This Heart of Mine

  “Until next time,” I say. “Or until I get cancer because of the immune suppressant drugs, or when these drugs stop working and I kill this heart for good.”

  Her gray eyes tighten and meet mine. “You’re right. I can’t promise you that there’s not going to be a next time. Or a next. I can’t promise you that you’re not going to get cancer. But what you do with the time between all those next times is what makes a difference. Because that’s life, Leah. No promises. No guarantees. But if you’re lucky, you might use that time to make a few dreams come true.”

  She gives my shoulder a squeeze and walks out. I know there’s comfort to be found buried in her words, but I’m not in the mood to go mining for comfort right now. I’m hurting people who love me. I don’t deserve comfort.

  * * *

  They move me to the transplant unit. Mom asks if I’m up for company. I tell her, shit no! And remind her of Dad’s promise.

  Days pass. I don’t keep track. I read until I finish a book—day or night—then sleep, and repeat. Works for me.

  Mom and Dad are there around the clock. They try to encourage me to get on a schedule. I try to explain that I hate schedules and reading makes me sleepy. More than that. It makes me forget.

  Still, I’m not a happy camper. Mom and Dad aren’t happy campers. When Dr. Hughes comes in that afternoon, she isn’t a happy camper either.

  She clicks her pen and looks at me. “There’s this very dirty word I hate, and I’m wondering if you’ve heard it,” she says.

  I look at her. “I think I’ve heard them all. But I’m a word person, and I’m always eager to learn another one.”

  “Depression,” she says.

  I almost tell her it’s her fault, or the transplant team’s fault for letting me have a heart from someone from my own town. But right before the words spill out of my mouth, I stop myself.

  I do it because to say it would imply I was sorry I got Eric’s heart. And I’m not. I’m not sorry I helped Matt find out who killed his brother. I’m not sorry I fell in love with Matt. Or that we had sex, or that we laid on a beach and watched it for more than two hours.

  But neither am I sorry that I broke up with him. It was the right thing to do.

  “How about let’s go for a walk in the halls?” she suggests. “I’ll go with you.”

  I say I don’t feel like it, insist that going to the bathroom is more exercise than she realizes. Then I bury my nose in a book. It’s rude. But at least I didn’t throw my food at her.

  Mom and Dad get to the point they are making lame jokes. It’s really sad. And their jokes are really bad. I try to cheer up, for them, but hey … my heart’s broken and in more ways than one.

  I make a deal with Mom. If she goes back to work, I’ll try to smile more.

  She counters with, “If you’ll take a bath, walk the halls the way the nurses tell you to, sleep regular hours, and smile more, I’ll go back to work three days a week.”

  I counter. “I’ll smile more.”

  As pathetic as it sounds, it works. Mom goes back to work three days a week. But I notice Dad is taking time off. Parents are sneaky like that.

  I finally give in and have a bath.

  But baths are still optional in my world. My IV comes out. The central line, dangling from chest, stays in.

  Every day one of my parents brings me a little gift. In the beginning it was always a new book. Yesterday it was a new pair of slippers. I got Minnie Mouse. To mix things up, I wore one Mickey and one Minnie. And when I cross my feet, I swear it looks like they are screwing. I do laugh a couple of times at that.

  Mom keeps trying to get me in the shower. “Later,” I say and put my nose back in a book. The deeper it’s in there, the less I smell myself.

  Parents love you no matter how you look. Or smell. And I’m not trying to impress anyone else. I’m sure Dr. Hughes has seen worse. Though you wouldn’t know it from her expression.

  Yesterday Dad brought me an “Oh shit” button. I press it and each time it gives me a little different version of my favorite catch phrase. “Crappers. Bull Shit. This is a pile of stinky poo. This is S. H. I. T.” It was a great gift. It helps me keep my promise to my mom to smile more. But I miss Matt so much my nose hairs hurt.

  Not that I want him here. He said it himself. He can’t handle it. And the more I think about it, I think his bond to me was always solving his brother’s murder. That and I have his brother’s heart. But, like Dr. Hughes said, possession is nine-tenths of the law.

