Under My Skin (6 page)

“I didn’t feel like watching Daniel and his friends play with a ball.”

“You could be working with the tutor on your reading. Principal Shepherd says he’s willing to stay after school to work with you.” Mom fills a pot with water and sets it to boil.

“It doesn’t matter how many tutors I have, words will never make sense.”

“I don’t buy that, Darby. You’re just not trying hard enough.”

“How do you know? You don’t have a dyslexic brain.”

“It’s not an excuse you can use for your entire life. Better to master it now before—”

“Just drop it, okay?”

“You’ll have to figure it out sometime.” Mom adds spaghetti to the pot.

“Whatever.” I dismantle my study altar.

“Darby.” She tucks a lock of her long, gray hair behind her ear and sets her dark brown eyes on me.

“
What
?” I steel myself, waiting for her to question me about Shepherd’s email. There’s a zero percent chance Shepherd didn’t send one and I’ve totally blown any chance of impressing Mom with my “studying.”

Mom stares me for a long time. “I don’t know what to say to you anymore.”

“Don’t say anything.”

“Fine.” Mom pours a jar of marinara into a saucepan.

My mind fuzzes. That’s it? We’re not going to keep arguing? Either she hasn’t read Shepherd’s email, or she’s waiting for Dad. My stomach tightens.

I hide in my room until dinner. Daniel arrives at five thirty. Dad comes in at five forty-five. My heart threatens to jump out of my throat at five fifty-five. We all sit at the dining table promptly at six.

It’s all I can do not to barf on the polished oak table.

I sit across from Daniel, quiet. The seconds tick by, measured by the antique Grandfather clock behind me. I suck down half a glass of water, but can’t manage a single bite of spaghetti.

After gracing Daniel with a few “atta boys” for being awesome at everything, Dad settles into serious mode and says, “Did you check your email, Annette?”

Mom shakes her head. “No.”

He tips his head toward me, his dark blue eyes honing in on me like a heat-seeking missile. “Principal Shepherd sent one. Darby called another student a bitch.”

Mom lowers her fork. “Why?”

Heat creeps up from my neck to my ears. “It wasn’t my fau—”

“You say that every time. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You need to take responsibility for your actions.” Dad clenches his jaw. His cheeks redden, probably like mine. It’s his blood pressure skyrocketing. One of these days he’s going to get so mad at me that he’ll stroke out.

Quick, hot tears blur my vision. “I’m sorry I can’t be perfect like Daniel.”

Mom clears her throat. “This is about you, Darby.”

“Yeah, don’t drag me into this.” Daniel raises his hands.

“It was all about Daniel five minutes ago.” Waves of anger crash over me. This is so unfair. I swallow a hard mouthful of fury and almost choke on it.

“If you did something praise-worthy, I’d praise you,” Dad says.

“All I am is a big giant mistake, right?” I stare at the chandelier, letting the light burn into my eyes to sear away the swelling tears. “You don’t even want to hear my side, do you?”

“I’m tired of your lies, Darby. You’re grounded until further notice.” Dad sighs, exhausted from the burden that is Darby.

I wipe my wet face with my fists. “I’m not lying. If you’d give me a chance to explain.”

“I don’t need your explanation. Principal Shepherd did a good enough job.” Dad tosses his fork onto his plate with a tinny clatter. “Why can’t you be more like Daniel?”

His words crush me under a ton of disappointment. It’s out in the open now. There’s no denying it. I’m the parasite twin, the reject.

I’m out of my seat and in my room before my napkin hits the floor.

Adam

The room I’m assigned to is supposed to hold two patients, but since I’m considered a minor on an adult floor, I won’t get a roommate. It’s well enough, considering Mum and Dad will take turns staying with me. A day watchman and a night watchman.

Mum watches from her perch on the window ledge that’s at least two feet deep while a nurse’s aide finishes setting up a cot for her. Dad’s settled into the recliner in the opposite corner holding a pile of linens on his lap. They’ll go on the cot once it’s ready. Mum called him after Dr. Jervis’ announcement to let him know what happened. He dashed over after wrapping a few essential things up at work, despite my request not to.

“I’ll stay here tonight, Dave, and I’ll call in at work tomorrow,” Mum says, her tone efficient and direct.

