The Divine Heart
Danielle R. Mani
Copyright © 2017 by Danielle R. Mani
Artwork: Adobe Stock © XtravaganT
Design: soqoqo
Editor: Miriam Drori
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat Books except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.
First Green Line Edition, Crooked Cat Books. 2017
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to my husband, Anthony, for always believing in me and supporting my ideas--no matter how outlandish. I love you. To my children, Jillian, Anthony, Justin, and Vincent you guys inspire me every. single. day. My love for each of you is unconditional.
A big thanks to my editors. I admire your keen eye for detail. Your job is not an easy one.
I'd like to also thank Crooked Cat Books for all their work on this project.
The title of this book, The Divine Heart, is befitting to this story for a myriad of reasons meaningful to me. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Danielle R. Mani
About the Author
Danielle R. Mani is a fan of the paranormal in both print and film. Her books combine supernatural fiction with the everyday dramas of young adulthood. Ms. Mani holds a Bachelor of Arts in elementary education and a Master of Science in communications. She is currently a doctoral student studying parapsychology to better understand the world of the paranormal. She resides in Westchester, New York, with her husband, four children, two dogs, and two rescue cats.
The Divine Heart
Chapter One
I cup my hands over my ears to muffle the voice coming over the PA. Through the years, I’ve learned that hospitals aren’t conducive to rest. The walls are paper thin, and I hear the labored breathing of the poor soul occupying the room adjacent to mine. There’s also that discernible hospital smell that reminds me of sickness mingled with a dash of hope.
Doctors and nurses have been in and out of my room, prodding and probing me most of the night. There’s also a suspicious dark mark on the ceiling that I suspect is blood. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough hospital dramas to know that it’s never a good thing when blood squirts like a geyser. I pray the previous occupant’s affliction wasn’t due to a negligent doctor, particularly not my doctor. I know I can’t allow myself to think like that; I need to stay calm. The doctors prescribed some sort of tranquilizer when I was admitted yesterday afternoon, so that should be easy enough.
Yesterday’s episode didn’t come as a complete surprise, although it’s sometimes easy to forget I’m on a transplant list a mile long. Some people may think being on a transplant list is like waiting in line at a deli and when your number is called, you’re up! In reality, the hierarchy of the list is completely volatile. It’s really just a pool of patients hoping someone’s heart, kidney, or whatever, will be a perfect match. Size, blood type, and genetic characteristics – every factor needs to work harmoniously with its recipient. And there’s also the matter of geography. If the yin to my yang happens to die on the West Coast, all West Coast patients waiting for a donor get first dibs.
I’ve made peace with the fact that a heart donor may never be found. Even though we’re all going to die – someday – it’s different for me. I’ve been dying since I was born. I never had the luxury of pushing the thought out of my head. For me, death has always loomed over me like a ravenous vulture.
“Knock, knock!” a familiar voice blares. It’s my nurse, Emily. Her long, blonde locks swish past the privacy curtain before she does. Emily has morning shifts and even though she’s annoyingly chipper, I prefer her to the stone-faced nurse I had last night.
“Come in!” I say, even though I know I don’t have a choice in the matter. Emily slides open the ugly striped curtain that separates me from the rest of the world. The bright hallway light streams directly over my bed.
“Good morning! How are you feeling today?” she trills.
“Fine.” I squint.
“That’s good.” She pauses at the foot of the bed and flips through my chart. Her pale blue scrubs are adorned with little green dinosaurs, and I can’t help but think that seventeen is too old to have a nurse who wears dinosaur scrubs.
“So, Ms. Collins, are you ready to take your meds?” She gestures with the tip of her finger to a small paper cup on the table beside my bed.
“I told you to call me Elle,” I say in my sweetest sounding voice. I may be seventeen, but I’m not seventy.
“Your chart says Elita.” She completely butchers my name, emphasizing each syllable.
“It’s pronounced, Uh-lee-ta,” I say, drawing out the e, “but I prefer Elle.”
“Sure. I forgot.” She reaches for the pencil tucked behind her ear and jots something on my chart. “I’ll be sure to call you that from now on.” She gives a wide, toothy smile.
From now on? How long does she think I’ll be here? I reach for the remote that controls the position of my bed and firmly press the button. The bed shifts forward, making a loud creak while I try to find a comfortable position. I’m about to ask her if she knows when I can go home, but she’s busy typing on the computer stationed in the corner of the room.
“Okay,” she announces after giving the keys one final tap. “Let’s take your vitals.”
She attaches a blood pressure cuff to my arm and inserts the earpiece of the stethoscope that hangs around her neck. Her blonde tresses skim my arm as she bends her neck to listen.
“Good,” she announces after a few seconds. I don’t bother to ask what my numbers are. I’ve learned that when it comes to my health, ignorance is sometimes bliss.
“Would you like me to order you some breakfast?” she asks. I’ve become quite accustomed to hospital food and it really is that bad. Sometimes just the thought of it can make me gag. “It’s the most important meal of the day, you know.” She twirls around on her heels, and reaches for an old, stained menu. “I can order up some oatmeal, or maybe a few eggs?”
