With This Heart, Page 2

  My mother’s brown eyes caught mine as she took the seat opposite me and I wondered for the millionth time where the hell my features had come from. They both had brown hair and brown eyes. Yet, I had light strawberry blonde hair and sage green eyes. My mother always told me that my hair color skipped a generation; according to my mom, when my Nanna was young she had wild golden hair, too. I had to take her word for it since none of my grandparents were still alive.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes until my parent’s nervous fretting made my skin crawl.

  “ What are you guys planning to do for the rest of the day?” I asked, pleading with the gods that they had plans that took them far, far away.

  “ We were going to stay here to help you finish unpacking,” my mother answered, offering me a smile.

  Pick your battles, pick your battles, pick your battles. In a few days, I’d be gone, away from them, for two weeks. Happiness-coated-in-guilt settled in my stomach and I forced a nod. “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  …

  Privacy was obviously a rare occurrence in my life and I made sure to soak up as much of it as I could as I tromped around my apartment, picking up things and putting them in spots I deemed to be their new home. My parents had left a little over an hour ago, after they were sure that I was well fed, showered, and in my pajamas. Apparently, I was a toddler.

  I had no plans, even though it was a Sunday night and I had nothing to do the next day except meander around my apartment. I’m sure Mom would stop by at some point, but that didn’t feel like enough anymore. For so long I had gotten away with watching TV and escaping into books because that’s all that I could physically handle, but now what?

  I was given this heart and at every turn I felt that sharp pang of guilt that I wasn’t using it how other people, better people, would have.

  Beck had flitted through my thoughts roughly one trillion times since the day before. The moment I’d closed my car door I had flipped his business card over. On one side it read: “Daniel Prescott, CEO Prescott Publishing” with a phone and fax number. On the back there was Beck’s name and number, scribbled in handwriting so messy that I’d have assumed it was written by an infant had I not witnessed it being done with my own eyes.

  When he’d handed the card to me, I’d had no intentions of doing anything with it. But now, as I tried to decide if I wanted to watch reruns of the Real Housewives of Whatever City, or you know, throw myself out of my second story window, I decided there wasn’t much left to do other than see what sort of weirdness Beck could add to my life. And yes, to be honest, I couldn’t stop thinking about how good-looking he was. There. Are you happy?

  I pushed myself up off the kitchen chair and grabbed my phone from the counter. For one wild minute I considered calling him, but then I remembered that I hadn’t actually spoken with a guy on the phone before. Well, other than my dad, but he hardly counted. What if I sounded really strange on the phone? You know how when you hear yourself speak and you think Holy God, how do people even stand listening to my voice? So, I texted him instead.

  Abby : Why do you want to go on my road trip?

  My heart puttered wildly in my chest, and for one quick second I thought that it might decide right then to fail on me and stop beating. I smoothed the pad of my finger over the rough scar a few inches below my collar bone. Luckily for my heart, Beck texted me back quickly.

  Beck : Abby?

  I was excited to see his name flash across the screen, but then I thought, what kind of desperate person actually texts back right away ? I’d learned enough from Gossip Girl , and other accurate pop culture aids, that the cool thing to do was to act as if you were too busy to text back quickly. So instead of responding, I slid across my apartment’s old hardwood floors on my fuzzy socks a few times, pretending I was ice-skating. When enough time had passed, I hit send.

  Abby : You answered my question with a question.

  Beck : I don’t like cliffhangers.

  He had texted back quickly again, and in that moment I decided that Gossip Girl wasn’t actually all that accurate considering they had cast thirty-year-olds to play high schoolers. So, instead of being cool, I responded.

  Abby : You answered my question with a non sequitur. You’re getting worse.

  Beck : No, trust me, it’s a sequitur. I don’t like cliffhangers. Enter-girl buying an urn. She clearly lies about what it’s for and then takes off into the sunset? I have to know how it ends. Murder suicide?

  Abby : Don’t you have a life?

  Beck : I’m living it right now.

  Abby : I mean work or a family. Oh god, are you a dad?

  Beck : Do I look that old?

  Abby : Maybe.

  Beck : I’ll take that as a compliment, and I’m not leaving anything behind that can’t be put on pause for two weeks.

  I thought about how much that statement translated to my life as well. My stomach churned until I pushed the thought away so I could type out another text.

  Abby : What percentage of you wants to rape and murder me on the side of the highway?

  I had to ask. I could have probably been more suave about it, but there was no point. He wasn’t actually going to come on my road trip anyway.

  Beck : Are you crazy? The side of a highway is a terrible place for a murder. There are witnesses driving by. I don’t know how long it’d take me to find a dump site. And Lord knows, you wouldn’t be compliant. Plus, I’d never get past the cliffhanger you’ve thrown at me.

  Abby : Sarcasm doesn’t translate very well over text, so I’m going to assume you’re serious and not text you anymore.

  I didn’t put my phone away. I knew he was kidding, and even if he wasn’t kidding, his greenish swirly eyes were almost worth taking the chance on him being a serial killer.

  Beck : Not texting me is a sure fire way to get to the top of my murder list… You’d be leap-frogging the guy in Chipotle earlier who skimped on my rice.

