Under My Skin (13 page)

It breaks through the noise in my mind. I go rigid in Dad’s bear hug. “Get them out of my room.”

Nissa’s brow furrows with confusion. “Who?”

I wiggle against Dad’s solid hold. “My parents.”

“Why?”

I stare at Mom. I have to get her out. Dad’s already teetering on the edge and if she leaves, he’ll follow. “They killed my brother, that’s why.”

My words are a fist that crumples Mom’s face. Her jaw lowers in shock and she collapses back into the chair, winded, broken.

Dad’s hold falters. He steps away from me.

I turn to face him. “He was alive.”

He squares his jaw, turns on his heel, and grabs Mom’s arm. “Let’s go, Annette.”

Mom follows him.

I get what I want.

I’m alone.

* * *

The next morning, a tall, thin woman walks into my room while I’m towel drying my hair. Such fun showering with a c-collar on.

Sunlight peeks through the window and the woman steps into the spotlight it creates. Everything about her is rich and stuffy, from her slick bun to her designer clothes. She extends her hand to me. “I’m Doctor Shaw. I work with the heart transplant team and provide psychotherapy for donor families and recipients. You must be Darby.”

I eye her while tugging on the end of my towel. The transplant team. Are they fishing for more organs? “You’re a shrink?”

“A psychiatrist.”

“Who sent you?”

“Your parents called this morning. They told me what’s been going on and they asked if I could help you work through things.”

“Did they mention I’m crazy?”

She lowers her brows to a straight line. “No. Not at all. Losing a brother—a twin at that—is such a painful thing to go through, no one should have to do it alone.”

“Glad you know everything about it.” I roll my eyes.

She tips her head to the side. “I’m not feeding you a line, Darby.”

“Whatever.” I toss the towel to the end of the bed and pick up a comb. I drag it through my hair. The tines catch on a knot.
Ugh
.

“You said some hurtful things to your parents last night.”

I drop the comb. It plops on my lap. “Are you here to yell at me?”

She face softens. “No. I’m here to help you.”

“I don’t want your help.”

Shaw pulls up a chair. “I work with grieving people every day. Take my word, you will get through this.”

I go back to detangling my hair.

“I have to say though, you’re the first twin I’ve worked with.”

“I’m not a twin anymore.”

Shaw drags her chair closer, scraping the metal legs across the tile floor. The wail sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard. “You’ll always be a twin, Darby Fox.”

I twist my entire upper body to face her. It’s the only way I can move with the c-collar holding my neck straight.

Dr. Shaw leans forward, her elbows on her knees, fists tucked under her chin. Her dark eyes radiate warmth and something else I can’t quite name. “Nothing can break the bond you and your brother shared.”

“Death can.”

She doesn’t flinch. Mom would have. “Your parents said you’re not taking Daniel’s organs being donated well.”

My throat tightens.

“It must have felt like your own heart was carved out of your chest when you found out.”

I twist the comb with both hands. It snaps in two.

“I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft. Soothing. Judgment-free.

“It hurts so much I can’t breathe sometimes.” The sharp edge of the comb digs into my palm. I press the pad of my thumb against it until I draw blood.

Shaw stands and gently rests her hand over mine. “I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

I drag my gaze away from our hands to her face. “Who?”

She eases the broken comb pieces from my hands. “My mother. She died when I was thirteen. Her heart was donated to someone too.”

Her confession settles over me like an ice bath. I shiver. “How’d you deal with it?”

She puts the broken ends of the comb together so it looks whole. “I didn’t at first. I remember feeling a lot of anger over how unfair it was that someone else got to have their mother while I lost mine.” The edge of her mouth curls up in an I-can’t-believe-I’m-admitting-this half-smile. “I believed the woman who received my mother’s heart stole it from her.”

I had the same thought! The ice bath of pain I’ve been wading in swells over my head and pours down my throat. It sloshes in my guts, chilling me from the inside out. I suck on my bottom lip.

“It’s okay if you’ve felt the same way. Thoughts and feelings are normal. It’s how we deal with them that makes the difference.”

“You got over it?”

The half-smile fades. “No, not entirely. I don’t think you ever do. But I’ve found a way to cope. I’ve worked through it. I’ve survived. And so can you.”

