In a Heartbeat (13 page)

26

Amelia

Home! Our white house with black shutters snuggled between two maple trees. The front porch was windswept with gold and brown leaves. The white garage door had dirty basketball marks and a small dent where Mom had accidentally hit it while backing out. Everything looked the same. But nothing really was.

The girl who’d left here ten days ago? She was gone, along with her worn-out heart and purple fingertips.

I couldn’t wait to sleep in my own bed, underneath the down comforter instead of those scratchy hospital blankets. I longed to smell the hint of mango that lingered on my bedroom carpet after I’d spilled a whole bottle of body splash on it two months ago. And to be alone in the bathroom—real privacy again! No procedures. No one poking me with needles. A shower with only me in the room, not some nurse being obvious about not looking at my naked body.

As Dad pulled the car into the garage, Mom glanced back. She had a crooked smile on her lips, as though she wanted to smile and cry at the same time.

“You’re going to be surprised,” Kyle said. He gave me a sideways grin.

“What’s the big secret?”

“You’ll see.” He covered his mouth so he wouldn’t say any more. Secrets were always hard for him to keep.

Kyle and Mom and I had our arms full of plants and stuffed animals. I carried the heart pillow that I was supposed to hold against my chest when I coughed. Dad brought in my suitcase and hospital bags filled with discharge instructions and bottles of pills.

“There’s a surprise for you in the kitchen,” Mom said when we walked inside.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“What do you mean? You love surprises.” Mom sounded like she was trying to convince me of this.

I’d had enough surprises at the hospital. But I followed her into the kitchen. I almost dropped my pillow. A large banner covered the wall, with “welcome home, amelia!” in bright red letters. Huge pink and red hearts surrounded the writing. On the table was a heart-shaped cake. “
WE
YOU, AMELIA
” was written across the top. Aunt Sophie and Rachel were there, both smiling a bit nervously, as though they weren’t sure how to treat me.

Was it my imagination or did they look at me differently now?

Rachel gave me a fragile hug and handed me a bag decorated with pink ribbons. “It’s your favorite movie,” she said as I opened it.

“Pretty Woman
?
”
I pulled the DVD from the bag. “Thanks.”

Aunt Sophie raised her eyebrows. “Your favorite movie is a Cinderella hooker story?”

“It’s her feel-good movie,” Mom explained. “The hooker part is just an add-on.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why do you have to rationalize it? I can like a hooker movie if I want, Mom.”

Mom looked embarrassed. She wasn’t used to this new Amelia. But that other girl whose mom would lie next to her on the bed when she couldn’t sleep and rub her back seemed so distant. That life was long ago and far away.

Even Aunt Sophie and Rachel looked uncomfortable. It wasn’t like me to talk back to Mom.

Aunt Sophie’s homemade chicken noodle soup bubbled on the stove and warmed the kitchen. Everything felt familiar but new. Was it just two weeks ago that I was on a low-salt, special diet?

Mom frowned at me. “Are you tired, Amelia? You look a little peaked.”

“Kind of,” I said, feeling guilty.

Mom nodded. She seemed happier now that I had an excuse for snapping at her.

“You go lie down and we’ll bring you some lunch and cake,” Aunt Sophie said, taking control of the kitchen.

“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry yet.”

“Is it chocolate?”

“No, it’s carrot cake, your favorite,” Aunt Sophia said.

“I want a piece of cake,” Kyle said in a teasing voice.

“Go ahead, Kyle. I don’t like carrot cake.”

He looked at me funny. “Since when don’t you like carrot cake?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Since now, I guess.”

“It’s the medication. Side effects,” Mom said.

I felt Mom’s presence behind me as I headed to the stairs. I turned around. “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

“I just wanted . . .” Her voice trailed off. She wanted to make sure I got to my room okay. She wanted to make sure I made it up the stairs. Normally, I’d want her behind me. But today I needed to face the stairs by myself, without an audience.

Mom went back to the kitchen, a hurt look on her face.