“No, thank you. I’ve eaten the food here before.” I hope she takes the hint.
“That’s right. You’ve been a guest at Simms Memorial a few times before.” She cheerfully sings her words like this place is a resort, instead of a hospital. After a brief pause and a moment flipping through my chart, I catch her staring at me like an endangered species. Her dark, doe-like eyes bore into my flesh. “I just know you are going to get that transplant.” She rests her hand on my thigh.
“Thank you.” I give her hand a quick pat. I really wished she’d stop the dramatics, but I try never to provoke an argument. Lesson 101 when you’re born with a heart condition is to keep stress to a minimum. It’s also a good rule of thumb to never upset the nursing staff – you are literally at their mercy.
“You seem like such a brave girl,” she says with a sympathetic glare.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not sure how to respond. I grew up knowing that I would most likely die young and now, at seventeen, time is not on my side and I can read the truth of that on the faces of everyone who knows.
“So, are you ready to take your medicine?” Her tone quickly turns professional. “I just need to watch you swallow them before I leave
. I’m sure you know the drill.” She tips the cup into my hand and four round pills hit my palm. She hands me a cup filled with water.
“Thank you.” I pop all four pills into my mouth. I swallow the entire cup in one long gulp and stick out my tongue.
“That’s good,” she says with a smile. I can’t help but feel her tone is a little condescending, considering she only looks to be a few years older than me. She gathers her belongings and stows them on a small metal cart with wheels. “I’ll be back later. I still have a lot more morning meds to give out.” She sings her words in a way that is annoyingly chipper. I wonder if birds and squirrels follow her around while she gets ready in the morning. “Just hit the buzzer if you need anything.”
When the door closes, a gust of air rushes in, sending a chill down my spine. I tug the thin blue blanket that’s sprawled across my legs. It doesn’t budge. It’s tucked military style, and I feel like a sardine sealed in one of those little cans. I don’t have the energy to pull the blanket up to my ears. I even lack the energy to walk to the bathroom. I’d love to get up and brush my teeth and hair, but instead I just run my fingers through the matted tangles that formed overnight. I run my tongue across my teeth and reach for one of the breath mints stored in the drawer beside my bed. After a half-assed grooming, I sit for a moment gazing at the spangles of dust that bounce in the sunlight. Considering yesterday’s ordeal, my body is remarkably tranquil. My mind, however, is a completely different story.
I’m a senior at Riverside High School, although I probably only attend class about half the time. I’m usually being shuttled back and forth between doctor’s visits. I know this hasn’t been easy on my mother, Kate. Half her life has been devoted to taking care of me. She and my father, Glenn, got divorced right after I was born. When my friend Jill Morrison’s parents got divorced, her dad would pick her up every other weekend and take her to the place she said he jokingly referred to as his ‘bachelor pad.’ My dad never did that, but I still managed to see him from time to time. He’d pop over on Christmas Eve for a glass of eggnog or make the occasional appearance at a birthday party. I was twelve when my mom got the call that he had a massive heart attack at work. I can clearly remember my mom sitting me down to break the news. I just stared at her, my eyes two large pools, wondering how it was that I already knew he was gone.
My father was in construction. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the scent of his beat-up leather jacket – pine mixed with a hint of mint from the packs of gum he used to keep in his front pocket. I didn’t go to the wake. My mother thought the stress of the service would be ‘detrimental’ to my health – a thought she had about most things. I was okay with her decision though. I preferred my last image to be of him wearing reindeer antlers on Christmas Eve, instead of lying in a coffin.
My mom hasn’t spoken to anyone on my dad’s side of the family since before I was born, but that never seemed to faze her. She’s always been independent and even runs her own successful chain of real estate agencies. She is a self-proclaimed ‘Realtor to the Stars.’ This term is one she uses very loosely. To this day, she proudly displays a photo of herself shaking hands with Sharknado actor Ian Ziering, from when she’d sold him his East Side condo. During yesterday’s episode, my mom was the first person who came to mind. All I could think was how hard it would be for her to lose me.
When it happened, the bell had just rung for class. I threw my sweatshirt over my head, draped my backpack over my shoulder, and made a dash for the front door. I had three minutes to make it from Bio to Art, which was located outside, in the trailers. My high school had been too small to accommodate the influx of students when the other school in town was shut down, so as a quick, inexpensive solution, the district approved the use of small ‘portable’ buildings. The administration had decided that only senior classes would be held in the trailers, which I think was a clever way to create anticipation and get underclassmen to think they were in for something special.
To be honest, I was excited to have class in the trailers, too. There was just something about having the freedom to leave the building. As an underclassman, the only way you were leaving the building before 3:30 p.m. was if you were sick or dying. In my case, of course, this scenario was never too far from reality.
