Under My Skin (15 page)

Shaw shirks out of her coat, grinning. “We break out of a hospital and you order water? Pick out something fun. My treat.”

I dig a twenty out of my pocket and slap it on the white table. “I have money.”

“All right. We’ll go Dutch.”

“Huh?”

She giggles. “I’ll pay for mine and you pay for yours.”

Celia returns with our drinks and silverware on a tray. After setting the items in front of us she says, “What can I get you?”

Shaw squints at me, but her smile is all fun and light. “Apple pie with vanilla ice cream, please.”

Celia scribbles down the order, though I can’t imagine she’d have trouble remembering it. She turns to me. “What’ll you have, hun?”

I scan the menu, lost in all the choices. It’s been so long since I wanted food that I can’t decide from the pictures of juicy burgers, overflowing fries, and sundaes.

“Rosa said you didn’t eat dinner,” Shaw says.

Celia sucks on the end of her pencil. “Oh, you must be starving. How about mac and cheese? Randy makes it extra cheesy. It’s delicious.”

Shaw watches me.

“Sure. Sounds good.” I hand Celia my menu, not sure if I really want food, but I can’t refuse either since this is what we agreed on.

Doctor Shaw adds a packet of sugar to her tea and stirs it slowly with a spoon. “So, what’s it like for you?”

I peel the wrapping off a straw. “What do you mean?”

“Being outside.” She blows on the tea. Wisps of steam curl into the air and disappear.

“It’s … weird.” And it is.

“How so?”

I chew on my straw. “I don’t know. Everything feels different. I mean, it’s the same, but not.” I sigh. “That’s pretty lame.”

Shaw takes a sip of tea. “Not at all. People who suffer trauma often feel the way you do. The world is the same, but you’re different and it makes things seem
off
somehow.”

I drag my thumb along the side of my glass, tracing the outline of ice cubes. Some are square, some more rounded, and others are simply shards. The memory of the Mustang’s broken windshield flashes before me. “Exactly. And I don’t think things will ever be right again.”

“You’re very brave.”

I tear my gaze from the water. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not easy to jump back into life.” She rolls up an empty sugar packet between her thumb and forefinger.

“I haven’t.”

She drops the tiny ball. “But you have. By stepping foot outside your room. By trusting me enough to talk.”

I shrug. “We’re at a diner. It’s not like we’re heading to a rave or something.”

“You like raves?”

“I like parties. Or I used to.” I jab the straw into my glass. Ice cubes shift out of the way. “And I don’t do drugs, so don’t label me as one of
those
kids.”

“I haven’t. You like to be in control too much to use drugs.” She takes another tiny sip of her tea. It’s not steaming anymore so she doesn’t have to blow on it first.

I lean against the vinyl-covered bench. It creaks. “I’m not in control of anything.”

“I’m not sure I believe that. You’re a fighter, Darby Fox.”

“What makes you say that?”

Celia returns with our food. “Here you go, ladies. Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you. This looks great.” Shaw smiles at her.

“Let me know if you need something.” She returns to the counter, busying herself with filling salt and pepper shakers.

Shaw cuts into her pie with a fork and adds some vanilla ice cream before sticking the bite into her mouth.

I eat a spoonful of macaroni, waiting for her to answer while I chew. Maybe she won’t. Maybe she forgot I asked.

She licks her lips. “How’s the mac and cheese?”

“Good.”

She sets her fork down with the tines resting on the plate. “I think you’re brave because you are unapologetically you.”

I swallow. “You don’t know me well enough to say something like that.”

“Am I wrong?”

I can’t bear keeping eye contact with her, so I turn to my food. Celia’s right. Randy does make it cheesy.

“Besides, your mom and dad told me about you. They showed me some of your paintings. They’re brilliant.”

I ignore her compliment about my art. It’s not a part of me anymore. “I’m sure they gave me glowing reviews.”

“They mentioned your tendency to get in trouble at school.”

“Did they also mention how I’m Daniel’s opposite? Did they say how perfect he was? Did they say how much they wish I’d act like him?”

“They’re … frustrated with some of the things you do, but they love you very much.”

“Right.” I drop my spoon. I get it now. Her plan is to show me my mistake so I have to apologize to Mom and Dad. Nope. Not gonna happen.

