry about the lift being broken or passing out in class or dropping dead in the shower anymore.
We descend the front stairs and step off the curb to cross the street. At the corner, we turn left, heading downhill past the same café I’d watched from my window. I’m tempted to slip inside for a cup of coffee but I’m still not supposed to have caffeine. If my heart is so strong, I’m not sure why I can’t, but I don’t have money so the point is moot.
Shaw must sense my hesitation by the door. “Want to go in?”
“Nah.” I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and speed up, wishing I’d worn a hat. My ears are prickling from the cold.
She keeps pace with me—it’s not like I’m rocketing down the street, but I’m definitely walking faster than I have in months. Her boot heels cli
ck with each step, confident and self-assured. “You sure? I can feel your temptation from here.”
“I’m not supposed to.”
“What about decaf?”
I huff into my mask, scrunching my nose at the moisture collecting along my upper lip. “I don’t have any money.”
“My treat.” She flashes that bright smile again. The one she usually reserves for Mum. Must be some new tactic.
My stomach coils. “No, thanks.”
She hooks her arm through mine, resting her hand against my forearm. “Come on. I think you need to loosen up a bit. It’ll help you relax. Feel alive. You want to live, right?” She drags me to the café and we walk inside, arm in arm.
I fidget with my mask while she orders a skinny half-caff latte for herself and a decaf for me.
She pauses mid-order, turns to me with her coy eyes, and says, “How do you like it?”
This must be a new game. Dunno what it is or why, but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.
“Sir?” The cashier raises her eyebrows.
Shaw nudges me. “You haven’t chickened out have you?”
Her dare hangs in the air between us. I swallow the doubts churning up my esophagus. Mum says Shaw is a doctor and it’s her job to help people. She wouldn’t be in the profession if she had any other intentions. Besides, if I’m going to get better, I need to let go of my mistrust, for Mum’s and Dad’s sakes and my own. “Light and sweet, please.”
The cashier doesn’t flinch at my mask. She must see a lot of patients come through here along with hospital staff. She punches in the order with a winning customer service smile.
Shaw rests her purse on the counter. “Pick a table. I’ll wait for the drinks.”
Most of the morning crowd has left so most of the tables are empty. I select one by a window.
Shaw sits across from me and hands over my drink. She daintily sips her coffee while I tease the cardboard sleeve apart on mine. It frays beneath my fingernail like my nerves. I begin to wonder if we’re waiting each other out.
Finally, she says, “I’m afraid we’re backsliding here.”
I tug my mask off to take a sip. There’s a strange grittiness to it. The sugar must not have dissolved completely. “Why?”
Shaw eyes me lowering the cup. “Well, going for coffee is a big step, but you’re quieter than ever. You usually open up a bit once we’ve broken the ice.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
“Like I’ve said, you’re one of the most pensive boys I know. So, when you tell me you don’t have much to say, I can only assume your mind is clogged and you’re struggling with how to unplug it. Therapy can be your plunger.”
“And you’re like Liquid Plumber.” I take another sip, my ears ringing with the word, ‘boy.’ The grit doesn’t taste like sugar. It’s probably a synthetic substitute.
She catches the tremble of my hand. “You’re anxious. Good thing we ordered the decaf.”
How uncharacteristic of her to ignore my plumber comment. It might yet cycle around and make an encore appearance later. I slide my hands under the table. “I’m not nervous.”
She gives me a half-smile. “We’ve been working together for months, now, Adam. I can tell when something is bothering you. It’s better if you go along with the process and comply with therapy.”
I gesture to the almost empty café. “If we’re doing real therapy, shouldn’t we meet in private, like in your office?” I can’t believe I suggested being alone with her, but her office is a few blocks away, far enough where we wouldn’t have time to walk there.
“Depends on the type. When reintegrating post-transplant patients with their new life, it’s often beneficial to do every day activities with them to gauge their response and tolerance. It’s sort of like systematic desensitization.”
“How am I doing?” I glance out the window at the hospital, less than half a block away, regretting my question.
“You’ve barely drunk your coffee and your leg is jittering so bad I can feel the floor shaking.”
I freeze. Bollocks, I hadn’t even noticed my leg jumping up and down.
“What’s making you anxious?”
I chew on my lip ring, studying the silver flecks in the fake granite tabletop while I mull over my options. I could tell her the truth—she freaks me out. Or I could play the game and offer some excuse about not adjusting to having a new heart. I lived with the defective one for so long. It’s like upgrading a crappy four-cylinder engine to a supercharged V8. A nice idea, except my chassis is still the same economy car model. With rust. And bald tires.
“Adam?”