Dad nods, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Sounds good. I’ll come right after work. Want me to bring take out?”

“Sushi, please, dear. Let’s keep it healthy.”

God, I hate sushi. Guess I’ll have to suffer with whatever the hospital kitchen offers.

All because of a little wonky beat of my heart, I’m here, chained to a monitor, Mum’s going to sleep on a crappy cot and miss work—plus her weekly reading group—and Dad will be spending his evenings in the hospital instead of at home where he could be managing overseas projects when other researchers are still active.

Camping out in a hospital room for an unknown amount of time isn’t on their bucket list for me. Suppose I can scribble it in pencil at the bottom.

I sit in the middle of the hospital bed, with my legs folded. The nurse had insisted I change into a gown, but at least she’d also brought pajama bottoms so I don’t flash anyone. I pick at the silicone dotting the bottom of my hospital-issued gripper socks.

“You guys don’t have to stay. I’ve got an entire team here and they won’t let anything happen.” I speak with my most authoritative voice, though I’m reassuring myself as much as them.

“Of course I’m staying, Adam.” Mum slides off the window ledge. She tidies her cot to prove her point, making the tightest hospital corners I’ve ever seen.

“Mum.”

“I’m not leaving my son here,” she says. It’s a decree, binding, final.

Dad stands. The leather of his jacket creaks with his movements. He’s been here for hours, but hasn’t bothered taking off his coat. “I can stop by early in the morning to drop off some fresh clothes.”

Mum glances at the duffle bag Dad had brought for me, fluffing her pillow obsessively. I can pick her thoughts out of the air. Dad forgot to bring her bag, the brown leather satchel carrying a change of clothes and travel-sized toiletries housed permanently in her closet for emergencies.

I stare at the ceiling. My gaze trails from the antennae picking up my telemetry signal to a metal track cutting the room in half. The curtain affixed to it is tucked between two bedside stands, an unnecessary divider.

“Bring my bag too, dear.” Mum speaks with a jovial tone, but the smacks she gives the pillow are anything but light.

I clear my throat. “Please, Dad, take Mum home. I’ll be fine.”

Mum tips her chin down. “You’re anything but fine.”

Dad rubs the top of his head.

I dodge her jab and counter. “Wouldn’t you rather sleep in your own bed? I know I would.”

Mum shrugs. “I’d rather be here with you.”

She probably won’t let me have a moment to myself from now on, with what happened at school. I hope she won’t follow me into the bathroom.

“What’s going to happen? I’ll be sleeping all night. I think.” I fuss with the wires connected to stickers spattered across my chest. They plug into a small device tucked into my gown’s pocket that transmits a wireless signal to the antennae above. An EKG tracing comes out on a monitor at the nurses’ station. The wires get in the way more than anything.

Dad smirks. “You know nobody gets sleep in the hospital.”

Mum sits on the cot, stubborn as ever.

I play my final, most desperate, card. “I’ll sign myself out against medical advice.” Technically, I can’t really refuse treatment because I’m under age, but I give it a shot anyway.

Mum doesn’t bother justifying my lame move with an answer.

“Nice try, son, but you’re not going anywhere.” Dad pinches Mum’s cheek. “I’m sorry about forgetting your bag, love.”

She picks at a fingernail, then lifts her face to him. A smile softens her lips. “No worries, David. I’m not mad.” She gives him a forgiving peck on the cheek.

Dad kisses her forehead. “See you in the morning.”

And just like that, they’re back to their lovey-dovey selves.

“Goodnight, Dad.”

“Love you, Adam.”

The overnight nurse enters as Dad leaves. He’s wearing black scrubs and Hipster-style glasses that clash with his pudgy, middle-aged physique and way too mainstream crew cut.

He checks my blood pressure and makes sure the stickers are still sticking. “I’ll do my best to leave you alone, unless your heart decides to jump into an unstable rhythm, of course. The best thing you can do now is sleep. I’ll be watching on the monitor. Try not to toss and turn. The leads might come off and I’ll have to wake you up to reattach them.”

After he leaves, Mum tucks me in like I’m a five year old. “Are you comfortable? Do you need another pillow? Are you warm enough?”

“I’m okay.” I use the call button remote to turn off the overhead lights and then turn on the TV. I click through the channels, not really paying attention to the shows.

