“I know.” Brandy makes her sad face.
I sit there feeling numb, but not numb enough. This hurts. “When…?”
“Like a couple of weeks ago. They found him at the edge of the woods off of 2920. He shot himself in the head with his dad’s gun. He was still alive. One of those helicopters brought him … I think to this hospital, but they said he was brain-dead. They pulled the plug a little bit after that. Everyone is leaving flowers where they found him.”
My chest tightens so much that my lungs leak air. My new organ is trying to handle its first piece of heartbreaking news. I wonder if this is bad for my condition. If there should be a warning sign on my door, DON’T GIVE LEAH BAD NEWS. But my thoughts move past that, move past me.
“How’s Matt doing?” The thought marching through my befuddled brain is so loud, I flinch. What if it was Eric and not Matt? What if the guy I kissed and dreamed about all this time is dead?
“He’s taking it hard. I mean, they were identical twins. So, like, they were even together in the womb.”
Another wave of hurt shatters over me like shards of glass. The pain pulls at the seams of my new heart. At the stitches that holds the organ inside me. I feel it thump and thump against my sore breastbone. I sit there and try to breathe, using the techniques they taught me to control pain and panic.
“You okay?” I hear Brandy ask.
“Yeah.” I lie. “Just tired.”
“Should I get the doctor?” She jumps off the bed.
“No.” Somehow, I fake that I’m not torn up inside.
Brandy leaves. Mom and Dad are due here any minute. I grab my phone and google Eric’s name.
The first link is to his funeral announcement. My chest tightens again. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Brandy, but … “Damn! Shit.” I say.
How could this happen? I put my finger on the link to open it, my hands are shaking. Everything inside me is shaking.
I read his name and the dates below. June 5th, 2001–May 15th, 2018.
My eyes start to read on, but I stop. My eyes shoot back to the date. To the last date. To the date Eric died.
It’s the same day I got my heart. In my mind, I hear the words, “AB isn’t that rare. I have it. If it was a kidney, I’d give you one.” Chills run down my spine, down my arms, up my legs, and meet together like they’re magnetically charged. Then they pool together to form a tingling mass right over my incision.
It couldn’t be, could it?
I put my hand over my chest. I feel the knock against my palm as if the organ is trying to tell me something, or as if it wants out.
“Please, please don’t be Eric’s heart.”
5
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 31ST
It’s Eric’s heart.
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and put my hand over my scar that’s still red and angry-looking even though I’ve been using the cream for seven and a half months.
I know its Eric’s heart. And not just because of the blood type or the date of his death. It’s the dreams.
It’s been months, and the amount of steroids I’m taking is almost nothing compared with before. Not only are the dreams just as vivid, but they’ve expanded, gotten more detailed. I feel more. See more. I get them at least twice a week, sometimes more.
I’ve seen the shoes on my feet while running. Only they aren’t my feet. They’re male tennis shoes … and big. Last night I saw my hand. Saw what I had in my hand. A gun.
I didn’t see what happens with the gun. The dream ended with me seeing light, and feeling pain in my right temple. Then there’s always the angry voice. I hear it yet still can’t make out the words, but my gut instinct says it isn’t Eric’s voice. That leads me to believe that Eric wasn’t alone.
And that leads me to believe that maybe Matt’s right. Maybe Eric didn’t kill himself.
I’m not a fool. I’ve read the paper. There’s been a lot of pieces on teen suicide. I know it happens. I also know other people believe that’s what happened. But my heart, Eric’s heart, seems to know different. As bat-shit bizarre as it seems, it’s as if he’s showing me what happened in the last few minutes of his life.
Do I really believe that? Yeah, I do. And believing it scares the hell out of me.
The only thing that scares me more is figuring out how I’m going to tell Matt. How I’m going to tell him that I have Eric’s heart. How I’m going to ask if he was who I kissed. How I’m going to feel if he hates me because I’m alive and Eric’s dead.
Would Matt believe me if I told him that a part of me hates myself for it too? That knowing Eric died and I’m alive feels wrong?
