Changing Fate (18 page)

I wish people could read my mind. It would make it a lot easier to request that they move my bed three feet closer to Giana so I can imagine we’re in here together. When the noise in the ICU dies down, I pretend to hear her voice on the other side of the curtain.

Ever since Kyler left I’ve tried to let him go, but the song he hummed is on constant replay in my
head. I don’t even think I have the tune right, but it’s his voice that matters.

I hear footsteps outside my curtain and it opens to Mom, Dad, and Doc Perry standing in a row like they’re getting ready to sing me a carol
—the solemn smiles on their faces make it seem like a sad Christmas. But I won’t be alive for Christmas, so I lift an eyebrow and wait for one of them to talk.

“We have some good news,” Dad says.

Maybe they found a donor match. Here I am ready to die and they’ve found a way for me to live. I try to wrap my brain around the possibility. I can’t—it’s too much.

They move apart and I see Giana lying in her bed for the first time. So I’m
not
going to live; they didn’t really find a donor.
This
is my surprise. And as happy as I am to see Giana lying there, it might’ve been better for me to die without this image burned in my mind.

This
I can’t stand.

She’s got more tubes in her body than I do, if that’s even possible. Her face is bruised and there’s a white wrap around her head. And she can’t move. Not because of some medication, but because she’s paralyzed. Even though I
’m numb, my heart aches.

She can’t live like this. What kind of life would that be? But she can’t die either.

Doc Perry comes to one side of my bed and Dad goes to the other. Suddenly I’m moving closer to Giana. They’re putting our beds beside each other just like I wanted. But I’m not sure I want it anymore.

The closer I get to her, the more wounds I see. She has a serious rash across her chin and a deep bruise on her neck. I want to close my eyes, but they stay open. My chest
is heavy and my eyes burn with the tears I’m trying to hold back. I can’t cry for her like I did before. That kind of reaction might actually kill me this time, and I want one more moment together to make sure there’s a chance she’ll live.

Our beds are together now with her medical supplies on one side and mine on the other. Someone pulls a curtain around us and I’m left with Giana and her mom.

“Kate,” Cindy whispers. Her voice is tired and weak and it rips my heart open.

Even if I could talk, I’m not sure I would. What would I say? I blink out a tear.

Cindy presses her hand to her lips and shakes her head.

I want to tell her I’m sorry or give her a hug…
something
. It’s the only thing I can think of. Her daughter is like this because of me. If she hadn’t been on her way to visit me in the hospital, none of this would’ve happened.

“Please,”
she whispers. “Don’t blame yourself. It could’ve happened anytime.”

Another tear falls. Not anytime, not anyone. Giana’s already been through a terrible accident in her life. She doesn’t deserve this.

“Kate, I have to tell you something.” Cindy’s voice drifts off and she tries to clear her throat. “Giana’s dying.”

I barely hear her words. I hope I didn’t hear her words. I don’t want to hear her words. She takes a shaky breath
and I notice that she’s falling apart.

“Her insides are shutting down and there’s nothi
ng else the doctors can do,” Cindy says. “She might only have a few days left to live.”

I try to block out her words, but they hit me full force
—pressing upon me, cutting off my air. My own death won’t reverse time and it won’t save someone else. There’s no life calculator that says one life can be exchanged for another. I was kidding myself with that thought. We’re both going to be dead and that’s just the way it is.

I force myself to look at Giana.

“She has one thing left to give you,” her mom says. There’s a pause and I glance back. She rubs at her frown, but it doesn’t disappear. Now her chin’s quivering.

What could Giana give me? There’s only one thing I need right now and that’s… I swallow over and over again, shake my head as hard as I can.

“Yes, I’m offering you her lungs. It’s what she would’ve wanted. They’re running tests right now.”

I can’t stop shaking my head. She wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t give her life to save mine. This isn’t the cure she promised. It’s not even a cure. I’ll still die eventually and I can’t live knowing there’s a part of her in me. My mind scrambles for different options. What was it they said was wrong with her? Her kidneys? That’s it. I can give her my kidneys. She can have them when I die and then she can live. But I can’t talk; I can’t tell her any of this.
Cindy’s already thought this through and she’s a few steps ahead of me. But maybe I’ll die first.

“Think of it as a second chance at life,” she says.

The only thing I can think of is the end of
Giana’s
life. Her lungs won’t be a match. They can’t. Even if she
is
my size.

