Under My Skin (9 page)

I don’t expect the Grim Reaper to stalk into my room in the darkness of night to steal my soul. My murderer is within and I can’t run from myself.

Dad zips his coat. “I’ll call when I get home.”

Mum smiles. “Thanks, honey. Goodnight.”

Dad waves at me. “See you tomorrow, son.”

“Bye, Dad.”

Mum busies herself with fixing her pillow and straightening her blanket. “What do you want to do tonight? Watch a movie, play a game … ?”

I click off the bedside lamp and face the window. The blinds are open, letting in light from the street. It’s softened to a rosy glow from the fog and precipitation. The urge to confess what happened with Shaw coats my tongue, but I can’t risk letting it past my lips. Mum would talk to Shaw about it and Shaw would deny it, or twist my words around, or maybe say I’m delusional. Maybe they’ve already talked about it. Shaw probably armed Mum with an argument should I bring up the subject. “I’m tired.”

There’s a long pause, followed by a soft, “Oh, alright. Guess I’ll read for a bit.”

Shutting her out makes me an ass, but I have no other option. Like I said to Shaw, she’s infused my every waking moment, drowned any private thoughts, and snuffed out each glimpse of freedom I have left. Yes, it’s better if I don’t say anything.

Mum’s shoes squeak slightly on the tile floor. Rustling of sheets blossom in the silence, then the soft pops of the cot stretching to bear her weight echo throughout the room. The bluish glow of her Kindle reflects off the ceiling, competing with the orangey blush of the streetlights outside.

Several agonizing minutes pass where I argue with myself. I should turn around, face her, and
talk
. About my thoughts, my fears, and what I think about the transplant.

Mum would proudly declare it a breakthrough to Shaw.

Shaw. She’s supposed to be helping me through this, but all she does is play with my mind and confuse me. The woman really thinks I want to die.

Do I?

Air stagnates in my lungs as I trip on the question. I grab a fistful of blanket. My heart stumbles into a faster beat.

Enough! I can’t afford to trigger another attack.

I take a few slow, deep breaths to steady myself.

Mum clears her throat. A reminder that she’s there. Or an invitation.

I could roll over and say, “Mum, we need to talk.”

Five little words. It’d make her so happy. Yet it’s so hard to do.

I swallow the lump blocking my throat.
Sit up. Open your mouth. Come on. Do it
.

I shut my eyes and hold my breath. My heart flutters, anticipating my leap into openness. I clench my jaw. There’s nothing beneath me to catch my fall. No safety net. I can’t do it. I’m too much of a coward.

“I love you, Adam,” Mum says, tossing me a feeble lifeline. I’m not sure if it’s for her or me.

The plea in her voice settles over me like a layer of ice. It’s sharp, biting, and suffocating.

“Adam?”

“I’m not shutting you out, Mum.” I open my eyes and stare at the blinds slats. They start to ripple, an optical illusion. Acid rolls in my stomach at the lie.

“Yes, you are. I just don’t understand why. What did I do to push you away?”

I turn my face into the pillow. “Nothing.”

“Doctor Shaw says withdrawing is a sign of worsening depression. She’s worried about you and so am I.”

“I’m not depressed.”

“You’ve been here two days and you’ve barely said anything. You hardly respond to the surgeon’s questions. Shaw says you’re clamming up in therapy.” She sucks in a shaky breath. “We’re so close to getting you a new heart and I’m terrified you’ll give up before we do.”

“It’s not as easy peasy as ordering one from Amazon.”

“
Adam
.” I hear a swish of blankets. Her weight dips into the mattress behind me. “How can you joke about such a thing?”

“You know someone has to die for me to get a heart, right?” My voice is muffled, what with me talking into the pillow and all.

She rests a hand on my shoulder. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

“I’m not sure you do. I mean, you seem happy about the idea.”

“What I’m happy about is you getting well. That can happen with a new heart.” She tightens her grip. “You have to focus on the positives. Doctor Shaw says if you keep thinking negative things the depression will linger and you won’t heal as quickly.”

I snort.

“You should trust her. She knows what she’s talking about.”

“Doctor Shaw isn’t who you think she is.”

She removes her hand from my shoulder. “Oh, Adam, really.”

I grab a fistful of blanket. “I wish you’d believe me about her.”

Her weight leaves the bed. A moment later, the cot creaks.

