In a Heartbeat (4 page)

8

Amelia

Mom missed the exit to the hospital. She never misses the exit. Never, ever. But that day, the day we were going to get my new heart, she did.

“Oh, no!” Mom banged her hand on the steering wheel when she realized what she’d done. “I can’t believe I missed it.”

“There’s another exit half a mile up,” I said, pointing toward the sign above us. “You can just get off there.”

Mom shook her head. “I’ll have to turn around and go back to that exit. That’s the only way I know how to get there.”

She clutched the steering wheel. The veins in her hand stuck out like ridges on a potato chip. It was as if a rubber band was holding her together and it was ready to snap.

I wasn’t much better. My hands were clammy, and I felt like puking even though I hadn’t eaten all day. How would I feel with someone else’s heart beating inside me? I wasn’t sure I’d still be me.

And what if I died? I
could
die. There would be such a hole in our family. Poor Kyle, his cards forever lying in a mess on my bedroom floor. Poor Mom and Dad, having to plan a funeral when they were so full of hope that this would work.

Poor me. Never growing up, stuck forever at the age of fourteen. I’d be dead. I was too young to be dead.

Another person was already dead. Wasn’t that enough to balance out the universe? I hoped God wouldn’t take me too. I hoped this other person’s heart would work in me. But what if it didn’t?

I started shaking. My whole body rattled. I held on to the doorknob but I couldn’t stop. What if they couldn’t do the transplant now because we were late?

“Mom!” I grabbed her arm. She had driven up to the next exit and stopped at a red light. “Something’s wrong with me. I can’t stop shaking.”

Mom reached over and grabbed my wrist. “It’s okay. You’re nervous, honey. But this is going to work. Believe me, Amelia. This is your chance for a normal life. You are going to grow up and go to college and get married and have children of your own. You are going to live. We just have to get through this. You understand?”

I nodded. If Mom wanted me to live this bad, then I was going to live. My body seemed to listen to her and calmed down. Now only my hands shook.

Mom drove back to the last exit, turned right, and hit only green lights the rest of the way. “Okay now,” Mom said as each light flicked green in front of her, as if she’d made them turn. She sat up in her seat and pressed down on the pedal, speeding ten miles over the limit. We were on a mission.

She pulled the car up in front of the revolving front door of the hospital.

“Aren’t you going to the parking ramp?” I asked, suddenly wishing I had more time.

Mom turned off the car and grabbed her purse. “We’ll let the valet take the car.” She got out and gave her key to the man in a white shirt and black tie.

I opened the car door and inhaled a breath of autumn air. In spite of the sun, the air held a crisp chill, a reminder that winter wasn’t far away, but summer wasn’t far behind. I winced at the usual pain of breathing deeply. We were here, but now I wasn’t in any rush to get inside. The glass doors loomed in front of me. Doors I might never come out of again.

No one had asked me if I wanted this. Not Mom or Dad or Dr. Michael. It was just the next step in my treatment, another chance at life. Sure, I’d gone through a battery of tests and met with the transplant coordinator. Even someone from the psych department. I’d been evaluated to make sure I was a good candidate. But nobody ever really asked if this was what I wanted. And even if they’d asked, I would have said, “Yes, I want a heart. I want to live.” Because I knew that half of all patients waiting for a heart don’t get one.

But what if I changed my mind now? How much longer could I live without a transplant? If I died today, I’d lose that time. Time to be with my family. Time to say good-bye. I never said good-bye to Kyle. How could I let them rip out my heart and put in a different one when I hadn’t said good-bye to my little brother?

I took small steps toward the door. Mom was behind me. I stopped once to catch my breath and saw Mom breathing extra hard, as if she was taking up the slack, breathing for both of us.

“Wait here,” Mom said, and she hurried inside.

A flock of geese honked overhead as they flew in their V formation. Dad told me that when a sick goose can’t keep up, two geese drop out of formation and stay with it until it dies or is able to fly again. Then if and when it’s healthy, they fly together to find another flock to latch on to.

Mom promised that she or Dad would stay at the hospital around the clock. Even though they wouldn’t be able to sleep in my room, they’d be close by. And tucked inside my suitcase was my baby blanket, a yellow and white blanket with a teddy bear in pajamas embroidered on the front that Aunt Sophie had made for me when I was born. The blanket had a rip in one corner and frayed edges, but I’d had it with me during every hospital stay.