I can’t live like this. Ripped apart. Empty. Alone. I can’t bear the thought of leaving Daniel behind, in the ground, while I live on. Then again, he spent half his time watching out for me so I’d have a good life. I’d be a pretty crappy sister if I let his death destroy me. “Will you help me?”

Shaw stands. “Of course, honey. That’s why I’m here.”

Adam

Shaw shows up a bit early, carrying a tray with two venti coffees. She catches up to me on my final lap around the ward and walks me to my room. I don’t bother greeting her. She doesn’t bother with small talk.

I kick off my slippers, yank off my facemask, and retreat to my windowsill nest. It’s stuffed with a pillow, blanket, a few books, and my schoolwork. I fumble with my copy of
Frankenstein
. Still she says nothing. She just stands there at the end of my bed, staring at me.

It’s creepy.

I toss the book aside in favor of the facemask. Bit by bit, I tear the mask to shreds, letting the tattered pieces fall on my lap, the windowsill around me, and to the floor.

My hands shake. Actually, my whole body quivers as if I’ve drank three espressos. My legs itch to run and I haven’t run in years. I tighten my muscles, close my fists, and grit my teeth.

The next fifty minutes are going to be hell.

“You’re giving that mask the what for,” she says, breaking the so-called ice that seals the beginning of our sessions.

I shrug.

“So you’re really not going to talk to me?”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“At least tell me why you’re so angry with me.”

I splay my fingers on my thighs. “I’m not angry.”

“Repressing it doesn’t make it go away.”

I make eye contact with her, reluctantly.

“It’s better when you’re honest, Adam. And not just honest with me, but with yourself.” She holds a coffee out to me. “Decaf, light and sweet.”

I toggle my lip ring, caught in indecision.

“Go on. Take it. I feel bad about what happened yesterday. Consider this an amends.”

“Thanks.” I accept the peace offering. It’s easier than keeping the fight going.

She takes a sip of what I assume is a latte, failing to hide her satisfied smile. “What should we talk about today?”

Instead of answering, I take a long, long drink from mine. The same grit from yesterday’s coffee is in this one. Seems more bitter today. I grimace, chewing on the sandy substance.

“Maybe we should review the coffee shop incident.”

I set my coffee aside. “Incident?”

“I didn’t expect you to walk out on session. Something must’ve really triggered you. We should process it.”

I rest my skull against the wall. Shaw’s right. Something had triggered me. She had asked a good question yesterday and the answer is, no, I didn’t expect things to be this way. I didn’t expect to be accused of ungratefulness. I didn’t expect to cast out my mother. I didn’t expect Dad to blab to Shaw.

I didn’t expect things to be worse.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She taps her palm against her cup. “I’m not opposed to giving you some space. Why don’t I come back tomorrow and we can try again? You can use today’s session time to think about what you’d like to say.”

“Look, I meant what I said yesterday. I’m done with therapy.”

The brightness in her expression fades, fractured by the hard lines of her thin face. Her almost black eyes dig into me. “I’ll have to speak to your parents about this.”

“Fine.” Let her talk to them. They can’t make me continue therapy. She can’t force me to process anything. I can make my own decisions.

Point made, she retreats out of the room.

I exhale with relief and chug the rest of my drink. In the end, it’s a total disappointment. The rich coffee flavor I crave is there, but the chalky bits floating at the bottom are beyond bitter. I have to brush my teeth twice to erase the grit.

Ricky, the physical therapist knocks on the door about an hour later. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, but comes striding in with a smile plastered across his face like it’s part of his uniform. His sweatpants swoosh as he walks. There’s a hole over his right knee. His polo shirt—which has the hospital logo stitched on it—looks like it’s been washed ten thousand times. His brand name trainers don’t have a speck on them. Priorities, I gather. “Morning, Adam. Finished with Doctor Shaw?”

In more ways than one. I tip my head in his direction to greet him. “Yes.”

“Ready for your daily dose of PT? I won’t let you beg out of it like you did yesterday, killer headache or not.” He rubs his hands together. Reminds me of a tiger licking its chops before leaping at its prey.

“I thought my head was going to explode.” I did. Damn thing lasted most of the afternoon and nothing made it go away until the doctor ordered some Percocet.

