In a Heartbeat (6 page)

12

Amelia

I woke up in a fog of lights and buzzing machines. So strange. Something nagged at me. What had I forgotten? The last few days were like a groggy movie in my brain. I struggled to find the words when the breathing tube came out. My mouth was too dry to talk.

Mom sat in a chair next to me reading a celebrity gossip magazine. A surgical mask covered her mouth and nose; her blond hair was crushed up against her neck. She had on a green gown over her brown-striped sweater. That same sweater she always wore when I was in the hospital. Did she feel the same way about her sweater as I felt about my baby blanket?

“You’re awake, sweetheart,” she said when she saw me turn my head.

I’d been awake on and off; they’d even had me up to use the bathroom. Days and nights blurred into the fluorescent light above my bed. Machines beeped and blue-gowned figures floated in and out of my room. I remembered talking to Mom and Dad and maybe Aunt Sophie. It was hard to tell who was behind the masks.

“What day is it?” I squeaked out, then coughed.

“Thursday, six a.m. Two days since your transplant.”

“I feel different.”

Mom’s eyes widened. “Does something hurt?”

“No,” I said quickly. “I just feel kind of strange. My heart sounds different.” Where was the swishing sound, the irregular rhythm I’d grown used to hearing every day? What was that feeling beneath the painkillers, that someone had taken the stack of books off my chest and replaced it with a feather?

And the other feeling, that this heart was sitting in a space that wasn’t quite right, not the exact size and shape as it was used to. As if there was too much room. I thought of Kyle’s Legos, when he pushed two bricks together that didn’t really fit. It was unsettling.

Mom’s eyes relaxed. She reached over and pushed my long bangs off my forehead. She was wearing surgical gloves, and I flinched at the plastic feel of her touch. “You have a healthy heart inside you now, one that can keep up with your body.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s it.”

I twisted my head toward the heart monitor, a miniature screen with wavy lines that beeped loudly whenever one of my patches came loose. Numbers flashed out my heart rate, numbers that went up and down depending on whether a nurse was poking me with a needle or messing with the chest tubes.

An IV line in my wrist provided easy access to check my blood levels. Another IV line in my arm was used to give medication. Tubes from my chest poked out through the blanket and attached to a suction device that made a
whoosh
sound as it sucked fluid away from my heart.

Eight years of being sick had made me a deep thinker. I wasn’t like other fourteen-year-olds. And I couldn’t help but think about the time during the operation when there was nothing in my chest: when they removed my heart, and before they put the other heart in. When I was connected to the heart and lung machine. When I was technically dead. I wondered if that was the weird feeling I’d had.

But I wasn’t dead now. My fingertips were pink. I didn’t remember them ever being so pink. My face felt flushed. I’d been shutting down before, when my fingers grew tight with fluid, when my legs felt like fire hoses, when I walked like an eighty-year-old woman instead of a teenage girl. Now that was gone, along with my old heart. I felt like a flower blossoming in the spring air, coming back to life.

“They have a surprise for you today,” Mom said, and her eyes sparkled.

She’d said the same thing yesterday, and they’d taken out one of the chest tubes, and the catheter from my neck. I was glad to get rid of the tube, but the pain of having it removed was so bad I had to have extra pain medication. Which machine could they unhook from me today? I hated the little patches on my chest. They stuck to my skin and made round red blotches that itched. But I knew they wouldn’t be removing the heart monitor anytime soon. And I needed the IV for pain medication. They never took out the IVs until right before a person went home. That seemed like a long time from now.

Maybe they’d take out another chest tube. Or maybe the surprise was Kyle. He hadn’t been up to see me yet. Was Mom’s big surprise a visit from my little brother? Or a visit from Rachel?

Cards and flowers lined the window ledge. Kyle had painted a picture of a hospital bed with a stick figure that was supposed to be me. “Come home soon, Meely” was written underneath in neon green paint. A stuffed pony sat on the cart next to my bed.

“Who sent the horse?” I asked, wondering if that was the surprise.