I drag my gaze up to meet hers.
She lowers her eyebrows to a straight line. “Where do you go when you retreat in your mind?”
“You know what I think about this whole thing. I don’t have to repeat myself.”
“What whole thing?”
I sigh. “The transplant. Having a new heart.”
“What’s it like?”
“I … don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I prop my elbows on the table and rest my forehead in my laced hands. A burst of cold air buffets me as a group of customers enters the café. Their chatter is bright, but it soon fades into the background. I focus on taking even breaths.
“Did you expect things to be different?” she asks.
“What do you mean?” My leg starts to jackhammer again. I drop my hands to the table.
She runs her finger along the rim of her coffee cup. “In a lot of ways, the surgery is the first step and the waiting before is, well, waiting.”
“Right. This is my second chance. One door has closed and another opened.” I leave off the yada-yada. I chug the rest of my coffee.
Her mouth tugs up in a half-smile. Wry. Challenging. “Which brings me back to the question. Did you expect things to be this way?”
I lean back in the chair and suppress a wince from stretching my chest. “What way are they?”
She narrows her eyes as if she’s deciding how much to yield. “You’ve got a new heart, but also new responsibility. There are more things to worry about, like infections, rejection of the donor heart, and the need to constantly be vigilant.”
“Vigilant?”
“If you get sick, your body can’t fight it off like healthy people.”
There it is. I’m not healthy. I’ve got a fresh start, I’m heart disease free, and I’m still weak. “What’s the point?” I mumble.
Shaw drags her chair closer until our knees almost touch. I fight the instinct to retreat. “Say that again? I didn’t hear you.”
I sigh. Once the words tumble out, I can’t reel them back in. She’ll hound me until I repeat them. “I’m wondering what the point of all of this is. I have a new heart, but now I have to take all these pills to prevent rejection and if I don’t, my body will attack it. It’s not a part of me. It’s foreign. But it’s also inside me, waiting to turn against me.”
“That’s the vigilant part I’m talking about.” She spreads her palm on the table. Delicate blue veins tangle between the tendons of her hand.
“My parents think I should be fixed, but I’m not. I couldn’t trust my old heart and I can’t trust this one.”
She retreats to the other side of the table. “Your father called me early this morning. He wonders why you’re not more grateful for the gift you’ve been given.”
I choke on a breath. It’s like a lance has impaled my chest. So far, Mum has been the one to communicate with Dr. Shaw and Dad’s taken a hand’s off approach. Now they’ve all ganged up on me. None of them care to listen. They think they know what’s going on, but they don’t and trying to explain things only makes it worse. I give up. Forfeit. Surrender.
“To tell you the truth, I have to wonder the same thing.” Steel glints in her eyes.
“I’m not talking about this anymore with you or anyone else.” I stan
d and walk away from her.
The light-hearted-hey-let’s-play-hospital-hooky outing is over.
Chapter Ten
Darby
Since I proved how well my lungs worked by screaming my head off, I was immediately moved to the pediatric wing. That was yesterday. Twenty four hours have passed since I woke up and my brother didn’t.
He’d survived the crash. Or his body had. But his brain had been damaged so badly he’d never come out of the coma. Mom and Dad had decided to stop life support. They gave up on him.
And here I sit, empty, sometimes quiet and numb and other times crying uncontrollably. Mom and Dad don’t know what to do with me. Nurses try to help me with games and treats and smiles. The doctor says my broken bone in my neck should heal and I’ll be able to start physical therapy soon, but she worries about willingness to go along with it.
I sit in middle of my bed, wrapped in three blankets, each pale pink. I rock back and forth, staring at the pastel safari animal decals plastered on the mint green walls. Baby giraffes, elephants, and gazelles jump across the painted grass under the lemon yellow ceiling. Their pale colors contrast with the plaid curtains that are bright red, green, and blue. The designer must’ve gotten confused. Are we in Kindergarten Scotland or Baby Zoo Africa?
I’m confused too. It doesn’t make sense why I lived while Daniel, the perfect son, brother, athlete, friend, and student, died.
Mom and Dad should forget about me, but they keep trying to fix me.
I don’t deserve it.
Mom went so far as to bring in my art supplies this morning. Says I should try painting to work through my grief. It can help me regain strength too. The canvases and supplies she brought lay abandoned in the corner, alone.
I have no desire to touch them. No desire to remember my old life.
Through it all, I keep breathing and my heart keeps beating while everything else inside me shrivels and dies.
Mom and Dad arrive after dinner. They hang their coats neatly in the locker-sized closet and drag two chairs to my bed.
Yay, broken family quality time.
Under My Skin Page 9