Nobody should have to handle this.
“Whoa. What…?” he asks. “What’s going on, Leah?”
I swallow my tears. No. No. No. Can’t let him see me cry. “Maybe we were just supposed to find out the truth about Eric together. And we did.”
He looks slapped. I feel slapped. I feel sapped. I feel sick.
I take a step to my car.
He catches my arm.
“Wait!” he says. He’s getting mad—or, I should say, frustrated. Matt doesn’t get so much mad as he does hurt. But this is going to hurt him much less now than if he has to watch me lose Eric’s heart.
He lost his dad.
He lost Eric.
Now he’ll lose me. And Eric again.
“What are you saying? What did I do? If I did something wrong, or said something … wrong, I’m sorry.”
“You lied. And you didn’t call me back.”
“When did I not call you back?”
“The first time,” I say. “You kissed me and then you wouldn’t even call me. I can’t trust you.”
He holds his arms out, as if he wants to pull the world back to him. “I apologized for that. I was in a bad place. But this isn’t … What’s really going on?”
Pain. I see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. Marbles, big old gnarly knots of hurt form in my chest. I need to leave.
Now.
I pull away.
“Leah,” he says my name.
I get in my car. Before I pull out of the school parking lot, I turn my phone off and my heater on. It’s warm outside, and yet I’m cold. A chill spiders up my spine.
Symptom number four: fever.
When I get home, I confirm symptom number four with my thermometer. It’s 101.
I check my blood pressure. This time it’s low. Too low.
Symptom number five: low blood pressure.
I sit on my bed, my phone in my hands. I think about what this call is going to do to my mom. To my dad. I think about what it will do to Brandy and to Matt. Even Matt’s mom, who still hasn’t accepted that I have Eric’s heart. But I know she’s not all bad. She raised Matt and he’s good. So I know sooner or later she’ll hurt. It’ll be like losing Eric again for her too.
Mom answers her phone on the first ring. “Everything okay?”
Her tone, that hint of fear in her voice, disturbs me. Maybe she’s never really gotten over me being sick. Maybe it’s a mother’s intuition. I can almost see her rubbing her free hand down the side of her hip. I remember how raw her hands were for so long. I remember when she had to put Band-Aids on them. And I’m doing it to her again.
“I’ve got a fever.”
“Sore throat?” she asks.
“No.”
“Blood pressure?”
“Ninety over sixty.”
I hear that sound. The way her breath catches. It’s so small. But it’s so loud. I recognize it. It’s pain. It’s fear. It’s her losing another piece of her soul.
I close my eyes. I’m sorry, I want to say. I’m so sorry.
“Where are you?” she asks.
“Home.”
“I’m on my way.”
I hang up. A chill runs down my spine. I pull my pink covers up and over me. I start shivering. I’m alone. I’m scared. I’m going to die.
My fever is up to 103 when Mom gets there. She starts freaking out.
“Mom,” I tell her. “It’s gonna be all right.” But I know it isn’t.
She calls my dad and I hear them talking, trying to decide if she should take me to the closest hospital or the bigger one. The transplant hospital.
They decide on the transplant hospital. Dad’s meeting us there. I get in her car. I take my blanket and my phone with me. But my phone is off. I’ll keep it off.
Mom almost pushes me out the door. I have a hard time buckling the seat belt. Mom does it for me.
She’s leaning over. It clicks locked. Her scared round green eyes lift and meet mine. “I love my pink blanket,” I say.
She does one of those laughs that sounds like a cry. And I think it’s both.
I lean against the window and watch the world go past. I kind of remember doing this when I went in for the transplant.
We don’t talk. Except every five minute when she asks, “Okay?”
And I lie. “Okay.” But in truth, it’s getting hard to breathe.
I close my eyes and think about the ocean.
And I think about the locket in my jewelry box. And I wonder, did the girl who owned it push everyone away to protect them? Was that why it was empty? To save someone from being hurt?
If that was it, then it’s not as sad as I thought it was. Then at least she loved someone. Like I loved Matt. And maybe that’s enough.
