A Matter of Heart (10 page)

Streaks of light turn the gray sky a million shades of red. As if the sky is angry too.

“Shower and dress,” Coach says through gritted teeth. “I'll see you and your parents in my office.”

I grab my swim bag. I try not to turn, but I can't help it. Everyone's watching me; I've never seen a pool full of kids so still. Now I'm glad Connor isn't here. At least he didn't see it. Then my eyes flash to Alec. He doesn't look shocked. He looks as if he understands now. But he doesn't. He doesn't understand a damn thing.

“Get back to work!” Coach shouts.

I turn away as bodies hit the water with loud splashes. I hold up my head and stride to the locker room, making a promise to myself.

I'll be back
.

M
om isn't crying, but she has a Kleenex wadded up in the palm of her left hand. She's sitting in a chair in front of Coach's desk with one leg crossed over the other. It might be just another meeting about my swimming career if not for the Kleenex.

And the fluffy pink slippers.

Dad is standing at the back of Coach's office, his shoulders hunched, face turned toward the window. I don't know what he's looking at—only that he isn't looking at me. He hasn't, not since I walked in with my hair still wet, my shirt damp from dressing before I'd dried off, and my jeans hurriedly shoved into boots.

Mom has explained the doctor's findings. HCM. The potential dangers, blah, blah, blah. I'm leaning against the door and all I can think is this isn't about me. My heart is fine. I mean,
yeah, maybe I've got a virus. Maybe even a murmur. But not the thing Dr. Danvers said it is.

“I'm sorry, Joanne,” Coach is saying. “Abby didn't tell me any of that.”

“Because she wants to keep swimming,” Mom says. “And she can't.”

I groan at Mom's words. At the melodramatic hitch in her voice. “It's one doctor's opinion,” I say, pushing off the wall and getting closer to Coach's desk. “Remember that time I got bronchitis? That doctor told me I couldn't swim. I won first place at the invitational that weekend.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Mom intones. “This isn't bronchitis. This is your heart.”

“Is there anything that can be done?” Coach asks in a calm voice.

Mom gathers herself with a long, drawn-in breath. “We're still learning about this, but it's a mild case, which means it can be controlled with medication.”

“That's good news. If it's a mild case…?” Coach leaves the real question hanging.

“It won't cause her any problems in day-to-day activities. But her heart can't take the strain of competitive sports.”

“We don't know that yet,” I say. “We're going to get a second opinion. Right, Dad?”

He sighs and turns toward Coach. “I'm looking into that today.” His voice sounds so tired and empty. It scares me more than any of Mom's hysterics ever could.

“What about alternative therapies?” Coach asks.

“We don't really know,” Mom admits.

“Maybe that's a possibility,” he adds, a hopeful note in his voice. “Abby's still young. There's always next year.”

“Next year?” I grab the back of a chair, my head shaking like some kind of maniac puppet. “Who knows what might happen next year? Right now I'm in the best shape of my life. I'm this close to the Olympics.” I hold up fingers with a sliver of air between them. “I just need sixteen more days. Then we can figure this out.”

“Were you not listening yesterday?” Mom sits up, her slippers smacking against the carpet. “You could slip into an arrhythmia, and you could die.”

The fist with the Kleenex is swiping her eyes again.

I'm ready to argue, but Coach silences me with a look. Dad is just standing there with his hands in his pockets.
Why won't he look at me? Why won't he say something?

Coach folds his arms across his chest. “Where do we go from here?”

“Abby is going to start on beta-blockers,” Mom says. “She was supposed to take her first pill this morning. They'll keep her heart rate from rising.”

Coach shoots me a look. I know what he's thinking. Low is slow.

“I can still swim fast on the pills,” I say. “I know I can.”

He focuses on Mom again. “So it's okay for Abby to swim as long as she takes the beta-blockers?”

“That's what the doctor said. But I don't see how she can compete with her heart regulated.”

“I can do it,” I snap. “Even on heart meds, I'll still be better than everyone else. Right, Dad?”

I need him to look at me. I need him to say something.

There's a second of awkward silence as Dad rubs the back of his neck. “I don't know,” he finally says. “Maybe your mother is right.”

If my heart wasn't broken, it is now. “Dad—”

Finally, he turns to face me and I flinch from the look in his eyes. “We saw you, Abby. In the pool. The way you were breathing? You weren't…right.” His voice breaks.

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes as Mom stands up. “Why don't we start with the beta-blockers and go from there.”

Coach nods and meets my eyes. “Start the medicine, Abby, and take it easy for a few days. Then we'll see. You're done for the rest of this week.”

“What about Saturday's meet?” I cry.

“You'll be there,” Coach says, “to support the team. As of today, you're off the roster.”

