In a Heartbeat (2 page)

4

Amelia

The beeper had gone off. What I’d hoped for but dreaded. I could hear Mom downstairs, putting in a hurried load of laundry, the water rushing through the pipes. It reminded me of Dr. Michael, of how he always washed his hands before he touched me, how he tapped his knuckles on the sink to get off the excess water, then patted them dry on a paper towel.

“You’re in the early stages of CHF, congestive heart failure. It’s time to start thinking about a heart transplant.” Dr. Michael had folded his arms the way he always did when he talked to me. His voice softened too.

“Can’t you just fix my heart?”

He’d patted my back. I liked the gentle way he touched me, like I was a porcelain doll, an expensive doll that might break if handled without care.

“Sorry, kiddo. We’ve done all we can. A transplant is the way to go now. We’ve come a long way in the last six years. We’re going to do better than just fix that worn-out heart. We’re going to get you a new one.”

But I hadn’t wanted a new one. I’d wanted my old one fixed.

Dr. Michael’s nurse had given me a book written by a kid who’d had a heart transplant. The cover showed him skiing down the Alps afterward, wearing a shiny yellow alpine jacket over his new heart, his rosy cheeks flushed with good health. Mom and Dad had gotten a bunch of pamphlets too, including one called
Teens and Heart Transplants
.

I’d stared at the book. Was that boy really as happy and healthy as he looked? How did he feel about having someone else’s heart in him?

“And remember,” Dr. Michael had said before we left, “write down any questions you have so you can ask me next time.”

I’d written one question a week: How long would the operation take? Would it hurt? How long would my new heart last? What would they do with my old heart?

Dr. Michael had answered each one. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say they were dumb questions. He’d said that the operation usually takes several hours, that I’d be asleep and wouldn’t feel anything, and that they didn’t know how long my heart would last, but if I took my medication it could last my whole lifetime. He’d said my old heart would be disposed of.

After talking with him, I would feel better for the rest of the day, until another question popped up, another worry that I carried around until the following week. Another weight on my already heavy heart.

Slowly I learned about the procedure. The transplant team would be checking out my donor heart while I was getting ready for surgery. I’d wake up with a tube in my mouth and a catheter in my bladder and tubes draining from my chest. With someone else’s heart inside me.

I was more worried about the tube in my mouth at first. The thought of not being able to talk to Mom or Dad scared me. What if something hurt? How would I tell them?

“You’ll have something to write on,” Dr. Michael had said.

I’d had a catheter before. I
knew
that hurt.

“We’ll take it out as soon as we can,” Dr. Michael had said. “And you’ll be on pain medication, so you won’t feel it like before.”

Now I sat on my bedroom floor, playing that moment over in my mind, wishing I could freeze time or even move it back to before the beeper went off. It wasn’t so bad, living this way, even though I was getting worse.

First had come the low-salt diet. Not so bad, but I missed pizza and popcorn. Then came all the medicine, even the one that made my face swell. I couldn’t go to school, couldn’t face the staring. I stayed in my room most of the time because I looked like a chipmunk. Later came the hacking cough and the diuretics that made me go to the bathroom all the time. By then I was being homeschooled. No school field trips. No parties. No friends.

Worst of all, the shortness of breath. At first I couldn’t run. Then I couldn’t make it up the steps to my bedroom. The wheelchair at the mall made me feel like a freak.

And the last resort was the transplant list. I was still alive, but how long would I last? And how long had it been since I’d felt like a normal person? Even if I got a new heart, did I remember how to live anymore?

I stared down at my half-finished drawing, until I noticed Kyle peeking around the corner of my door. He held a pack of cards in his sticky hands. His sweaty blond bangs stuck to his forehead like frosting dripping down the side of a cake.

“What you doin’?”

Mom called Kyle a hurricane in motion. I called him a spoiled brat. Even though Mom had taken my pencils, I hid behind my notebook, scared and nervous, but not wanting to admit it to my kid brother.

“Drawing.”

“With what? You don’t have anything to draw with.”

