His Heart

by Claire Kingsley

  I was starting to wonder why I was hanging on so tight. Letting go would be so much easier than fighting for every breath, every beat of my failing heart.

  We pulled up to my parents’ house and Charlie went around to help me out of the car. I wasn’t too proud to accept the arm he offered me so I could stand—I needed it.

  Inside, I slowly made my way up the stairs to my room. My parents were there, but I didn’t have the energy to talk to them. It was all I could do to keep putting one foot in front of the other. My chest was on fire, the pain radiating through my whole body.

  Charlie followed me into my room and helped me get settled. I couldn’t lie flat, so he adjusted the bed so I was at an incline.

  “So, I guess now we wait?” he asked.

  “Now we wait,” I said.

  And maybe that was the hardest part—knowing the outcome of my life was no longer within my control. It wouldn’t matter if I stayed mentally strong. My will wasn’t enough. This illness was taking me down and there was nothing left for me to do but wait.

  Wait, and hope for a miracle.

  11

  Brooke

  August. Age nineteen.

  We pulled out of the gas station and Liam got back on the freeway. It was August, and our last weekend before the fall semester began. We’d decided to take a short road trip up to Sedona. Just a quick getaway before we had to buckle down for another term.

  Headlights flashed as cars passed us. Liam had worked until eight, so we’d gotten a late start. It would be even later when we made it to Sedona, but neither of us minded. It felt like an adventure.

  I twisted my engagement ring around my finger as I watched the dark scenery pass. Liam’s parents had expressed some concern about our announcement. Mostly they were worried we were too young, and we were rushing into it. I understood. We were young. But we’d reassured them that we weren’t planning to get married until after we both finished college. This was simply a promise that marriage was in our future, when we were both ready.

  That had made them feel better, and they’d made it clear they’d love to have me as a daughter-in-law. Olivia had been thrilled from the beginning. She’d told her parents it didn’t matter how old we were if we were in love and meant to be together.

  I wasn’t in a hurry for a wedding. I loved that I had his ring and the assurance of a future where Liam would always take care of me. That was more than enough.

  Liam took a sip of his peach iced tea and put it back in the cup holder. “So what should we do tomor—”

  The world went crazy. A flash of light. Crunching metal. Screeching tires. I was hurtled sideways, my seatbelt digging into my neck. An explosion of pain in my head left me dizzy. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I couldn’t get any air. Everything spun, my limbs flailing. So much noise. Grinding, scraping sounds echoed in my ears. Glass shattered. I tasted the sharp tang of blood and everything turned over again.

  We jerked to a stop. For a moment, quiet. Only the faint hum of traffic whirring past. Everything looked wrong. I blinked and tried to focus.

  I was hanging upside down.

  Craning my neck, I looked down at what should have been up. The ceiling was bent and dented, the windows broken. Granules of glass glittered everywhere.

  So quiet. Why was it so quiet?

  “Liam?” My voice croaked, the sound scraping through my throat.

  No answer.

  He hung upside down, his seat belt holding him in place. His arms were limp, his head bent at an odd angle against the partially caved-in cab.

  Oh god. Oh god, no. Please, no.

  “Liam? Liam, wake up.”

  “Are you okay?” A voice from outside. Urgent. “Is anyone in there?”

  “Liam,” I said, louder now. “Wake up.”

  “I hear someone,” the voice said. A man’s face peered through the broken window. “Miss, help is coming, okay? Someone’s calling 911.”

  “Liam.”

  Liam didn’t answer. Didn’t move. So quiet. So still.

  “Liam, please,” I said, my voice cracking. “Please wake up.”

  “Hang in there, miss,” the man said. “An ambulance is coming.”

  My body hurt in too many places to separate. Bile burned the back of my throat and my stomach turned over. My ears felt plugged, like all the noises around me were deadened. All I could hear was a steady drip, drip, drip.

  It was Liam. He was bleeding, the relentless patter of his blood dripping onto the warped ceiling.