“What? No!” I push my hair behind my ears, as if to clear the way for what I want to hear. “You can't do that, Coach! I need to keep up my momentum—and the team needs me.”

“The team needs you healthy. We'll reevaluate once we see how you feel on the medicine.” Coach gives me a sharp look, silencing me before I have a chance to say more.

“This is not up for discussion, Abby. You're benched for the meet this weekend. We'll see where we're at on Monday.” He narrows his eyes. “But if you ever lie to me again or pull a stunt like this…you're done at Horizon.”

He reaches for my mom's hand. “Joanne, I'm so sorry about this. More than I can say. The important thing is to keep Abby healthy.” He squeezes her fingers.

“David,” he says. They shake hands.

Coach nods at me then. “You'd better get to class.”

Class? How can I sit through class like everything is okay?

I silently beg for Dad's attention. As if he knows, he looks at me. I wish he hadn't. His eyes are bleak, and I know what he's thinking. This isn't how it's supposed to be. How can the heart of a fighter be damaged?

I
force myself to get to class, but I'm on autopilot. And on guard.

No one on the swim team missed the explosion this morning. They want to know the details. They want to know what's wrong with me.

As if I'm suddenly defective.

Connor missed the drama, but he's already heard about it from Tanner and Logan. He's waiting for me in the hall where we pass each other after second period.

“You okay?” he asks. He grabs my hand and pulls me out of the stream of traffic.

“You heard?”

“The latest version has Coach in the water choking you while Jen tries to pull you two apart.”

It's my first smile of the day. “Can't wait to hear the story by the end of school.”

“Ab…” He shifts uncomfortably. “I'm a little freaked out. You said it was nothing.”

I pull loose a thread that's dangling from his sleeve. “One of my heart tests came back abnormal, but it's cool. I'm going to get a second opinion.”

“So the doctor could be wrong?” His beautiful eyes are worried.

“Of course he's wrong. I'm Fins, aren't I?” He's not looking convinced, but he nods. He kisses me as the bell rings, and we both have to hurry to avoid being late.

During world history, Ruelas passes back our quizzes. I thought I did all right on the makeup, but apparently not. Unless D now stands for
Divine
. I hide the paper in the back of my folder. I'll do extra credit to bring up the grade, but right now I can't look at that bright red D. I can't stand feeling any worse than I already do.

Reassuring everyone with a cocky smile and a smart-ass comment is way more tiring than I expected. I'm exhausted by the end of the day. Plus, whenever I start to relax, the whole episode in Coach's office floods back. I seriously just want to forget it. I want to forget all of it right now, but there's one more person I have to talk to.

I'm waiting for Jen by her car when she walks up.

Her face is set and angry as she unlocks the doors. “I am so furious right now,” she says. “If I wasn't so freaking scared, too, I'd throw my biology book in your face. Believe me, that would leave a scar.”

We both get in, and she drives toward home. She says nothing and neither do I. At one point, she reaches up and turns off the radio. Maybe she wants me to hear her fume. Jen's a master at deep fuming breaths that come from her diaphragm and ooze disgust.

When she pulls in front of my house, I reach for my things, but I don't open my door. “Can we talk?”

She turns off the car. “I don't want to talk. I want to scream.” She faces me with a hard glare. Both of her hands are clenched on the wheel. “You lied to me this morning.”

“I didn't lie. I'm getting things checked out. That's the truth.”

“Hyper. Trophic. Cardio. Myopathy.” She spits out the words and I groan inwardly. I should have known Jen would remember. “You telling me that's no big deal? Abby, kids die from that.”

“I don't have it that bad.”

“And I'm supposed to believe you?”

“I swam today, didn't I? I'm still here.” I hold out my arms as proof.

“That doesn't mean you're okay. HCM can hit at any time.”

“HCM?” I say.

“I did research, okay? I skipped lunch and did research.” Suddenly, her throat is tightening and there's a shine to her eyes. “The things I read…” She takes a gulp of air. “HCM is a major cause of death in young athletes. There's a site where you can read about the ones who died. There was even a swimmer listed who died during a swim meet.” She rubs her eye with the heel of her hand. “It's scary, Ab. That could be you. Dead.”

“Come on, Jen.” I pretend to rub my temples, but really I'm covering my ears with my hands. I don't want to hear this. It
doesn't have anything to do with me. With my heart. “I have a mild case. I told you.”

“But it's not an exact science. It's a question of how thick the tissue is on one wall of your heart,” she says. “If it's a millimeter in the right direction, you feel a little dizzy and that's it. But if it's a millimeter in the wrong direction, you die.”

“Jeez,” I snap. “You're not a doctor—reading websites doesn't make you one.”

