Within These Walls (6 page)

“It’s not like anyone was watching.”

I lifted an eyebrow and I watched her head fall to her lap.

“Well, apparently, you were watching. How embarrassing!” she laughed.

“Hey, it’s not a big deal, Lailah. We all have our weird habits. I’m sure I have mine. Some people eat peanut butter and pickle sandwiches or dip their chips in ice cream. We’re all a little crazy in our own little way.”

“I’m pretty sure those examples you just said only pertain to pregnant women,” she pointed out.

“What?”

“I really don’t think anyone who isn’t carrying another person in their uterus would be able to stomach peanut butter and pickles together. That’s just gross. And for the record again, I always use a spoon—except for that one time.”

“Okay, sure,” I answered, letting the disbelief in my voice bleed out.

She huffed in frustration. I couldn’t help but chuckle slightly when I rose from the chair.

The sound of my own laugh registered in my ears, and I suddenly felt conflicted. I didn’t remember the last time I’d heard anything remotely close to a laugh burst from my lungs. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

“I’d better get back to work. You need anything else before I go?” I asked quickly, looking around and briefly checking her hep-lock and pulse-ox monitor.

“Oh, um…nope, I’m good.”

In reaction to my clinical-sounding tone, she immediately retreated back to the shy and timid girl I’d met days before.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you around.”

“Okay.”

This time, I’d pulled the door halfway open before her lyrical voice once again halted me to a stop.

“Jude?” she called out.

Hearing my name on her lips for the first time made something tighten in my chest. It was something foreign and so long-ago forgotten that I didn’t even recognize it.

I turned to face her. “Yeah?”

“Is it all right for me to call you that?” she asked hesitantly, her bright blue eyes looking across the room at the badge that hung around my neck.

I nodded, pulling the plastic ID into my hand. “It’s my name.”

“Next time, do you think you could maybe come a bit earlier and stay a while?”

A grin I couldn’t contain spread across my face, and I found myself nodding. “Sure. See you then.”

JUDE IS MY secret admirer.

My secret admirer is Jude.

Can I call him that? What do I call the person who has brought me chocolate dessert snacks late at night? Is there a name for that?

I like secret admirer, so I’ll go with that.

Jude.

Chocolate.

I sighed.

“Lailah? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Huh?” I blurted out, pulling myself out of the ridiculous wheel of girlish thoughts spinning uncontrollably through my head.

“Are you feeling all right? You’ve been a little absentminded today.”

“I feel fine. Just a little tired.”

After my late-night visit, I’d been wide-awake, my head full of questions, thoughts, and possibilities. My first and foremost question had been,
Why is he doing it? What is his motivation? Is he just being nice, or is it something more?

I’d quickly dismissed anything having to do with something more and concluded that he was just being nice. That man could easily have any woman he wanted. He could probably snap his fingers and groupies with bedazzled
We Love Jude
scrubs would show up, ready to play naughty nurse. He definitely didn’t need to deliver desserts to patients in the hospital to help his game.

Even if in some alternate universe, he could possibly see me as someone more than a patient, I couldn’t go down that road—ever. My life was too stressful and emotionally turbulent to share with someone else. Asking someone to step into my world would be like asking him to sign away his own life to take care of mine. I could never do that.

Love wasn’t an option for me.

I did, however, like the idea of having another friend. Outside of Grace, I didn’t know anyone around my age. Carrying on conversations with Dr. Marcus and Abigail were entertaining, but sometimes, I really wanted to connect with someone on equal footing.

“Well, I need you to pay attention,” my mother said, bringing me back to the conversation I was supposed to be engaged in. “I talked to Marcus earlier this morning.”

“Why didn’t he talk to me?” I hated that she still treated me like a child.

“He was going to, but I asked if I could speak with you privately first. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“He’s been reviewing your test results over the last week and comparing them to the couple of weeks prior,” she said, hesitating.

Her eyes turned away from mine, but I saw a single tear trickling down her cheek. Her blonde hair masked her expression, but I knew it was bad.

“Yeah? And what did he find out? What is it, Mom?”

“He thinks your heart is getting worse.”

“It’s always getting worse, Mom,” I said, trying not to let the words settle under my skin.

“It’s time, Lailah.”

Her words were gentle, but I could see how much it hurt for her to say them.

Congestive heart failure.

I’d heard the words before, and I’d known every treatment and surgery would still eventually lead to this.

“But, this has happened before—when they said a transplant was my only option. They managed to do other things, like replace my pacemaker. I’ve done just fine.”

“There’s nothing that can fix this, Lailah. There are no more treatments, surgeries, or procedures they can do. We got lucky after the last time, and Marcus was able to give you a few extra years, but not this time. The only thing that can fix this is a new heart.”

Her single tear had multiplied, and her face was now wet with mascara-stained tracks running down her cheeks.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked quietly.
Don’t cry, Lailah. Don’t cry.

“Marcus is working on getting you set up at UCLA hospital again. Beyond that, we pray the insurance company does what they need to do.”