“It’s true.”

I slide to the end of the booth. Coming here is the mistake, so is listening to this woman.

“Darby, don’t go.”

I face her.

She slides her half-eaten pie to the side. The ice cream has melted, creating a pool of sugar and milk. “Your parents wanted me to tell you that and a lot of other things, but I have something more important to say and I hope you give me the chance to speak.”

“Go ahead.”

A secret waits in the full blackness of her eyes. “I know who received your brother’s heart. Would you like to meet him?”

The air goes thin. My head swirls. “I thought they kept that stuff locked up, secret.”

“Oh. Well, if you don’t want to find out. Never mind.” She drapes her napkin over the pie.

I hold the tabletop so I don’t explode. “Why would you even offer if you’re not allowed to?”

“You don’t strike me as the type of person to follow the rules if they don’t suit you.” She waves to catch Celia’s eye. “You sure you won’t let me pay for this?”

“I, uh … ”

She pushes my twenty to my side of the table. “Put your money away.”

Celia has the check in hand. “All set?”

“Yes.” Shaw gives her a credit card.

“Be back in a jiff.” Celia whips off to run the card.

“So you’d be doing something wrong by telling me who has Daniel’s heart.”

She shoves her arms into her coat sleeves. “For the most part, the anonymity of donors and recipients is a policy I support. But there are exceptions to every situation. Like I said, I’ve never worked with a twin before and this is a unique circumstance.”

“What about Mom and Dad?”

Celia drops off the receipt and Shaw’s card. “Have a good night and stay dry.”

“You too.” Shaw signs the bill. “What about your parents?”

“Will they know?”

She lays the pen diagonally over the receipt. “Everything we discuss is confidential. If you won’t tell, I won’t tell.”

Doubt tangles its slippery fingers around my guts. I’ve never hesitated on doing something I want to do. This seems different. It’s not some silly rule we’re breaking. It’s a real one. Families aren’t supposed to know who gets donor’s organs. Period. I’d have to trust that Shaw isn’t trying to trick me. Then again, she has to trust me not to tattle on her.

Shaw stands and buttons her coat. “Well?”

I slide out of the booth. “I want to know.”

Adam

Shaw takes me to the visitor lounge for our next session. It’s a semi-private area at the back of the unit where docs and patients and families can talk about treatment, procedures, and prognoses. Anybody can come in at any time, but for now we’re alone.

She dives into it as soon as we sit. “What’s the first thing you remember after surgery?”

“Beeping.” It’s the truth. The heart monitor is what guided me out of the haze of anesthesia, each beat a tiny audible crumb leading me to consciousness.

She shifts in her chair. “And then?”

I pluck at the Ficus cowering in the room’s corner, its leaves dry and dusty from neglect. The last thing I want to do is relive my hallucinations. I push it aside, allowing something else to surface. A girl’s cries tore through the unit shortly after I woke. The nurse said she was in the adjoining ICU. Her shrieks were so agonizing I’d thought she was being skinned alive. It made me believe for a little while longer that I was indeed in Hell, at least until the tranquilizer had pulled me into a deep sleep.

“Adam?”

“A girl was screaming.” I want to cover my ears, but I can’t unhear a memory.

“How did you feel when you heard it?”

“Scared and … sad.”

“Say more.”

“It sounded like she was in Hell and I wondered if I was there too. I figured it looked like a hospital because it was familiar. I thought maybe my spirit was cursed to wander an ICU like her because we refused to believe our lives were really over. Then I wondered what had ended her life and why she was so upset about it. Had she left behind someone she loved? Had she expected to meet them in Heaven? Had she left something unsaid that she’ll never be able to say?”

The pause between us absorbs what I say, molecule by molecule, syllable by syllable.

“You’re extremely poetic. In a few sentences, you’ve given so much material to work with that we could spend an entire session on this.”

I slide my gaze to her. “Glad I’m so interesting to you.”

“This isn’t for my benefit, it’s for yours.” She crosses her legs. The hem of her skirt hikes up a couple inches.

“Right.”

“The last comment you made, about something unsaid. You struggle with voicing your thoughts to your mom and you’re suffering in some self-imposed purgatory because of it. What holds you back from telling her how you really feel?”