“Maybe,” she says, “but I was there this morning. When I came up to the wall, you weren't right.”

“I lost my breath for a second. That was all.”

“It wasn't normal.”

“It was a hiccup.”

“Hearts don't hiccup.” She stares out the windshield as if she can't look at me. “I drove you to practice,” she says. “I could have been an accessory to your death. Do you know what that would have done to me?”

“I'm not going to die.”

“No, you're not.” She swivels to face me again. “Because you're not going to swim.”

Anger sparks inside of me at her words. “Thank you, Dr. Jen. Glad it's so easy for you.” I climb out and slam the door behind me.

A second later, she's out and leaning over the hood of her car, yelling at me.

“It's not easy. I know that. I know what swimming means to you. But this is your life!”

“Exactly,” I say. “
My
life.
My
decision.”

“You are not seriously planning to keep swimming. Will Coach even let you?” Her mouth hangs open.

I press a fist to my chest and take a long breath, trying to control my temper. Before I can get out a word, Jen's eyes bulge with fear.

“Abby? Are you okay? Is it your heart?” She circles the car, reaching her arms out to me.

“Oh, for crap's sake!” I slap her arms away. “Don't treat me like an invalid.”

She starts to say something, but then she stops. Her shoulders sag and she leans back against the car as if she might fall. “Hell, Abby. How can this be?”

And just like that, my anger is gone—run off with Jen's. “I don't know,” I say. I lean back next to her.

We're quiet for a minute. I hear the garbage truck making its rounds. The air smells like rain, and I wish a downpour would come and wash away this entire day.

“So it just showed up?” Jen asks.

I'm glad to concentrate on the question. “I guess. I got dizzy after the meet and sort of fainted for a second. But then I came to and I was fine. If I hadn't checked it out right away, if I'd just waited until after State, then none of this would be happening.”

“But you don't know that. If you really have HCM…”

“I'm okay, Jen. I know I am.”

A leaf flutters down from the mesquite tree. A little dust devil is kicking up. It's like a baby tornado—a breath of wind that moves like a funnel. I watch some crumpled leaves and flower petals get swept up in its trail. They spin across my yard and then the wind has moved on, leaving the debris strewn across the gravel. I can't help thinking that HCM is like that dust devil. It's whipped through my life, spun me around, and left me flat.

It's Jen's turn to let out a long breath. But with her, it's just
a breath. With me, will it ever be just a breath? The thought scares me. How can anyone live like that—worrying about every sigh? I shrug off the thought, but I'm already trying to even out my breaths. Unconsciously conscious.

How can I live this way?

I bump Jen's arm, and I'm comforted by the solid feel of her—so strong in every way. I've been through so much with her. I have this sudden certainty that I'll get through this, too. “Nothing is for sure yet. Dad's going to arrange for a second opinion. I won't even have to go in for a retest—the doctor's office can forward all my results.”

“That sounds good,” she says. “What did Coach say?”

“He was mad. But he'll get over it. I'm going to take some medicine so I don't drop dead in the pool.”

“Don't joke. I can't handle it.”

“But I need you to.”

She meets my eyes. Nods. “What kind of medicine?”

“It's a beta-blocker. Mom picked up the prescription last night, but it's better if I take them in the morning, so I'll start tomorrow. They're tiny white pills. They look like mints.”

“What about the meet on Saturday?”

“Coach wants me there to cheer for the team, but he won't let me swim until I'm on the meds and everyone is done freaking out. I'll be back in the pool by next week.”

“And if the second doctor says the same thing? Will you give it up?”

I swallow, not sure what to say. The truth is, I don't think I can stop. I've tried to picture my life without swimming. Just the thought makes my chest so tight it hurts.

Yeah, there's school. I'm a decent student and if I worked at
it, I could be slightly better than decent at drawing. I like messing around in the kitchen if chocolate chips are involved and I never say no to a movie. But so what? I mean, maybe those are the things that make me normal, but they're not what makes me special. In the pool is where I become
me
. I'm fearless in the pool. I'm strong.

It's the only place that I am.

How can I give that up because I
might
faint? It just doesn't make sense. But I don't say any of this to Jen. I guess I don't need to, because she leans into me, her shoulder a warm pressure.

“Never mind. Let's not go there. Not yet. Because the second doctor could just as easily say something different.”

We're quiet for a minute, both of us trying not to think too much.

“This sucks,” she finally says.

“Yeah, it does.” But another thought is working its way through my mind. It's down deep in the part of me that's all about winning. The part that drives me to be the best. And that part is thinking that it doesn't completely suck for Jen. If I can't swim, she moves up at Horizon. She has a better chance to win medals. To be the star.

To be me.