The stairs. There were marks in the maple finish on the left railing where the chair had been attached, a reminder of my old self. Before Dad bought the electric chair, I’d stare up at the vastness of the stairs and sigh at the effort it would take to climb them. They were beautiful stairs, so spacious and majestic, but like Mount Everest to a kid with a bad heart.

I’d walked up steps at the hospital two days ago as part of my therapy. I’d been surprised at how easy it felt. If I hadn’t had a nurse behind me carrying the IV stand that was attached to my arm, I’d have run up them.

Now I took hold of the railing and, like a fairy-tale princess in reverse, glided up one step at a time. I slid my hand along the wood, getting back in touch with the smooth finish and the spots where hands left dirty smudges.

My leg muscles ached partway up, sending little messages to my brain that they weren’t used to this yet. My body was still adjusting to this new energy source.

And then I was at the top. I glanced back down at all I’d left behind: The old Amelia who cried because she couldn’t play soccer anymore, who moved so slowly, did everything slowly, until she even had to carry a portable oxygen tank on her back when she went out. The old Amelia who died at the hospital when they took out her heart and hooked her up to a heart and lung machine.

Now she was reborn. But my old body didn’t feel settled in with the new heart. Who was the new Amelia?

I went to my room and closed the door behind me.

“Hello, room,” I said. Everything was the same as before. But why wouldn’t it be?

I couldn’t help myself. Those pictures on my walls had to go. I hadn’t realized that all the horses I drew were staring at me. I took them all down and put them in my closet, then sat down on the bed and stared at the blank walls.

A week ago I’d sat here facing my own death. What was
she
doing a week ago? What sort of pictures were on
her
walls?

Laughter floated up from downstairs. I recognized Mom’s laugh. She sounded relaxed and happy. They were celebrating my new heart with carrot cake, while another family was wondering how this could have happened, and why. What was God’s plan in all this? Was it so I could get a new heart and live?

It was so unfair. And the worst part? I was happy to be alive. I was happy I had her heart inside me.

The door opened, and an orange ball rolled into my room with a fat little hamster inside, his legs going in fast motion.

“Say hello to Patches,” Kyle said from the doorway.

The ball hit something on the floor then turned and shot right. I could barely see the hamster inside as a blur of brown and white whizzed beneath my bed.

It wasn’t the hamster that made me cry. It was the bag of old pill bottles that the hamster ran into at the foot of my bed. The ones that had kept me alive for all those years before the transplant. It was everything tumbling around inside me: gratitude, grief, guilt.

Suddenly it all felt like too much. A sob reeled from deep inside. I tried to keep it down but I couldn’t. I’d barely cried since the operation but now I was a blubbering mess.

“He won’t hurt you,” Kyle said, thinking I was scared of his hamster.

“Amelia?” Mom stood at the door.

“Mommy,” I cried.

Mom was inside, running toward me, her arms outstretched. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

I opened my arms for her, still bawling, and the old Amelia surfaced, the one whose mom made everything better.

27

EAGAN

“I died a virgin,” I blurt out. That probably isn’t something I should say in front of a kid with innocent-looking eyes. I doubt that Miki even knows what sex is. Still, she’s the only one around to talk to.

“I know that sounds like a dumb thing to think about now, but I thought Scott was the
one
, you know, and I wish we’d had more time together.”

Miki flutters around me as I talk, almost as if she had wings.

“How can I leave him behind? And Mom and Dad and Kelly. And what about Grandpa? This will
kill
him.”

“They’ll miss you,” Miki says in agreement.

“Scott will forget me,” I say dishearteningly.

Miki shakes her head, and the glitter sprinkles down on my gray arms, making my skin sparkle. “He won’t forget. Hearts are like stones on an ocean beach,” she says. “And people are like the tides that leave permanent marks on them.”

“I guess. So what am I supposed to do about him?”

Miki sighs. “I guess you have to let him go.”

I turn back to the swirl of my life. “You’re pretty smart for a kid. But you really don’t understand.”