  Bracing myself with one hand, I fumbled for the seat belt latch. I had to get him out of here. It released, and I crumpled against the ceiling. Crawled closer. Touched his face.

  “Liam?”

  His eyes were closed, his neck bent. Blood flowed freely from a gash on the front of his head. Covered his forehead, stuck in his hair.

  Fear made my hands shake. This couldn’t be happening. I put a trembling hand in front of his nose and mouth and felt a whisper of breath. Relief poured through me. He was breathing. He was alive.

  The man was still talking, but I didn’t know what he’d said.

  “Hurry,” I said, my voice filled with the panic that threatened to overtake me. “Hurry, he needs help.”

  “They’re coming, miss,” the man said. “Help is coming.”

  Machines beeped and a huff of air poured into Liam’s lungs. He looked so fragile. So frail. His head was covered in heavy bandages and a breathing tube went down his throat. There were tubes and wires everywhere. I didn’t know what half of them did.

  I squeezed his hand, but he didn’t squeeze mine back. It had been days, and he hadn’t woken up. Hadn’t responded. He just lay there, machines doing the work to keep his blood pumping, his lungs inflating.

  My injuries hadn’t been life-threatening. I was bruised and battered, but nothing was broken. I’d been released from the ER after a few hours, and joined Liam’s family in the waiting room.

  Sometime the next day, we’d been led to another waiting room. Doctors had talked to his parents and I’d listened in numb silence. Severe head injury. Lack of brain activity. Not much hope. They’d do more tests. Check again.

  For the past several days, we’d waited, hoping for a change. Hoping for some sign of life.

  Police had come and asked me questions about the crash. I couldn’t remember much. They told me we’d been hit by a larger truck. Forced off the road. We’d flipped and rolled over several times. All I knew was that it had happened so fast. Just one second, and the solid ground beneath us had disappeared and the world had gone crazy.

  It hadn’t really stopped spinning. At least not for me.

  The nurse came in and led me back to the waiting room. We weren’t allowed to stay with him for very long. I didn’t want to leave him, but I knew I didn’t have a choice. I’d argued the first time, begging them to let me stay, but they’d threatened to make me leave the hospital. So I’d gone quiet and obeyed.

  A doctor was in the waiting room, talking to the Harpers. Brian’s face was impossible to read—expressionless—but I could see the strain of him holding something inside. Mary was pale, and tears streamed down Olivia’s cheeks.

  I stopped in my tracks. Mary met my eyes, her pain reaching out to mingle with mine. In that moment, I knew what they were going to say. I knew why the doctor was there, and it wasn’t because he had good news.

  “Oh, Brooke,” Mary said when I approached. She clutched my hands and I sank into the chair beside her. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”

  I looked up at the doctor. The compassion in his eyes squeezed my chest. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” he said. “As I was explaining to the rest of your family, Liam isn’t in a coma. There’s no sign of any brain activity. That means he’s medically deceased.”

  “His heart is beating,” I whispered.

  “Only because he’s on life support,” he said. “I know this can be hard to understand, but Liam isn’t alive anymore. He’s
gone.”

  I didn’t hear the rest. Something about organ donation and giving us time to say goodbye. None of it mattered to me. Nothing mattered anymore.

  I sat with Liam, holding his hand for the last time. His fingers were limp and cold. The machines still did their job, moving blood through his veins, putting oxygen in his lungs. But it was all a sham. He was dead. Whatever made a person who they are, whatever spark had been inside of him that had made him alive, was gone. Extinguished.

  Tears slipped down my cheeks, silent and terrible. The heaviness of my grief weighed me down, threatening to crush me. I didn’t know if I could live through this. Didn’t know how. I’d tried to put my thoughts down on paper, but words had escaped me. There weren’t any that could give a voice to this pain.

  I stroked his arm, memorizing the feel of his skin. We had only moments left. A few heartbeats. I shuddered and a sob bubbled up my throat.