“
Please,
don’t make this hard, Kate.” Her voice is shaky. She sniffles. “Giana didn’t want to die. She wanted to be there for her niece. She was so determined to take care of her. Without her, I’m going to need help. I need you to be there. I need to know there’s hope, a chance at life. Please take Giana’s lungs and take this chance.”

I stare at her and let the tears come. They flow into my hair and I force myself to think of her offer not as giving Giana’s life for mine, but giving her lungs so I can live
her life for her. But I’m nothing like Giana. I’m not nice to anyone and I never reach out for a good cause unless it’s
my
cause. I’m selfish and stubborn.

But I can try to change. For Giana, I will. She’s giving me something I can never repay.
The only way I can show my gratitude is to do my best.

I nod.

Cindy says, “Thank you. You’ll never know what this means to me.”

She speaks my exact thoughts. She’ll never know what she’s giving me. Not only is it a second chance at life, it’s my
last
chance.

The curtain opens again and Mom comes in with bloodshot eyes. She probably heard everything. I don’t know if she’s been crying because I might live or because Giana’s going to die. Either way, I’m still weighed down. I can’t find the joy when one of my only friends is slipping away beside me. Before me. It should be me.

Mom walks over to Cindy and takes her hand. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you…”

Behind all the medical equipment, Giana’s face is peaceful. I imagine her with a smile and capture it in my
memory. I’ll probably never hear her voice again, never really see her happy. But if her lungs are a match, I will live every day because of her and I will breathe every moment because of what she’s giving me.

In her own way, she’s found my cure.

She’s changed my fate.     

Between nurse checks, therapy, lights on, lights off, and the
whirr
of machines, I never know what time it is. I have no clue if I sleep at night or in the middle of the day. My food enters through one tube and leaves through another. People talk to me but I can’t respond. They might as well paint me white and glue me to the wall. I’m useless to them and I’m useless to me.

The only news I hear about Giana comes through the curtain. When I’m awake, I strain my ears to listen for certain signs of how she’s doing: soft cries, beeping monitors, and silence. Hearing nothing is almost worse than hearing something. Nothing means she might be gone.

The next time my curtain opens, the trio is back, but with one extra. Dad, Mom, Doc Perry, and a strange man with a scruffy mustache, all in a row. Part of me hopes they’ll move to the side so I can see Giana, but another part of me knows they won’t. It must be the mix of joy and fear in their faces. They step forward as one and close the curtain behind them.

Silence hangs in the air like a dusty cobweb, ready to trap us if we make a sound. I stare at the ceiling and count the seconds going by.

Before I make it to twenty, Dad says, “We found a match, Kate.”

I shake my head and close my eyes. My insides collapse, roll into a knot, and pull me down. I’m falling, silently screaming while I watch each moment with Giana flash before my eyes. They didn’t find a match.

A match found me.

Dad clears his throat. “It’s perfect, Kate. And it’s what
her family wants.”

No. It’s not what they want. They don’t have an option. What they really want is for Giana to be alive. They have no other choice. And neither do I. I’ve told her mom that I’ll take them, and I will, but I can’t be happy about it. Others may rejoice in my life, but if Giana dies, she breaks the connection between us that I was so hesitant to make.
I was trying to protect others, but I never thought I’d have to protect myself instead. Having her lungs in me will never be the same as having her here.

“We’ll have to move quickly,” Dad says.

Doc Perry responds, “Everything’s about ready.”

His words stab my heart.

“Which operating room are we in?” the stranger asks.

There’s a pause. Each quiet second chisels at my emotions, breaking them apart and scattering them to pieces. I let them go and focus on one
thing.

Live for Giana.

Live for Giana.

Live for Giana.

“We’re in room three,” Doc says.

“Let’s get her there,” Dad says.

Right now? I’m having a lung transplant right now? Is Giana already dead? I can’t breathe, can’t swallow, can’t focus.

Live for Giana.

Live for Giana.

  I squeeze my eyes tighter and try to block out the medical words exchanged between Dad and Doc Perry. Even though I can’t feel my body, I think
they’re tugging something—probably changing tubes, pulling some out, putting new ones in, whatever they have to do to move me to O.R. three.

I’m a lab rat again, going through a surgery that will affect an important statistic. If the
transplant is a success, I’ll give hope to thousands of people with CF. And if it’s a flop, it will be studied to avoid future mistakes.

