Broken (18 page)

Mom makes her version of a celebratory feast—egg-white omelets with spinach, feta cheese for her, no feta for me; I get tofu instead. I eat it, wishing my dad were already home, wishing he’d cooked—I can’t eat his lasagna, but I love to smell it baking and watch the gleam of appreciation and enjoyment fill his face when he takes his first bite.

I think maybe the tofu has gone bad because everything tastes like metal and even after two glasses of water I can’t get it out of my mouth.

Mom doesn’t notice that I don’t finish and dump half my omelet in the trash. She’s too busy making her Lists.

Who to call: school, insurance, admissions coordinator, Dr. Cho’s nurse, church (to start a prayer circle for me), stop the newspaper since we’ll be gone a few days, hold the mail.

What to pack: clothes for three days for her, one day for me (I’ll be in a hospital gown), nightgown, robe, toiletry, shower sandals (she thinks hospitals are filthy and honestly, she’s not wrong), her laptop, cell phone and charger, address book (just in case Something Bad happens and all the friends and relatives need to be called on short notice), notebook and pens to record everything the doctors say, medical records (although the hospital already has everything), my vitamins, a list of Good Foods and Bad Foods.

“You’re not on your period, are you?” she asks, gnawing on her pencil.

“Mom. No.”

“Good. If something goes wrong, they might need to use your femoral artery for a cath.”

I wish I hadn’t eaten the little bit of omelet I had. My stomach churns enough acid that the metal taste is finally burned away. The last time I had a cardiac catheterization, the site bled like crazy and I had a bruise the size of a tennis ball—a hematoma, they called it. They almost had to take me into surgery to repair the site, said I must have loosened the pressure dressing and tore it open while I was asleep.

Thank God Mom was there. She stopped the bleeding and saved me from another surgery.

“Do you think that’s a possibility?” I ask, crossing my fingers below the table where she can’t see them.

“Sure. I want them to do EPS studies to make sure the defibrillator works properly. And I’ll need to check my research from the summer—they might insert the electrodes through the femoral artery or maybe it’s the jugular. I’ll talk with Dr. Cho and let him know which approach I prefer.”

The one with the least amount of scars and chance for things going horribly wrong is my vote. Not that I get a vote anymore. I’ve sacrificed that right in order to save Celina’s family. It was worth it. I hope.

“I’m tired. I think I’d better go to bed,” I mumble.

“Good night, sweetheart. Remember, you can sleep in tomorrow since you’ll be staying home.” She gives me an absent-minded kiss and returns to her list making.

I shuffle off to my bedroom feeling achy and sore as if I’d already had the surgery.

Curled up on my bed, I send my first text ever. It’s to Nessa, since I doubt Celina is talking to me.

Asked Mom. No Child Svs. Tell C.

A few minutes later she sends:
Great! CU at sch? Or game? XOXO

There’s a good chance they’ll never see me again. I roll my eyes at myself—could anyone be more self-pitying? Talk about wallowing.

Maybe.

But even as I send it, I know it’s not true. There’s no maybe. I’ll never get to the game tomorrow night. Never get to any game.

My phone buzzes and this time it’s Celina. She’s sent a photo: a self-portrait of her grinning a big, fat goofy grin as she and Cari hold up a beautifully colored sign that says
Thank
You!
Cari is smiling as well, even though she’s not actually looking anywhere near where the camera is aimed.

I stare at the picture for a long time. It makes me feel warm and toasty inside. That I could make someone so happy, help them so much. It feels good in a way I’ve never felt before. Like I matter. No, like what I do matters.

I lock the photo so it can’t be erased accidentally. I know I’ll look at it again, especially come Monday when the doctors have me naked and shivering on their table, getting ready to cut.

A quiet tap at my window startles me. My room, since it used to be the den, has French doors leading out onto our back patio, but they’re always locked and never open. The tap comes again.

I slide out of bed, one hand clutched to my chest. I feel silly, it’s probably just the wind, but I’m scared and excited all at the same time. Because I really don’t think it is the wind.