Mom won’t let me even try to get out of the car. She blows the horn and runs in. I can hear her shouting. I shut my eyes tighter, as if that will keep me from hearing.
Almost immediately, a gurney is rolled out. They get me out of my car. I try to hold on to my blanket, but they won’t let me.
The second I’m rolled into the emergency room, I see Dad. Then I see Dr. Hughes. Dad probably called her.
From across the room, her gaze meets mine. I see it. Disappointment. Even a little fear. She really, really, really wanted to give me those years. I hope I get a chance to tell her I’m not sorry. She only gave me months, but they were good months. The best months of my life.
Dad rushes over. He takes my hand. He’s wearing that I’m-gonna-take-on-the-world face. He’s trembling. Or am I?
Maybe it’s me. I keep trying to pull in more air.
They push me into a room. I hear Dr. Hughes tell my parents to stay out.
Four people surround me. I realize I must look really bad, because they don’t ask me to take off my clothes. Instead, they start cutting them off of me. I try to tell them to stop. I’ve got on my good bra, but my teeth are chattering too much. Yet when the cold metal scissors touch my skin, I cry out.
I want my pink blanket back. I want to go back to the beach. I want to be able to breathe.
A nurse is putting the electrode sensors on my chest. Someone else is holding my arm down and trying to get a needle in my vein. I feel the needle go in. Go out. Go in.
Dr. Hughes comes and stands over me. She starts spouting out different tests she wants done. Medicines she wants pushed and how fast she wants them pushed.
“I can’t get the IV in!” the nurse screams.
“Damn it,” Dr. Hughes spouts out. “We need it in now! Is the heart monitor even plugged in?” she yells. “Come on, people. We can’t fuck this up!”
I’ve never heard her cuss before.
Her eyes meet mine briefly. They have tears in them. She touches my face. I can’t hear her, but I think she said she was sorry.
And everything goes foggy.
“You can’t do this,” I hear Matt say.
I turn around until I see him. “Can’t do what?”
“Be here. You gotta go back.”
“Where are … we?” I look around and gasp when I see the ocean. But Galveston has never looked so perfect. The water is the prettiest color, not quite green, not quite blue. The waves reach up and peak, capping off in white foam as it falls forward. It looks like a poem sounds. It’s so pure. The sand is so white.
“Did you hear me?” he says again. “Go back.”
I turn around and look at him. “It’s so beautiful, Matt.”
He laughs. “Please … I’m the better-looking twin.”
Voices ring in my mind. “Leah! Stay with us. You hear me, stay with us!”
I look back at Matt, no Eric. I know because his hair isn’t curled at the ends. Then I gaze back at the ocean. I sit down on the sand. It’s soft, fine, and I run my fingers through it. I want to stay here.
40
Something is wrong. Matt feels it. He knows it. Knew it since Friday night.
And he’s waited long enough. Matt steps up to the front porch and k
nocks. He finally hears footsteps. A woman answers. She’s wearing a robe. He’s guessing it’s Brandy’s mom.
“Is Brandy here?”
She blinks and tightens the robe. “It’s not even seven o’clock and it’s Sunday.”
Yeah, but he’s sat outside in his car for the last two hours. “I’m sorry, but this is important. It’s about Leah McKenzie.”
The mother makes a face. “Is she sick again?”
He nods. But he prays he’s wrong. Unfortunately, that’s the only damn answer he can think of. She wasn’t herself and then …
He called her. Dozens of times. Finally, last night, when he couldn’t sleep, he went to her house. It was midnight. There were lights on. Leah’s car was in the driveway.
He walked around to the back, climbed the fence, quietly, expecting any minute for Mr. McKenzie to come out with a shotgun. No one came out. He got to Leah’s window. Her light was on. Her bed empty. She wasn’t there.
It was midnight, for God’s sake.
Then he went around to the front of the house, and that’s when he noticed the front door was ajar.
He still knocked. When no one answered, he rang the doorbell. No one came to the door. He walked in. Fear turned his stomach to acid. He worried there had been some kind of home invasion.
