Under My Skin (21 page)

I draw my hands through my hair. No sense in holding back if she already knows what happened. I’m sure Mom has put her own spin on it though. Let’s see what Shaw thinks of my version. “Well here’s my open book. I got home, locked myself in my room, refused to talk to Mom and Dad, and cried myself to sleep. The end.”

Her brow furrows a bit, like she’s actually concerned. “Sounds rough.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s pathetic.” I grind a toe into the carpet.

“Darby, you’re not pathetic.” She clamps her fingers around the arm of my chair. “You’re strong, independent, and resilient.”

I haven’t done anything to give her the impression I’m any of those things and they’re definitely not words Mom would use to describe me. I suck in a breath. “I went into Daniel’s room and took his toy basketball. I hung onto it like a five-year-old. That’s not very resilient.”

She’s quiet for a long time. But it’s not an embarrassing quiet, or a judging quiet. It’s a hug of silence. A chance for me to decide if I want to say more.

After a while, I add, “You want to know what else? His room was immaculate. There wasn’t even any dust anywhere. But my room? It’s like no one’s been in there since I left. Like I’ve been forgotten while Daniel’s been memorialized.”

“I can’t imagine how painful that must have been.”

“I thought Mom would make the bed or vacuum or something. She had to go in there to bring clothes to the hospital.”

“Is that what you were hoping for? That your mom would make things nice for you.”

“I don’t know.” I shove off my heels and pace the room. “I don’t know anything.”

“You know plenty.”

How can this woman really keep seeing good things in me? I spin on my toes to face her. “Yeah, like what?”

“Your Mom said you picked up painting again.” She slides to the end of the chair, moving closer.

I retreat to the window. “So what?”

“It’s a gift to be creative.”

“It doesn’t matter to my parents. They want good grades and popularity and medals and
perfection
.”

“Have they said that specifically?”

“No. They don’t have to.” I slide my fingers along the window ledge.

Shaw appears at my side. She doesn’t give up, that’s for sure. Mom would’ve stormed out of the room by now. “You know what you need?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me. Mom does. She tells me all the time. Darby, you need to study. Darby, you need to clean up your room. Darby, you need to stop getting suspended. Darby, you need to get over your dyslexia.”

“I won’t say any of those things to you, but I will say this: You need to feel secure, accepted, and loved.”

I point to her books. “You get that from your library?”

“What prompted you to pick up the paintbrush again?” She taps my hand with a finger.

If she were Mom, she’d flinch at my brushoff and launch into some lecture on how I should be acting. But she’s not Mom. She keeps proving it more and more by the second. Maybe I can trust her.

“If you must know, his name is Adam,” I say.

She squares her jaw and sits at her desk.

The vibe in the room flips to pure ice.

“Who is he?” Her tone is much more clipped.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. “What’s with the sudden change of temperature?”

“Answer my question.” She reaches across her desk for the small box. Her fingers hover over the latch.

“I met him in the hospital. He had some heart surgery or something, I don’t know. But he has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. I had to paint them.”

She opens the lid. “He’s your muse.”

“Muse? I don’t know about that. Sounds too fancy.”

“He inspired you.” Her voice is softer.

I take a step toward her desk. “I guess so.”

She picks up something from the box and holds it out to me. “Maybe this will inspire you to.”

I examine it. A butterfly pin with a heart in the middle, held together by stitches. Adam has the same pin on his heart pillow. “Oh my god.”

“The butterfly represents change. You’ve certainly experienced a lot of change in the past couple of weeks.” She closes the box and sets it back in its place.

“What’s this for?”

“I told you my other work is with the heart transplant team at the hospital. I treat transplant recipients and each of them gets a pin when they undergo the procedure. It helps them feel like they’re part of something and reminds them they are not alone. I want you to have one so that you can remember the same thing.”

The pin weighs down my palm like lead. Adam has a pin. He’s had heart surgery. No, he’s had a
heart transplant
. And he’s been in the hospital for about the same amount of time as me. “Doctor Shaw … ”

“You wanted to know who received Daniel’s heart.”