  “I don’t want to do this,” I whispered, knowing he wasn’t there to hear me. “You’re my life. You’re everything. You can’t leave me behind.”

  I closed my eyes. Heard the swish of the curtain. Footsteps behind me. I felt Mary touch my shoulder. Olivia took my hand.

  “Brooke, sweetheart,” Mary said, her voice so soft. Full of the pain we all shared. “It’s time.”

  12

  Sebastian

  August. Age twenty.

  My chest ached with every breath. I would need to lie down soon. Ten minutes of being on my feet was all I could handle. Forget the stairs. I glanced up them. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been upstairs. My parents had cleared out the den and brought the hospital bed down so I could stay on the ground floor. Mom had said she worried about me too much when she was gone—she didn’t want me to overexert myself.

  I didn’t want to tell her that getting up to go to the fucking bathroom was an overexertion.

  Mom had been doing her best to put on a brave face, but I’d heard her crying when she thought I wouldn’t know. Dad had remained stoic as ever, at least in front of me. But I could see it in his eyes. He knew. We both knew my time was running out.

  Picking up my feet was hard work, but I did it anyway. I just needed to get to the kitchen to refill my water. I could do this.

  Just outside the kitchen, I paused in front of a large wall covered in framed photos and memorabilia. Medals, plaques, framed newspaper articles. Photos of me winning. Always winning, the ref holding my arm up in the air. Looking strong, healthy. I shook my head. The wall looked like a shrine. That was appropriate, I supposed. Shrines were for dead people.

  I would be, soon.

  I glanced down at myself. My t-shirt hung off my thin frame, my body a fraction of its former size. All that muscle, so hard-earned from countless hours of training, melted away. My heart too weak to supply the blood my body needed.

  I could feel every beat now. Labored. Heavy. A ticking clock, counting down the beats until my death.

  It would have been easier if I’d just died that day at state. At least it would have been over quickly. I wouldn’t have had to endure this slow, agonizing deterioration. Two and a half years, countless pills, an open-heart surgery with a brutal recovery. And I was still dying.

  I made it to the kitchen and refilled my water. Then came the slow, deliberate walk back to what was now my bedroom.

  It was a strange thing, to look in that room and know I’d probably die there. Either there, or in a hospital, but I’d already told them to keep me home if they could. I wasn’t going back to a hospital ever again if I could help it. I’d had enough of them, and what did I have to show for it? Scars. Pain. And a heart that was still dying inside my chest.

  “Sebastian,” Mom said from behind me. I’d almost made it to my room.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Honey, why are you up?” she asked. “Here, let me get that for you.”

  She pointlessly took the water from my hand and walked past me to set it on the bedside table. “Come on, honey, let’s get you back in bed.”

  “I’m good, Mom. I’ve got it.”

  She clicked her tongue and took my arm. “I know you do. Come on.”

  I let her help me into bed, my body aching from the strain of the walk to the kitchen. God, why did everything have to fucking hurt so much? Wasn’t it enough that I was wasting away?

  She moved the wire from the battery pack and control unit that I was wearing. The VAD had done its job to keep my heart rhythm regular, but it hadn’t made my heart any stronger. It hadn’t helped me heal.

  “I’m taking myself off the transplant list,” I said. I didn’t know what prompted me to blurt it out right then, but it was something I’d decided a while ago. I just hadn’t mustered the strength to tell my parents.

  The color drained from my mom’s face. “What?”

  “I’m taking myself off,” I said. “I don’t want a donor heart.”

  “Sebastian, honey,” she said, “what are you talking about?”

  I closed my eyes—so tired. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while and I’ve made my decision.”

  “No,” Mom breathed. “You’re just tired. This has been so hard. But it isn’t going to last forever. You just have to hang on a little longer.”

  “I’m sick of hanging on,” I said, my eyes still closed.