She leans over me, blocking my view of a CGI-green screen-actor battle-scene mash-up of a SyFy super awesome train wreck of a movie. “That’s a horrible reflex you’ve developed.”

I frown. “Huh?”

“Whenever I ask a question you say, ‘I’m alright’ or ‘I’m fine.’ It’s hard to know what you’re really thinking.” The brightness from the TV illuminates her hair from behind, a holy glow. The way she’s sacrificing her happiness for me should earn her sainthood. I should write a letter to the Pope.

Then again, if she’d ease up and drop the inquisition for a minute, maybe I wouldn’t have a “reflex” response.

She peers into my eyes. “Adam. Are you in there?”

I twist the call bell cord around my fingers. “Yes. It’s just … this sucks. I don’t want to be here.”

She caresses my cheek with her warm hand. “You’re prioritized on the transplant list now. With any luck, we won’t have to wait long. But we have to be patient.”

“You think everything will be fixed when I get a new heart.”

She straightens. “It will.”

I chew on my lip. A new heart isn’t the end of this. It’s the beginning. I’ll have to get used to taking a fistful of anti-rejection meds, wearing masks during cold and flu seasons, and a rigorous (for me) exercise routine. Plus, it doesn’t guarantee I’ll have a normal life span. “I don’t know.”

“You’re just nervous. We all are.” She tucks into bed … um, cot. It doesn’t look comfortable at all. My mattress is a thousand times cushier in comparison, and it’s not that great either.

“Don’t stay up watching TV all night,” she says.

I should turn it off now, but I’m not tired. Well, my body is fatigued, but my brain gallops onward. How long will I be in the hospital? If my heart recovers some, do I have to stay until the heart comes, or will I be bumped down the list again? What if my heart gets worse before a donor comes along? Dr. Jervis had also mentioned things like LVADs—left ventricular assist devices—machines attached to my heart via tubes running into my chest and external pumps designed to keep my blood flowing.

I suppress a full body tremor. I really will become Frankenstein’s monster.

It’s unnatural to cheat death this way. How far can things go? Can I depend on a machine? Can I handle knowing someone else must die so I can live?

I close my eyes. It’s clear to me now. I don’t deserve life if I’m stealing it from someone else. I don’t.

It would be kinder, more humane, if I were to die.

I take in a shaky breath. A tear slides from my eye. I let it trickle down my cheek unchecked.

I should text Dr. Shaw, but it’s too late. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her. We’ll have enough to talk about when we meet. She’ll probably come to the hospital to see me. She’s done it before.

At midnight, I shut off the TV and lay flat in bed, afraid to move lest I jostle the leads and telemetry pack.

At three AM, I’m still awake, listening to my pulse rushing in my ears. When—no,
if
—I get a transplant, it’ll be another person’s heart pushing blood through my body. I wonder if it will sound the same, feel the same. I wonder if I’ll know it’s not mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut to push the questions and blinding fear from my mind. For a moment, it works and I float in blissful, quiet darkness.

In the depths of infinite blackness, a vile idea claws its way to the surface. Blood drips from its fangs and its yellow eyes ooze contempt.

It snarls, mocking me.

I might die on the operating table.

I shake my head, rattling the idea. Of course I’m going to die on the table. The surgeon will be removing my heart and replacing it with someone else’s. I’ll be dead in those minutes between. I’ll only come back to life if the surgeon has magic in his hands.

Mary Shelley was decades ahead of her time.

I slide my gaze around the darkened room, abandoning any hope of sleep. My phone rests on the bedside stand, neatly tucked next to
Frankenstein
. Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of reading material. I stick my tongue out at the book for good measure, then pick up my phone.

Selecting the web browser app, I wrack my brain trying to remember the ridiculous name of the newest drug Shaw prescribed. I doubt Mum would’ve given it to me if the risk was too high.

I type Z-I-P-R and Google does the rest.

Ziprasidone
pops up. I select it and get a list of links. Clicking on the second one, I gulp.

Ziprasidone: For the treatment of Schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorder, and hallucinations
.

What the hell? I’m not schizophrenic.

I scan the rest of the article, skimming over phrases like
take twice daily
and
take with food for better absorption
and halt at the words:

Although rare, ziprasidone can cause significant QT prolongation, leading to a potentially serious unstable rhythm of the heart
.