I suck on my bottom lip, squeezing the pin until the edges of the butterfly’s wings dig into my skin. “Yes.”

“His name is Adam.”

My knees wobble. I shatter. The next second, I’m on the floor in a puddle of hands and knees and tears and sobs.

Shaw is at my side in an instant. “What’s the matter, honey?”

A wail oozes out of me. All I can do is rock back and forth while hugging myself.

“Darby?” She makes little circles on my back with her palm.

“Why him?
Why?
” I cough and sniff, wipe the snot and tears from my face, and writhe some more. Sweet and shy and hopelessly quirky Adam. I’d dared to open myself up to him, to let myself like him. Only to find out he has Daniel’s heart.

Shaw doesn’t let go. She stays at my side, quiet, letting me get it out without telling me to stop, pull it together, or get over it. When I finally catch my breath, she says, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I wanted to know.” My voice trembles, like my heart.

“You’re fond of Adam.”

I shut my eyes. “Y-yes.”

“He’s a sensitive boy.”

“Y-you work with him?”

“He’s as conflicted as you. He often wonders if he’s stealing life and for the longest time was uncertain if he deserved a donor heart.”

I open my eyes and press my palms onto the floor. “What does he think now?”

“I think he’s happy to be alive.”

“With my brother’s heart beating inside him.” I dig my fingers into the carpet.

Shaw had asked me what drew me to Adam. I’d said his eyes, but I hadn’t noticed them until after I started talking to him. At first he was just some random kid in PT I’d decided to bother because I was bored. Or so I’d thought. What if I was somehow
connected
to his—Daniel’s—heart?

“Are you going to keep seeing Adam?”

I sit back on my butt. “I don’t know if I can. He has Daniel’s heart. He’s alive and my brother isn’t.”

Shaw stands and extends a hand. “It’s not fair.”

I let her help me up. “You know what’s not fair? He wouldn’t have had a second chance if Daniel hadn’t died and I would’ve never met him if the accident hadn’t happened.”

She opens her mouth, pauses, then says, “It messes with your mind.”

I affix the pin to my shirt. My hands shake so bad it takes a couple tries for me to do it. “I’m glad you told me. Adam didn’t want to. Guess I know why now. He’s a liar.”

“He betrayed your trust.”

The clock chimes. It’s the end of the hour.

I walk out of the room, calm on the outside, and a raging sea of lava on the inside.

REQUIEM

Adam

The first day back at school races by. Kids who’ve never talked to me before give me grand handshakes and several hearty, “Welcome back!” greetings, complete with brotherly slaps on my shoulder. The teachers are full of smiles and outlines to help me catch up. Best of all, the guidance counselor has decided to pair me with a peer tutor during study periods so I can get caught up ASAP.

It’s all bloody brilliant.

On the drive home, Mum makes me give a detailed account of my day. At the end of it, she insists on hiring a professional tutor instead of one the school provided.

I carry on the conversation inside, after pulling off my mask as soon as I cross the threshold. “I don’t need a tutor.”

“Did you use your pillow today?”

I sigh. Nice of her to ignore me.

She halts me in the hallway and stares up at me, waiting for an answer.

“Yes, all day.” I didn’t, but she doesn’t need to know that. It would’ve been weird explaining it to everybody. It was bad enough wearing a mask.

I drag my rolling suitcase around her toward the living room. The doctor suggested I use it instead of a backpack until my sternum fully heals. I wanted to use the stairs at school, as sort of a triumphant comeback, but couldn’t because of the rolling suitcase. At least the lift worked.

“Where is it?” She settles into an armchair.

I sit on the couch and pull the pillow out of my suitcase-bookbag, snagging the pin on the wire of a spiral notebook. “Here.”

“Good. Do you keep an extra mask in there too?”

“Yes.” I grab my copy of
The Razor’s Edge
by Somerset Maugham and kick the suitcase aside. Like me, the main character is a bit disillusioned with life and, unlike me, he travels the world to find himself.

“Are we really sliding into one word answers again?” She pats the arm a few times in frustration.

I crack open the book. “I told you everything in the car. Not sure what else to say.”