But none of that matters. I still need to tell him.
He’s desperate to prove his brother didn’t shoot himself. I know because I read his Facebook posts every day. Not that he knows it’s me. I made up a fake Facebook account. I’m Jenny Hamilton from Dallas. Brandy, a computer wizard, helped me. She asked me why I didn’t just friend him.
I told her about Matt, or perhaps Eric, coming to tutor me that day. She got mad at me for not telling her earlier, but she got over it. Thing is, I’m still not telling her things. Not about the kiss. Or the dreams. Especially not about having Eric’s heart. She’d think I’m crazy.
And maybe I am?
I comb my hair, decide to leave it down. Let the dark strands ride my shoulders. Then I put on makeup, but I almost don’t remember how to do it. Looking cover-girl pretty isn’t a top priority when you’re dying.
Dressed, with makeup applied, I stand in front of the mirror to check my reflection. Am I ready? Ready for tonight and school that starts in six days? I don’t have a freaking clue.
But I square my shoulders, stare myself in the eyes, and say, “Ready or not, here I come.”
I’m going to Brandy’s New Year’s Eve get-together.
The red long-sleeve stretchy T-shirt fits snug, but not too snug. The round neckline is high. High enough to hide my scars. The jeans softly hug my hips. The small sterling silver hoop earrings are about as much bling as I ever wear. Part of me wishes I was more into bling, but when I put on bigger earrings or chunky necklaces, I feel like a little girl playing dress up.
I continue to stare at the mirror. I look pretty good for a girl who is working on her third heart. Yeah, I count the artificial one. I feel good too. Well, as good as someone who’s taking immune-suppressant drugs can feel.
Sometimes they make me feel blah. But I can handle blah when my life doesn’t come with an expiration date.
I grab my purse, my nighttime meds, check to make sure I haven’t left any out. I put them in my purse. Zip them along with my shitload of fears in the inside pocket.
The doctors and the transplant team preached to me about taking the pills on time and never, ever forgetting them. Like it’s life or death. And it is. Just one missed dose and my body will see the heart as a foreign object and start rejecting it.
I walk out of my room, knowing Mom’s waiting in the living room in a full-blown panic. This is only the fifth time I’ve driven since the heart transplant.
Right now, it’s not driving that’s gnawing on my nerves.
I want to do this, I want my old life back, but … Mom and Dad have been my touchstones, and I’m feeling a little separation anxiety.
But I’ve got to learn to live again. To learn to be around people. Other than my parents, Brandy, and the doctors, I’ve been a hermit. Not all by choice—it was the whole germ thing too.
But now they say my immune system is as strong as it will ever be.
It’s time. Leah McKenzie needs to face the world.
To face Matt.
I put my hand on my stomach and try to calm the nervous flutters in my gut.
When I enter the living room, Mom and Dad walk in from the kitchen. Immediately, I feel guilty that I’m lying to them. I tell myself it’s not a whole lie. I am going to Brandy’s party, but I’m making a detour first.
“You look beautifu
l,” Dad says.
“More than beautiful,” Mom says. “Where are your pills?”
I pull the plastic pill carrier out of my purse. I knew she’d want to check.
She clicks them open, studies them. Counts them. “Okay.” She hands them back to me and holds out her hand. “Your phone?”
“I set the alarm for eight fifty-five and I’ll take them right when it goes off,” I say, but she still wants to check. I’m not mad, but this might get annoying.
After seeing the alarm is set, she returns my phone. “Drive carefully. No hugging. No kissing. You can’t get germs. And I know it’s a party, but you can’t eat—”
“No raw vegetables, no fresh fruit, no lunch meat. And no rare meat. I got it,” I tell her. Because of my compromised immune system, I’m susceptible to getting food poisoning, and certain foods are big no-nos. Like a it-could-kill-you no-no.
“Let her go.” My dad’s voice deepens. “She’s seventeen, not seven.”
I tell myself the same thing. Yet the little girl inside of me says differently. Mentally, I pull out the big girl scissors and cut the apron strings. But then I get this image of me just floating off. Having nothing to hold on to.