“Grandma. She’s called every day from Kansas City. Maybe you’ll be awake to talk to her today.”

I coughed, expecting the familiar pain that usually came with my coughs. I held the heart pillow to my chest, the one the transplant team had given me so it wouldn’t hurt as much when I coughed. My stitches hurt, but my new heart didn’t. This new heart that wasn’t really mine. A present from someone I didn’t know. A present that didn’t fit quite right.

I couldn’t help but think about that someone, even though the therapist who’d evaluated me before the transplant said that worrying too much about the donor could cause undue anxiety. But she didn’t say how I was supposed to
not
worry. I mean, another family was planning a funeral right now while mine was celebrating.

I felt unworthy of this gift. I didn’t even know how to live.

One of the tubes rubbed against my side and I shifted in the bed. Mom fussed around the mattress, trying to straighten the sheet underneath me.

I cleared my throat and coughed again before I spoke. “Did they say whose heart I have?”

Mom’s hand froze on the sheet. Her voice was soft. “A teenager’s.”

I vaguely remembered a dream, one with a horse. The memory of it had been knocking around in my brain for the last two days. “Do you know her name?”

“No. We don’t even know if it’s a girl. The information is kept private to protect the donor’s family. All we know is that he or she chose to be an organ donor on his or her driver’s license.”

“Oh.” I’d expected more information. I pictured a girl. I wondered what she looked like, what grade she was in, if she was pretty or athletic. Did she have a boyfriend who was missing her right now? Was someone crying about her even as Mom was tucking in my sheets?

“Maybe when you’re better, you could write a thank-you note to the family. The hospital will forward the letter for you.”

I almost laughed. This wasn’t like a Christmas or birthday gift. A thank-you note for a heart? What would I say? I’ll get a lot of use from your gift? Thanks for thinking of me?

“Maybe,” I said. “What’s the surprise?”

Mom didn’t have a chance to answer. Two green figures entered my room carrying a portable treadmill.

I thought they had the wrong room. I looked at Mom, who nodded as if she’d read my mind.

Her eyes smiled at me. “Believe it or not, you’re going to be walking on that today.”

I shook my head. I’d only been out of bed a few times since the transplant. I had stumbled up and down the hall once. With assistance.

Could I actually exercise? My brain said no way. But this new heart felt like it wanted to move, like it needed to move. This new heart that came from a teenager, maybe a girl with lots of energy and lots of plans before her life ended.

Mom picked up the phone. “I should call your dad. He’ll want to know that you’re awake.”

I snorted. “Yeah. Sound the alarm. Amelia is awake.”

Mom put her hand over the mouthpiece. “What did you say, sweetheart?”

My cheeks burned. “Nothing,” I said. How could I talk to Mom that way after all she’d done for me? Mom, who always knew just what to say to make me feel better, whose hands held magic in them when she rubbed my back and made me feel instant relief.

But resentment filled my brain. Sharp words were ready to roll out of my mouth at any moment. They coated my tongue and I turned my head away before they escaped.

What was wrong with me? Why did I feel this way? As Mom talked on the phone, I couldn’t help myself. I waited until she turned the other way. Then I reached over to the sheets she’d just tucked in and quietly pulled them back out.

13

EAGAN

“Can anyone hear me?” I scream. There’s nothing except a distant noise that sounds like faraway voices. I push through the layers of fog, which isn’t hard because they’re as light as wisps of air. In front of the fog is a grassy hill, but it’s across a deep abyss. There are people there. I can’t see their faces, but I can tell that they’re old and young, male and female. Some have beards and are dressed in gowns. Some wear uniforms. Others are in suits and dresses. They’re all the same race through the fog: gray.

“Hey,” I call, but they’re too far away to hear me. Their voices are the ones I’ve been hearing. No words, just indistinct human sounds.

I want to cry or punch someone. There
has
to be a way out of here. I concentrate on finding the best moment of my life. And I know just where to start.

