Under My Skin

by Laura Diamond

  Dad breaks the silence first. “Did you eat supper?”

  I chew on a ragged fingernail.

  Mom reaches for a can of Boost with a sigh. She pulls the tab and drops a straw into the hole. She holds the can under my nose. “Drink up. Strawberry is your favorite.”

  I glare at her with my best leave-me-alone face.

  “Open your mouth,” she says, like she’s talking to a toddler.

  I suck on the straw until it’s all gone. I might as well chew on ash.

  Mom sets the empty can on the table and sits next to me. She wraps her arm around my shoulder. “Darby, honey, please tell us what’s going on. I know you’re sad about Daniel. We all are. But we need to communicate in order to get through it. Sitting here, doing nothing, it’s not healthy.”

  I pick at a scab on my hand. The pain distracts me from her comfort.

  A tiny dot of blood pools in the groove. I wipe the droplet away with my thumb and then suck on it. The taste of bitter metal steeps on my tongue.

  Dad unbuttons the top button of his shirt and tugs his tie loose. “Darbs, you need to snap out of this.”

  I rip my fingers through my greasy hair.

  Mom rests her forehead against my temple. Her tears stick to my skin. “We’ve already lost one child. Don’t make us lose another.”

  So they’re holding onto me like a life raft, hoping I can stop the sinking Titanic that is our lives. They know I’m defective. They shouldn’t waste their time.

  “Leave me alone,” I say. I want to add, “Forget about me. Pretend I’m dead. Move on.”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Mom pulls me closer.

  “We love you, Darbs.” Dad moves to the other side of my bed. He wraps his arms around both of us, sandwiching me in affection they’d ordinarily pour over Daniel.

  Sweat breaks out across my forehead. My palms are clammy.

  What they don’t say is they loved him more. The strawberry drink sloshes in my stomach. It’s sick that my brother has to die for my parents to pay me any attention. It’s worse that I want to sink into it. But I can’t. I don’t deserve it. I’m the booby prize when what they should have is the grand prize—their perfect son.

  I choke out a sob. “Why didn’t I die?” The question comes out in a wail.

  Dad hugs us tighter.

  The pit of lava in my gut bubbles up.

  “The accident was my fault.” I wait for their arms to retreat.

  Mom stiffens.

  “What do you mean?” Caution coils around Dad’s words.

  I sniff. “We were arguing.”

  “Oh, Darby.” Mom eases away from me—the beginning of her withdrawal from me. Good. This fits our normal script better. While it hurts, it also makes more sense.

  I hug myself to hold in the bits of me that are crumbling off. “He’s dead because of me.”

  Mom tucks a strand of my icky hair behind my ear. “It was an accident. The roads were icy. You had nothing to do with that.”

  “I distracted him.”

  “What were you fighting about?” Dad retreats to the window and rests his butt against the sill. He rolls up his sleeves. Time to get to work on solving the puzzle of Darby.

  I suck on my bottom lip, hesitating. It’s too embarrassing to tell. My brother’s dead because of a couple pictures and a lame revenge plot. Maybe putting it out there will be the final blow. Mom and Dad will have to leave once they find out what I did.

  Mom stands. “Did you get in trouble at the game?”

  “No, I wasn’t in trouble.”

  She returns to the chair, taking her warmth with her. As foreign as it is, I miss it. “Then what happened?”

  “It was stupid.” Bile rises to my throat.

  Dad lowers his chin. His face is all wrinkled forehead, squinted eyes, and thin lips, cancelling out his “we love you” line from a minute ago. Love shouldn’t have conditions, but it does for me. “That makes no sense, Darby. Why pick a fight when the weather was so bad? Couldn’t it have waited until you got home?”

  This is what I’m used to. Anger. Confusion at my stupidity.

  “Phillip, go easy on her,” Mom says.

  “She just said she caused the accident, Annette!” He shoves off the windowsill. His eyes are sharp and piercing. “Why is it that you’re always in the mix when bad things happen?”