I blink, tell myself to snap out of it.
Mom sighs. “Call me when you get to Brandy’s.”
“I’ll text you,” I say. “And please don’t be calling every few minutes. It’ll be embarrassing. I haven’t seen my friends in a year and a half. I don’t want them to think my mama’s hovering.”
Mom frowns and starts to give me the speech. The one where she tells me she loves me and I just have to accept that she’s going to be overprotective for a while.
“She won’t call,” my dad says. He wraps an arm around my mom as if he knows how much my leaving is hurting her. And me. “But text her, especially when you take your meds, so she isn’t driving me crazy. And be home by one. Not a minute later.”
“One?” my mom squeals, and her eyes grow unbelievably large.
“Katherine,” my dad says in that deep don’t-argue-with-me voice.
She slams her mouth shut, but I can hear her mama motor muttering in discontent.
“Happy New Year.” I hug them, whisper I-love-yous that come from the most honest part of my soul. Squaring my shoulders, determined to go find me again—the old me—I leave my touchstones.
“Take a mask,” Mom says as I walk by the entryway table where she keeps them for most people visiting. Yeah, it’s overkill, but it’s because she loves me. “If anyone even sneezes…”
“Have fun,” Dad cuts her off.
I don’t look back, because I know it’ll hurt. I slip a mask in my purse. Oh, I don’t plan on wearing it. If someone is sick, I’ll leave.
Lingering on the porch taking a few minutes to breathe, I collect myself. The fuzzy, buzzy feeling circles my heart. Yup, separation anxiety.
I could turn around. Stay. And I could be forever stuck here.
It only takes a minute to find my courage, and with it comes a longing for independence.
Soaking up a sense of freedom, I head to the car. The sun is bright as I walk to the street where Dad has already pulled my car out. The temperature isn’t as cold as I thought it would be, and I take my sweater off before I get in the Honda. The sky’s blue; the calm breeze carries the scent of Christmas. And bam, suddenly I’m exhilarated. I’m alive.
I’m scared shitless.
Not just about being alive, but about what I’m going to do: see Matt.
I start driving toward his neighborhood. But I see the exit to the highway. To the place where Eric was found.
I don’t know why I feel as if I need to see it, but I do. I start that way. It’s as if this has been my plan all along, but I hadn’t known it.
I come to the little roadside park, with the white cross sticking up. My heart’s beating too fast. I seriously consider just driving past. But at the last minute, I pull over. My hands are sweating and the steering wheel feels slick. Sitting there, gazing over my shoulder, I try to visualize parts of the dream.
Never turning off the car’s ignition, I just stare. Then I see a figure walking out of the woods. My first thought is that it might be Matt. It’s not. It’s Cassie. Cassie Chambers, Eric’s girlfriend. She’s crying and doesn’t notice me lurking.
My heart picks up its already breakneck speed. As crazy as it seems, I wonder if Eric is seeing her through my eyes. If it’s Eric making my/his heart beat to the tune of crazy. If it’s him suddenly making me feel overwhelmingly sad.
Freaked out, feeling as if I’m spying on Cassie, and worried I shouldn’t have come here, I speed off, hoping she didn’t recognize me or my car. Then again, why would she? I’m not in her league. She probably doesn’t even know my name.
I drive to the Kenner home and park on the street. When I first got my car, and before I was sick, I would drive by here every now and then hoping to get a peek at Matt. A few times, he and Eric were playing basketball with friends in his driveway. One time I know he saw me, because he waved. He mentioned it the next day at school. I lied and said I was dropping something off at my mom’s friend’s house.
I was so damn embarrassed. It’s not embarrassment I feel now. My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel as if refusing to let me get out of the car. My pulse hums to something close to a horror-movie theme.
Why am I afraid? Why am I feeling the same sensation I get from the dream? Fear, which somehow doesn’t seem to even belong to me.
Is Eric making me feel this?
Forcing myself to release the steering wheel, I turn on the radio and let the music calm me.
I do a breathing technique that a nurse taught me in the hospital for pain and stress. My fear lessens. Five minutes pass.