  Abby : La la la… This is me not responding.

  Beck : Okay, hold on. We just met and I’ve made two murder jokes…

  Abby : Stay on topic…

  Beck : Sometimes you have to trust people.

  I snorted. Yeah, right.

  Abby : You just answered my question with a cliché.

  My phone dropped on the table and I left it there as I wandered around my apartment. I went to my refrigerator and browsed the bleak contents. I strolled through my room, rearranging things that I’d just placed thirty minutes earlier.

  But the only thing I actually did was consider Beck’s comment and the way it had burrowed into my consciousness.

  An hour later, I replied again with two simply words.

  Abby : I know.

  I said “I know”, but I couldn’t think of a single person I had been forced to trust like that. For the rest of the night as I laid in my bed, I tried to imagine Beck and I living like the gay, one part blind couple next door. They seemed really happy, albeit suffering from an alcohol addiction. They had a few cats and sometimes through the walls I could hear them playing music and laughing. That seemed like love to me.

  …

  The next morning, I woke up to a text.

  Beck : When do we leave?

  I didn’t answer. It was one thing to consider taking him on my road trip in the middle of the night when I was nearing unconsciousness and feeling lonely in my tiny apartment. In the light of day, clarity sank back in and I shoved my phone into my purse without a response.

  I started that day like I did every day since the transplant; I took my temperature and then swallowed each of my anti-rejection drugs in one big gulp. I’d learned that trick early on. I would say I was pretty talented at being sick.

  Once a week I had an appointment with my doctor to make sure my body wasn’t attacking my shiny, new heart. That’s where I was heading with my mom that day. I was staring out the
window, letting my eyes lose focus on the homes flashing by, when I considered for the first time that I wanted Beck to go on the road trip with me. In fact, I didn’t want to go on the road trip without Beck anymore. I squashed the thought by turning the stereo up louder, but Mom quickly turned it back down.

  “ You don’t listen to music that loud when you drive, do you?”

  “ Um, no, not really,” I lied. The louder, the better. How can you feel the music if it’s not blocking out every other sound?

  “ Abby, you can’t be distracted when you drive. It’s important to focus on the road and to drive defensively.”

  You might be wondering why my mother was repeating all of this even though I was nineteen and should have been driving for three years already. Well, it turns out that when you have congenital heart failure, your heart can crap out on you at any moment and you’ll pass out, and you know, take out quite a few people heading south on highway - 71. So even though I had my license, I didn’t start driving until after the transplant two months ago.

  “ We’re just doing lab tests today, right?” I asked, trying to turn her focus toward my health. It was her favorite distraction, and I was actually quite thankful to have her help 99% of time.

  “ Yes, and then I think Dr. Pierce will do a quick physical like usual.”

  …

  I pulled my sleeve back down after they drew a few tubes of blood. I hated wearing a long-sleeved shirt in summer, but I always had to wear layers to Dr. Pierce’s office. I’d lost so much weight in the last few years, and even though the new heart was helping me put some of it back on, I still felt chilled to the bone most of the time. Good thing I lived in Texas. At least I’d warm up when we walked outside.

  “ You’re all done. I think your mom is waiting out in the lobby for you,” the medical assistant offered politely, finally making eye contact. She was always the one to take my blood. The first time I went in, she couldn’t find my vein despite me being ten shades beyond pale. After that incident, she just took my blood and we averted eye contact until the very end. Humans are weird.

  “ Oh, actually, is Alyssa here?” I asked, shuffling my feet awkwardly.

  The medical assistant eyed me skeptically and then nodded. “Yeah, she’s on break though…”

  She really wanted to add, so go away and don’t interrupt her fifteen minutes of peace.

  Too bad, lady.

  “ It’s just a really quick something, and I promise she likes me. She told me once that I was her favorite patient.” I couldn’t actually recall Alyssa ever saying that. She had a straight forward, cut-the-crap attitude. I actually don’t recall her ever paying me a compliment, but it worked. The medical assistant turned toward the break room to retrieve Alyssa.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “‘ My favorite patient’?” Alyssa repeated with a smirk as she stepped closer. Her brown gaze shifted above my head, most likely to confirm that the coast was clear. I turned with her gaze to see my mom immersed in a conversation with Dr. Pierce out in the hallway. I swear the two women had become best friends considering the amount of time they’d spent together. I imagined them talking about the singular interest that brought them together: me and my ol’, well new, heart.

  “ Are you sure you want to talk about this right now?” Alyssa asked with a warning tone.

  “ Yeah, it’s sorta urgent.”

  “ Sort of?” she mocked.

  I scrunched my nose in protest. “I’m nineteen, remember? I’m allowed to use words like ‘like’ and ‘sorta.”

  Alyssa laughed and gently tugged my arm so she could pull us into the closest exam room.

  “ You realize you’re putting not only my job, but this practice and the hospital, in jeopardy by asking what you’re asking.” Every feature of her face was stern, which only added to the seriousness of her warning.

  “ Alyssa, I realize there are ramifications for my actions. They sound really terrible, and I promise I won’t use the information recklessly.”