Mom came back with a nurse pushing a wheelchair. I sat down on the gray seat, hugged my suitcase close like a shield, and took one last look at the sky. I waved at the geese and wished them well.

9

EAGAN

These aren’t just memories. I’m actually there, living it all over again. I can smell the pipe tobacco on Dad’s shirt. It makes me feel warm inside. I can feel the soft carpet beneath my toes and the cold linoleum that makes my feet freeze. I can hear the creak of the stairs and the ticking of the clock on the mantel.

But the one thing I can’t do is change anything. No matter how hard I try, it plays out as it did before. I say the same words, have the same reactions, do the same things that I did before. It’s like being stuck in a rerun.

If I can’t get back to my life, I might as well revisit it the only way I’m able to now. Anything is better than this dismal grayness. I search my heart for some warm memories. When they wash over me, the fog begins to lighten.

The first time I tried on a pair of skates I was hooked. It was a pair of white figure skates with pink laces that I got for Christmas when I was three years old. I tried them out on the pond behind our house that same day. Dad had to drag me off the ice when my cheeks turned as pink as my laces and my nose was nearly frozen. I cried because I didn’t want to stop skating.

Mom had been at church. When she got back, she was furious.

“What’s the matter with you, Richard? Those aren’t pond skates. She’ll ruin them out there.”

“Sorry, Cheryl. I didn’t know.”

“That’s the problem. You don’t know anything about skating. She’ll get proper training with the learn-to-skate program at the local rink. The
indoor
rink.”

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” I cried, because she was mad. “Please don’t take away my skates.”

Mom bent down and gave me a hug. “I’m not mad at you, Eagan. I’m glad you love skating. And I won’t take them away. Not ever. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whimpered.

“These are special skates for indoors only,” she explained. “We’ll get you a different pair of skates for the pond. But once you skate on indoor ice, I promise you won’t want to skate on the pond again.”

She was partly right. Pond ice was uneven and unpredictable. Even on indoor ice, one degree could change the conditions of the rink. It could change how your skates gripped the ice or how you landed your jumps.

But nothing beat skating on a pond, eating snowflakes on your tongue as you glided across the ice with your dad holding your hand, watching as a border of fresh snow decorated the pine trees. Dad made sure the ice was kept smooth and clean, and he even put two lawn chairs on the edge so we could take breaks.

One day, Dad wasn’t home from work, and I was skating alone on the pond. It was snowing lightly, but not enough to clog the rink with snow. I looked up to see Mom across from me on the ice, skating toward me. I wasn’t supposed to skate outdoors alone. I thought I was in trouble. Plus, I’d never seen Mom on the ice before. I didn’t even know she owned a pair of skates. I searched her face for signs of anger but saw something else. I wasn’t sure what.

Mom’s dark hair was sprinkled with falling snowflakes. She looked so pretty. She didn’t even have a coat on, just a down vest over a turtleneck shirt and blue spandex pants. She lifted her foot and glided on one skate toward me. Then she turned at the last minute, put her arms in a circle, and arched her back; her hands went up and her head relaxed back and she spun around on one skate, going faster as she brought the circle of arms closer to her body.

She looked as graceful as Tara Lipinski. Finally she slowed down, straightened up, and pulled out of the spin.

I was breathless. “I didn’t know you could skate like that.”

She huffed out breaths of cold air. Her lips parted into a smile. “I used to be pretty good at one time.” She skated around me.

“Why don’t you skate anymore?”

Mom crinkled her nose. “That’s a good question. I guess I’m just too busy.”

“Skate with me, Mommy,” I begged. “Please?”

She bent down and took my hands. I felt her warm breath on my face. “Anything for you, Eagan.”

She led me backward across the ice, making figure eights and going in circles until I was dizzy. We skated a long time, until my nose started running. Then we went inside and had hot chocolate.

That was the only time I remember seeing Mom skate. It was one magical moment between the two of us.

As I relive it now, I realize it’s my favorite skating moment. I saw a side of Mom that she didn’t often show. But I never asked her about her skating dreams. I never found out how far she’d gone in her own skating career. The fog that surrounds me is lifting. Maybe this memory has something to do with that.

It occurs to me that there’s a reason I’m here. But what is it? Maybe it’s to wander around the dark edges of my life. Or to celebrate the life I had. If I’m dead, then I know that there’s one thing that continues in the afterlife: frustration.