In a Heartbeat

by Loretta Ellsworth

  in a HEARTBEAT

  LORETTA ELLSWORTH

  Walker & Company New York

  In memory of my nephew

  Jason Mennen (1985– 2005), an organ donor

  I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed.

  A strange refreshment: for I feel in me

  An inexpressive lightness, and a sense

  Of freedom, as I were at length myself

  And ne’er had been before.

  —Cardinal John Henry Newman

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgments

  Author Note

  1

  EAGAN

  I’m fatalistic. I’ve always had the feeling that time was running out. After 9/11, I started reading end-of-the-world-type books: Alas, Babylon; Lucifer’s Hammer; On the Beach; The Stand. Then I started hoarding bottles of water and granola bars under my bed. Last year I spent my birthday money on two hundred batteries, which I kept in a shoe box at the back of my closet.

  Of course, I never intended to die. I mean, really die. I thought I’d be one of those who survived the end-of-the-world catastrophe. In the end, what did me in was a freak accident. No end of the world, just the end of my world. If I had to do it all over again, I’d have eaten those granola bars.

  The odd part is that the whole thing started in such a small way.

  I was off by an inch. No, less than that. Half an inch. The size of a shirt button. Hardly worth mentioning. Most people barely notice half an inch. Except for my geometry teacher, who made us estimate to the nearest quarter inch. Mrs. Koster said accuracy was of the utmost importance.

  But it’s not. Not always. Like the curb I backed onto last month when I was parallel parking for my driver’s license test. I’d swerved too sharply and the back tire of Mom’s blue Chevy slid half an inch off the pavement. I swallowed hard, thinking how embarrassed I would be when I had to tell everyone that I flunked. I thought of Mom watching from the redbrick building across the road, of the disappointment I’d have to see on her face. I thought my life was over right then and there.

  But the nice man with the bushy brows said that mistake only reduced my score by five points. Not enough to fail me. Half an inch didn’t keep me from getting my driver’s license.

  In gym class when I threw the basketball, if I aimed at the center of the net, half an inch didn’t make a bit of difference. The ball still went through the hoop.

  Half an inch. Slightly less than the diameter of a dime.

  Most of the time I wouldn’t even have noticed if I was half an inch off. Even in figure skating, half an inch can be covered up. If you move half an inch on your sit spin, you might not even get a deduction.

  But sometimes half an inch is really important. If your timing is off and you miss your triple lutz landing, you could end up on your butt on the cold ice. Or worse, you could do what I did. You could go flying off into the boards and hit your head on the edge, a tiny half inch of sharp white board, and if you hit it just right like I did, you die.

  Half an inch. It’s enough to cause dreams to fall apart, enough to make the difference between life and death.

  I should have listened to Mrs. Koster when she told us what a difference half an inch could make.

  2

  Amelia

  I sat cross-legged on the gray carpet of my bedroom floor drawing a picture of a horse, absorbed in the details of the horse’s head. The eyelashes weren’t right. They were too long. Too feminine. He was a stallion, after all.

  I glanced up as a stallion on TV snorted. A man yanked on the reins and the horse turned around. They sprinted off into the sunset, leaving a haze of trail dust in their wake.

  I didn’t notice Mom right away. She was at the door, her whole body rigid, gripping the doorknob. When I looked up, she reminded me of Kyle’s little car when it’s wound tight, just before he lets it zoom across the floor. And I knew what it was even before she opened her mouth. I knew something big was about to happen.

  “The beeper went off,” I said.

  Mom nodded. Her voice was rushed. “We have to leave right away. Aunt Sophie is coming over to watch Kyle. Your dad is going to meet us there.”

  Her eyes held mine for a long moment. I nodded and held back tears. For weeks I’d imagined how it would be when Mom told me, how I thought I’d feel. I’d pictured myself jumping up and down in excitement, both of us bursting into happy tears. Two months of waiting. People die every day waiting for the call. Now I was one of the lucky ones.

  But in that instant I couldn’t think of luck or happiness. I froze, trapped in that moment, afraid to speak.

