Hold Me Like a Breath (2 page)

“—while you go see Dr. Castillo and get your ABC.” She walked around the table and touched my dark-blond hair, running her fingers through it in her no-chance-of-bruising-Penny caress. I hated it; it made me feel like a dog.

ABC
. My childhood name for a Complete Blood Count, since I'd insisted that “CBC” was
not
how the alphabet went.

It was a name I hadn't used in ten years, and I wasn't in the mood to be infantilized, but …
picnic
.

My head danced with visions of checkered blankets, sunblock, and sand. Or, if the ground was deemed too hard, restaurants with outside tables beneath colorful umbrellas. And once the whole outing went well, I'd add that to the evidence inside the red folder when I presented my argument. Tomorrow. I'd do it tomorrow.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” If kissing were a thing we did, I would have given her a kiss And if hugging were allowed, I would have squeezed her tight. Then again, if hugging were allowed, I wouldn't have
needed
permission to live a normal life beyond the estate's walls. It's not that hugging me was
always
dangerous—just that the same embrace that would be fine if my counts were good would band me with arm and handprint bruises if they'd had a dramatic drop. My parents had decided to order everyone to “err on the side of caution” and
made all physical contact with me verboten. No one disobeyed my parents. Ever.

Despite the eleven years I'd had to absorb the fact that I was “breakable,” “fragile,” “untouchable,” … I still missed hugs. I still missed a lot of things.

I said “thank you” one last time and bounced out of my seat.

“Yes, yes. All right now.” She hid her smile by feigning interest in a flower arrangement. “Run along to the clinic and I'll arrange everything. Come find me in the front parlor when you're done.”

It took less than a minute to get from the dining room to the clinic if I went the direct route: past Father's office, straight through the double oak doors at the rear of the library, down the white tile hallway, and through the second set of doors—stainless steel this time. The clinic was made up of five rooms and a storage closet: two for patient stays, a surgery, Dr. Castillo's office, and the consult room where Father, doctors, and other members of the Family met with VIP patients.

When I was little, I thought Dr. Castillo lived on the estate—I remember being shocked to learn he had a house fifteen minutes away and a family I'd never met. In my mind he
must
live in the clinic, because he was always there when I needed him. For 80 percent of the year, I was his lone patient. Only the elite of the elite—like the daughter of a former senator turned current vice president—were allowed to have their transplants here instead of at one of the six “spa” locations. As a child I'd resented
those other patients—he was
my
doctor—now I welcomed anything that took attention off me and my platelets.

As usual I paused outside the dark paneled door to Father's office, wishing I were allowed to sit in on his meetings, or still small enough to hide in the cabinets and eavesdrop. He was yelling—not super unusual—but what
was
unheard of was another voicing shouting back: Carter's. I wished the door was thin enough to give me answers, or that my brother wasn't too busy to give them to me himself. Too busy to give me the time of day lately.

I left my red folder in the library under a coffee-table book about castles. For weeks I'd been planning to bring it up with Dr. Castillo, to ask his opinion on its contents, to ask for his endorsement, but I kept wimping out. If
remission
was a possibility, a word strong enough to hang my wishes on, wouldn't he have said it by now?

Dr. Castillo was waiting for me in one of the exam rooms. It was Wednesday after all, and
my
Wednesdays meant blood tests, not massages.

“There's my favorite pincushion!” He'd been making this joke for a decade, since before his dark hair had grayed at his temples. And despite the number of times he'd poked me with needles, he was one of my favorite people.

“To your throne, my lady.” He pointed to the blood-drawing chair while he readied his supplies on a tray. I rolled up the sleeve of my pink pinstriped shirt. Opened and closed my fist to get my blood flowing.

Over the past ten years we'd perfected our medical
choreography: tourniquet,
squeeze your hand, quick pinch, open your hand, almost done, press here
, bandage,
you're all set
.

I fixed my sleeve and fished a lollipop from the jar he held out. I was much too old to need a reward for “quick pinches,” but I wasn't going to turn down sugar.

As usual, he'd gotten one for himself too.

“Any new bruises, petechiae, etc.?” He pulled off his gloves and the candy wrapper, then examined my ankles for the pinhead-sized red dots that showed up on my lower legs whenever my counts started to drop.

“None,” I answered. “And guess what? Mother's taking me off-estate for a picnic!”

Between the lollipop and that statement, I sounded about five, but he didn't mock me. “Really? That's great, Penelope. With the way your levels have been lately, I support the idea of loosening your restrictions. Unless this platelet count comes back low, you still don't need an infusion and there's nothing here to give me pause. Just be mindful of your actions. And have fun.”

I tried to smile at his encouragement, but it was hard not to get caught on “unless” and his other loaded statements. After “careful,” “pause” and “mindful” and “platelet counts” were my least favorite words. And I didn't need his reminders—my life was run by my counts. Had been since I was six and developed the inconvenient habit of turning all shades of purple and spontaneously bleeding. After a year of testing and more testing, I'd finally been diagnosed with idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura.

Everyone but Carter shortened it to ITP. He liked to joke that
I was
idiot-pathetic
. Not that
idiopathic
was much better—“of unknown cause.” My body destroyed its own platelets and no one could tell me why.

Most children outgrew it. I wasn't one of the lucky ones. I was
chronically
idiot-pathetic. I'd likely spend the rest of my life at the mercy of my platelet counts, watching for bruises and other symptoms, worrying that any injury could result in internal bleeding and worse.

The best I could pray for was remission, a word I didn't dare say aloud. I'd only just convinced myself to hope—and like me, hope was a fragile thing that would break far too easily.

“Thanks,” I said.

“See you next week.”

“Are you ready?” Mother asked. She was smiling as she stood up from her desk, the one where she paid bills, wrote e-mails, and managed the household and its staff.