I met Scott my first week at Harding High. The halls were empty except for a few stragglers rushing to class as I struggled to open my locker. My math homework was locked inside.

“Damn.” I pounded my hand against the metal.

“Hey, soph,” a voice called over my shoulder. “Move aside.”

My head barely came up to the broad shoulders resting beneath a red letter jacket. An assortment of pins and patches ran down both sleeves. The guy wearing the jacket had blue eyes and short black hair. Kelly had told me to avoid upperclass guys, but he positioned himself in front of my locker, so I had no choice.

“What’s your combo?” His hand rested on my lock.

“Like I’d tell
you
?”

“Fine, but you won’t get this thing open. This was my locker last year. It has a catch.”

“What catch?” I eyed him suspiciously.

“Tell me your combo and I’ll show you.” He grinned at me, showing off a dimple in his left cheek.

“Can’t you just tell me?”

“It’s complicated.”

“It’s a locker. How complicated can it be?”

“A soph with an attitude. I like it. But if you don’t want my help, I guess you can figure it out on your own. It only took me two months to master.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait.” I hesitated. I doubted he’d want to steal the contents of my locker: three books, two notebooks, a mirror, and my skates so I could leave straight for practice after school.

“I won’t write it down,” he said, as he rested his right arm above me on the locker. A huge football-shaped patch stared down at me. He was still smiling; his dimple cut deeper into his cheek.

The hallway was empty now. I was late. I let out a short breath. “Fifteen, twenty-four, five.”

He flipped the combo like a pro, then took his fist and slammed the upper left corner of the locker. The door flung open.

“Make sure to hit this spot,” he said, pointing to where he’d slammed his fist. A small gray indentation marked the place. “What’s your name, soph?”

“Eagan.”

He shifted his books in his left arm. “Well, Eagan, do you think you can get it open yourself now?”

I shrugged, wondering the same thing myself.

“Then I’ll have to stop by again tomorrow to see if you need help.”

And he did. He stopped by the next day and every day after that for three weeks. He called me soph and admitted that he’d memorized my combination. That was how he managed to put a long-stemmed rose in my locker with a note asking me to homecoming.

I asked Kelly about him on our way to practice that day.

“I can’t believe Scott Hadley asked you to homecoming.”

“Why? I’m not exactly a freak or anything.”

“It’s just that I know of at least six senior girls who have a crush on him. But they say he’s kind of shy outside of football.”

I shook my head. “He’s not shy around me.”

“So, are you going with him?”

“You know how my mom feels about boyfriends. And she puts football on the bottom rung of sports, right next to boxing.”

“But it’s your life, remember?”

I sighed. “Supposedly.”

It was common knowledge that behind every great skater was a pushy mom. All the great ones, from Peggy Fleming to Tara Lipinski, had moms who put their own lives on hold to promote their child’s dream.

In Mom’s defense, she tried to stay out of the rink other than the one practice a week. Other moms were there every day. Some read or worked while their kids practiced. Others stared at their kids as though they were analyzing every movement.

But there was always pressure. It just wasn’t obvious. Mom worked part-time to help pay for the cost of my skating. We didn’t have family vacations like other families did. Ours were planned around skating events.

And Mom had this subliminal way of telling me what she expected. She said that international exposure would make me a better skater. She said that Kelly would have been a better skater if she hadn’t had a steady boyfriend. Sure, Kelly wasn’t as serious about competing as I was. But she had a life. It didn’t seem fair to have to choose.

I brought home the rose the next day and gulped down a nervous breath before facing Mom. I was barely inside the door when Mom snapped, “Who in the world gave you that?”

“Scott Hadley. He asked me to homecoming.”

Mom opened the cupboard. She used two hands to lift down her white vase. Her voice drifted back. “Do I know him?”

“I doubt it. He’s a senior.”

She turned around. “Then let him go with a senior girl.”

“Mom, lots of sophomores are going with seniors.”

“You have practice on Saturday mornings.”

“I can go to practice and still have all afternoon to get ready.”