  A commercial for batteries came on. I turned my head and watched as the Energizer Bunny zoomed back and forth. I would have run out of power halfway across the screen. I didn’t have the energy to jump up and down with excitement. Every morning I woke up tired.

  Mom finally sprang to action. She reached down and yanked my packed suitcase out of the bedroom corner with shaking hands. Her mouth trembled.

  “Is there anything else you need to pack? Do you want to put your notebook and drawing pencils in here?”

  My fingers grasped a brown pencil. My fingertips were blue and chubby, as if they’d already accepted the lack of oxygen and were hibernating. I listened to the beat, the sound of my heart, swishing like a washing machine. Was it possible that sound would go away? That I’d stop feeling like I was carrying a stack of books on my chest and be able to walk down the steps in my own house?

  A picture of me sits on my dresser. I’m posing with my soccer team when I was eight, before I got sick. The girl in the picture is as strange to me as the photos of my dead grandmother. I’m supposed to remember her, but I don’t.

  “Drawing pencils?” Mom reminded me, her hand outstretched.

  I held out the pack to her. “What if it doesn’t fit?” I said, my left hand covering my heart as if I were pledging allegiance.

  “Oh, there’s plenty of room in here … ,” she started, but then stopped. Mom looked at me hard, like she looks when she’s working her crossword. Finally she reached over and touched the side of my face. “I have a feeling about this, honey.”

  “Okay.” I swallowed. Mom knew I was sick before I knew it myself. She has a sixth sense about that stuff.

  I closed my notebook filled with horses. They’re all I draw—horses. The only thing I’ve ever drawn since I was little. The only thing that relaxes me. Arabians, Morgans, Thoroughbreds, Palominos. I’ve researched them all: their anatomy and muscles and bones, the different breeds, how the light shades their faces. I’ve ridden one once, a mare the color of the clay pots outside my window, cinnamon and rust. Her name was Dusty.

  I was about to turn off the TV when the news came on. They were reporting on an accide
nt on Interstate 35. I stopped and stared, hoping that wasn’t where my heart was coming from. The last few months I’d paid closer attention to the news, listening for the ages of victims, wondering if they died on the spot or at the hospital, wondering if the doctors saved their hearts.

  I didn’t want to live through another person’s death. But it was part of the deal. Dr. Michael had said, “People are going to die regardless of whether you live or not. Their gift to you might help ease the pain of the family and friends who are mourning that person’s loss.”

  But the fact remained that someone else had to die for me to live. Someone else had to grieve for me to be happy. And every night at dinner, when my family prayed for a new heart for me, we were praying for that to happen.

  3

  EAGAN

  The only funeral I ever attended was Grandma’s. She looked like she was asleep in her favorite purple dress. Mom said Grandma was looking down on us from heaven, which gave me the creeps.

  I think I’m dead. Really dead, as in no longer on Earth. I feel removed from my body, like a balloon that someone let loose and is floating up into the ozone. I’m in nowhere land, a gray misty place. The gray is thick like fog, but it’s dry and has no texture or substance. I try to push through it, but it’s like pushing through water—more fog fills in the gap. If I am dead, I hope I don’t have to stay here forever. I hate gray. I’m more of a purple person, like Grandma.

  “Help!” I shout. No one answers. I feel alone and it scares me. I don’t want to be here. I want to be back on the ice, finishing my performance. Or at home in my bed, having a bad dream. Or even in the hospital, drugged up and hurt, with a bad headache, but still alive.

  The only thing keeping me from screaming is that my life is playing out in bits and pieces in front of me. You know how when people on TV die, their lives flash before their eyes? That’s kind of how it is for me. Fragments of my life are laid out in front of me like an interactive photo album. All I have to do is remember a moment and there it all is. Every detail!

  Of course, right now all I can focus on are the negative moments. Some things don’t change with death. I’m starting with the last meal I ate, my own personal Last Supper.

  “Eat your meat,” Mom ordered. I was picking through my chicken. I’d found a pink spot and I couldn’t stand eating chicken that was even a tiny bit pink. But Mom was watching me. She had tried out another new recipe: chicken cacciatore, which had tomatoes in it. