Pieces of Me (20 page)

“Why are you doing the Iron Man? Why not just do regular workouts?”

“My son saw me and asked his mother if I’d be able to play hide-and-seek again. He didn’t know I was listening. I’m doing the Iron Man for me. But I’m really learning to run on these things for my kid. Hard to hide a hospital bed and a wheelchair from a six year old. You up for four more miles?”

“Sure.” Leif pounded out next to Pirate.

Leif logged in as soon as he got home to tell Samuel about hanging out with Pirate.

For what, the bad singer battalion? Or the finger-painting specialists? Boys
.

Huh, maybe so
.

Misty accidentally found herself
in the apartment with her mother. Alone. Her papa was out looking for work; her grandmother was down at the corner market checking for her special imported fish. Her brother was at a piano lesson.

Mama flinched and rubbed her right shoulder, grabbing Misty’s attention.

How long had she been hurt?

“Hand me the big bowl from above the fridge?” her mama asked.

“Mama, are you hurt?” Misty dragged the heavy ceramic bread bowl onto the counter.

She didn’t answer, but nodded slightly.

Misty pushed. “Your arm?”

“Shoulder.” Mama moved the bowl but favored her hurt arm considerably.

“You need to see a doctor, don’t you?”

“No, it’ll be fine.”

“But how do you work?” The daily quotas her mother was expected to meet meant working the line at top speed for the full shift.

“It’s fine.”

“Mama—”

“Don’t.” Her mother raised her voice.

Misty shrank back.

Oh, Misty, this isn’t your fault
.

“I will see doctors soon.”

“We don’t have money, do we?” Misty asked.

“It’s always tight.”

“But especially now, because of me.” Misty didn’t ask. She knew.

“Your papa is handling it. He says we’re close to paying them all off.”

Misty glanced around the apartment, seeing all the things that were missing.

There was no television. Her brother’s game system gone. Her mother’s crystal vase from the ancestors gone. As was her mother’s gold wedding band.

“Did he sell your ring?”

“No, I lost it,” Mama answered, but Misty didn’t believe her.

“Mama—”

“I will pick up your medicines for this month when I get paid tomorrow.”

“No!” Misty jerked away. If she hadn’t stopped taking the meds every day to make them last longer, she’d already be out of pills. As it was, she alternated kinds and skipped days. So far, she felt no ill effects.

I notice changes. Why doesn’t anyone else?

“What? Why not?” Mama looked up, concern, worry, and stress evident in every extra line framing her features.

Please ask. Please demand to see the bottles. Please notice!

Misty lied quickly. “I already got them.”

“How did you pay?”

“I got a job.”

“You did? When?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Where?”

“At the library. After school, before classes too.”

“You get paid enough for the medicines?” Her mama was dubious. Something had to feel wrong to her about Misty’s answers. Wrong with the way she acted. The way she was quiet, and tired, and not as pilled-up puffy, should make her family notice.

“Yes, and school fees, the college preparatory tests too.” Misty knew by mentioning college, her mama’s attention could be diverted.

“Good. That’s a help. Your papa will be proud you are working. But your grades are high, yes? Still top of the class?”

Misty never showed her parents her report cards. In the beginning, years ago, they didn’t understand or read them. When she began getting average, and mediocre, reports, she simply told them what they wanted to hear. “Yes.”

They’re too busy surviving to know what to ask for. And she’s too busy surviving each breath to know to ask for help
.

Vivian tossed her charcoal pencil
onto the table in frustration. There were two subjects relentlessly seeking creation: Leif’s face. The perfect prom dress.

Leif wanted her to be perky and optimistic, and the only way she knew how to do that was to live in a certain amount of denial. If she didn’t make plans, she never faced disappointment. It worked for her. His loss.

Yours. Mainly yours
.

Until she saw the signs for prom and a spark of hope flickered. She didn’t care about prom. It represented normal high school. A life she never had.

She trudged over to the half-finished self-portrait and stared at it.

“I’m sorry I got all motivational speaker on you.”

Vivian jumped. “Jesus! I didn’t hear you.”

My heart thumped and galloped.
She’s happy to see him
.

“Sorry,” Leif said. “You were pretty engrossed. You going to finish it?”

Vivian turned from the canvas and shuffled her sketches
together. The last thing she wanted Leif to see were the forty-seven drawings of his eyes, of him in a tux, of him dancing with a girl. She knew better than to believe in fairy tales. “Maybe.”

“I wish you would.”

“What are you doing here?” She flinched at the harsh sound of her voice.

“I wish you weren’t so mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.”

Leif nodded, but we all knew it was a lie. “I’m sorry. I care about you.”

Vivian snorted. “If you care about me so much, why are you going to prom with Karly?”

Leif rocked back on his heels. “Who?”

“Senior? Built like a lingerie model?”

“I’m not going to prom.” He shook his head. His expression told Vivian he had no idea where this came from, but she didn’t see it.

Poor guy, he wonders if he missed an entire conversation
.

“Right.” Jealousy began creeping in (Pantone 12-5204), then strengthened (Pantone 345) and quickly grew dark and ugly (Pantone 18-0119).

“I’m not. Prom’s dumb.”

Vivian stomped over and shoved her pens and paper in the bag. “My break is over. I have to get back to work.”

“Sure.” Leif licked his lips. “But wait, are you mad that I’m not going to prom or that I didn’t ask you?”

“You said yourself that prom is dumb.”

“You wanted to go, didn’t you?”

Before the transplant, it never would have occurred to her to
hope for an invitation. But after the transplant, after Leif limped into her life, she wanted more.

Life divides into BT and AT. Before Transplant. After Transplant
.

“Hi, Leif!” Cassidy barreled into the back room. “Haven’t seen you recently.” She stuttered to a stop. “Um, Vivian, I don’t know how to explain fused etching”—she dropped her voice—“and this customer has to know
now
.”

“Sure.” Vivian nodded. “I have to work.” She followed Cassidy into the main store.

Leif must have let himself out the back, because even though Vivian pretended to be spectacularly busy, she never saw him leave.

Misty climbed the stairs
to her little nook and waited several moments, trying to catch her breath and stop the room from spinning. She felt woozy. She had to tell Samuel. The need to confide overcame the desire to hide. Surrounded by her flock of paper cranes, she logged in to see if he was waiting.

Misty inhaled and said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t lose her nerve.

Misty hurt all over. Her bones felt heavy and her muscles weak. Maybe she had the flu. Maybe she was getting what she deserved.
No one deserves this
.

Sam dinged back fast and furiously.

The silence of the blinking cursor tortured Samuel. He needed video. He needed voice. He needed to see her, the real her, and reassure her. There was more. Certainty gripped him.

Misty sipped from a bottle of water she’d refilled in the bathroom sink. She left the top off because it was too hard to screw back on.

And your pee is a weird orange-brown color. I wonder what Vivian would Pantone it
.

I watched Samuel struggle to find words of comfort or optimism. His own stomach hurt trying to cross the distance. He had no idea what to say.

Pretty sure she isn’t listening anyway
.

Surrounded by kid germs was the last place she should be. Samuel wanted to throttle her parents for not getting it. I wanted to join him for a long list of grievances.

Vital as in will die without them
. The need to stand up overcame Misty, so she cradled another handful of cranes and tucked them into the spines of thick books and into the odd spaces on the shelves between books of varying sizes. Cranes from baby-size to giant adorned every empty surface.