I could barely stand to look at the rocker. Every time I did, I saw Grandpa bending over it, squinting through his bifocals as he rubbed a soft cloth over the varnish.

The chair was in Scott’s unfinished basement, underneath a fluorescent light, next to a humming dryer. I circled the chair. I argued with myself, mumbling, “I can’t give it to Mom. She stuck Grandpa in a nursing home.”

Good point. But another idea, just as strong, made its case: I’d be disappointing Grandpa if I didn’t give it to her.

Round and round.

It would be too painful to give it to her now.

Grandpa wanted her to have it.

She doesn’t deserve it.

I was getting dizzy.

Scott bounded down the steps, ducking at the end so he didn’t hit his head on the low-hanging ceiling. I felt so petite around him. Even when I wore heels.

He put his hands on his hips as he looked down at the chair. “Mom says if you don’t take that soon, she’s keeping it. She told Dad she wants one for Christmas just like it.”

I shook my head. “It’s one-of-a-kind.”

“Now she’s
really
gonna want to keep it.”

“Screw that.
My
grandpa made it.”

He reached over, grabbed my waist, and pulled me close. “Yeah? Well, it’s in
my
basement.”

His breath lingered on my neck. I twirled us around, then pushed Scott down into the rocking chair with me on top.

“Your breath smells good,” I said as I laid my head on his chest. I could hear his heart beating, strong and steady, as we rocked.

He lifted my head up to meet his. He kissed me. A soft kiss. Not too fast. Not too slow. I closed my eyes and pretended that kiss would last forever. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me like he couldn’t get enough, like he felt the same way. His blue eyes with tiny brown and green specks made my heartbeat zoom off into warp speed.

Then he kissed me again. Right in the middle of that perfect kiss, I broke away and said, “She doesn’t want me dating you.”

Scott stared at me. “Who?”

“My mom. She doesn’t want me dating anyone. I swear she haunts me. I can’t even make out with my boyfriend.”

“She’s two miles away.”

“Not to me she isn’t.”

I pursed my lips, angry that the thought of Mom’s objections to my dating could push into this special moment. But she was everywhere: in our immaculately clean house with the white Italian sofa, even in this rocking chair where I was making out with my boyfriend. God, I wished I could get her out of my head.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked softly.

“Yeah. It’s nothing.” I shook my head, willing her out.

He traced his finger across my lips. “You’re pouting.”

“I want to stay here forever.”

“Sounds good to me.” He kissed me again, then jerked away when a door opened upstairs.

“Scott. You down there? Dinner’s ready.”

His cheeks flushed at the sound of his mom’s voice. “Coming,” he yelled.

I stood up. “So much for forever.”

His eyes darted between the stairs and the chair. “What do you want to do with this?”

“I have an idea. Come to my house around eight. Bring the rocker.”

“Aren’t you worried your mom will see it?”

“Sunday night ritual. Mom and Dad go to the movies.”

At seven fifty-five, I watched through the pleated curtains for Scott’s Jeep. He would be on time. He knew Mom and Dad were gone. We had two hours alone.

Just as his red Jeep pulled into the driveway, the phone rang. I pulled the front door open, then ran to answer the phone.

“Mrs. Lindeman?”

“No, this is her daughter. Can I take a message?” Probably a customer wanting to see a house. I grabbed the pen and pad Mom kept next to the phone.

I waved Scott in.

“This is Dr. Sanders’s office. She has an appointment tomorrow morning, but Dr. Sanders has been called away on a family emergency. Could you have her call in the morning to reschedule?”

Scott was struggling to hold open the door while carrying in the chair. I watched him as I scribbled down the words, “
Dr. appt. canc. Call to reschedule
.”

Why did Mom have a doctor’s appointment? Was she sick? My stomach dropped. Even if we didn’t get along, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. Now I felt even more guilty for what I was about to do.

Scott put the chair down in the entryway. “Where do you want it?”