“Fair enough.” He spots the shreds of mask litter. His eyebrow ticks up. “What the … ?”

“It’s a mask. I was bored.” He doesn’t have to know the real reason I tore the thing to shreds.

He chuckles. “Guess you’ll need a new one, then.”

After grabbing a new mask and fitting it over my face, I follow him to the PT room. It smells like rubber, old sweat, and dried bleach. Other patients are working on various exercises to regain whatever skill they lost. Most of them are wrinkly old men. One of them wears a Vietnam Veteran hat.

Ricky leads me directly to a treadmill in the far corner. A bank of mirrors lines the wall so I get to watch myself work out. Yay.

For good measure, he breaks out a disinfecting wipe and cleans off the handholds and controls of the treadmill. “Have you been doing laps around the unit?”

“Every couple of hours.”

“How many circles do you do?”

“Five.”

He nods. “Good. Hop on.”

I plant my feet on either side of the belt and grip the handholds for balance. Air stutters in my lungs. I’m out of breath and I haven’t started exercising yet. This should go well.

Ricky presses a few buttons, selecting a circuit. “Gonna walk uphill today.”

The motor’s whine joins the other machines. The belt whips to life, winding around the track in a blur. I set my right foot on first, then my left. It starts off slow and increases to the designated speed.

At five minutes, the hydraulics elevate the platform to simulate walking uphill.

I follow along, a good little gerbil. Walking, but getting nowhere. Kind of the story of my life.

It doesn’t take long to generate a burn in my calves and hamstrings. I’m huffing pretty hard, too. The mask holds in too much heat. Sweat breaks out all over my body. My palms sweat, slicking the handholds.

I pray for the next phase of the program, the part where the incline reduces so I can walk on a flat surface. My lungs hurt from expanding more than they’re used to. I try to take steadier breaths. The wires in my sternum should hold, but it seems like their edges are tugging apart. My oh-so-helpful brain conjures images of them popping open and my heart leaping out to plop lifeless on the belt.

“How you doing?” Ricky watches me from the treadmill’s side. He’s holding a clipboard and pen, ready to catalogue my stats.

“Fantastic.” I pant. A drop of sweat trickles into my eye. It burns and I try, unsuccessfully, to rub it out.

“Let’s check your heart rate. Grab the sensors.”

I wrap my fingers around the handles on either side of the control panel. The screen flickers and a little heart pulses in the right corner like a cursor. After a few seconds, my heart rate pops up.

“One-twenty-seven. Good.” Ricky scratches the number down on his tracking sheet.

I jerk my head up and down a couple times. My heart thumps wildly against my sternum. My pulse rushes through my ears like an out of control tidal wave. Heat encases my body. The room starts to swirl. Before the surgery, this all added up to a warning that my heart was about to trip into an unstable rhythm and if I didn’t heed it, I could collapse.

I squeeze the handles, mentally strangling my worry. This heart can handle the challenge.

If that were true, then the encroaching shroud of blackness shouldn’t be descending over my eyes.

Something’s wrong. I need to stop. Get off this hellish contraption. I must quit … or I’m going to die.

“I need a break.” I desperately want to punch the stop button, but if I let go of the handles, I’ll lose my balance and fall. My heavy feet slam on the belt, a compliment to my pounding heart.
Ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom-ba-boom
. I drag my toe with every step as if I’m walking through wet concrete.

My heart rate spikes up to one-forty-one. The darkness at the corners of my vision spreads.

“Deep breaths. You can do this. No pain, no gain.” Ricky watches it, his dark hawk-like eyes trained on the number.

“I can’t.” My mouth is dry, but the air behind my mask is humid. Salty sweat coats my upper lip. I lick it away as I huff and puff. Air snags in my throat, like brittle leaves scratching along a sidewalk. My knees wobble. “Please.”

Ricky presses his mouth into a thin line. “Tough it out, Adam. Thirty seconds.”

“I’m going to pass out.” I take deep breaths, but can’t get enough oxygen in my lungs. My legs shake from fatigue.

I trip over my toe and drop to my knees. The belt keeps looping. I slide down the track onto my stomach, then land prone on the floor. Something crunches in my breastbone. I gurgle out a scream.