  “Phillip.” Mom scrunches her face like she’s going to be sick.

  I stare up at him, shaking. “You wish I died instead, don’t you?”

  “Jesus, Darby.” Dad runs his hand through his thick black hair—care of Just For Men hair dye—and paces the small area between my bed and the window.

  “We don’t wish you died,” Mom says. She slides to the edge of her seat, but doesn’t reach out to touch me. Maybe it’s finally dawning on her that life will be smoother without Darby to mess it up.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Listen to me, honey. Accidents happen.” Mom’s not letting go.

  I can’t understand why.

  Dad pauses, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling.

  “Daniel’s death was not the end for him. His heart went to someone right here, in this hospital. He gave the gift of life to so many others.” Mom expression brightens with hope. Soon she’ll start talking about how he’s looking down on us from Heaven.

  Dad covers his mouth with a hand. His face goes red. He sucks in a shaky breath. I doubt he feels the same way.

  “I have to hold onto that and you should too,” Mom adds.

  I toss the blankets aside and stand. My greasy hair covers my face in chunks. I feel crazy. I probably look crazy. “You let the doctors cut him up in pieces and give parts of him away? Is this hospital running a chop shop?”

  Mom recoils. Horror snaps through her eyes, widening them with disgust. “How could you say something like that?”

  “He wasn’t dead. You had to pull the plug.” Someone else has Daniel’s heart. It beats in his or her chest, strong, alive. Stolen. And my brother is lying dead in a coffin.

  Mom slumps into the chair. Her whole body shakes.

  Dad circles to my side of the bed. “He was brain dead, Darby.”

  “He was alive!”

  “He wasn’t, honey. His body was, but his mind was gone. He was gone. H-he’s in Heaven now.” Mom’s voice shakes like she’s grasping onto what she’s saying with her fingernails. Problem is, her hold is slipping. The rock under her hands is sand, and there’s nothing to steady her.

  A chill shudders down my spine. I don’t believe in life after death. Once your heart stops beating, that’s it. Game over. And I certainly don’t buy the whole silver lining bullshit. I mean, she’s happy that Daniel’s organs were donated? Doesn’t change the fact that he’s dead.

  He’d dead. He’s dead! He’s dead!

  I yank on my c-collar, gasping for breath. I pull until the Velcro tabs loose.

  Mom launches from her chair. She clamps her hands over mine. “Phillip, help.”

  Dad pries my left hand away from the collar while Mom does the same with my right. “Darby, stop.”

  “Get off me!” My screech pierces my ears, but I don’t care. I twist and bend, but Dad manages to pin my wrist behind my back. He wraps his other arm around me while Mom calls for help.

  It’s too much. I break down into sobs.

  About six nurses and aids rush in, ready for action.

  Nissa, a petite woman with a bubble gum pink stripe in her hair takes the lead. “What happened?”

  Mom quickly explains while the group yanks on rubber gloves. It’s about to get down and dirty.

  “You have to leave the collar on, Darby.” Nissa speaks in a calm voice.

  It breaks through the noise in my mind. I go rigid in Dad’s bear hug. “Get them out of my room.”

  Nissa’s brow furrows with confusion. “Who?”

  I wiggle against Dad’s solid hold. “My par
ents.”

  “Why?”

  I stare at Mom. I have to get her out. Dad’s already teetering on the edge and if she leaves, he’ll follow. “They killed my brother, that’s why.”

  My words are a fist that crumples Mom’s face. Her jaw lowers in shock and she collapses back into the chair, winded, broken.

  Dad’s hold falters. He steps away from me.

  I turn to face him. “He was alive.”

  He squares his jaw, turns on his heel, and grabs Mom’s arm. “Let’s go, Annette.”

  Mom follows him.

  I get what I want.

  I’m alone.

  * * *

  The next morning, a tall, thin woman walks into my room while I’m towel drying my hair. Such fun showering with a c-collar on.