I see the time on the dashboard and panic a little. I text my mom and say I’m at Brandy’s. The written message zips through cyberspace, but still manages to sit on my conscience.
Then the truth hits. It’s not just the lie spreading liquid guilt through my veins.
It’s that Eric is dead and I’m alive.
I’m so damn tempted to drive off, but my gut says if I do, I’ll never do this. The secret will stay inside me. It’ll slowly poison me.
I get out of my car and make my way to his front door. I hear voices. There’s a large window. I’m too scared to look in it. Instead, I just hit the doorbell. I drag my palms over the sides of my jeans and stop when I realize I’ve acquired Mom’s nervous habit.
Voices echo louder from behind the door. No, not just voices. Laughter. I didn’t expect that. From Matt’s Facebook posts, he’s bordering on depression.
I lean to the side to peer through the window. I can see a living room, and into the kitchen. A woman, who I think is Mrs. Kenner, is there.
Barking, yappy-puppy type of barking, reaches my ears, followed by footsteps. I’m suddenly unsure if coming here unannounced was the best idea. Oh, shit! What the hell was I thinking?
The door starts to open. My mind begs me to hotfoot it back to the car, but my shoes feel superglued to the porch.
The door moves the rest of the way open. Matt appears. He has a smile on his face as if someone has just said something funny, but it slips right off. I feel it crash at his feet. Then surprise, and not the good kind, rounds his brown eyes.
His posture gets rock hard, as if he’s playing defense on a football team. He glances back inside, and the barking starts again. He hurriedly steps out on the porch and shuts the door.
I don’t know if it’s to keep the dog in or me out.
I take a few steps back. This is such a bad idea! My … Eric’s heart thumps against my rib cage as if I’ve been running.
“Hey,” Matt manages to say.
“Hey,” I repeat his greeting, because I can’t think of one. I can’t think of shit.
We stare at each other for one second, two, but it gets so uncomfortable that we both look away. Leaving seems like a good idea, but I have to do this. I glance up. br />
There are so many emotions flickering in his eyes, I can’t read them.
I can’t decide if I think he somehow knows about Eric’s heart, or if he’s just upset because he kissed me and didn’t call. Or maybe he doesn’t even know about the kiss because it was Eric who’d come to my house that day.
The silence happening around us surpasses awkward and heads straight toward freaking weird.
Someone needs to say something, and that would probably be me. But for the life of me I don’t know how to start. Yes, I practiced, practically memorized my speech, but it’s gone.
Finally, I open my mouth and push out words. “I just wanted—”
“It’s not a good time,” Matt blurts out.
Embarrassment and fury, at myself, for being here, heats my face.
“Okay.” Turning on my heels so fast it’s almost a whirl, I rush toward my car. I tried. I tried. I really tried. Guilt’s off my shoulders. But why do I still feel guilty? Oh, yeah, I’m alive and his brother’s dead.
“Leah?” His voice sounds behind me. The option to pretend I didn’t hear is tickling my brain. But I can’t. I stop.
Before I turn around he’s beside me. The breeze picks up. It’s getting colder, but I’m not cold. I’m numb.
“Can I come by your house in a couple of hours?” he asks.
“Yes.” Then I realize what I just said. “No.”
“Yes or no?” He looks baffled.
I feel baffled. “No,” I say.
He looks as if he’s worried I’m two eggs short of a dozen.
“Yes.” Sooner or later, I’m going to get control of my mouth. The explanation hangs on my lips. “I’m … not going to be at home. I’m going to a party at Brandy’s house.”
“Brandy Hasting?” he asks. “Does she still live across the street from Austin Walker? In Oak Woods subdivision?”
I nod, surprised he knows where Brandy lives. But then I remember him and Austin being friends.
“Can I come there? Not to the party, just to talk. In my car or something.” His words sound rushed. The wind yanks them away and scatters his hair across his forehead. It’s longer than he usually wears it. The ends curl up. I remember how soft it is. I remember our kiss. I remember he didn’t call me. Or was it him?