“Yes! I think? Unless I need to change? Am I dressed okay?”

“Of course.” She laughed lightly. “I hope you're hungry.”

I practically danced to the foyer as I dreamed of possibilities. Should I ask if we could take a convertible or choose which Ward we brought as a bodyguard? Speaking of Wards, if Carter and his best friend, Garrett Ward, weren't
too
busy, maybe they could be persuaded to join us … Maybe we'd picnic on the beach. Or Central Park! Stopping at a little deli along the way to pick up sandwiches and cold drinks. Frisbee! Lying next to Garrett on a picnic blanket and staring up at the clouds …

“Where are you going, goose?” Mother asked. “We're set up in the solarium.”

My heart and hopes crashed. “The
solarium
?”

I followed her beckoning finger, like I wouldn't believe I'd been duped until I'd entered the room and seen the sunbeams streaming through the glass walls and falling like spotlights on the table set with plates of chicken salad, dishes of strawberries, and a glass pitcher of lemonade.

“But … I thought …”

She was already seated with her napkin in her lap, smiling up at me with all sorts of expectations in her eyes.

“Mother, it's not that I don't appreciate your effort—I do—it's just … This isn't what I expected. I thought I made it clear; I wanted a day
off
-estate. Maybe Central Park? With Carter and Garrett—”

“Why drive two hours when you can have a picnic here? No need to worry about food spoiling in a hot car or paper plates. Now sit down. Don't these strawberries look divine? Annette got them fresh from the farmers' market this morning.”

“You're not—you're not listening! You never—” It was hard to fight off my anger
and
tears. One or both was going to come spilling out. “I can't do this …”

I let the solarium door slam behind me, let out my breath, let the tears leak down my face.

“—so much potential in partnering with crematoriums and morgues. It's not like anyone
needs
those bodies. Putting a corpse in an urn doesn't help anyone.”

I'd been running down the hall, but as soon as I heard Carter's voice, I tried to freeze. Instead I stumbled over the edge of a Persian carpet.

He was standing in the middle of the library, illuminated by squares of light streaming down on him from the windows that alternated with dark paneled bookshelves on the narrow balcony ringing the room. Garrett Ward lounged against the wall beneath the gilt frame of an antique map, his fingers absently tracing the carvings on the side of the marble fireplace. My movement caught both their glances, and Garrett lunged forward as if he would catch me, even though I'd already caught myself. He raised his hand to steady me, then halted with a look of horror. He'd almost touched me.

Oh, how I wished he could.

All I'd wanted was a trip off-estate. A simple picnic. Not to be sent to the solarium like it was a time-out. Not to get caught crying like a five-year-old by Carter, who used to be my best friend but now was off living a life full of adventures and experiences I couldn't be part of. Not to have Garrett, the guy who played the role of prince in all my childhood make-believes and all my current daydreams, stare at me as if I were as delicate as spun sugar.

“You okay, princess? What's wrong?” Garrett's nickname for me was usually more affectionate than judgmental. He wielded it like an unintentional weapon—one word capable of filling my stomach with swarms of butterflies and leaving me incoherent. He was still standing catch-me close and his eyes were sweeping back and forth across my face. I wanted a redo, to have his attention like this at a time when my cheeks weren't wet with tears and dark with embarrassment.

“Nothing. I'm fine.” I wiped at my face and faked a smile.

He nodded slowly, allowing me the lie. He clenched his hand as he lowered it and took a step backward, then another. Until he was halfway across the room, gripping the back of the chair he'd put between us.

“What's the matter?” demanded Carter, who was not nearly as tactful or sensitive as Garrett but made up for it in loyalty and humor. “Why were you crying?”

“I had a fight with Mother.”

“Trade you. I've been fighting with Father all week.” He turned to Garrett. “When
we're
in charge of the Family, remind me not to be a—”

“Person who doesn't think about where he's standing when he speaks?” Garrett tilted his head at the doors to Father's office, clearly visible across the long room. The gesture made his reddish-brown hair flop forward into his eyes. Garrett wasn't a person who spoke before weighing his words or acted without calculating the effects—his hairstyle was equally deliberate. The rest of his brothers copied their dad and wore their hair cropped short. I loved how his had personality, how it emphasized he
wasn't
like the rest of them. Al Ward didn't tolerate rebellion, so I knew Garrett had paid some consequence for skipping the buzz cut. Despite this, he'd come home from college with it longer, not shorter.

“What were you fighting about?” I asked. Perhaps it wasn't the best choice of question, but I was desperate to keep their attention.

Carter exhaled his frustration and sank onto one of the leather chairs, thumping his blond head against its high back.
“Everything. Things are changing. It's not just H.R. 197—though if the Organ Act passes, we're so … No, it can't pass. No one is going to vote to allow people to sell their body parts.” He paused and shook his head, then resumed banging it again. “But everything else. We've got to keep up, and Father refuses to adapt. Do you know how close the Zhus are to perfecting artificial organs?”

Actually I did. People didn't tell me much, but I was really good at listening. And on our estate, there were lots of opportunities to eavesdrop on interesting conversations. “The Vickers are too. Aren't they?”

These were the other major Families. And while there wasn't a Landlow-Zhu-Vickers softball tournament or campfires where our Families shared trade secrets, there were enough whispers, leaks, and rumors to keep us fairly informed about one another's developments. When we were younger, the other Families' kids had come to visit our estate. But they hadn't in years. Not since Carter broke his arm on a dare from Magnolia Vickers; not since Ming Zhu sat miserable and sniffling through an endless afternoon, staring silently at me through crooked glasses. I think Father still talked with the other Families' heads pretty regularly, but the only information I had about them was what I'd overheard—and I'd heard Miles mention “Vickers” and “liver prototype” last week.