  Sunlight peeks through the window and the woman steps into the spotlight it creates. Everything about her is rich and stuffy, from her slick bun to her designer clothes. She extends her hand to me. “I’m Doctor Shaw. I work with the heart transplant team and provide psychotherapy for donor families and recipients. You must be Darby.”

  I eye her while tugging on the end of my towel. The transplant team. Are they fishing for more organs? “You’re a shrink?”

  “A psychiatrist.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Your parents called this morning. They told me what’s been going on and they asked if I could help you work through things.”

  “Did they mention I’m crazy?”

  She lowers her brows to a straight line. “No. Not at all. Losing a brother—a twin at that—is such a painful thing to go through, no one should have to do it alone.”

  “Glad you know everything about it.” I roll my eyes.

  She tips her head to the side. “I’m not feeding you a line, Darby.”

  “Whatever.” I toss the towel to the end of the bed and pick up a comb. I drag it through my hair. The tines catch on a knot. Ugh.

  “You said some hurtful things to your parents last night.”

  I drop the comb. It plops on my lap. “Are you here to yell at me?”

  She face softens. “No. I’m here to help you.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  Shaw pulls up a chair. “I work with grieving people every day. Take my word, you will get through this.”

  I go back to detangling my hair.

  “I have to say though, you’re the first twin I’ve worked with.”

  “I’m not a twin anymore.”

  Shaw drags her chair closer, scraping the metal legs across the tile floor. The wail sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. “You’ll always be a twin, Darby Fox.”

  I twist my entire upper body to face her. It’s the only way I can move with the c-collar holding my neck straight.

  Dr. Shaw leans forward, her elbows on her knees, fists tucked under her chin. Her dark eyes radiate warmth and something else I can’t quite name. “Nothing can break the bond you and your brother shared.”

  “Death can.”

  She doesn’t flinch. Mom would have. “Your parents said you’re not taking Daniel’s organs being donated well.”

  My throat tightens.

  “It must have felt like your own heart was carved out of your chest when you found out.”

  I twist the comb with both hands. It snaps in two.

  “I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft. Soothing. Judgment-free.

  “It hurts so much I can’t breathe sometimes.” The sharp edge of the comb digs into my palm. I press the pad of my thumb against it until I draw blood.

  Shaw stands and gently rests her hand over mine. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

  I drag my gaze away from our hands to her face. “Who?”

  She eases the broken comb pieces from my hands. “My mother. She died when I was thirteen. Her heart was donated to someone too.”

  Her confession settles over me like an ice bath. I shiver. “How’d you deal with it?”

  She puts the broken ends of the comb together so it looks whole. “I didn’t at first. I remember feeling a lot of anger over how unfair it was that someone else got to have their mother while I lost mine.” The edge of her mouth curls up in an I-can’t-believe-I’m-admitting-this half-smile. “I believed the woman who received my mother’s heart stole it from her.”

  I had the same thought! The ice bath of pain I’ve been wading in swells over my head and pours down my throat. It sloshes in my guts, chilling me from the inside out. I suck on my bottom lip.

  “It’s okay if you’ve felt the same way. Thoughts and feelings are normal. It’s how we deal with them that makes the difference.”

  “You got over it?”

  The half-smile fades. “No, not entirely. I don’t think you ever do. But I’ve found a way to cope. I’ve worked through it. I’ve survived. And so can you.”

  I can’t live like this. Ripped apart. Empty. Alone. I can’t bear the thought of leaving Daniel behind, in the ground, while I live on. Then again, he spent half his time watching out for me so I’d have a good life. I’d be a pretty crappy sister if I let his death destroy me. “Will you help me?”

  Shaw stands. “Of course, honey. That’s why I’m here.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Adam

  Shaw shows up a bit early, carrying a tray with two venti coffees. She catches up to me on my final lap around the ward and walks me to my room. I don’t bother greeting her. She doesn’t bother with small talk.