“Is everything in place?” Doc Perry asks.

Someone breathes next to my ear and I flinch. I open my eyes to find Mom leaning over me.

“It’s okay, honey,” she says.

No, it’s not, I want to tell her. We’re far from okay.

“You’re going to live.”

I press my lips together and nod, trying to convince myself she’s right. I
am
going to live, but at a cost I can never repay.

“I can’t be in the operating room,” she says. “But hang on tight and know that I would be there if I could. We’re in this together. Stay with me.”

I want to tell her I’m trying but there’s not much I can do.

The bed starts to move and she steps back, standing in my white cell, wiping her cheek with trembling fingers. As soon as I reach the spot where Giana’s bed should be, I search for her, expecting her to be there.

Her bed’s empty.

She’s already gone.
             

The thought pounds through my head with a dull thud.

Why didn’t anyone tell me? She
can’t
be gone. Not yet. Not ever. A sob consumes my throat and I know exactly why they didn’t tell me. They knew my reaction might kill me before they could operate. The harder I cry, the quicker they move my bed toward the operating room. We go through a doorway and people in space suits surround me. They touch my head, prick my finger, and switch my IVs. The moment I see the glint of something silver, I shut my eyes.

Live for Giana.

Live for Giana.

Giana is
gone
.

I want to cry more, but my thoughts are being stolen. They slip through my memory and blur together. I grasp for them and try to hold on, but I can’t fight the medication. Before I’m completely out, they move me to a hard surface and Dad whispers into my ear.

“Kate. I love you. Remember that. You and your mom have always been on my mind, and I love you both.”

His words float
in my ear, leave me with some comfort, then drift away.

He
touches my hair. “Now go to sleep. Dr. Farrow will take care of you but I’ll see you soon.”

I hope he does, because I will live for Giana.

I have to.

The moment my eyes open, I try to take a deep breath but there’s still a tube down my throat. My body isn’t numb anymore but I can’t move my hands. I tug them hard but it’s no use: they’re bound to the bed. They probably did it to keep me from ripping this dang tube out. I want to take a breath, to fill the lungs that were given to me by someone else. Someone who’s gone.

“Kate,” Mom says.

I turn my head toward her voice and try to focus on her face. Her image is blurry. I blink several times to clear my vision but it doesn’t work. Her voice gives me comfort as I sink into a deep sleep.

The next time I wake up, Dad’s standing beside me. My eyes focus enough to see the happiness on his face. 

“Hello, Kate.”

I try to respond then remember the tube in my throat. Why doesn’t he take
it out? I reach up and touch it.

He chuckles. “That tube can come out when you start breathing well on your own. You probably hate it, but we need to make sure your new lungs are getting the oxygen they need.”

My
lungs? He’s wrong. They’re not mine. I want to correct him…but I can’t. I look away and focus on my body. For being alive, I still look like I’m on the brink of death. I’m hooked up to multiple IVs. There’s an oxygen reader on my finger, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, several tubes coming out of my chest, and something around my legs that keeps squeezing them.

And now that I’m not numb, I can actually feel some of the pain. Even with all the meds, the skin around my incision
burns like it’s been stretched too far and might burst back open. Not only does my chest feel like someone’s sitting on it, it’s also three times larger than normal. Maybe they transplanted more than a set of lungs.

Dad starts talking again, but I’m losing focus. The pillows around me turn to clouds and the bright lights
are enveloped by darkness.

I wake up again. This time, Dad’s leaning over me with Mom right beside him. “We were just about to take out that ventilator,” he says. “It would’ve been easier with you sleeping, but now that you’re awake…”

He doesn’t need to finish. Even my slow brain can figure out that this isn’t going to be fun. Dad prepares everything and starts pulling the tube from my throat. It scratches and burns and makes me gag. 

Once it’s out, there’s a sharp pain on my tongue. I try to say something, but my throat’s on fire. I still can’t talk without wanting to kick someone.

“We need you to start moving,” Dad says.

“Now?” Mom asks. She took the words right out of my brain.

“Yes, now. Nothing strenuous, but the movement will help increase circulation. It will also speed the healing process, clear the lungs, and increase muscle strength. Right now we’ll just get her into a chair but later we’ll need to go for a short walk.”

