Within These Walls (9 page)

It’s true.

I’m the reason Lailah Buchanan is still fighting for her life.

Had I been a better person, had I been able to let go of my own selfishness, and had I instead thought of others beyond myself, Lailah would have had…my fiancée’s beating heart inside her chest.

Fuck, I can’t handle this.

Walking turned into running, which turned into panicked sprinting. As guilty as I felt for that day, as much as it pained me to know that I could have saved Lailah’s life, the thought of someone else holding on to Megan’s heart killed me—no, it slayed me. I couldn’t stand the thought of a piece of Megan living on and me not being allowed to be a part of that. I knew that her heart hadn’t made her who she was, but it still would have been hers. It had given her life and had moved blood into her veins.

If there were still something left of Megan, how could I not want to be around it?

Before I knew where I was running to, I found myself at the entrance of the hospital. I took a seat on the empty bench and lowered my head into my hands.

Since the night of Megan’s accident, I’d not only destroyed Megan’s life, but I’d also apparently ruined Lailah’s as well. My Megan was gone, but for me, her memories were still floating around the halls of this hospital like forgotten bits of paper sailing through the wind. But Lailah was still alive, her bright soul shining through everything she did. I thought of her nervous blabbering conversations, chocolate pudding obsessions and the way she never seemed to be let down by the hand she’d been dealt.

Somehow, I had to make it up to Lailah, and I had to make sure she would get another transplant.

I wasn’t sure how I’d do it, but for once in my life, I wanted to do something for someone else—no matter the consequences.

HEART TRANSPLANT.

Heart transplant.

Maybe if I write it out enough, it will actually sink in.

Heart transplant.

Nope, not working.

I’ve always known this would be the end game, the grand finale. Why am I having such a hard time wrapping my brain around those two stupid words?

It wasn’t this hard the last time around.

Heart transplant.

Nope, still not sticking.

Mom’s really hopeful, but me? My usual never-ending ray of sunshine attitude is currently filled with nothing but dread. This time, I feel like I’m going to get caught up in a mighty storm, and there will be nothing left of the young woman I was before.

A knock at my door brought me out of the words I’d been pouring onto the pages of my journal, and I quickly closed it and set it on my lap. Ever since a counselor had told me a while ago that words could help soothe, I’d been flooding black-and-white composition journals faster than my mom could stock them.

“Come in,” I answered.

My heart accelerated in anticipation of who it could be. Jude hadn’t been by since his odd exit four days ago.

Maybe he’s coming by to check on me?

My pulse began to slow the instant I saw Abigail. Her eyes met mine for a brief moment and then went to the floor. She was quieter than usual, and she had a few books tucked under her arm.

Is she okay? Have I done something to upset her?

Rather than her exuberant, mad dash into my room, she slowly walked to my bed and hesitantly sat herself on the edge.

“Hey, Abigail. You’re here a bit late tonight. What’s up?” I asked cheerfully.

She pulled the books onto her lap. I saw my copy of
Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl
and what looked to be a diary. It was brown leather and embossed with a swirly script that had Abigail’s initials written on the front. Perhaps a tad too formal and a little too grown-up for a nine-year-old, but considering it had been a gift from her papa, it didn’t surprise me.

“Did you want me to read this because you’re dying?” she asked.

Her question took me by surprise, and it required a moment or two for me to respond.

“What? Why would you ask that?”

Tears formed in her eyes, and she looked down at the old photo gracing the cover of the paperback.

“Because she dies at the end. I just thought that maybe since you are here….” She looked around at my hospital room and the many different types of equipment surrounding me. “Maybe it was your way of telling me that you are going to die, too.”

God, I’m dumb.

“Oh, sweetie, come here,” I said, putting my journal on the tray table next to my bed.

I opened my arms, so she could crawl up into them. Her small body fit perfectly next to mine on the bed. I smoothed down her dark brown hair and wrapped the ends around my fingers.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given you the book without warning you of the sad ending. That was irresponsible of me.”

“Did she really die?” she asked.

I just nodded against her cheek.

“Sometimes, the world doesn’t go the way we want it to,” I offered, continuing to play with her hair.

She nuzzled against me. “What about you?” she asked hesitantly, lifting her head so that her large chestnut brown eyes met mine.

“What about me?” I asked.

“Are you going to die, Lailah?”

I took a deep breath and considered lying.
Lots of people lie to children. Is it really terrible to save them the heartache of knowing the truth if it causes them pain?

But how many times did adults lie to me when I was young? How many times has my mother watered down the truth to make it more palatable for me?

I knew my mother had done this because she loved me and didn’t want to hurt me, but it’d made me feel small and weak.

The last thing a child wants to feel is small.

“I don’t know, Abigail. I honestly don’t know. The doctors are doing everything they can,” I answered honestly.

Her eyes searched mine for a moment longer, and finally, she sank back to my chest. “I hope they figure it out.”

“Me, too.”

