Under My Skin (18 page)

Her lips thin into a line of displeasure. “You think I’m forcing you to share your most secret thoughts and emotions and you think I twist them around, and you like her because she’s the exact opposite of me.”

How’d she turn this into being about her? I examine my last words like a scientist reviewing test results. … “
twist my words
…
or analyze them
.” Oh. Crap. I’ve done a brilliant—and by brilliant, I mean awful—job of screening what I say. I need to hit the brakes and shift into reverse if I want to prevent this session from spiraling out of control. “No, I didn’t mean you … ” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s your job to analyze what I say.”

And I hate every single minute of it.

“I don’t need you to be considerate of my feelings and I know what my job is.” She runs her fingers along the rim of her cup.

So much for smoothing things over. I slump into the bench, resting my coffee on my pillow again. “How am I supposed to be open with you when you attack everything I say?”

“I’m not attacking you.”

“Feels like it.”

“Sometimes therapy is painful.”

I debate if she’s offered a white flag, then say, “Sometimes it’s nice to hang out with someone who doesn’t know a lot about my heart condition.”

“How much have you told her?”

“Not much, but the subject had to come up.” I lift the pillow, feeling a bit like a toddler with a security blanket.

Shaw pins me with her needle-like gaze. “Tell me exactly what you told her. I need to know everything.”

I shift to the left until the armrest stops me. It digs into my side. Still less painful than talking to Shaw. “Why is it so important?”

“This is a new potential relationship and I need to know how it may impact you and our work.”

I never should have said anything. My stomach curdles. I don’t need Shaw meddling in whatever I might have with Darby. If I have anything.

I hug the pillow tighter. Maybe it
is
a security blanket, or in the very least a shield against her … a rather ineffective one. “She knows I had heart surgery, but I didn’t say anything about the transplant.”

“What else?”

Maybe she’ll drop her inquisition if she knows about Darby’s and my moratorium on the subject of our illnesses. “We decided not to talk about why we’re in the hospital.”

“So she’s a patient. What’s her condition?”

Again, I have no idea why Shaw would need to know that, but I have no hope of dodging her question either. “She broke her neck in an accident.”

Shaw’s on her feet in a flash. “I’m glad you didn’t tell her about the transplant. You have to be careful who you share that information with.”

I peer up at her, startled. “Why?”

“Some people don’t understand it. They think it’s unnatural.”

I frown. Up until now, she’s been trying to get me to accept a new heart as a gift, not as cheating death, and now she’s telling me I have to keep it a secret so I won’t be ridiculed.

“Everyone at school knows.” Sure, the other students have given me odd stares or pity glances, but they’ve never called me out for being “unnatural.” I was the one who did that to myself.

“Just be careful with this girl.” She turns and walks away from me, her heels clicking on the slate tiles.

I stare at her back as she yanks open the door and slips through.

What the hell?

I run my fingers over my lip ring, replaying the conversation in my mind. Things were okay—well, for our sessions—until she found out I discussed my condition with Darby. Like it pissed her off I talked with someone else about it besides her.

Weird.

* * *

Mum and Dad are waiting for me when I return to my room. They’re hovering by the window. Mum holds onto her purse like I hold onto my pillow.

I pause inside the doorway. Seems like it’s been forever since we last spoke. Finally, I drop my coffee in the waste bin and say, “Hi.”

Brilliant, I know.

Mum strides toward me, then halts, uncertain. It reminds me of a deer scoping out a new situation. I’m not a threat, per se, but I can be unpredictable. “How are you?”

“Fine.” The word reflexively flies out of my mouth. I’ve said it so often it’s my tic.

Dad crosses his arms. The downturn of his mouth tells me he’s not pleased.

Mum slumps onto the cot. “We haven’t spoken in days and all you can say is ‘fine?’”

“But I am. I’m doing everything I need to do. I’m exercising, taking my meds, talking to Shaw. She’s making me write a Live Life List. Is that what you want to hear?” I lean against the wall, pining for my coveted windowsill seat, and fumble with the pin Shaw gave me. I attached to the pillow like she’d suggested. It’s surprising she didn’t mention it.

“Live Life List?” Dad asks.