“I’m
thinking
of what to draw.”

“Wanna play cards?”

“I’m busy.”

“Aunt Sophie’s going to take me to a ninja movie tomorrow, and we’re going to order pizza too.”

“That’s nice.”

“Mom said I gotta wait two or three days after you get your new heart to come visit.”

His voice was light. Mom and Dad hadn’t told him how serious the surgery was. They said seven was too young to understand, so they sugarcoated it like they used to do for me, telling me I was going to get a pinch in the arm when it turned out to be a needle.

“I know,” I replied. “Only Mom and Dad can visit me at first, and they’ll have to wear special masks.”

“Will I get to wear one too?”

“Maybe.”

“All right!”

How dumb and selfish he was, just wanting to wear a stupid mask.

“You have to wear a mask so I don’t catch any germs from you and
die
.”

Kyle’s mouth dropped open. He stepped closer. “Mom said you’re going to be better after you get your heart. Better than you are now.”

“Yeah, but I’ll have to take antirejection medicine for the rest of my life or I could
die
.”

“What’s antirection medicine?”

“Anti
rejection
. It’s medicine that tricks my body into thinking the new heart belongs to me. But it’s just a trick because it won’t really be
my
heart.”

“You already take lots of medicine.”

“This is different.”

Kyle squinted at me. “Are you scared?”

Huh. Maybe he wasn’t so dumb.

I looked back down at my notebook. “I’m just not happy about having surgery.” It was true. Not like anyone had asked me. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want any of this, but I especially didn’t want to have my heart ripped out of me.

Kyle was quiet for a second. “Mom said you’re going to be fine.”

My chest felt heavy and I let out a short breath. “Mom doesn’t know everything.”

“You
have
to be fine.” Kyle’s face was scrunched up like I’d just punched him in the stomach.

Mom appeared then, hurrying down the hallway. “Amelia, you should be downstairs. We have to leave within thirty minutes of the call.”

The lines around Mom’s face and mouth were deeper today. She used to run all the time and kept four trophies from her high school track team on the bookshelf in the living room. They’re gone now.

Kyle let out a sigh. He knew only that his sister had a heart problem, and she took lots of medicine and didn’t go to school like other kids.

I put down my notebook. “I’ll be right there, Mom.”

After she left, I turned to Kyle. “I’m going to play a quick game of cards first.”

5

EAGAN

I’m not hungry or tired or sore. But there’s more to this mist than grayness. I feel as if I’m being watched. Maybe I’m in a coma. I mean, I’m surrounded by gray fog instead of standing in front of the pearly gates of heaven. And no one is here to greet me, not even Grandma. That should probably tell me something. But worst of all, I don’t even care. Because if I really am dead, then I was cheated. I wasn’t supposed to die this young. And if I’m in a coma I could be trapped here for the rest of my life, and that’s not fair, either.

I wonder about the moment my skull crashed against that edge. I wonder if there was a lot of blood, if it stained the ice red until the Zamboni scraped off the layer of ice. Or did I have internal injuries and look like I was sleeping? Did Mom and Dad want to reach out and shake me, as though that would help me wake up?

Grandma’s funeral was the only one I ever attended. If I’m dead, I don’t want to see mine. I couldn’t bear to see the grief I caused.

I turn and twist and move through the fog. I call out. My voice echoes in the gray distance, as though I’m shouting off the top of a tall cliff. No one answers. I’m completely alone, except for the flashbacks from my life, which play out in front of me no matter where I move.

I tell myself to stop looking back at my past. It’s not like my life was so fascinating or anything. There were only sixteen years of it. But I can’t help myself, just as I was drawn to those end-of-the-world books even as I was laying out perfect plans for my own Olympic future. It’s ironic that when I was alive, all I thought about was death. And now all I can think about is my life.

I remember those last hours. The last hours of my life.

Kelly had her own car, a red Pontiac Grand Am with a tea green interior that looked black unless light was shining on it.