I pull back the curtain. It’s Tony. He sees me, holds up Phil, and smiles. It takes me a few tries to unlatch the door and undo the deadbolt. But suddenly it’s open and the night air rushes in, swirling around us both like invisible music.

“Thought you might miss this,” he says.

His voice is louder than I’d like. Mom’s room is upstairs and on the other side of the house, but still. “Come in.”

Then he’s inside and the door is closed and I have a guy in my bedroom.

Okay, calm down, calm down. What would a normal girl do?

I have no clue.

He hands me Phil, reminding me that I am in no way a normal girl. I’m a very abnormal girl. Abby Normal, my dad would joke.
Young
Frankenstein
is one of his favorites.

Dad would
not
be happy to find Tony in my room.

“Thanks,” I say. Lame! I stash Phil out of sight in my backpack like a thief hiding evidence.

“I’m sorry about what happened this afternoon.” He looks around my room, eyes widening a little as he takes in the fifty-one flavors of pink. His gaze ends up back on me, head tilted a little as his weight shifts. He’s watching me like he expects something, only I don’t know what. “Want me to apologize to your mom? Tell her it was all my fault?”

I shake my head. Last person I want to be thinking of—or have Tony thinking of—right now is Mom. “No thanks. I took care of things. Everything is fine.” Except for the part where I go in on Monday to be sliced and diced.

“Oh. Good.” He looks down at the floor, notices his feet shuffling and focuses on them. They stop. End up pointed at me instead of the door. “Could I ask you a few questions? About our biology project. There’s a few things that didn’t make sense.”

I appreciate the change of subject. And it’s only fair that I help him salvage his grade since I won’t be going back to bio. Of course, I don’t tell him that. Not yet. I just can’t. “Sure. That’s the whole point of the assignment, right?”

“Great.” He settles himself in the armchair with the pink fuzzy throw. Underneath it’s an ugly orange tweed; it’s Dad’s old chair. “I finally found the lab tests. Your mom was wrong. You don’t have the gene for Long QT.”

I lean against the door, enjoying the cold glass window pressing against me. I feel so flushed every time Tony looks at me. Or talks. Or moves. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “But the doctor’s note says thirty percent of patients don’t have the gene. Said they were spontaneous mutations.”

“Great. So now I’m a mutant grrrl.” I claw my fingers and scratch at the air, trying to make a joke out of it.

“Don’t worry. I don’t think the villagers are going to torch this place.”

Ah, so he’s a
Frankenstein
fan as well. But his words haunt me—both the image of people rioting, like the kids chanting for a fight in the cafeteria Monday, and the fact that my mom screwed up. That never happens. And why does she take such delight in nagging my dad about getting tested? He already feels bad enough about not being around.

Oh. Maybe that
is
the point. She resents him. He’s never had to deal with my illness, keep an eye on me, save me when I had a Near Miss…he has it so easy compared to Mom.

What the hell can I do about that? I don’t want to be the cause of my parents’ hurting each other. Once again I’m the rope caught in a tug-of-war not of my making. And I’m sick of it.

“What do your parents do?” I ask Tony, hoping to learn from a normal family.

He opens his mouth to say something. From his face, I’m guessing it’s some kind of wisecrack. But then he shuts it again, shrinks his long body into the chair like a contortionist. “My dad’s gone. A few years now. It’s just me and my mom. She’s a waitress at night and works days at a dry cleaners.”

Sounded like that left just him. Alone most of the time. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.

“Do they—did they ever make you think like everything bad that happens between them is your fault?” I turn toward the window, looking out into the night. From the corner of my eye, I can see his reflection floating on the glass. Like he’s still there with me, even when I’m turned away. For some reason, the thought makes me feel better. Less alone, less scared.

He shrugs. “That’s what parents do. It’s part of their job description or something.”

He’s being flippant. We both know the truth. Why bother putting it into words? It’s too painful.

Silence.

I have the sudden urge to tell him I’m dying, that he shouldn’t waste his time with me. Instead, I press my face to the cold window, kissing the glass. He can’t see it, but my lips are tasting his reflection.

I feel like I’m saying good-bye. Like Monday is closer than three days away.