I don’t miss the sarcasm hanging on every “L” with dirty claws.

“It’s part of therapy. I’m supposed to make a list of things I’d like to do with my life. You know, hobbies, goals, that kind of stuff.” It’s an easy thing to explain, yet an impossible thing to complete.

Mum leans forward. “Can I see it?”

And here’s where my argument faceplants. “Well, I haven’t actually written anything on it.”

Dad puffs his cheeks out and exhales.

“But I’m getting out of my room and … I don’t look depressed, do I?” I toss my pillow on the bed and spread my arms wide to match the toothy grin I bare to them.

Mum’s scans me up and down. “No. You don’t look as depressed as you did.”

I lower my arms. “See? I’m alright.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She mimes Dad’s posture.

“I wish you guys would give me a break.”

“We’d ask the same of you.”

“Right.”

“Don’t talk back to your mother,” Dad says.

“I’m not.”

“It’s okay, David.” Mum stands again. “Honey, this isn’t how I wanted our visit to go. I’m glad you’re doing what you need to do. We worry about you, is all.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m not sure we know how to stop.” Mum gives a little chuckle.

“Maybe Shaw could give you some tips.”

“Maybe.”

Mentioning Darby might perk them up, but it didn’t go so well when I told Shaw about her and I’m not sure I’m ready to take the risk with Mum and Dad. On the other hand, telling them about her might give them a reason to lay off me a bit. “If it helps, I’ve been hanging out with someone.”

Mum perks up. “Is that where you’ve been? Who is it? I hope you didn’t have caffeine in that drink.”

I hesitate at her flurry of words. I could confess Shaw’s new habit of bringing me coffee, but don’t want Mum to question me about that. Every time we talk about Shaw, it turns into an argument. Darby it is then. “She’s my age. Her name is Darby. She’s a patient here, too. Well, on the Pediatric wing. She got hurt in an accident.”

Relief softens her face, makes her look five years younger, easy. “That’s so wonderful, honey. Not that she’s hurt, of course, but that you enjoy spending time with her.”

“She’s so different from anyone I’ve ever met.” It’s the truth. Talking seems easy for her, like swimming is for fish, or flying is for birds. I’m more like an ostrich flapping my useless wings.

“Are you going to see her again?”

“I hope so.” We’d planned on seeing each other during PT. I glance at the clock. Ricky should be showing up any minute now.

“That’s great.” Mum’s face shines brighter than the sunlight streaming through the window.

Dad breaks his crossed arm stance and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “You should get her number so you can keep talking after you come home.”

Both of their defensive strategies are softening. Good.

“Yeah.” I try to suppress the smile tugging at my mouth. I’ve never asked a girl for her number before. I’m checking items off my Live Life List before I have a chance to write them down.

Mum pulls me in for a hug. After patting my back a thousand and one times, she says, “Is that a smile I see trying to break through?”

A rush of heat blossoms in my cheeks. “Um … yes.”

She laughs. It’s the genuinely happy.

I dip my head to hide my fiery cheeks and hope we’re heading for more steady ground.

Darby

I stand in front of the stack of art supplies tucked into the corner. They’re as lonely as I am. A foldable easel sits on the bottom. On top of that are a dozen canvases—some works in progress, some blank, and all different sizes. My wooden briefcase of paints, brushes, and palettes leans against to the pile.

For years, painting has been natural to me. I need it to breathe, to survive. But that part of me died with Daniel and left a wide, rotten hole behind. In two short meetings, Shaw cleaned it out. Then Adam started healing it.

Maybe that’s why the burning desire to break out my paints came back.

Carefully—I can’t lift too much weight—I pick up the case and set it on the bed. Then I peel back the layer of canvases one by one, picking a blank one. After setting up the easel close to the window, I lay the canvas on it and open my case. Familiar scents of oil paints and turpentine greet me like a long lost friend. I draw my fingers over the row of paint tubes, a smile playing at my mouth.

My heart pumps faster, ready for an adventure of color and brushstrokes. With a shaky breath, I grab a handful of paints, dab them on my palette, and choose a brush.

