In a Heartbeat (14 page)

After a while, Scott leaned over and picked up one of my skating dresses from the pile on the floor, a shiny silver one I wore two years ago. He raised his eyebrows. “So, are you going to try this on for me?”

“It doesn’t fit. I’m thinking of selling some of my old dresses to help pay for travel next year if I compete internationally. Besides,” I said, sounding haughty, “figure skating isn’t a beauty contest.”

“Maybe not, but these dresses are still kind of sexy.”

I stood up. “Let’s put the chair away now.” I covered it with the blanket, and Scott positioned the chair inside the opening. Then we fitted the panel back in place.

“I’ve decided. I’ll leave the chair there for twenty years, like a time capsule. Then I’ll take it out and keep it for myself.”

Scott sat down on the bed and tugged me toward him. “Come here.”

He kissed me and we lay down. We made out awhile before he slipped his hand under my shirt. I wound my leg over his, knowing how vulnerable I was right now, seeing the expression in Scott’s eyes. We hadn’t made out like this before. Mom would say I was being reckless.

We hadn’t noticed the time. We hadn’t even heard the back door open and close. It wasn’t until the padding of footsteps sounded on the stairs that I realized we weren’t alone.

Mom and Dad were home.

28

Amelia

“Just when you think you’re alone, you find out you’re not.” Tomas looked at me when he spoke, as though I was the only one in the room. His voice was almost a whisper. “You have your family and all the people in the transplant program pulling for you. And if you’re lucky, you’ve got the donor family too. For me, well, I
had
to know who my donor was. I couldn’t get on with my life until I did.”

A few chairs squeaked against the tile floor. The overhead lights hummed brightly above us. We were seated in a circle in the center of the room. The facilitator, Mrs. Keely, held her hands on her lap in a neat pile. Her feet were tucked together behind the leg of her chair. She peered at us above narrow slits of glasses connected to a green chain around her neck.

Mom and Dad were in another room talking to other parents whose kids had transplants. I could hear the sound of voices rising and falling, even some laughter. It was quieter in here. Too quiet.

Mrs. Keely finally spoke. “Did you find closure in meeting the donor family?”

Tomas shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“Did it help you move on with your life?”

“Oh, yeah. It did. Kind of like my friend Jake, who found out he was adopted. He felt like he wasn’t whole until he knew where he came from. I felt that way, only about my heart.”

I wanted to say something encouraging to Tomas, but my voice couldn’t find its way out. I’d always had trouble speaking in a group.

Another kid shook his head. His mouth was set in a straight line as he stared down at the square tiles.

“You don’t feel that way, Jackson?”

“No way. I don’t want to know nothing about my donor. I’ve got enough to deal with: school, friends, meds, rejection. Don’t need to add that to my situation.”

Mrs. Keely nodded. “Even though Tomas met his donor’s family, most donors don’t make contact. And just as we have differing opinions on this, we also have to keep in mind that not every donor family is going to want to meet the transplant recipient. For some, it’s too painful.”

No one said anything for a long time. Mrs. Keely cleared her throat. “Perhaps we should go over the list of symptoms of a rejection.” She read from a card. “Frequent cough, sweating or chills, pain or difficulty breathing, change in color of lips, hands, or feet. Nausea or diarrhea, chest pain, skin rash, vomiting, temperature more than one hundred degrees, sores or blisters on mouth, yellow color change in whites of eyes, puffiness or swelling of eyes, hands, feet, or legs. Anything else to watch out for?”

“How about sudden death?” Jackson said. “That’s a sure symptom of rejection.”

A nervous laugh spread among our group of six. Only three of us were heart transplant patients. Two others were kidney transplants and one was on the waiting list for a heart.

Mrs. Keely wasn’t smiling. “Because this is our first meeting, I want to be open to whatever
serious
subjects you want to talk about, such as rejection or medications. Does anyone want to add to what Tomas or Jackson talked about?” Another long silence.

“Well,” Mrs. Keely said, and now even she seemed uncomfortable because of the quiet.

“I want to know who my heart donor is,” I blurted out, my voice louder than I intended. The sound echoed off the walls. “I think she liked to skate.”

Mrs. Keely’s eyebrows shot up. “How do you know that?”

I’d spoken. I’d revealed more than I wanted to. But I couldn’t help myself. My voice was strong and determined. “Tomorrow will be a month since my transplant, and I keep discovering new things about her. I saw a photo of a hockey player, and I had a weird feeling. Then last week I saw figure skaters on TV, and it just clicked. Those sparkly dresses and icy spins made my heart jump.” I hadn’t even told my mom and dad about it, and here I was confessing to a group of strangers.

“And finding the donor family: this is something
you
want to do?”

“Yes. Well, I don’t expect them to be like a second family or anything. I just want to meet them for the same reasons that Tomas did. And I want to thank them in person for what they did.”

I looked at Tomas, who was cracking his knuckles and nodding at me.

“And how do you think this will help
you
move on?” Mrs. Keely asked, removing her glasses.

I saw the disbelief in her hazel eyes. She didn’t approve, I could tell. But I had to say what was on my mind. “It isn’t for me. It’s for her. She needs me to meet them so
she
can move on.”

29

EAGAN

It’s as though someone has adjusted the lens of a camera into focus. I can see the woman in the purple dress across from us. She’s waving at me. I wave back. She has gray hair, although I still can’t see her facial features. I know her from somewhere. She’s so familiar, but I can’t place her.

Suddenly, I’m overcome with an inexplicable sadness.

“Does everyone leave this place?” I ask Miki.

“Eventually. Some will be here a long time, though.”

“How long?”

“A hundred years. Or longer than that.”

I shiver. “Will I be here that long?”

“No. You’ll hardly spend any time here.”

Maybe because I died so young? “They must have had long lives to spend that much time looking back.”

She shakes her sparkly head. “It’s not how long they lived. It’s
how
they lived. Some have trouble reconciling themselves to that.”

“I wish I could talk to her,” I say as I watch the woman across from us.

“You will soon,” Miki says. “Don’t give up hope.”

I notice that, now, my dress has splotches of plum and a bit of gold color too. And the fog continues to lighten and break apart. Maybe there is hope, after all.

Scott jumped up off the bed. I was still straightening my shirt when Mom rounded the corner and let out a small gasp. Dad was right behind her.

“What the . . .”

“Dad.” I stood up. “You remember Scott.”

Scott’s ears turned red.

“Don’t you have a competition tomorrow? Weren’t you supposed to be studying?” Mom demanded. “Where are your books?”

Books. I’d forgotten. Mom would never believe we’d been just talking for three hours.

Scott moved toward the door. “I gotta go. Nice to see you again,” he said as he inched his way around my parents.

“I’ll see you out,” Dad said. “Cheryl, you talk to your daughter.” He closed the door and went downstairs.

I listened for their voices. I was worried about what Dad would say. I
knew
Mom was going to explode. I was ready for it. But Dad, I wasn’t sure about. He usually kept his anger below the surface.

Mom’s face was already turning shades of red. She spoke through her teeth. “What was he doing in your room? Don’t you know any better?”

“We weren’t doing anything.”

“Listen, young lady, you’re sixteen years old, and we can’t even trust you while we go out for a movie.” She stopped and stared at the mess of shoes and clothes on the floor. “Where did
this
come from?”

“My closet. I was cleaning.”

“You had a boy in your room, and you want me to believe you were cleaning your closet?”

“You should try it sometime. It’s amazing what you might find in the back of a closet.” My voice was defiant.

Mom looked puzzled, as if she didn’t know what I was talking about. How could she forget the pictures she’d hidden?

“I saw the pictures, Mom. The ones in the box at the back of your closet. Pictures of you pregnant. And not pregnant with
me
.”

A slow realization spread across her face. “Eagan, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t
I
tell
you
? Why didn’t
you
tell
me
?”

The reddish shade on Mom’s face had paled. She sat down on the edge of my bed and closed her eyes. Finally, she looked up at me.

“You’re too young to understand, Eagan.”

“Mom, girls my age get pregnant. How am I too young?”

She put her hand to her temple. “I guess we should have told you. But you were so young. You didn’t remember. You never said anything.”

“Why tell me I was an only child?”

“It was easier.”

“Easier than the truth?”

“I was five months along; it was a late-term miscarriage. It made more sense not to make a huge deal about it.”

“Did you have a memorial ser vice?”

“No. We didn’t think it was necessary.”

“So if
I
die, will you think it’s necessary?”

“For God’s sake, Eagan. Can’t this discussion wait?”

“No, it can’t.”

Mom was shaking her head the way she always did when she thought I was being impossible. “Fine. I was raised to be thankful for what I have. I had you, Eagan. And even though I loved that baby and desperately wanted another child, I was thankful that I had a beautiful daughter, a wonderful husband, and a nice home. Is that so terrible?”

I let out a small breath. Grandpa said Mom had a hard shell. I wanted to crack it open, to find out what was really underneath. But this was the most she’d ever opened up to me.

“No, I guess not.”

Mom reached over and put her hand on my face. Her voice grew soft. “Maybe that’s why I have such tunnel vision about your skating. I want so much for you, Eagan. You’re all I have.”

Mom looked down and put her hand on her stomach. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something more, but then she stood. “You need your rest. Go to bed. We’ll discuss that boy later.”

“Mom, just one more question. Was it a boy or a girl?”

She paused in the dark hallway.

“A girl.”

Then she was gone.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I didn’t understand my mother. I didn’t think I ever would. My body felt drained from the effort. I was exhausted, but my brain continued working overtime, unable to let it go.

Would I ever keep secrets like that? Then I looked at my closet, where hidden in a tiny space was a rocking chair that was supposed to go to Mom. How was that any different?

I couldn’t keep the chair from her. It wouldn’t be right. I’d get it out before Christmas and give it to her just like Grandpa and I had planned. Otherwise, I might turn out just like Mom, and the chain of secrets would continue with me.

It was two in the morning when I went downstairs to the living room. I imagined the rocker there, in front of the window in a slit of light that peeked through the blinds. I sat down across from that space and dreamed of another family with two children. They played on the blue plaid sofa and built forts together with the cream-colored crocheted blanket.

And they were happy, this other family. If that family’s grandfather had a stroke, they’d take him in and nurse him back to health. Because they had the mom with the kind eyes and soft voice. The one who came like a gust of fresh air and disappeared just as quickly. She was the mom I longed for. The one I loved.

I fell asleep in the living room, dreaming of this other girl and this other family. The family who loved the handmade rocking chair and made it the centerpiece of their home.