Even though Kelly was the worst driver I knew, everything about her car felt safe. Not to mention cool. Bucket seats. Leopard fabric– covered steering wheel. WMYX blaring out the latest hits. The smell of lavender, Kelly’s scent. Or maybe the cool part was Kelly herself, and the fact that she was willing to be friends with a sophomore.

“What?” she asked when I slammed the car door.

“My mom.”

Kelly tapped my skull. “Put her out of your head. Just think about the competition.”

“I never let her get into my head.”

Silence. Kelly was thinking.

“She’s in your head a lot. And why are you working overtime to make senior level?”

“Not for
her
.”

“Right.” Kelly peeled out of the driveway. “You’re taking ballet lessons and you do office conditioning besides skating practice five times a week. And that’s fine because you’re good enough to have that Olympic dream. But only if you’re doing it for yourself.”

Kelly paused. Her voice was low. “Sometimes I wonder if you’re doing all this for
her
.”

“God, she’s
such
a head case,” I said. “Nothing I do pleases her anyway.”

“At least
your
mom makes it to all your competitions. My mom is going to my sister’s soccer tournament today.”

“Yeah, but you
want
your mom to come.”

Kelly handed me a purple lollipop, my usual precompetition snack. “Look at it this way. You have a bigger cheering section.”

I unwrapped the lollipop and took a long lick. “She needs therapy.”

“Don’t all moms?”

“Believe me, she needs it more than most.”

“I have an aunt who takes antidepressants. Maybe you can slip some in your mom’s drink.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“I was joking!”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re bad.” Kelly laughed as she made a quick right turn. She snorted when she laughed and never cared who heard it. “I’m going to miss this next year. You ragging about your mom. I’m even going to miss skating every day. It’s stuck in my system. Wish I was as good as you, though.”

Kelly had weak ankles from repetitive strains. She skated because she loved it, nothing more.

“Won’t you miss competing?” I asked.

“No. I’m not into fame and glory like you.”

“Come on. It’s not just that. I love the costumes and the music and being able to land a triple salchow and do things that other people can’t do.”

Kelly’s hair wove tightly around her head and gathered into a braided bun on top. She scratched at her braids. “That’s the difference between us. I get too scared. You’re not afraid of anything.”

I pulled my fingers through my ponytail. I wouldn’t put my hair up until just before competition. Fussing with my hair and makeup was a ritual that helped with precompetition nerves. I thought of telling Kelly how afraid I was that there wasn’t much time left, how I felt an eerie sense of urgency. But this wasn’t the time for pessimism. “Not true. I get butterflies just like you before competing. But once the music starts, I’m in my zone on the ice.”

“Cold ice. That’s one thing I won’t miss at six in the morning.”

Kelly had it all planned out. She was going to Florida State to study physical therapy. The only plan I’d ever had was skating.

Mom kept a scrapbook of my skating career. Whenever I looked at it, I was amazed at how much time I’d spent skating, at how much it had consumed my life. I tried to figure it out once. I’d spent 14,560 hours skating. Six hundred days, adding up to 1.7 years straight. And I spent at least another 14,000 hours doing skating-related stuff, like picking out my costumes and buying new skates and traveling to competitions.

Recently I’d been questioning the whole dream. But I wasn’t sure I
could
let it go. And even if I wanted to, how would I ever tell Mom? I’d grown up with Mom’s voice in my head. How could I hear my own voice beneath the roar of hers?

I sighed. “It won’t be as fun next year without you.”

“I’ll be back over Christmas break. Besides, we still have this year.” She put out her fist and we bumped knuckles, our good-luck sign. “Tonight we’re gonna kick some ass.”

“I’m doing my triple lutz tonight.”

“You’ll stick it too, Dynamo,” Kelly said with certainty. “You make that in competition and you’ll blow the judges away.”

I stuck out a purple tongue. “Call me Purple Dynamo.”

She pulled into the parking lot of the ice arena, a brown brick building with a slanted roof and floor-to-ceiling windows. I’d grown up learning to skate here, fighting for ice time with the hockey teams. I put my hand up to my ear and fingered the edge of my sapphire earring. Like Michelle Kwan’s gold dragon necklace, I have my own good-luck symbol. The earrings had belonged to my grandma and had passed down to me when she died.