I lift my head from the pillow. “Well?”

Mum flicks off her Kindle. “Go to sleep, Adam.”

Now who’s withdrawing from who?

Doubt seeps into my skin like sticky tar. Shaw wants me to trust her but I can’t trust what she’s telling Mum.

I suck on my lip ring.

Mum says she doesn’t know what I’m thinking. Then why do I feel so exposed and vulnerable, splayed open by Shaw’s wit and calculating words?

* * *

The nurse, Tim, rushes in dragging a blood pressure machine at around six in the morning. He flips the light on without asking and announces, “We have a heart. Let’s get you down to the OR.”

I sit up, rubbing my eyes at the shock of fluorescent light.

Mum gapes at him, hair sticking up on one side and flattened on the other. “Wh-what?”

Tim rips open the cuff. The Velcro hisses at being torn from its clingy counterpart. He checks my vital signs. “You haven’t eaten anything since midnight, right?”

“Before that,” I say. “Where did the heart come from?”

He chuckles. “A donor, of course.”

Glad he thinks I’m an idiot. I rub my eyes with my free hand while Tim jots down the numbers flashing on the machine.

A nurse’s aide comes in, pushing a gurney.

“Here’s your ride,” Tim says.

“Where’s the surgeon?” Mum asks, stuffing her feet into her sensible loafers. Her eyes are bloodshot as if she’s been crying.

“He’s harvesting the donor heart. They should be wrapping up soon. We need to get Adam prepped and ready to go for him.”

I stare at Tim, frozen. “The donor is here?”

“You lucked out. The closer the heart, the less down time it has and the easier it is to reboot, so to speak.” Tim smiles.

Icy tentacles slither through my belly. I shiver. “B-but … I’m not ready.”

“Ready or not, it’s time to go.” Tim tosses my blanket aside. “Hop on the gurney, son.”

I shake my head. My legs won’t move. “I c-can’t.”

“We’ll help you.” Tim motions for the aide. They each hook an arm under my arms and pivot me to the gurney.

Nausea swells in my gut. Terror burns up my chest and explodes in my throat. This is it. My new heart is here. Someone’s dying and I’m going to take their life. “I’m going to be sick.”

Tim pats my shoulder. His gaze says,
man-up-buddy
. “Take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay.”

Mum is tapping on her phone. “I’m calling your father.” She glances at Tim. “How far can I come along?”

“You can ride in the elevator and down the hall, but once we pass through the doors of the OR, you have to hang back,” Tim says.

Tim steers us down the hall from the head of the gurney while the aide guides the foot. At the lift, he peers down at me. “When you wake up, you’ll have a new ticker.”

I stare up his nostrils. “If I wake up,” I mumble.

He pushes me onto the lift then sidesteps to face me head on. “You’ll wake up. You’re in good hands. Doctor Jervis is the best.”

“And someone else will be dead,” I say.

Tim straightens the blanket draped over my lower body. “The donor is already brain dead, son. His family has gifted his organs to recipients like you. It’s a second chance at life.”

Mum clasps hands with me. Her fingers are cold. “This is a good thing, Adam.” A hardness creeps into her gaze, similar to Dr. Shaw’s when she’s working her psychological magic on me.

“Yeah.” I rest my head on the pillow and count the ceiling tiles until we reach the OR entrance.

“Mrs. Gibson, you can say bye here.” Tim nudges the aide to give us some space.

Mum places her palm against my forehead. “I love you, Adam.”

“Love you too, Mum.”

A tear slips free and trails down her face. “Be strong.”

Thoughts crowd my mind—mostly fears about what comes after death—but I refuse to free them. It’ll only scare her more. Instead, I grab her wrist and hold tight.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she pleads.

I’ve reached the point of no return. Once the doctor starts cutting, he’ll crack open my chest, stop my heart, cut it out, and … I’ll be dead.
Dead
. A heart and lung machine will pump blood through my vessels. What happens to my spirit in the between time? Will it stay attached to my body? Will it try to escape and fly to Heaven … or Hell? Will I float above myself and watch as the surgeon mutilates me? Will my soul accept a new heart? Will I become that monster?

Tim opens the door. “Time to go.”

Mum’s shoulders shake with sobs. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Bye, Mum.” I release her wrist and her hands fall away from me as Tim wheels me into the OR.