“Follow me.” I grabbed two sodas and led the way up the stairs. Our house was one of those turn-of-the-century homes that had been remodeled a million times before my parents bought it when I was a baby. Mom loved the natural wood floors and arched doorways. I loved the extra space between my closet and bathroom. It was a space about three feet wide by three feet across that had been walled in, a sort of hidden room. If I pushed on the back panel of my closet, it opened far enough to fit through.

If I knew that Mom was going to nose around my room, I would have kept my batteries and water and granola bars hidden there, but it’s kind of dusty and gross.

I’d pulled out all my leotards, shoes, and boxes from my closet and had them spread out on the floor. I led Scott into the small space. We had to do some maneuvering to get the panel open, but after fifteen minutes of sweaty work, we had a wide enough opening to fit the chair.

I went to get an old blanket to cover the chair. When I came back, Scott was sitting in the rocker.

“Are you sure you want to put this in there? It’ll be hard to get out at Christmas.”

“I’m thinking of leaving it there permanently.”

Scott grabbed one of the sodas. “You and your mom have a real love-hate thing going on, don’t you?”

“You don’t want to get me started.”

He chuckled. “My dad rides me sometimes. I guess he used to raise hell when he was young, so he worries I’ll do it too.”

Scott rocked back and forth in the chair like a little kid pushing off on the swings.

“Rocks nice.” He looked around the room, taking in the purple walls, the skating posters, and shelves of skating medals and trophies. This was the first time he’d been in my room. His eyes settled on a poster above my bed. It’s my favorite skating poster that shows Michelle Kwan in midair.

“That looks like you,” he said.

“I wish.”

“No, really. That time I picked you up from practice, I couldn’t believe how awesome you were. You nailed all those jumps. The other skaters looked at you like you were a freaking god!”

I shrugged. “I work hard at having confidence in myself. I’m not giving up my goals until I see the flash of light in the sky, when the planet is blown to bits because people have screwed things up so bad.” That was one thing I liked about Scott. He knew about my pessimism and still continued to date me.

“You ever think of trying to
change
the world?”

I shook my head. “Most of the people I know don’t want to hear negative stuff. They prefer to live in denial.”

“Not everyone. My brother went to Notre Dame on a football scholarship. Then last year he came home for spring break and said he wanted to be a missionary in Africa.”

“What did your parents say?”

“They were floored. But they got used to the idea. Then he gave me all his football trophies. Said he wouldn’t need them in Africa.”

I was sprawled out on the end of my bed. Scott looked like he was doing leg presses the way he moved in the chair. He rocked faster the more he talked. I wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but I was afraid I’d break the spell of the moment. He smelled faintly like the weight room at school, where he spent most of his time. He kept talking as he rocked. I couldn’t move, I was so mesmerized. I concentrated on the tiny scar on his chin, a gift from our school’s rival team during a game a few weeks ago.

“I’d still keep my trophies even if I moved to Africa. I mean, why did he have to give them away?”

“Maybe it was his way of letting go of that part of him.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“He might change his mind in a few years. You should save them.”

“For sure. I’m not getting rid of them.”

I sighed. “You’re right. People like your brother are trying to change the world.” Did my skating make the world a better place? If I competed internationally next year, would that make a difference?

Suddenly, Scott stopped rocking. “You know, I’ve never told anyone that before.”

He moved forward. I thought he was going to reach out and kiss me, but he stood up. “Your turn,” he said, pointing to the chair.

“My turn for what?”

“To talk. In the chair.”

“Rocking chair therapy?” I sat down in the rocker and Scott lay on the bed. He asked me questions and I told him everything as I rocked: how hard I worked at skating, how I had dreams of competing in the Olympics. I told him how I’d found the pictures in the closet, how I didn’t get along with Mom, how we argued about everything, even stuff like my competition outfits and the music I picked for skating.

Scott and I had been dating for over two months, but we talked more that night than in all that previous time combined. We sipped our sodas and ran our hands along the rounded edges of the chair, completely absorbed in each other.