Mom sat the vase on the counter. “Eagan, I don’t want . . .”

“What’s the big deal? It’s just a dance.”

“I’m sure that’s what all the girls at Planned Parenthood will be saying six weeks from now.”

I clutched at the rose as a thorn worked its way into my palm. “Do you honestly think I’d have sex with him? It’s our first date!”

She didn’t say anything.

“Mom, if you expect me to be a top skater, you have to let me have fun once in a while too.”

Mom’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have any idea how much we pay every month for this sport? You should thank us for doing this for you, for giving you a focus for your life.”

“It’s not a focus. It’s my whole
life.
”

“Don’t exaggerate, Eagan.”

“I’m not. Every day of the week I get up at a quarter to six, eat breakfast, and head to the rink. Then at eight I run off to school until three o’clock, then I run back to the rink and stay there till six. Oh, and I also have ballet lessons and off-ice conditioning twice a week. And of course I have to fit homework in somewhere. I dedicate so much of myself to skating and I love it, but I want more out of life before I die.”

“You know I don’t like you to talk like that. You’re only sixteen years old.”

That was her hang-up, not mine. “Okay. I want to have something besides skating competitions to remember high school.”

“You’ll have a whole lifetime of memories.” She turned away from me, picked up a dishcloth, and started wiping around the sink. “Besides, if you qualify for international competition, we’ll need the money for a new skating outfit instead of a homecoming dress.”

“Kelly is going to lend me her dress from last year. I need this, Mom. I need to have fun. Otherwise, I’m going to get burned out and I’ll hate skating. I swear I’ll hate it.”

Mom spun around. Her voice quivered. “So if you don’t go to this dance, you’ll hate skating? Fine. Quit.”

“I don’t want to quit. I want to go to homecoming.”

“I suppose next you’ll hate me.”

“I never said I’d hate you.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“No, it’s not the same,” I said. “Whether I skate or not doesn’t change how I feel about you.” As I said the words, I realized they were true for me, but probably not for Mom.

“But it’s all that matters to
you
,” I said. “You only care about what level I’m competing at or whether I make it to Nationals or not. You don’t care if I have any friends. You don’t care if I have a life. You’re such a—”

Mom reached over and slapped me hard on the cheek. She looked shocked, as if she couldn’t believe what her hand had just done. Tears sprang from the stinging heat of her slap, but I defiantly blinked them back.

“Eagan,” Mom began. I threw the rose on the kitchen floor and ran to my room.

An hour later, Mom opened my door. She didn’t knock or anything; she just came in. Her eyes darted around the room. She probably wanted to say something about the clothes on the floor or the layer of dust on my dresser. She held a piece of paper in one hand and the white vase in the other, the rose sticking out the top.

“Can we talk?”

I just stared at the computer monitor in front of me.

“I lost it this afternoon.” She paused. “I’m not very good at apologizing. So I wrote you something.”

Finally I looked at her. “What?”

Mom handed me a paper folded in half. It was a letter that started with “Dear Eagan.” I knew Mom wrote long letters to her sister who lived in Portland. But a letter to me? I stared at the paper. It reminded me of the admit slips we carried to class when we’d been absent. “Is this your excuse for slapping me?”

Mom’s cheek twitched. “No, of course not. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. But that wasn’t entirely my fault, Eagan. You push me to my limit every time we argue.”

“Right. My whole life is
you
pushing
me
.”

“
If
I push, it’s because you’re so talented. I’m helping you achieve
your
goals. The ones
you
set. You only have a short time and then it’s over.” She stopped and closed her eyes. “I know you work very hard. You can go to the homecoming dance if you’re back by midnight.” She nodded at the paper. “Read the letter.” She set the vase on my dresser and left.

I’d won this time. Not much of a victory, though. She always threw it back in my face. Just because I was a dedicated skater didn’t mean that I didn’t care about anything else. Who said the Olympic dream meant giving up your whole life? Who made that rule?

A lousy piece of paper. That was her apology. I crumpled it up and threw it in the wastebasket.