Heartless

by Showalter, Gena

  Guess she’d have to end this the Cookie way. Brutally. “All right, then. Let’s talk about the fact that I’m not going to get a new heart. I’m going to die sooner rather than later. Before I go, I want to ensure you and Suggy have someone to take care of you.” Preferably someone willing to attend to the house panther’s smallest whim, exactly as he deserved, while this same paragon resisted the urge to stab themselves in the ears anytime Pearl Jean convinced herself she’d rung Death’s doorbell.

  In other words, Cookie needed to find the unicorn of people. The champagne of friends. A generic brand, maybe. Cheap didn’t always mean lower quality.

  “Okay, yes,” Pearl Jean said with a nod. “We can postpone this conversation.”

  Finished with his meal, Suggy jumped onto the couch, pranced across Cookie’s legs and curled up on her chest.

  As she reached out to pet him, she caught a flash of light from her cell phone. Next, her ringer activated. How odd. Before the match with Nick, she’d turned off the sound.

  Wait. She’d programed the cell to make a single exception.

  Her jaw went slack. No. No way. This couldn’t be happening. But was it?

  Riiiing. She jerked her gaze to Pearl Jean. “I think...that might be...a heart.” The last two words emerged as a squeak.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” Pearl Jean vibrated with excitement. “Answer it. Answer the phone right now.”

  “All right, all right.” She grabbed the phone, doing her best not to disturb the cat, trembling as she placed the device to her ear. “Hello? Yes?”

  “Chantel Bardot?” a jubilant voice asked.

  Hearing her birth name threw her for a loop. “Y-yes, this is she. Her. I mean, the first one. The first one I said. She.” Her gaze remained on Pearl Jean. Please, please, please be the news I’ve waited so long to hear. “And you are?”

  “I’m the one who gets to tell you that we found a match. Your surgeon and transplant team have been notified.” She continued spewing facts, but Cookie could no longer hear her.

  This was truly happening?

  I’m going to live?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Six Months Later

  COOKIE DARTED HER gaze as she walked Sugars on a leash. The backyard appeared normal. Morning sunlight filtered through a canopy of branches, courtesy of massive oaks. Birds chirped from twisted limbs. A family of rabbits observed her little trio from behind a bush blooming with flowers, despite the winter season.

  Everything seemed normal. Sugars stalked a billowing leaf, and Pearl Jean puttered beside her on a scooter. But nothing was normal for Cookie.

  For 26 years, she’d felt as if she’d existed rather than lived. Never as fast or as strong as other kids. Kept on a strict diet and a never-ending medication regimen. Myriad doctor visits. Then, suddenly, the heart her parents had sparked at her conception was gone, cut out of her chest. Now, someone else’s heart powered her body. Someone who’d died, selflessly giving Chantel Melissa Bardot a chance to live. And yet...

  She still lacked zest. For so long, she’d expected to die. She’d resigned herself to it, growing comfortable with her worldview. But her vantage point had shifted. Now she was supposed to live for herself, as well as the woman who’d saved her. No doubt her family expected Cookie to do great things with the gift she’d been given. The pressure!

  And how many other patients had been more worthy of the heart? What if Cookie screwed up, the sacrifice wasted? She had no idea what to do with this second chance.

  The worst part? Paranoia had reset her brain. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being hunted. She felt it all—the—time. Even now, a cold sweat glazed her palms.

  Along with the paranoia came a sensation of being both unstoppable and as fragile as glass, capable of everything and nothing at once. Presurgery, she’d had motivation but no energy. Postsurgery, she had plenty of energy but a confused motivation. It was galling, and it kept her imprisoned on her property.

  Did other—normal—people feel this way, as if they didn’t know up from down or in from out?

  Had she gained a heart only to lose her mind?

  She might ask her therapist, if ever she garnered the courage to leave the farm.

  “You look ridiculous, by the way,” Pearl Jean said, mist puffing in front of her face. The woman was a truth teller, no matter what.