We hurried inside, past the refreshment counter and the odor of hot dogs and popcorn. We made our way down to the level of the ice, where the refrigerant smell eased my butterflies. My coach was talking to another coach, and my warm-up group was already there. As we passed by, I waved at Jasmine, one of the younger skaters, who would be competing in the level below me. She just turned ten last week. I changed into my skating dress and did my makeup and hair. Then I laced up my boots for the practice session.

Whenever I get on the ice at a rink, the first thing I do is bend down and feel the ice. Most people would laugh at this. Ice is ice, right? But each rink has its own touch, its own heartbeat. I knew how this one felt, but I still bent down and touched it out of habit. Tonight the ice was strangely absent of feeling. It was just cold. I stood and shook off a shiver.

During warm-ups, I attempted my triple lutz twice. I fell the first time, then landed it after that. I ended up close to the boards.

“Watch for the boards,” my coach, Brian, said. “They’re behind you on the jump and they come up fast.”

“Okay.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never trained anyone as gutsy as you. Or as hyper. We should put rocks in your pockets to hold you down.”

I twirled around. “Wouldn’t work.”

Tonight I was lucky. I was first in the competition, my short event. I’d get the combination jump out of the way at the top of my routine. Then I had the double axel and the triple lutz. After that, the remainder of my routine was a breeze. I pictured myself holding that first-place starburst trophy in my hands.

“You pumped?” Kelly asked me as I paced during the presentation of the judges. I tugged at my dress. It was plum silk with long mesh sleeves and gold rhinestone accents. The rhinestones reflected the overhead lights.

My hair is wild and hard to tame, but I’d pulled it into a tight bun with the help of lots of hair spray and a matching plum-colored scrunchie. Then I’d topped it off with glitter.

“Yeah. I love going first.” This way, I wouldn’t have to watch the other skaters landing their triple jumps before me, each success stabbing at my confidence. Fear and doubt were a skater’s worst enemies, and I wasn’t about to give in to them tonight.

My name was called.

“Don’t think. Just skate,” Brian told me. I skated out to the middle of the ice, stood stone-still in my pose. The overhead lights were hot and the ice was cold. I felt like a doll frozen in an action stance.

“Go, Dynamo!” Kelly and the other girls from my club yelled as I waited for the music to start. I’d chosen fast music, a
Pirates of the Caribbean
song that matched my daredevil personality.

I turned my head slightly and found Mom and Dad in their usual spot, third row up smack-dab in the middle of the rink. Dad was talking to a man next to him. Mom’s hands were clasped together as if praying. Her eyes were bright and glowing. I felt ashamed for what I’d said—“Awful words for an awful person.” I’d ruined dinner and had never found out what she’d wanted to talk about.

I caught Mom’s eye just then. She smiled and waved at me. I gave her a small wave back.

Then I blocked out everything as I stared straight ahead. I got rid of the cheers, the voices, the rustling of programs. I even got rid of Mom.

The music began to play and my body responded on cue, each move choreographed. I glided across the ice and felt my silk dress flow away from my body. I swept around the perimeter of the ice, landed my combination jump in perfect time to the music, then gathered speed as the audience applauded. I let the music seep through me and concentrated on each move. I could feel the adrenaline pumping. My heart raced.

I hit my double axel and circled around the rink toward the corner for the triple lutz. I launched off the back outside edge of my skate, which was what I was supposed to do, but I knew the minute my skates left the ice that I’d messed up somehow. I rose into the air and turned my body counterclockwise for three rotations. I was supposed to land on the outside edge of my opposite foot, but that’s not what happened. When I came down, I was out of synch with my body, and the ice wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I hit hard, landing on the wrong side of my skate. I tried to stop, tried to steady myself. I hit my toe pick on the ice and went flying. I was close to the boards. Too close. I had a fraction of a second, not enough time to move my head, but long enough to know I was going to hit the board. Long enough to know it would hurt.