  I miss Brandy too. I almost crater and tell Mom to let her come up, but then I remember the look on her face the day she took me to see Dr. Hughes for the cold. What kind of friend would I be to make her feel that way again? And again. And again. I’m never going to be normal.

  Besides, dangling from my chest is still the central line that looks like a tampon, where they inject my medicines. And Brandy would pass out if she saw it.

  It’s the right thing to do, I tell myself. And honestly, I don’t need friends. Books are my friends.

  That night, I ask Dad to go down to the hospital library and get me some more friends. He tells me that I should walk down to the library myself. “The walk would do you some good.”

  When Mom gets in, I ask her the same thing. “A walk to the library might do you good.” That’s when I know there’s a conspiracy, but I’m not that easy to manipulate.

  “That’s okay,” I say in a pissy tone and start reading the book I wasn’t thrilled about. The next morning, or maybe it’s night—I think it’s my twelfth day/night here—I finish that book.

  A nurse walks in, and I actually smile at her. “Uh, can you take a quick trip to the library on your break and bring me some books? I’m a blatant book geek, so I’m not picky.”

  “How about you take a walk down there yourself? I’ll show you where it is.”

  Damn! So the nurses are in on it too.

  I frown. “I can’t.” I motion to my haven’t-showered-in-two-days—wait, three-days—self.

  “Wow, that’s a good idea. Why don’t you take a shower?” She leaves before I can tell her no. When she comes back, I tell her no, but she doesn’t listen. She has the stuff to wrap my central line so it won’t get wet, and she starts doing it. Then she unplugs the electrodes reading my heart.

  “You want me to help you in the shower?”

  “No.” I hate bullies.

  “You need a shower,” she says.

  “Yeah, but I think I’ll take a nap first.” I lay back and turn away from her.

  Bathing is overrated. Besides, in the historical novel I finished—which was mediocre at best—they took monthly baths.

  I hear her walk out. I lay there and realize it’s been twenty-four hours since I read. I’m getting jittery. Having withdrawals. I might actually have to go take a shower. Or … I might just go down to the library stinking, wearing a gown I’ve worn for three days.

  After a three-hour boredom nap, I wake up to find another gift sitting beside my half-eaten lunch on the table. A small package. I’m a little miffed that it’s not a book.

  I look down at the front of my pajamas and notice that half of my lunch is still on there. I brush some taco meat off my boobs. See, I do have some self-pride left.

  Then I realize it wasn’t today I had tacos. Ugh. I run my tongue over my teeth. I’m not a complete slob. I’m still brushing my teeth. Or did I do it last night?

  Dropping back on the mattress, I look back at the gift.

  This one is wrapped.

  I should wait until Mom or Dad are here. It’s the polite thing to do, but … I’m bored. I don’t have a book. And people who haven’t showered in days aren’t really known for their politeness. So I open it.

  My breath catches when I see the locket. It’s … it’s not the one I found, but it’s close. I open it. And when I see the pictures, I instantly tear up.

  It’s not from Mom and Dad.

  On each heart side of the locket is a picture. One of me
and Matt and the other of Lady and Matt.

  41

  Damn. “Shit shit shit,” I bellow out. They should add that to my shit button.

  Mom picks the worst time to walk in. I’m crying. I’m hurt. I’m angry. I need someone to throw my emotion at, and she’s just big enough I can’t miss.

  “I don’t want this. I thought Dad promised to keep him away. If I can’t count on him to keep that promise, what can I count on?”

  Her mouth thins, her eyes tighten, and she shakes her head and slips her hand on her hip. Not to rub it like she does when she’s nervous, but to prop it there like a statement. A statement I haven’t seen her make in a long time. But I recognize it.

  Mama’s about to have a hissy fit.

  And that’s fine. We can have one together.

  “Dad promised!” I repeat.

  “He tried,” Mom snaps. “But Matt wouldn’t go. That boy has been here every day, Leah. Every day he sits in that waiting room. And every day he asks to be able to see you. It’s breaking my heart.”