  “Me?” Cookie took a sip of her steaming coffee...inside a wineglass, because dish day was tomorrow...then readjusted the ginormous sunglass perched on her nose. “I look ridiculous?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I’m wearing clothes you knitted for me.” She spread her arms to show off the sweater and scarf Pearl Jean had given her last Christmas, paired with a T-shirt that read “Stay-at-Home Cat Mom,” black yoga pants, and fuzzy house boots with rubber soles. Only the world’s greatest attire. Well, that and Daisy Dukes paired with cowboy boots, her gonna-snag-a-good-time outfit. Oh, and also the gowns she sometimes donned for cosplay. Those rocked, too.

  “I thought you’d be smart enough to bury the sweater and scarf in a drawer,” her friend said.

  “What can I say? Comfort and warmth trump style, every time.” Undergarment-wise, she’d gone with a minimizing sports bra and her favorite granny panties. The must-haves for every woman’s lingerie drawer. This was a hill she would die on.

  Except, lately she’d been eyeing sexy lingerie online with great interest, wondering how the silky material might feel against her skin and how a boyfriend might react. Even though she didn’t have a boyfriend, or even want one. Guys required work, and they always bailed.

  There was a higher likelihood she’d get a tattoo. Her first and another recent desire. Sometimes she imagined strands of ivy etched in rich hues of green around her wrists, stretching over her hands and fingers.

  “And the Cheetos in your hair?” Pearl Jean asked. “Is that part of your style?”

  Locks of hair fell from her sloppy bun as she skirted around a plant, avoiding contact in case something freaky happened. Sometimes, with a brush of her skin, flowers instantly bloomed. But she wasn’t going to think about that. New panic would rise.

  “Just so you know, you look ridiculous, too,” she said with a snippy tone.

  “Please. Your Pearl Jeanlousy is showing.” Despite the chill, she sipped iced sweet tea from a squeeze bottle. Because “the hot stuff sucks” and “sometimes a girl needs to forget she might be coming down with diabetes.” A big yellow beach hat topped her silver curls, shielding two sunspots she believed looked more suspicious today than yesterday. As usual, a muumuu and bathrobe draped her plump frame. “I’ve always thought of myself as a good single malt. Better with age and able to knock anyone flat on their face.”

  “I absolutely agree you’re a good single malt—older than time. Fingers crossed I’ll get to see you served on ice.”

  Pearl Jean snorted. “Morbid brat.”

  “Old crone.”

  Sugars turned his attention to a bug, chasing it—No. Sorry. He ate the bug. How nice.

  The scent of mesquite wafted through the air. Mr. Benson must have fired up his grill. She breathed deep without the aid of an oxygen tank. A truly wonderful experience, until her belly twisted with hunger. Ugh. She needed breakfast. Correction: she needed fourth breakfast. Since waking in the hospital with tubes everywhere, she’d experienced bottomless pit hunger without gaining a pound.

  In an effort to clog said pit, Cookie had consumed her weight in powdered donuts, the aforementioned Cheetos, and mint chip cookies earlier. Guess she’d have to keep trying.

  Two butterflies fluttered past and—Whoa! They did not have human faces. Did they?

  The mutant insects circled back, coming closer, and Cookie sucked in a breath. They did! Their very human-looking mouths moved as if speaking, but she detected no sounds. When she panicked and waved her han
d through the air, her fingers disrupted their images.

  They’d been nothing but mist?

  Her stomach roiled. What did that mean? Was she asleep or insane?

  She chanced a glimpse at Pearl Jean. “Did you see the butterflies?”

  The other woman wrinkled her brow. “What butterflies?”

  Maybe Cookie should start taking her medication again? “Never mind,” she muttered.

  “No, not never mind.” Her friend jerked the wheel of her scooter to avoid a rock. “I’ve been noticing some strange happenings around here, and I think we should discuss them.”

  Uh-oh. Pearl Jean must want answers about Cookie’s more personal changes. Not ready. She shrank into herself, as if becoming a smaller visual target might stop the conversation mid-track. “Let’s agree that unusual things have been happening and leave it at that, okay? Please?”