But no one was there. And the house didn’t look burglarized. It just looked like no one was home. Like someone had left in a hurry and forgot to shut the door. An emergency.
Brandy’s mom finally backs up and lets him come in. “Let me get her.”
Matt waits in the living room.
Brandy walks out wearing pajamas. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you spoken with Leah?” he asks.
“No. I tried to call her yesterday. It went straight to voicemail. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“She’s not at home. Neither are her parents. The front door was open.”
“Someone broke in?” Panic sounds in her tone.
“No, it didn’t look like it. Do you have her mom’s phone number?”
“Yeah, let me get my phone.”
When she returns, she touches her phone. “Let me try Leah first.”
He stands there gripping his hands. She frowns and looks up. “It’s going to voicemail.” She hangs up and touches her phone again. He guesses she’s calling Leah’s mom. He waits. She frowns. “It’s going to voicemail too.”
She drops down on the sofa. “Hi, Mrs. McKenzie. This is Brandy. I’m just kind of worried. I can’t get in touch with Leah. Can you call me back?”
She hangs up and pulls her hair back. “Are you sure they aren’t home? In bed?”
“I went through the whole house. No one’s home.”
He clasps his hand behind his head and squeezes. “I’m really worried.”
“I considered calling the hospital, but…”
Brandy frowns. “If Leah’s sick, she’s in the Medical Center.”
“Houston?” he asks, remembering seeing her at the hospital.
“Yeah. They make her go there. It’s where they know how to take care of transplant patients.”
He nods and turns to leave.
“What are you going to do?” Brandy asks.
“I’m going there.”
“Why don’t you call first?”
He doesn’t wait to call. He already knows they won’t tell him. He’d called several times the night Eric died. No one told him shit. Please God, don’t let it be like that.
But he feels it. He feels that same overwhelming loneliness he felt the night Eric died.
* * *
“Leah?”
I hear my name. I try to open my eyes. They feel glued shut and gritty. I kind of remember a beach. But what’s that smell?
“She’s awake,” I hear my mom say. I finally get my eyes to open.
The first thing I do is try to swallow. I really don’t want there to be anything down my throat. I don’t want my chest to have been cracked open again.
My throat is empty. I don’t know about my chest.
I blink. Mom looks exhausted. Dad’s right there with her. His eyes are red. Mom’s hair is all over the place. Dad’s is sticking straight up. “You two look like shit.”
Mom does one of her laugh-cries. Dad squeezes my hand. I breathe, get another whiff of something nasty, and realize it’s my breath. I make a face and cover my mouth.
My mind’s fighting cobwebs, trying to remember things. Then most it comes back. I hear the beeping of a machine keeping time with my heart. I look around. I’m in the ICU. I recognize the serious medical décor.
I look at Mom. “I’m rejecting the heart,” I say.
Mom blinks. “You were. But you’re doing better now. The fever is coming down. Your blood pressure is up. Dr. Hughes says that’s good.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Two days,” Mom says.
I try to moisten my lips, but my tongue is so dry. I see again my mom’s bloodshot eyes. “You need sleep.”
“We’re fine.” Mom smiles. She takes my hand. I feel her palms. They feel red and raw.
“You don’t look fine,” I say.
“What?” Dad asks. “You don’t like my new hairdo?” He runs a hand though his hair, and it sticks up higher.
I try to smile but can’t do it. “Water?”
“Ice chips. They brought it just in case you wake up.” Mom puts one on my tongue. It’s wet and it’s wonderful. I look down and see something hanging from my chest. “What did they do?”
“A heart cath, just to check.”
Great. Another scar.
I open my mouth and feel like a baby bird. But I don’t have enough energy to do anything else.
Mom spoons another sliver of ice on my tongue. “Matt and Brandy are here.”
I nod, and then I remember. I look up. “Make them leave.”
“What?” Mom asks.
“Tell them to go away. I don’t need them here.”
“Honey.”