  “Then make him leave. Tell him I died or something.” My chest is quacking.

  Mom’s other hand finds her hip. Her eyes tighten. Through the tight slits, I swear they turn a neon color, like vampires do in some of my favorite books.

  “I can’t force you to be his friend,” she hisses.

  I’ve never heard my mom hiss.

  She takes a step closer to my bed. “I would never force you to start dating him again. But I didn’t raise you to be rude. And he deserves a thank-you for that gift. So I’m going to walk out of here and tell him he can come in. If he’s brave enough! Because, believe me, what he’s about to see isn’t pretty!”

  She starts out, then swings back around. She points a finger at me. “I recommend you comb your hair and brush off what’s left of your breakfast and lunch from your dirty pajama top.”

  “No, Mom,” I yell. “I don’t want…”

  She walks out. I slam my hand on my “oh shit” button and it belts out, “Now that’s a pile of crap!”

  I hear voices in the hall. I bolt out of bed. Right before I get to the bathroom I hear the door open. Well, hell, Mom was right. What Matt saw wasn’t pretty. Yup, I’m certain he got a nice view of my ass hanging out of the hospital gown.

  I slam the door, drop on the toilet, and cry.

  I’m in there for a good ten minutes before I realize the tampon dangling from my chest is still wrapped. And a clean gown is hanging on a hook.

  I crater. I shower.

  * * *

  Dressed, hair soaking wet, I listen at the door to see if I hear anyone. There are no voices. I ease the door open. I don’t see anyone, but I can’t see the chair against the wall. I grab the back of my gown together and walk out.

  Good thing I did. Matt’s there.

  He looks good. But he looks tired too. Not haggard like Mom and Dad look sometimes, but just tired.

  My heart goes to hurting.

  I crawl into bed and don’t say anything.

  “I know why you did it,” he says.

  “Did what?” I ask.

  “Pushed me away. You’re trying to protect me.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Problem is, I don’t want to be protected. And it chaps my ass that you did it. Because that hurt!”

  I look up. My throat’s so tight I’m not sure I can speak, but I do it anyway. “Welcome to my world.” My vision blurs. “You said you couldn’t take it. Do you know how long I pretended I was normal for you?”

  I grip the sheets in my fists. “I’m sick, Matt. I have to take medicine every day, twice a day. If something is uncooked and it’s not one hundred percent clean, it could kill me. But then again, so could the medicine. It’s known to cause cancer. Yet if I don’t take it, my heart—Eric’s heart—will die. Because my body really wants to kill it. I’m never going to be normal. I can’t have kids. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to think in years.”

  He’s staring at me. There are tears in his eyes.

  “I’m sucking out everyone’s soul that cares about me. And I can’t help it. So go, Matt. Believe me, you don’t want this! And I don’t want to see it happening to you.” I point to the door.

  He tilts his chin up. “I never asked you to pretend. You kept it from me.”

  “Yeah. So you wouldn’t leave me again. Don’t you see?” I ask, and tears are running down my face. “Please, just go.”

  “I said I was sorry. I told you that first day. Do you think I didn’t regret it? You said you forgave me, but you lied. You didn’t even give me a chance! You gave up on me!”

  I put my hand over my mouth. “You’ve already lost too much.”

  He gets up and walks to my bed. He even sits on the bottom edge of it. His leg is touching mine. I’m hurting. I’m hurting so damn bad.

  “Yeah, I have lost a lot,” he says. “But do you think if someone told me that I would lose my dad that I would have said I didn’t want him in my life? Do you think I would have said I didn’t want to be a twin? To know Eric? To love him? I want to be a part of your life, Leah.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why would you want this?”

  He moves up. He’s sitting at my waist now. I can smell him. I’ve missed that smell. He reaches out and touches my hand. It’s electric. It sends bolts of want, need, and love into me.

  When he doesn’t answer my question, I ask again. “Why? Is being close to me your way of staying close to Eric?”