  “Save your pleas. This is not okay. You recovered from major surgery in a matter of weeks.” The words spewed from Pearl Jean. “You don’t even have a scar. Six months ago, your sable hair reached your shoulders. Now half the strands are pink and they reach the middle of your back. A length you’ve grown twice! Yes, I know you shaved your head the other day. Before, your eyes were gunmetal gray. Now, they’re green with only specks of gray, and plants miraculously flourish in your presence. So? What’s going on?”

  Every accusation hit her like a punch. Her friend didn’t even know the half of it. Without her medication—a supposed death sentence for someone in her situation—she had thrived.

  Maintaining a neutral expression was difficult, but she managed it. “Here’s an idea. You’re finally fully senile?”

  “Oh! And you always smell like fresh-cut roses, especially when you sweat. It’s nauseating.”

  “I’m wearing too much Chantel N°5?”

  “Don’t get cute with me, hon. You might look like your avatars with those big round eyes and bigger red lips, but you’ve got darkness in you, and it’s only intensified since your surgery. No,” she interjected when Cookie opened her mouth to respond. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining this stuff. Tell me what the new heart has done to my best friend.”

  She wanted to. She did. A couple hundred times, she’d almost done it. But what if someone listened to their conversation? Yesterday morning she’d mentioned a jones for pancakes with homemade strawberry jelly. By noon, ads for pancakes and special jellies were popping up on every website she visited.

  Call her a conspiracy nut, but spies were everywhere, eavesdropping always. If word about her changes ever spread, she might end up imprisoned in a government lab. One of the many reasons she’d skipped her last few medical checkups. Sticking with silence struck her as the best option.

  Return to me.

  Cookie gave an involuntary jolt. The deep, husky voice had drifted through her head, seeming to rise from a long-buried memory. That timbre...more sensual than a caress.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d heard those three little words. Like every time before, she yearned to obey. But return where? And why? How? Who was the speaker?

  Feeling as if she were being watched again, she cast a glance over her shoulder. Soft, lush grass greeted her. Trees with swaying limbs. The farmhouse remained in view, an adorable travesty of peeling paint and broken boards she still hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The perfect metaphor for her old life. Neglected, forgotten, and beaten to heck by storms.

  Everything looked well, no one openly following her. But. Dude. Unease skittered down her spine.

  She needed to shake this stupid paranoia, and fast.

  “Pay attention to me,” Pearl Jean snapped. “What do you know about the donor?”

  Right. “Not much,” she admitted. “I’m told she was my age and involved in some kind of accident. The family doesn’t want to have contact with any of the organ recipients.”

  Seriously, was someone watching her?

  “Be honest. Do you have superpowers or something?” Pearl Jean hit a bump, the lid popping off her squeeze bottle, sweet tea splashing over the rim and overflowing from its holder. “You can tell me. And you don’t have to worry. I’m sure I’ll probably learn to accept your freakishness in the future. After all, home is where heart is, and heart is where Cookie is.”

  Her throat tightened. Dang this woman. “Did you just speak Cookie Monster to me?” Winning another little piece of my heart.

  Pearl Jean humphed. “Maybe.”

  “Fine. You want to talk, we’ll talk.” After throwing another suspicious glance over her shoulder, she picked up Suggy. “But only when we’re in the house.”

  “No. No more waiting.” Pearl Jean drove the scooter in front of Cookie, stopping her. “We’re not leaving this spot until you explain what’s happening.”

  Was there anyone more stubborn?

  She looked over her shoulder. Left. Right. The unease amplified. “One way or another, we’re going inside. Move it or lose it.”

  Her urgency proved as contagious as an imaginary disease. For once, Pearl Jean didn’t argue. “Yes. Let’s go inside.”

  In unison, they hustled toward the house. Halfway there, the butterfly people reappeared, zooming past Cookie, then backtracking to fly circles around her. When she drew up short, the two stopped with her, hovering nearby. Watching her.

  She noted other details. Human faces, around twenty years old...human bodies the size of her index finger. Both beings were clad in clover leaves. The female had shoulder-length blue hair and white wings, while the male had white hair and blue wings.