“Don’t worry,” he finally says. “We can still do the biology project.” His voice is rushed, like he feels my pain—and thinks I’m worried about a stupid genetics assignment? Jordan was right; Tony does spend way too much time with his books.

“How?” I ask, turning back to face him. If talking about genes keeps him here in my room a few more minutes, I’m willing to indulge him. Better than waiting for Monday all alone.

“Well. If you’re okay with it, we could research your brother’s death. I mean, if you want to know. SIDS, sudden infant death, can run in families as well.”

I frown and he squirms, finally getting to his feet. He’s worried that he’s upset me. But he hasn’t. I just learned about my twin brother; it’s too fresh and new and confusing for me to be mourning him. Instead, it almost feels like the death of a character in a story, one that makes me cry but doesn’t change my life.

“They thought he might have Long QT as well.”

“Not if you have a spontaneous mutation.” Now his voice is back to normal. Mr. Scientist. “You’re fraternal twins, not identical.”

“Twins run in families too. We could study that.” Somehow, I just can’t see myself asking Mom about what really killed my brother. It would be cruel, bringing it up when she’s so worried about me dying.

He brightens. “Yeah, we could. It’s not as sexy—”

“Long QT and babies dying is sexy?” I challenge him.

He flushes, bobs his head in embarrassment. “From a scientific point of view.” Shifts his feet again; this time they end up pointing toward the door. “Guess I’d better go back through those records again. You know, it’s weird—there’s no mention of your twin in the ones your mom gave you.”

“I don’t think she wants me to know.” I hang my head low, trying to decide how much of my mixed-up life to share. I can’t scare him off—not yet, please. “Too painful to talk about.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He scuffs his toe against the carpet, drawing a circle. “So, did you talk your mom into letting you come back tomorrow?”

I look away. Blink hard and fast. How can I tell him that there is no tomorrow for us? That I can be his genetic lab rat but not his lab partner?

Tears burn my cheeks. My face heats with embarrassment, but I’m helpless to stop the emotions overwhelming me. He stands there for an awkward moment as I sob, out of control.

I’m sure he’s going to make a run for it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he perches beside me, slowly wraps his arms around me, as if unsure of where to put his hands, like I might break.

As if I wasn’t already broken. The thought makes me cry even harder. I rock against him, letting him support my weight as the tears empty out of me.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice breaking with uncertainty. “Everything will be okay.”

I want to believe him, but I know better.

“I’m not coming back to school,” I finally choke out. “Not ever. Monday they’re going to do surgery on my heart. I’m scared. I’m going to die, Tony. The doctors can’t save me. No one can.”

In the movies and books, first kisses are magical. They change lives. Promise the stars and moon and a bright future.

They don’t taste of pepperoni. They don’t end up with the other person’s spit drying on your chin. They don’t start with you both turning the same way at the same time and banging your nose on his cheekbone.

I wish I lived in a movie or a book.

Once I get my tears under control, Tony and I sit there, clinging to each other. Finally he seems to know what to do with his hands, rubbing my back, stroking my arm then softly threading his fingers through my hair as if exploring an unknown universe.

I rock back, watching him watch me. His gaze is intense, as if he’s studying my every response. Then it drifts down to focus on my mouth and stays there.

He licks his lips. I don’t think he even knows he did it. We both start breathing faster, harder. Then he moves in for the kill…er, kiss.

It all happens so fast. Instinctively, I arch back but then quickly change course when I realize what he’s doing—and end up squashing my nose against his face, our lips nowhere in range of each other.

Things go downhill from there.

The fastest, wettest, clumsiest first kiss on record. Too bad we don’t have the girls from gym class there to record it for posterity. I’m sure we’d win some kind of award—the booby prize for kisses.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble as he pulls away and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth. Destroying any evidence I’d ever been there. “I’ve never—”

“No,” he says gallantly, allowing me to salvage some of my pride. He climbs down off the bed. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have—I’ll see you.”

And he’s out the door before I even catch my breath.

I fall back against my pillows, releasing a dust cloud of pink lace and ruffles, my face scorched with humiliation. I wish Monday were tomorrow and everything was just over and done with for good. Because being the clueless freak that I am sucks.