The anger in Mom’s eyes matches the feeling rolling around inside me. They just cut me open like a puzzle and replaced one of my pieces with a new one that might not fit. And now they expect me to move? Have they seen the tubes coming out of my chest?

Dad opens my white curtain and calls to the nurse. Ember comes around, grinning. I’m relieved it’s her and not the regular ICU nurse. My happiness dies the moment she makes me sit up.

I gasp for air and cough. Everyone freezes. I cough again and the fire in my throat burns to life. Ember shoves a pillow to my chest and tells me to hug it. I hold on tight and cough once more. Even though the pain is blinding, I can tell the cough is different. It’s dry, free of mucus. Still, I swallow and expect something to go back down. But besides the constant pain, there’s nothing in my throat. These lungs are clean, healthy. Not mine.

They’re
Giana’s
.

I close my eyes and force her image from my mind. I can’t think of her. Not yet.

“Let’s get you into this chair,” Ember says.

I lift my eyelids and notice the cushioned chair she’s placed beside my bed. Somehow, with the help of everyone in the room, I make it into the chair, where they leave me, in pain, in front of the TV, for two hours. I don’t even watch the show, just close my eyes and try to breathe. I think of Kyler, of France, of anything but the pain in my chest and the hard cushion under my butt. Seriously, couldn’t they at least put a pillow down first?

The second they return me to my bed, I fall back to sleep.

The rest of my time in the ICU melts together. I’m awake, I’m out. Doc Perry comes, Dad checks on me, Ember’s face shows up every once in a while, and I even see the other nurse. It’s still hard to focus. When they make me walk, I want to die.

I think of Kyler and do my best not to think of Giana.      

That gets harder when they move me to a normal room. My first day there, Giana’s mom comes to visit. She doesn’t say anything, just sits in a chair, dressed in a space suit with tears streaming down her face. I can’t look at her. I won’t. I close my eyes and pretend she’s not there. As much as I want to help her, I need more time. I’m too broken to help someone else feel whole. Even though I have a part of Giana in me, I’m not her.

But
now
I’m thinking of her. My eyes sting and I smother them with my fists. I need something else in my mind.

Kyler.

Kyler leading me toward the Eiffel Tower.

Kyler singing
La Via En Rose
and giving me soft kisses.

His lips. The freckle.

Anything but Giana.

I hear footsteps and open my eyes. I wipe at the pooling tears to see
Cindy walk out the door. Then I inhale and hold the air in her daughter’s lungs. She’s gone. Giana’s gone.

There’s another knock at the door. I expect to see Dad come in, but it’s Mom.

I exhale and my air rushes out along with all thoughts of Giana.

“How’s my favorite girl?” Mom asks.

“Really?” I whisper. “You have to ask?”

Mom smiles. “At least you’re talking.”

“Trying.”

Mom nods and hands me a stack of letters.

I shuffle through them. “What’s this?”

“Open one.”

I lift the edge of a plain envelope and pull out a blue card with two simple words on the front.
Get well
. I glance at my mom and open it slowly, wondering who it could be from. Inside, I find a short hand written note. “School sucks without you. Get well and come back.” It’s signed by Vivian and Charlie.

I give Mom a pointed look. “Did you put them up to this?”

She laughs. “No. The office called and asked me to come get them. The students did it all on their own.”

I grasp the letters in both hands and my arms tremble. They did this for me?

Mom clears her throat and I tear my gaze from the letters. “It’s time for a walk,” she says. That’s when I notice the extra gown and mask in her hand.

I fall back into the pillows and curse every kind of therapy. Ember comes in and hooks me up to my portable machines. She puts them in a wheelchair and with Mom’s help, they get me in my space suit and on my feet. Each step is harder, but one day they’ll be easier.

I will get through this: through each day of therapy, treatments, x-rays, bronch checks, and different shots. Each prick and push, pull and shove. They’re all worth it. I will make them worth it.

The days continue to blend together and I wonder when Kyler will come. Giana’s mom stops by every so often. Each time she cries a little less and each time I’m able to look at her a little more. One day we’ll talk. One day we’ll share our real feelings in words, but today’s not that day.

Today’s the day my dad walks in and sits next to me with a hand on my arm. “Kate. You are very lucky to be alive.”

I put my fingers on his. It’s the first time I’ve touched him and it feels right. “I wouldn’t be alive without you, Dad.”