  “Please tell me you’re seeing this,” she croaked.

  “Seeing what?” The scooter beeped as Pearl Jean backtracked, returning to her side. Worry clouded her expression. “Cookie! Seeing what?” she insisted.

  “I don’t know. Yet. But I’m ready to find out.” Trembling, she passed Suggy to her friend, then reached out. The butterfly people didn’t mist upon contact this time, but they didn’t appreciate her action, either. They hissed at her, revealing sharp white fangs.

  Danger! Her fingers heated in an instant. The sizzle started in her bones and radiated through her pores.

  She jerked backward and snapped, “Take Sugars in the house, Pearl Jean.” She’d never used such a harsh tone with her friend, but she meant business.

  “You can’t—”

  “Go. Now.” The heat spread over her palms, and she groaned. She shook her hands, surprised when literal flames failed to ignite. Wait. What was that?

  Her jaw slacked as green leaves budded from her fingers. Coffee spilled as the wineglass slipped from her grip. Horror and confusion bombarded her. Vines uncoiled, extending past her nails. Growing. Twining together and slithering over the ground.

  “Only a hallucination, only a hallucination,” she chanted.

  “Then why am I seeing it, too?” Pearl Jean screeched. “Can’t rationalize this...”

  Up ahead, the vines sprouted up, up, as if reaching for the sky. At the seven-foot mark, the ends grew together, forming a thorny arch still connected to her hands. As thick fog filled the space between the stalks, an incredible force wrenched her forward. She stumbled and tried to dig in her heels, then fought to disconnect from the vines. She failed on both counts.

  The vines only pulled faster. Soon she was choking on fear and being dragged across the lawn.

  “Help us! Someone help us,” Pearl Jean shouted behind her. “Cookie!”

  “Pearl Jean!” No! Her heart thudded as she flew through the fog.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DAZED, PANTING, COOKIE jumped to her feet. She surveyed her surroundings. What the—how—what? Can’t process... Her sunlit backyard was gone. In its place was...something else. And it wasn’t her imagination. This was all too real.

  She spun, her heart thudding faster, gaze darting. Pink-and-white trees abounded. Rainbow flower
s appeared as fluffy as cotton candy, releasing ethereal petals into a warm breeze. More butterfly people flew about, raining glitter. At her right, a babbling brook rushed over glowing crystals. On the other side of the water, shadows slipped over gnarled trees and brittle grass. Jagged leaves snapped together, as if chewing on something. Maybe they were. Bloodred crumbs/drops fell from the corners.

  Cookie gulped as she focused on something moving at her feet... Screaming, she hopped around to avoid hundreds of tiny spiders charging out from beneath her house boots.

  The butterfly people—fairies?—remained at eye level, zigging and zagging around her.

  As soon as she quieted, she picked up the buzz of their wings and the squeak of their voices.

  “She’s her, yes?”

  “Oh, yes. And no.”

  “Her but not her.”

  This couldn’t be right. None of this could be right. It was time to go home.

  Cookie whirled around, determined. She’d dive through the portal or doorway or whatever it was and—“No!” The vines had disconnected from her and withered, the remains drifting away on a gentle breeze.

  Frantic, she patted the stalkless air. “Pearl Jean?” she shouted, going still. Tremors wracked her. “Sugars?” Where were they?

  She licked her lips. Maybe she could create another...portal? with those vines? What you did once, you could do again. Right?

  A humorless laugh escaped. Re-create something she didn’t understand? Yeah. No big deal. Still, she had to try.

  Cookie extended her arms and shook her hands. Nothing happened. She shook with more force, but the heat never reignited in her fingertips.

  “Come on, come on.” She wiggled. Flapped. Jumped. Still nothing.

  Hysteria bubbled up, making a mockery of the panic. How was she supposed to get home? She needed to get home. Pearl Jean and Sugars—A vicious roar tore through the forest, and she sucked in a breath.

  Currents of rage crackled, prickling her skin. The fairies zoomed off as fast as lightning.

  Cookie gripped her throat in reflex, calling, “Wait. Come back.”