“I’m serious.” I knock the spoon out of my mom’s hands. It hits the tile floor with a big cling. “I don’t want them here. They shouldn’t have to go through this.”
“Go through what?” Mom says.
“This!” I hiss out, because my throat hurts. My heart hurts. My soul hurts.
Dad moves in. “Calm down, baby.”
Mom sets the ice down. “Hon’, they care about you.”
I look at Dad. “Make them go, Dad. Please.” I start crying. “It’s bad enough that you two have to see it. Please make them go!” I hear my heart monitor beeping faster.
“Honey, don’t cry,” Mom says.
“I’ll make them go,” Dad says. “You calm down. Okay. I’m sending them away. I promise.” He backs out.
I roll over, close my eyes, and beg to fall back into oblivion.
* * *
I hear a click, click, click. I recognize it.
I open my eyes and Dr. Hughes is standing there staring at me. “I asked your mom to bring Donald and Dumbo back up.”
I try to sit up.
She drops her pen and pad. “Let me help you,” she says. The electronic hum of my bed moving fills the tiny ICU space.
Only when I’m up do I try to speak. “It’s not your fault.”
“What’s not my fault?” she asks.
“You apologized when I was in the ER. And you were cussing like a sailor.”
She grins. “I’m sure you imagined that.”
I try to smile back, but can’t quite pull one out of my holster. “Am I losing the heart?”
“It doesn’t look like it,” she says. “Yes, you were rejecting it. It stopped beating properly, causing pulmonary edema, which means fluid started building up in your lungs. But we took care of that, and you seem to be responding to the antibiotics and prednisone. We’ve put you on a different immune suppressant.”
“And?” I ask.
She just lifts a brow.
“There’s always an ‘a
nd,’” I say.
She crosses her arms. “Why am I picking up a woe-is-me vibe?”
“You say it as if I don’t deserve it,” I say. “Haven’t I earned it?”
A frown tightens her eyes. “I’m just saying it’s not like you. But here’s the ‘and,’ you wanted,” she says. “I’m going to run some tests to see if there was any damage.” She picks up her pen, starts clicking it, then smiles. “I don’t want to be too optimistic, but I have to tell you, your blood pressure now and even in the right heart cath, it looked good. Your heart appears strong right now. Surprisingly strong.”
“It’s not mine,” I say.
She lifts another brow. “Haven’t you heard that possession is nine-tenths of the law?” She touches my shoulder. “I hate to ruin your bad mood here, but I’m feeling very positive.”
She pulls out her stethoscope and has me breathe. When she pulls back, she asks, “What’s bothering you?”
I almost don’t answer. Then I give in. “I’m tired of hurting people. Sucking the life out of them.”
“Who are you hurting?”
“My mom and dad. Brandy and … Matt.” I swallow and look up at her. “You. And don’t deny it. Your mask slipped in the ER. I saw it in your eyes.”
She drops her stethoscope back in her pocket and grabs her pen to make more notes on her chart. “Damn masks.” She mutters. Then she looks up. “Unfortunately, it’s part of the human condition. Caring. I wish I could offer you some words of wisdom. But the best I can do is … tell you to get used to it. People aren’t going to stop caring, Leah.”
I feel a tear roll down my cheek, and I swipe it away.
“Well, I take that back,” she says. “You could start being a miserable person. Bitch about everything. Throw your food at the nurses and doctors. We hate that. But I’ve gotta tell you, I don’t see that in you.”
I look up at her. “It hurts. Seeing them. Knowing what I’m doing to them.”
“Yeah. But you know what you haven’t seen? The ones that lose their children. Or their friends. Or their girlfriends. That’s the worst pain, Leah.”
She stands straighter. “You didn’t die. You gave us all a scare, but, much to my surprise, your prognosis looks good. Remember, I told you things like this could happen? Sometimes the body’s immune system picks up and sees the heart as something that doesn’t belong. I’m going to keep you in the hospital for a while, a long while. Do tests every few days. I’m not sending you home until I know your heart is fine. But I think you’re going to be okay.”