That was the exact position Jude found Abigail and me in several minutes later when he walked into my room. My heart did a flip-flop at the mere sight of him, and I was pretty sure the child lying against my chest could feel it also. She looked up as he entered. He immediately froze when he saw the two of us embracing on the bed, realizing he’d walked in on something personal.

“Hey, you’re that guy who talks books with my papa,” Abigail said, sitting up to face Jude.

Jude’s face warmed a bit as he shifted from one foot to the other and smiled at Abigail.

He had a gorgeous smile. His shy, unpracticed grin just barely tugged at the corner of his lips, causing the slightest dimple to appear on his left cheek.

He should really smile more often, like all the time.

“I am. Your papa loves to talk about books,” he said with a bit of a chuckle at the end.

That led me to believe that Nash did the majority of the talking in those conversations, and it didn’t surprise me. Jude seemed to be more of a listener.

“What are you two ladies up to tonight?” He took another casual step forward before plunging his hands in his pockets.

“We were talking about dying,” Abigail answered plainly.

My eyes widened and shot over to hers. There were no tears, just honesty.

Kids could be so strange.
I wondered if I had been that blunt when I was her age.

“Oh…well, uh…” Jude struggled for a moment, reaching up to grasp the back of his neck with his hand, as he looked to me for some sort of cue.

I just shrugged, so his panicked eyes continued to wander until they zeroed in on Abigail’s journal.

“Hey, what’s that?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s my diary. Papa got it for me. I’d asked him for a pink one with jewels on it, but he said this one was for real writers.”

Like he’d done the night he visited me, Jude walked across the room, pulled the corner chair over to the bed, and took a seat. He leaned in close to Abigail. “Will you read something?”

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

“Oh, come on. I’m sure you have some great stuff in there.”

“It’s all stupid.”

“As long as you write about what makes you happy, none of it could ever be considered stupid,” I added, rubbing her back in encouragement.

“Okay. You promise not to laugh?”

I looked at Jude over her head, and we both grinned. After both crossing our hearts and swearing an oath, she agreed to read a poem.

“Pandas are cute.

Dolphins are nice.

Sugar is sweet,

Just like you.”

We both clapped in unison, and Jude jumped up to his feet to give her a standing ovation.

She hopped out of the room to tell her papa all about it, and her high-pitched giggles filled my room and warmed my heart long after.

“That was really sweet of you,” I commented after she’d left.

“You both just looked so sad when I came in. I had to do something to lighten the mood.”

“Well, it worked. Seeing her skip out of here was perfect. That’s how I usually see her, full of life and energy. I hate to think that I took that away from her.”

“You didn’t take that away from her,” he said, returning to his seat next to my bed. He leaned back and put his shoes up on the rails of the bed.

He looked relaxed and casual, and for some reason, that made me less so. I suddenly wanted to smooth out my hair and check my shirt for stains.

What shirt am I wearing?

My hand flew to my shirt collar, and I exhaled as I felt the smooth cotton material covering my chest. It was then that I realized he’d witnessed my bizarre behavior, and he was now silently watching me.

“Oh, um…I mean, I just hate that I made her sad,” I said, stumbling on my words, as I tried to get us back on topic and less focused on my obsession with my shirt. I needed to change the subject. “So, um…no pudding today?”

“No, the cafeteria has been out,” he answered.

His eyes didn’t meet mine, which made me wonder if he was telling the truth.

“You’ve been busy?” I asked, wondering why he hadn’t been around in a few days.
Has he purposely been avoiding me?

“Yeah, I had two days off and I’ve been running around pretty much from the start of my shift until the very end each day since. Didn’t even have time to take a lunch break today, which is why I can only stay a few minutes tonight.”

Again, he wasn’t making eye contact.

“Her poem was cute.” That same shy smile spread across his face as he finally looked up at me.

“Yeah, it was. I’m glad she shared it with us. It’s not easy to bare your soul like that even if it is about pandas.” I grinned.

“Bit of a poet yourself, Lailah?” His right eyebrow rose to form a sexy arch above his light green eyes.

Sexy arch? Seriously? I need to get a life.

“No, poetry is definitely not my thing. Life is pretty dull around here, so I write.”

“About what?”

“Anything, everything. I babble mostly. I’m good at babbling. I write about my days in and out of the hospital. If I’m having good days, I’ll write. If I’m having bad days, I’ll write. I keep lists,” I said with a grin.

“Lists, huh? That’s not a surprise,” he said, obviously remembering our first conversation when I’d brought up my suspect list. “What kind of lists?”

“All sorts, like types of treatments I’ve had, books I’ve read, books I want to read, and then I have
the
list.”

“That sounds ominous,” he said with a bit of humor.

“It’s my bucket list, I guess. I call it my Someday list.”

“So, your go-to-Tahiti-and-snorkel-or-skydive list?”

“Yeah, something like that, but mine is a bit different,” I said, opening the drawer next to me and pulling out the black and white notebook where I kept my list.

“Can I see it?” he asked, leaning forward.

“No!” I said with a bit too much enthusiasm.

In defeat, he held his hands out in front of him and pulled back. “Okay, don’t touch the woman’s book. Got it.”