Facing the canvas, I close my eyes to remember the tones of Adam’s unique eyes. Pale brown with flecks of gold form an inner ring. A sea of green-blue makes the outer. The circles bleed into each other, uneven and messy. Ordinarily, I’d sketch out a drawing first and plan where I want each color to go, but I’m afraid I’ll lose the freedom of dabbing my brush in a pigment and sliding it across the canvas if I wait.

I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve.

I confront my fear and dip the bristles in gold.

* * *

I ditch my Physical Therapist the second she turns her back to work with another client. The way I see it, painting counts as arm exercises.

I knead my shoulder as I walk across the hall to the other gym. Too bad PT doesn’t include massages or soaks in a hot tub. At least, it hasn’t for me and I don’t see any massage tables or tubs around.

Like before, I find Adam pumping his legs at a stationary bike. He’s staring at the monitor, though his eyes have that far away look of someone who’s left their body to free-float somewhere else. His mask hangs on a knob and his pillow is propped in a pocket hanging off the monitor.

I approach slowly, uncertain of if I want to bring him back to reality or let him stay in whatever world he’s flown off to.

The timer on his bike buzzes. He blinks and shakes his head. It reminds me of someone coming up from a dive underwater. He wipes his face with a towel.

I saunter over to him. “I wish I liked PT as much as you.”

He fumbles with the towel, then dips his chin with embarrassment. It’s adorable. “Oh, hello.”

“You finished?”

He glances around. “Not really, but my therapist isn’t here.” His brow furrows. “Wonder where he went. He’s usually on top of me like Marmite on toast.”

“Mar-what?”

“Um,” He twists his mouth like he’s trying to figure out how to explain what he just said. Finally, he gives up with shrug. “Nevermind.”

I catch him by the wrist and yank him toward me. “Let’s go.”

His eyes widen as he flails to keep up with me. “Where?”

I shake my head. “Anywhere but here.”

We halt at the door. I check to see if the coast is clear. The hallway is empty. I lead us to the elevator. Adam doesn’t make any moves to free his wrist from my grip. A tingle of excitement works through my belly and threatens to burst out in a giggle.

While we wait, Adam holds his palm to his chest like he’s lost something. Then he covers his mouth with his free hand.

“What?”

“I’m supposed to wear a mask and carry my pillow.” He chews on his lip ring.

“Why?”

“It’s so I don’t get an infection or pull out my stitches and wires.”

The elevator dings and the door slides open.

“I don’t have cooties, you know.” I drag him onto the elevator. “And you have to carry a pillow to walk? You’re a bit delicate, aren’t you?”

He winces. “I … um … you think I’m delicate?”

I let go of his hand and press “G” for ground floor. “I didn’t mean it as in weak or bad or anything.”

“Yes you did,” he says quietly. He stares at his feet, hiding his multicolored eyes behind his long lashes.

God, it doesn’t take me long to ruin things. Especially if it’s good. “Sorry. I’m a jerk.”

“No. It’s okay. You’re right. I’m weak.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “I should go back to the gym. Or my room.”

“Don’t be silly. And you’re not weak.”

“I probably wouldn’t be any fun to spend time with anyway.” He taps his right heel to his left toe. It reminds me of a little boy who’s apologizing for stealing a cookie out of the cookie jar. He hasn’t even done anything wrong. And not wearing a mask for a few minutes isn’t that big a deal, is it?

“Come on. Forget what I said, okay? And forget the rules. Have fun.” I want to say, “Please don’t ditch me. Not now. I need this.” I curl my hands into fists. He’s not weak. I am.

The elevator slips from the fourth floor to the third. I count the seconds between levels. Soon, we’ll be at the first floor and I’ll step off and Adam will probably return to his eighth floor tower.

The number “2” lights up.

Then “G.”

Like everything else, I’ll have to let him go. Move on. Stay alone.

I step out as soon as the doors open without saying a word or looking back. I keep walking, straight through the sadness filling my lungs and stinging my eyes. It slows me down, but I don’t stop. I’ll be able to breathe once I get outside in the cold, numbing air.

Easy-strided footsteps keep pace.

I face whoever it is, ready to lob a fireball of snark at them.

Adam halts. We’re shoulder to shoulder. Well, more like my shoulder to his elbow.