“How about writing your friends at home? I’m sure they’d love to hear how you’re doing.”

“Uh-huh.” I agree, even though I have no intention of doing so. Writing to them would be weird, especially since I’ve ignored them for so long. What could I say? Something like, “Hey, I’ve ignored you for a few months but I finally got a new heart, yay!” just doesn’t cut it.

I rub the book’s spine, itching to pull out my mobile and dial up Darby. She’s the only person I can turn to. I chew on my lip ring, caught in a sudden attack of nerves.

“What about Darby? Are you going to call her?”

My mother must be psychic.

“Maybe.”

Mum stands. “I think you should.”

I pretend to read.

She waits for a moment, perhaps giving me extra time to answer, then walks out of the room.

I skim the page, but I’m not concentrating enough to follow the words. Instead, I keep picturing Darby and all the things that make her, well,
her
. Blue and black hair, pouty mouth, and bright personality. Most of all, the paint stains that cover her clothes. She wears her love every day. I could never hope to embody such passion. It’s not like I can staple pages of my favorite books to my shirt.

I toss the book onto the coffee table. My most interesting hobbies are reading and, well, reading. Lame with a capital L. Darby would be crazy to want to hang out with me outside of the hospital. I have nothing to offer.

Swallowing a lump of self-doubt, I press my fingers to my lips, remembering our kiss.

“Stop thinking, Adam, and
act
,” I whisper.

I grab my phone and retreat upstairs for some privacy.

It’s so simple to pull up her name and press
call
. Yet it’s also terrifying. My throat goes dry.

I smile, hearing Darby’s words,
you think too much
.

She’s right. Thinking gets me more confused and anxious.

I dial.

While my heart thrums, the phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Finally, voice mail picks up.

Darby’s throaty voice yaps at me to leave a message. “It’s Darbs. You know what to do.”

At the beep, I say, “Hey, Darby, it’s me, Adam. Um, from the hospital. Yeah, so I wanted to talk to you. How’s everything?” I suck in a breath, cringing at myself. “So, ring me when you get this message.”

I hang up and groan. I can’t have sounded worse if I tried.

Jagged energy courses through me with a conversation left unsaid and uncertain possibilities. She could’ve seen my number and decided not to answer. It wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t want to speak with me. Bet she’ll get a good laugh from my stupid message.

I peer into the mirror hanging over my dresser. “Um, dur, it’s Adam from the hospital.” I add a lisp and cross my eyes for good measure.

“You’re such an idiot.” I push off the dresser and wander to my dormer window. Branches from an ancient oak tree stretch toward the glass, desperately grasping at the air. They’re reaching for nothing. Sort of like me.

Larry Darrell, the main character in
The Razor’s Edge
, wouldn’t mope on and on like this. He’d go off on some adventure, travel foreign lands, visit Paris, ride elephants in India, blend with the local cultures. He’d seek out wise men and search for the deeper meaning of life. I can’t even figure out what to do with a free afternoon.

My gaze falls on a gap in the fencing marking the side yard’s perimeter where a thin dirt path sits nestled between a pair of evergreens. It takes a sharp curve to the right then disappears into shadow. I wandered the woods there a little bit when we’d first relocated and it reminded me a bit of home. As a kid, we’d summer in the country and I’d play under the trees, pretending I was a knight in search of a dragon or a space pilot stranded on a distant planet. During dinner, I’d tell Mum and Dad about my voyages. They’d laugh. Mum would kiss my forehead and say I had a wild imagination while Dad mussed my hair and mentioned something about Only Child Syndrome.

I had a life before I got sick. It was full of fantasy and idealistic white picket fences and quality family time moments, but it was mine. All that stopped when my heart decided to go on strike. The thing is, I can’t relive those years. I can’t pick up where I left off. I’d never be able to bridge the gap of lost time. Sickness changed me much like World War I changed Larry. The promise of imminent death would do that.

Larry was able to redirect himself, figure out what to do after he faced his mortality. I haven’t yet. How did Larry do it? He simply went and did it. Well, so can I, since I can walk now without getting short of breath. I stare down at my shoes. “Alright, feet, let’s get journeying.”