  I kick off my slippers, yank off my facemask, and retreat to my windowsill nest. It’s stuffed with a pillow, blanket, a few books, and my schoolwork. I fumble with my copy of Frankenstein. Still she says nothing. She just stands there at the end of my bed, staring at me.

  It’s creepy.

  I toss the book aside in favor of the facemask. Bit by bit, I tear the mask to shreds, letting the tattered pieces fall on my lap, the windowsill around me, and to the floor.

  My hands shake. Actually, my whole body quivers as if I’ve drank three espressos. My legs itch to run and I haven’t run in years. I tighten my muscles, close my fists, and grit my teeth.

  The next fifty minutes are going to be hell.

  “You’re giving that mask the what for,” she says, breaking the so-called ice that seals the beginning of our sessions.

  I shrug.

  “So you’re really not going to talk to me?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  “At least tell me why you’re so angry with me.”

  I splay my fingers on my thighs. “I’m not angry.”

  “Repressing it doesn’t make it go away.”

  I make eye contact with her, reluctantly.

  “It’s better when you’re honest, Adam. And not just honest with me, but with yourself.” She holds a coffee out to me. “Decaf, light and sweet.”

  I toggle my lip ring, caught in indecision.

  “Go on. Take it. I feel bad about what happened yesterday. Consider this an amends.”

  “Thanks.” I accept the peace offering. It’s easier than keeping the fight going.

  She takes a sip of what I assume is a latte, failing to hide her satisfied smile. “What should we talk about today?”

  Instead of answering, I take a long, long drink from mine. The same grit from yesterday’s coffee is in this one. Seems more bitter today. I grimace, chewing on the sandy substance.

  “Maybe we should review the coffee shop incident.”

  I set my coffee aside. “Incident?”

  “I didn’t expect you to walk out on session. Something must’ve really triggered you. We should process it.”

  I rest my skull against the wall. Shaw’s right. Something had triggered me. She had asked a good question yesterday and the answer is, no, I didn’t expect things to be this way. I didn’t expect to be accused of ungratefulness. I didn’t expect to cast out my mother. I didn’t expect Dad to blab to Shaw.

 
I didn’t expect things to be worse.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She taps her palm against her cup. “I’m not opposed to giving you some space. Why don’t I come back tomorrow and we can try again? You can use today’s session time to think about what you’d like to say.”

  “Look, I meant what I said yesterday. I’m done with therapy.”

  The brightness in her expression fades, fractured by the hard lines of her thin face. Her almost black eyes dig into me. “I’ll have to speak to your parents about this.”

  “Fine.” Let her talk to them. They can’t make me continue therapy. She can’t force me to process anything. I can make my own decisions.

  Point made, she retreats out of the room.

  I exhale with relief and chug the rest of my drink. In the end, it’s a total disappointment. The rich coffee flavor I crave is there, but the chalky bits floating at the bottom are beyond bitter. I have to brush my teeth twice to erase the grit.

  Ricky, the physical therapist knocks on the door about an hour later. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, but comes striding in with a smile plastered across his face like it’s part of his uniform. His sweatpants swoosh as he walks. There’s a hole over his right knee. His polo shirt—which has the hospital logo stitched on it—looks like it’s been washed ten thousand times. His brand name trainers don’t have a speck on them. Priorities, I gather. “Morning, Adam. Finished with Doctor Shaw?”

  In more ways than one. I tip my head in his direction to greet him. “Yes.”

  “Ready for your daily dose of PT? I won’t let you beg out of it like you did yesterday, killer headache or not.” He rubs his hands together. Reminds me of a tiger licking its chops before leaping at its prey.

  “I thought my head was going to explode.” I did. Damn thing lasted most of the afternoon and nothing made it go away until the doctor ordered some Percocet.

  “Fair enough.” He spots the shreds of mask litter. His eyebrow ticks up. “What the … ?”

  “It’s a mask. I was bored.” He doesn’t have to know the real reason I tore the thing to shreds.

  He chuckles. “Guess you’ll need a new one, then.”