  She rolled her eyes and then narrowed them on me, as if judging how worthy I was. I hoped in that moment that my makeup-less face portrayed me as innocently as possible. For good measure, I widened my sage green eyes and flashed her a pleading smile. I gave her the full on sick-kid face, and I knew she was putty in my hands. I’m sorry that you have to know about that. I wish I could say that I never used my sickness for selfish reasons, but I thought of it like this: life had dealt me a really shitty hand. Other people were pretty or smart, and they used those qualities to their advantage in life. Why couldn’t I, ONLY once or twice, use my sickness to my advantage? I mean, I didn’t even get a Wish. This was my Wish. Alyssa was my quasi-Make-A-Wish Genie in that moment.

  Maybe I should have told her.

  Anyway, she pulled out a piece of paper from one of the like twelve dozen pockets on her scrubs and shoved it into my hand like she was dealing drugs and wanted to get the paraphernalia out of her hands, lest the police roll up soon.

  “ That’s their name and address. You DO NOT know me and you DO NOT say the true reason you’re there, ever.”

  My hand shook a little bit when she gave me that speech. The whole idea felt serious in that moment, like the road trip might actually happen after all. Beck’s handsome features materialized in my thoughts.

  “ How long are you planning on being gone?” she asked with a flash of concern.

  “ Two weeks,” I whispered, fearing her reprimand.

  “ So you’re going to miss two weekly check-ups?” Her voice was harsh. I wanted to scream, YES. I’m going to miss two appointments so I can LIVE my life! What’s the point of getting a new heart if all it’s good for is watching reality TV and picking out spices with my mom?!

  I wanted to say that so badly, but out of respect I offered only a nod.

  “ Yes, but I’ll be fine. I’ll take all of my medications and take my temperature every day.”

  I knew that wasn’t enough. There were so many things that could go wrong.

  She mashed her lips together in deliberation before she tugged the piece of paper away from my still-trembling hand. “Here, let me write my cell number on the back so you can call me if anything comes up.”

  …

  Mom didn’t leave me alone until late on Monday night and I told myself I was too tired to worry about the fact that I hadn’t heard from Beck all day. I mean, he had texted me that morning and I never responded, but what kind of determination was that? One text and he gave up? I thought romance was supposed to be desperate and wild.

  Just as I began to ponder that fact, my phone buzzed next to me on the night stand and I shifted my weight to peek at who was calling. CAROLINE lit up the screen with her cheerful, steroid-y face. She was my best friend, besides my parents and obviously now the gay couple next door. Oh, I should have mentioned earlier that the blind man is not actually blind blind, just that strange kind of blind where you aren’t sure if they’re looking at you or straight through you. Earlier today I was taking my trash down to the dumpster and the blind man had stepped out of his apartment at the exact same moment.

  “ Is that Otis you have there?” he asked, eyeing the trash bag.

  Otis?

  “ Uh…huh, it...Is…” My words sounded scraggly and half-hearted. I had no clue what else to say. What was I supposed to do? Admit to the poor guy that it was a trashbag full of yesterday’s salmon smashed into the remnants of whatever organic/vegan/gluten-free dish I had consumed alongside it?

  That’s the sort of awkward I am. I would rather proceed with a ridiculous lie than make either one of us endure one of humanity’s pained moments.

  The phone buzzed once more in my hand and I swiped my finger to answer it. Oh, right.

  “ Hey Caroline.”

  “ Hi Abby.”

  She sounded tired like she always did lately.

  “ How’s life over at Method
ist?” That was the hospital where most of the sick kids I knew received treatment. I met Caroline there when we were both suffering through an extended stay a few years ago. We were on the donor waiting list at the time. Obviously, I wasn’t on that list anymore. Caroline still was. She needed a transplant because she had a rare form of liver cancer that had originated as intrahepatic bile duct cancer. She was on the donor list, but they don’t give new livers to patients that still have cancer. There are too many people who need them that are cancer-free.

  So Caroline was too sick to be cured and too sick to get a new liver. She was the biggest reason I had a problem with the whole fairness-of-life thing.

  “ Same ol’, same ol’. My parents are both working to keep up with the bills, so it gets pretty boring during the day,” she answered,

  “ Are you having to go to any groups?”

  “ I told my mother that they depressed me and she said I didn’t have to go anymore.”

  I frowned, thinking back to how boring and sad those groups had been. “Yeah, I agree. I have a book I need to lend you. It has tons of steamy romance.” I hopped off my bed to start a collection of books to take to her soon. There was already a bag sitting by my desk, so I picked up various books off my shelves and started stuffing them inside.

  “ Oh good,” she answered. “I’ve been swapping between TV and books.”

  “ Same.”

  “ Did you finish getting your GED?”

  Right before the transplant, when the prospect of me continuing to exist as a human looked pretty slim, my parents became lenient about school. As soon as I was healthy enough post-transplant, I started studying for the GED so I could start to become an actual member of society and not just a sick person. It’s a strange concept, considering for so many years I tried to push thoughts of the future out of my mind. It was too painful to consider the possibilities of a future career when the odds of reaching my nineteenth birthday were less than likely.