  The bed moved as my mom sat down on the edge. Her trembling hand closed over mine. “Sebastian. No.”

  The pain in her voice sent a renewed pang of agony through my chest. I forced my eyes open. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I’m exhausted. Even if by some miracle I do get a new heart, I’ll never be the same person. I don’t know what I would do. Who I would be.”

  “When you’re healthy again, you’ll come back to your life,” she said. “You’ll be strong again, Sebastian. I know it.”

  “Mom, we don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover,” I said. “The chances of getting a new heart are already slim. If I get one, my body could reject it. I don’t want to go through another surgery if I’m just going to die anyway.”

  “But Sebastian—”

  “Everything hurts,” I said, my eyes closing again. “I can barely get up to go to the bathroom. Every day I wake up worse than I was the day before. I’m dying, Mom.”

  “Don’t you dare say that,” she said, heat in her voice.

  “Not saying it won’t make it not true,” I said. “I’m going to die. You have to let me go.”

  I kept my eyes closed, as much from exhaustion as to spare myself the sight of her tears. I knew they were there, rolling down her cheeks. But what else could I say? It was too late. I could feel it. I didn’t want to die, but holding onto false hope had become more painful than facing the truth.

  “I’m not giving up on you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You aren’t giving up either.”

  She squeezed my hand. In the two and a half years since my heart had first given out, she’d never once stopped believing. She’d been by my side through everything. Every painful moment.

  Tears burned my eyes. I had no idea what it would be like to watch your child die. But I felt the depth of her pain. And I hated it. I hated what this had done to me, but even more than that, I hated what it had done to her. She was hanging on by an even thinner thread than I was.

  I couldn’t spare her the pain of losing her son. That was inevitable. But if I gave up, she’d think she’d failed me. I realized, as I tried to squeeze her small hand, that I had to keep fighting. Maybe not fighting to live. But fighting to die in such a way that would allow my mom to find peace when I was gone. I could do that for her. I owed her that much.

  “Okay, Mom,” I said, squeezing her hand again. My grip was weak, but she squeezed back. “I won’t give up.”

  She smiled through her tears and placed her palm against my cheek. “No, you won’t.”

  My mom’s voice woke me. I’d drifted off to sleep after she’d left the room. I took a deep breath, but my chest felt so heavy, l
ike a concrete block rested on top of me. My heart beat slowly—halting, agonizing compressions of the dying muscle. In moments like this, it was hard not to panic. My lungs burned, like I wasn’t getting enough oxygen. Because I wasn’t. My heart was barely pumping enough to keep me alive.

  “He’s… no, he’s asleep,” Mom said. I didn’t hear another voice. She must have been on the phone. “Yes. Yes, that’s right… What? Yes… Yes, I understand.”

  The urgency in her voice grew. Instead of sliding back into the relief of slumber, I focused on her words. What had her so riled up?

  “We can do that,” she said. “Yes, I know how to get there. Yes. Okay, thank you. Thank you so much. Oh my god. Robert! Sebastian!”

  I swallowed in an attempt to moisten my dry throat, but my voice was still a weak croak. “Yeah?”

  Quick footsteps down the stairs heralded my dad. My mom spoke to him, but I couldn’t make out what she said.

  “Are you serious?” Dad said. “Oh thank god. Sebastian!”

  They both appeared in my doorway, their eyes wide and bright.

  “There’s a heart for you,” Mom said, her voice clear.

  Her words settled over me like cold mist. A heart. The transplant I’d been waiting for, without even a shred of hope. When they’d put me on the transplant list, I’d honestly believed it was only for show. There would never actually be a heart for me. What were the chances? People died waiting for organ transplants every day.

  “There’s… what?” I couldn’t fathom that she was serious. That this was real.

  “A heart is being flown here right now,” she said. “We have to get to the hospital. There are still more tests to do. This isn’t a guarantee. But if the tests show it’s really a match, and your body can tolerate the surgery, it’s yours.”