“I don’t want to be nagged.”

She purses her lips. “There’s more to it than that.”

“Mum wants a fairy tale ending. Reality isn’t like that. It’s hard and ugly and painful. When she quotes some self-help, feel good saying it’s like she’s putting on blinders.”

“She doesn’t see you for who you really are.”

I shrug. “I think it’s because she’s afraid.”

“I’d agree with you.” She laces her fingers around her knee.

“It’s sort of crashing down around her, though. She thought everything would be happily ever after. And it makes me angry that she still won’t see things the way they are. She thinks I’m depressed and I’m the one causing all the problems.”

“You are depressed.”

I pick at a snag on my sweatpants. “What if I’m not and this is just
me
?”

“Say more.”

Bollocks, I
hate
it when she says that. “I can’t put on a happy face like her. I can’t fake it. Why can’t she accept that, accept me?”

“You’ve been sick for so long that you’ve never had the opportunity to really discover who you are. Maybe the real Adam isn’t depressed, and I don’t think you should cut yourself short because you are capable of growth.” She stands. “It’s time for you to learn how to live and today is the first step.”

I tilt my head to hold her gaze. “What do you have in mind?”

“I can’t tell you how to live your life.”

“Then what are we doing this for?”

“Here’s what I want you to do. Imagine some things you’d like to try, even if they seem silly or impossible. We can review them tomorrow.”

A thousand possibilities should be clamoring at me, but my mind is like a vacant cavern.

“Deal?” She smiles down at me.

“Alright.”

“Good.”

I follow her out.

She pauses at the door. “You’ve done good work today, Adam, and I want to reward your efforts.” She draws something out of her pocket. A tiny square of pale blue fabric with a length of white ribbon tied in a bow. “This is for you. It’s a token for what you’ve been through. A reminder that you’re not alone.”

I turn the gift around in my palm. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

I untie the knot and unfold the fabric. Nestled inside is a silver butterfly pin. Thin blue veins fan out along its wingtips. They race toward the center toward a pale pink heart. The butterfly’s body is made up of a line of sutures to represent an incision. “Um … ”

“Everyone in the program gets one after they receive a transplant.” She plucks the pin from my palm.

I sit perfectly still as she fastens the pin to my shirt. She’s leaning so close I can smell her perfume and make out the fine hairs at the edge of her temple. Such personal details that for a brief moment I see her as human rather than cutthroat clinician. “Why a butterfly?”

She smirks. “Not very manly, eh?”

I cover the pin with my hand. “Well … ”

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. Maybe you could put it on your heart pillow.”

I slide my fingers over its surface. Smooth, like Shaw’s delivery. “Yeah. Thank you. It’s nice.”

“Did you know butterflies represent metamorphosis and the psyche?”

“No.”

“Apropos, then, don’t you think, that the program chose to incorporate a butterfly into the design as a symbol of new life?”

“Was it your idea?”

“Yes. As was the incision cleaving the heart.” She traces the line with her finger. “Even beautiful things carry scars.”

“Where are yours?” The words fly loose from my tongue, slippery and rebellious.

Her face closes into an unreadable mask. Without a word, she turns her back on me, and strides down the hallway.

* * *

Ricky greets me in full armor—the polo shirt and sweatpants uniform and a dazzling smile. “PT time.”

I’m tempted to crawl under the bed like a little kid hiding from monsters. Mum demands I strip away my shroud of depression. Shaw expects me draft a list of things the New Adam would do. And Ricky here is ready to drag me to the deathtrap he calls a treadmill.

Ricky props his hands on his waistband. “Hop to it, kiddo.” He adds a clap for emphasis.

Excellent motivation, but frankly, PT is the last thing I want to do, especially after what happened last time. I hug my heart pillow to my chest. “I don’t know.”

“The only way you’ll gain strength is to exercise. You don’t want to let a little panic attack stop you, do you?”

“Little? I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Not particularly.”

“You’ve associated an increased heart rate with something going wrong in your ticker, but you’ve got a new heart. It can take the stress. You need to build tolerance to it … you know, get used to the sensation and learn that it’s not bad.” He rubs his hands together.