I nodded, feeling numb, when she came to sit next to me on the bed before pulling me into her arms. Everything had become iffy and unknown since my mother’s employer had switched insurance companies last year. Her premiums had gone through the roof, and then add in all the new health care laws, and no one knew what was going on.

The familiar sounds of the room—the beeps, the shuffling from outside the door—all faded away. All I could hear were the roaring in my ears and the words repeating and echoing in my head.

Heart transplant.

No other option.

My mother had spent every dime she had on my medical bills. We lived paycheck to paycheck in a small apartment on the outskirts of Santa Monica. She wouldn’t talk about it, but I knew she’d emptied her savings account and retirement plan to pay past-due bills to the hospital. If my transplant was denied or something happened to me, she wouldn’t be able to cover it. It would destroy her.

I hated that it had come to this.

I was the never-ending burden.

“We’ll figure it out, Mom,” I said against her shoulder.

“Yeah, we will. It’s just you and me.”

My mom brought in dinner that night, and we sat together on my bed, hunched over a meal of simple sandwiches and fruit.

Whenever we got bad news, my mom would bring in dinner. I thought it was her way of coping. Bad news was something she couldn’t control. My mother loved control. She’d practically raised me in a glass dome, trying to protect me from everything that could harm my fragile heart. When things went wrong, she would grow quiet, internalizing and regrouping.

After dinner, she would announce her master plan. When bad news struck, Mom always fired back with some sort of plan. Even if it were as simple as following the doctor’s orders or sending me to bed an hour earlier, it would put her back in control of the situation.

Mom loved control.

I feared this would be the one situation she couldn’t control with any of her master plans.

It wasn’t long after my mom had left that night when I began fidgeting with my hair.

I braided it to the side and then promptly brushed it through with my fingers. I gathered it up into a ponytail but then yanked it out. Finally, I just let the platinum blonde strands fall to my shoulders.

Am I seriously sitting here, playing with my hair?

One conversation with Jude—who was just being nice, I reminded myself—and I’d become one of
those girls
overnight. Feeling utterly ridiculous, I shook my hair out, letting it do whatever it wanted. The fact that I’d changed into one of my nicer tops and a black pair of leggings was just a coincidence.

I am so lame.

Sinking back against my pillow, I picked up my latest paperback and opened it up to where I’d left off. I’d barely made it a page in when I heard a quiet knock at my door.

“Come in,” I answered.

The doorknob turned, and Jude appeared, dressed in teal scrubs. He was carrying a chocolate pudding and—

A board game?

“Are we playing Scrabble?” I questioned, tucking my hair behind my ear as I tried not to blush. Placing my book aside, I crossed my legs in front of me and watched him enter the room.

“No, we’re playing Operation,” he answered, placing the game on the foot of my bed. “I found it in a staff lounge. I think one of the surgeons got it as a gag gift. Anyway, I hope the game choice doesn’t bother you, but I thought you might want to do something different.”

I glanced down at the goofy-looking man displayed on the front of the box and grinned.

“It’s perfect.” I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Just what I needed.”

He set down not just one, but two pudding snacks on the bedside tray, and then he dropped two spoons next to them. “One of those is mine,” he said with a slight grin.

He turned to pull the chair out of the corner, and he brought it closer to the bed. I considered suggesting that he just sit on the bed with me, but I quickly lost my nerve. The thought of having him so close gave me chills. He handed me a pudding cup, and we both dived in. There were no snide comments about eating it with a spoon rather than my finger tonight.

“So, bad day?” he asked as we began setting up the game.

The cardboard lid came off, and he pulled out the large playing board. The same silly-looking man that was on the cover stared back up at us. His uneasy, wide-eyed expression was amusing, and it was already helping to lift my mood.

“How did you know?” I asked.
Do I look that bad?

“Just a guess. You look like you need a mental break.”

“I do,” I admitted. “I really do. It’s been a rough one.”

“Wanna talk about it?” he offered.

I took the first turn. My tiny tweezers pulled out the little ice cream cone causing brain freeze in the man’s head.

No buzzing.

Success.

“Got a while?” I joked, the laughter not reaching my eyes.

“I got time. What else are lunch breaks for?” His warm gaze met mine as he took his turn.

“You mean, you don’t have any hot lunch dates?”

“Well, I did have plans.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t have to cancel. I mean, you could still try to…” The words tumbled out of my mouth like an overturned apple cart.

“I’m kidding, Lailah,” he said, his hand reaching out to touch mine.

My eyes wandered down to where his hand touched my skin, and I couldn’t look away. I felt branded. Like the brief times his fingers had grazed my skin before while he’d removed a blood pressure cuff or leaned over to check my IV block, my heart fluttered, and I felt my cheeks redden. My entire life had been spent being touched and examined. By this time in my twenty-two years, I’d become accustomed to random people invading my personal space, but my body reacted to Jude in a very different and completely new way. It nearly combusted at the slightest touch from him.

“The only hot date I’ve ever had on my lunch break has been the vending machine. Believe me, there is nowhere else I have to be,” he said, pulling his hand back to grab the tweezers.