I felt my heart rate escalate as I walked across the lot. I took a few long, slow, deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth, the way I had learned from a yoga instructor I watched on YouTube. I walked slower as other students raced by. For a brief moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion. Students bustled by, talking and laughing. In that brief moment, I envied them.
My heart continued to beat faster, its percussion against the drum in my ear growing stronger and louder. I reached into my bag and blindly fished for my cell. After a few seconds, I pulled it out and selected my heart rate app. With trembling hands, I managed to hold my finger to the lens on the back of my phone. After a few seconds, the screen displayed 202. Considering that I was walking at a snail’s pace, this was quite concerning. I should have headed back to the main building and gotten help, but I would rather have died right there on campus, between the main building and the trailers, than have an ambulance come rescue me in front of everyone. I placed my finger firmly to my throat and counted the beats of my heart – two twenty-five, two twenty-six. I quickly changed direction and walked toward the parking lot, grateful that seniors have permission to park in the lot outside the trailers.
As I made my way toward my car, pins and needles replaced my normal blood flow. My breathing became forced. The grounds began to spin, huge oaks that stood stoic on the campus grounds for hundreds of years began to bend and swirl. Dizzy and disoriented, I knew I was about to pass out. I couldn’t let Mom get the call that my body had been found lying on the ground, trampled by a bunch of jaunty teens.
Before I lost consciousness, I saw the slightly dented fender of my used Accord, the car my mother had reluctantly bought me three months earlier after I’d passed my road test. I unclipped my keys from the hook on the side of my bag and pressed the fob to unlock the doors. I opened the driver’s side door and slipped inside.
“Call Doctor Carmichael,” I gasped at the voice activation system.
Over the last four years, Doctor Carmichael and I have developed something above and beyond the usual doctor-patient relationship. In a time when it was easier to call the Pentagon than reach a doctor directly, I could call Dr. Carmichael’s cell any time and expect him to answer. True to form, he picked up on the first ring.
“Stay put. I am calling an ambulance,” he said when I described my symptoms. Despite his calm tone, I could hear the concern in his voice.
“No, I’m in my car. I’m driving there now. I will be fine.”
“Are you feeling dizzy or faint?” I could hear the change in tone.
“No,” I lied. “I can make it. I’ll be all right.” The mere thought of the swirling ambulance lights made me cringe.
“I will alert the hospital. Just get there, now, and be careful.”
I drove slowly and blasted the air conditioner, grateful the hospital was only five miles from school. When I arrived, there was a room ready and Dr. Carmichael was waiting. He looked concerned, but was careful, as always, to remain calm.
***
I look at the clock again. 8:24 a.m. Maybe putting a clock in front of a hospital bed wasn’t the best idea. It’s just a constant reminder of all the other things I would rather be doing.
Dr. Carmichael starts making his rounds at 8:30. What to do for six minutes?
I decide to fight the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion and make my way to the bathroom. It’s only ten steps away, but it may as well be a mile. I place my foot on the greyish tile. Despite the hospital’s complimentary green socks with rubber treads – sexy, they’re not – I feel the cold from the floor shoot up my bare leg.
Carefully, I detach myself from the monitors, which immediately triggers a loud alarm. I cringe and
press some buttons, but the alarm is relentless. I decide to ignore them. I know a nurse will be along shortly to reconnect me, but I need to pee first. Besides, I know they can tell just by the sound of the alarm if it’s an emergency or not. I once shared a room with a woman who flatlined. When her alarm went off, doctors and nurses darted in from all directions to save her life. After that, my mother insisted I get my own room. She said all that additional stress wasn’t good for me. I guess squeaky wheels really do get more grease, because I haven’t had a roommate since.
I lift the hospital gown up to my chin and squat over the toilet. I know hospitals are supposed to be sanitary, but I don’t want to take any chances.
“Ms. Collins, is everything all right?” a raspy voice bellows.
“Yes, I’m fine. I just had to use the bathroom,” I say through tight lips.
“You could have paged a nurse. We would have been happy to disconnect your monitors, or we could have brought you a bed pan.”
“I’m fine.” A bed pan? The thought of Dr. Carmichael walking in while I am squatted over a bedpan makes me blush.
“I’ll turn off the alarms, but you’ll have to be reconnected right away.”
“Thank you.” Always stay on the nurse’s good side, I remind myself.
When I’m through using the toilet, I reach for underwear that isn’t there – force of habit. I wrap the oversized gown around my waist, twice, to cover my backside. I turn on the faucet and wash my hands and face. My pink polka dotted cosmetic bag is hanging from a hook beside the sink. After rummaging through, I find my toothbrush. My mom brought it to the hospital after Doctor Carmichael called and told her what had happened. An acute case of tachycardia, he’d said. Unfortunately, it definitely had not been on Mom’s radar to pack my bronzer, and the face looking back at me in the mirror is a bit pale. I pinch the apples of my cheeks and watch as they turn red and start to plump. There’s a small Eos Balm in the bathroom bag. I glide it over my lips and press them together.
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