  He shakes his head. “You are the stupidest smart person I’ve ever known. I don’t want to be a part of your life because you have Eric’s heart.” He puts his hand over my chest, over his brother’s heart. Then he leans down; his lips are so close. “I want to be a part of your life, because you have my heart, Leah McKenzie.”

  He kisses me. Then he kisses me again. And again.

  “I love my locket,” I say.

  “Good.” He kisses me again.

  “And I love you, too,” I say.

  “Good.”

  The next thing I know, we’re making out on a hospital bed. I look at him. “It’s not going to be easy.”

  “Who wants easy?” he says. “I love you.”

  He shifts. His foot hits the bedside table. Something falls to the floor and we hear, “Now that’s a pile of shit.” We both laugh, the kind of laugh that makes life feel sweet. And it is … sweet.

  epilogue

  MAY 28TH

  “You ready?” Principal Burns asks me.

  Hell, no! Why did I agree to this? Oh, yeah, Matt and I had Chinese food the night before Burns called me into his office and asked me to do it. I’d have said no if my fortune cookie hadn’t read: “Take the next challenge offered you.”

  Lesson learned. Give up Chinese food.

  I hear my name over the loud speaker. Mom and Dad give me the thumbs-up and a proud-of-you hug. There’s so much happiness in their expressions that I almost start crying. Which really wouldn’t be good right now.

  I nod, straighten my graduation hat, and walk the green mile to the podium.

  “Hi,” I say to the auditorium holding over a thousand people. My palms are sweaty. My stomach’s a racetrack for butterflies. “Well, you know my name. You should also know that the only reason I’m up here tonight is because our mayor, who was scheduled to speak, got caught up in something.”

  Everyone laughs, because, thanks to the news, everyone knows what he got caught up in was a lady of the evening. Never mind it was daylight, in a car, parked in front of the courthouse, with photographers nearby and he exposed tattoos no one knew he had.

  I take a breath. “Desperate, Mr. Burns asked if I’d fill in. He seems to thinks I’m qualified, probably because … I’m working on my third heart. And because, as yet, I’m tattooless.” More laughter echoes, and I feel better.

  “In all seriousness, a virus called myocarditis killed my first heart. The doctors gave me an artificial one. But it’s like a spare tire: it’s doesn’t p
romise you a lot of miles. Then some brave person and his family gave me his heart when he died. And I’ll talk more about that in a minute.” I swallow the emotion threatening to take out my tonsils.

  “Some of you may have noticed we changed the motto for graduation. It was Live for the Day. The only way I’d agree to speak was if I was allowed to change it. Our new motto is The Art of Making Tomorrows.”

  I look up, and a banner with the motto unfolds above us. People clap. I stand up a little taller. “I decided to talk about a few lessons I picked up while going through my first two hearts.

  “So often we are told not to live in yesterday. And there’s some sound advice in that. If we aren’t careful, yesterday can steal our todays and tomorrows. But we can’t forget yesterday either. It’s part of the map of how we got to today. Yesterday holds secrets, good memories, great memories, and really bad ones. It holds our mistakes. Someone said that our mistakes really just mean we’re trying. But it can also mean we need to try in a different way.

  “So if we forget our yesterdays, we’ll lose the lessons we learned from our mistakes. We’d lose some cherished memories. For all of us graduating, it would mean we’d forget high school. We’d forget how awful it was and how freaking fantastic it was. We’d forget those stolen kisses in the hall, the lunch-room tuna casserole, and how it felt to ace a test. We’d forget how we learned to stand up for ourselves. And I don’t know about you, but I need to remember those lessons, to apply them as I move forward. And I already have applied them. I have committed myself to never eating tuna casserole ever again.”

  I breathe in when they laugh. “Then there’s that old motto Live for the Day. That’s really good advice. Living in the present means we’re taking in more, caring more, enjoying more. Regretting less. And that’s a win-win, but only if we remember our journey doesn’t end here. We’ve probably all heard the song, ‘Live Like You Were Dying.’ I’m here to tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.