Once I’m settled on the operating table, the anesthesiologist puts an oxygen mask on my face. She’s wearing a hot pink bonnet. Her gaze latches onto me. The skin around her green eyes crinkles with a smile. She moves to my side and preps my arm for an IV. “I’m doctor Hillborn. Just try to relax and breathe slowly. The oxygen will help.”

The two large, adjustable lights hang above me. They’re focused directly on my chest. My heart’s own personal spotlight. “What room is the donor in?”

“Don’t worry about him.” Dr. Hillborn glances at me, then refocuses on taping the IV tubing to my arm. She unsnaps my gown, exposing my chest. “These are old leads. You’ll need fresh ones.” Quickly, she removes the telemetry wires and adds new stickies to my chest.

Goosebumps cover my skin. “Did you see him?”

“Cold in here, isn’t it?” She drapes a blanket over me after she finishes attaching the new wires.

I lift my head. “Don’t ignore my questions. Please.”

She pauses with her fingers still wrapped around the blanket’s edge. “I don’t know anything about the donor and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”

“But—”

“You have to focus on yourself right now, Adam.” Her brow arches in that don’t-bother-arguing-stance.

I lower my head. “What happens now?”

“Relax. Doctor Jervis will be here soon.” She moves to a nearby monitor and presses a couple buttons on the screen. An orange tracing of my heart rhythm scrolls in a horizontal line.

I follow the jagged bumps and spikes. It’s the last note my heart will write before it’s removed from my ribcage.

Agonizing minutes pass until the surgeon arrives. A nurse helps him put on a blue gown and gloves. His thick-framed black glasses clash with his skull and flames patterned surgical cap. There’s a light on the center of his glasses, like he’s going spelunking. All the better to see my anatomy, I gather.

He walks up to the table with his head lifted high and says, “Ready?” His voice is filled with the power of his determination.

It’s done then. The donor is officially dead and his heart is waiting to be implanted in my chest. I nod.

“Good. We’ll get started then. I don’t anticipate any complications. Before you know it, you’ll be in the PACU.” He turns to the anesthesiologist. “Let’s get him sedated and intubated.”

Dr. Hillborn walks me through counting backward from ten.

I make it to seven before falling into nothingness.

Darby

Images blur on a merry-go-round from Hell that spins faster with each turn. Sleet pounding the windshield. Daniel fighting with the clutch and brake. The truck’s headlights impaling us. Crunching steel. Daniel’s bloody face.

Pain stretches from my head, dragging its dirty talons down my neck and across my shoulders, ending in cold numbness at my chest. Something presses my body down. I can’t move. I can’t escape it.

A soft voice filters through the haze. “Darby? Can you hear me?”

My eyelid is pried open. An intense light shines in. I groan, but no sound comes out except for a rush of air.

“She’s awake.” The light is moved. A woman’s face comes into focus. Straight black hair frames her soft cheeks and almond-shaped eyes. “I’m Doctor Wong. You’re in the ICU. You’re neck was injured in the accident and you needed surgery. We kept the breathing tube in to help you breath. Don’t fight it.”

Thoughts spark, so fast I can’t catch them, like my mind is a net full of holes. I’m alive. Where’s Daniel?

My stomach tightens.
Daniel
.

I try to say his name, but the tube in my mouth makes it impossible. I lift my arm. Something tugs on my wrist.

The doctor pats my hand. “We restrained you because you were agitated and I didn’t want your neck injury to worsen.”

I scream at her, but there’s no sound except for more whooshing noises.

She presses two fingers against my palm. “Give a squeeze.”

No, I want Daniel. I need to find him!

“Come on. I know you can do it,” she says.

I bite the tube. Tears slide across my cheeks.

“Try, Darby.”

My fingers twitch, then curl around hers. I grip her as tight as I can, until my arm trembles from the effort.

Finally, she nods. “Okay, relax. Good job. You’re stronger than I expected.” She smiles like I’ve just swum the English Channel. “Once you’re able to breathe on your own we’ll extubate you.”

Extub—what?

She turns and walks away.

Wait, she can’t leave! I try to sit up again. Pain immediately explodes down my neck and back. Little electric shocks zap my hands. I choke on the stiff tube stuffed down my throat.

A machine next to me starts beeping.

I roll my eyes to the right—a collar around my neck holds my head straight. God, I’m suffocating. More tears bubble from my eyes. My lungs burn.