“Sure you would. I’m not even the one who performed the surgery.”

I lift an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “I just wanted to tell you why you’re lucky to be alive. I’ve never seen lungs worse than yours.”

I swallow. “I was basically dead. Remember?”

“I know. But Dr. Farrow had to break your sternum to get your lungs out. Which is why your movements are so restricted.”

“And why I’m in so much pain,” I add.

He clears his throat. “I also wanted to let you know that your mom gave permission to send your lungs to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation so they can research them. Hopefully they can find something that will help others.”

I squeeze his hand. “I hope so.”

My thoughts go right to Giana. She’s the reason I’m alive. Not because of research done on a moldy pair of lungs but because she was lying on her deathbed with the perfect match for me.

“Do you still cough?” Dad asks.

“Not really.” I breathe in and let it back out. “It’s so weird. I’ve coughed my whole life.”

“And if you don’t keep those lungs healthy, you’ll cough again. We found an infection in your bronch test this morning and I’ve upped your medication to fight it off. Let’s just hope it’s not your body rejecting the lungs.”

My skin turns clammy. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Enough that you should be aware of the signs.”

He goes through a list of several different symptoms. Basically if I’m sick at all, I’ll need to call the hospital.

Dad stands to go. “And once you’ve done your breathing treatments for about a month, you can probably stop them altogether.”

I blink. “Stop? But I’ve done them my whole life. Won’t I still have to fight the mucus?”

“Those lungs don’t have CF. You’ll still have to protect them from getting infections, but they won’t have the mucus build up like yours did.”  

“Then why do I need to do them now?”

“They’re helping your new lungs heal and expand.”

Right.
My
lungs. I’m suddenly done with this conversation. Whatever he says. I’ll do the treatments, I’ll not do the treatments. I’ll live each day and I’ll do my best. But I’m still not ready to think about Giana. I’m still not ready to admit that her lungs are my lungs…

Dad takes the hint and excuses himself from the room.

My next visitor is the one I’ve been waiting for since I came out of surgery. Kyler comes in with his space suit, the mask hiding his lips and a few curls escaping the cover over his head. Still, I stare at him and a tingle runs up my spine as he moves closer to me.

“Kyler,” I whisper.

His eyes light up and he stops beside me. “I knew you’d live.”

I nod and swallow. A question enters my mind but I hesitate to ask it. It would mean talking about the one thing I’ve been running from. But it feels right to ask Kyler. “Did you know Giana was going to give me her lungs?”

He shakes his head and blinks once. “No.”

“Tell me…” Deep breaths, rapid heartbeat. “Did they already have a funeral?” 

“Yes,” he whispers.

I fall apart. Tears stream down my face and I grasp onto him. He leans closer and runs his hand over my arm. He doesn’t say a word, just holds me close as I finally mourn the loss of a friend. I couldn’t save Giana. I couldn’t even make it to her funeral. We weren’t friends for long, but it was long enough.

She saved my life.

And she wouldn’t want me to live it this way.

I grab a pillow in my free hand and bring it to my chest. Kyler sits on the edge of my bed and wraps his arms around me. I curl in a ball and use him as my shield, protecting me from myself until the grief washes away.

He h
ums a soft melody and it smoothes the wrinkles in my heart. Giana is gone but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll think of her every day and I’ll take each breath because of her gift.

I lift my head and gaze into Kyler’s eyes. They’re soft and welcoming and make me want to kiss him so bad. But I can’t. I can’t risk infection. I push away the urge to tear off his mask and instead lean back until I reach a safe distance. From here, I know it will take more work to get my lips to his. As much as I want it, and as much as it looks like he wants it, it can’t happen yet.

“Sorry,” I say. “I always cry when you’re here.”

“It’s okay. I cried a lot after my mom passed away. Giana was an amazing person and she made it possible for you to live. We’re both lucky to have known her.”

“She should’ve been prom queen,” I mumble.

Kyler touches my arm. “Kate.” He pauses. “She was.”

I tilt my head, on the brink of another breakdown. “That’s not funny.”

“No. I’m not joking. They kept her in the running and they made her queen.”

I don’t know what to say. All these kids I’ve pushed away… I should’ve given them more credit. I should’ve been ready to let them into my life. They knew Giana was a good person. She deserved to be queen. Hopefully I can be like her.

“Kyler, when I get out of here, there’s something I have to do.”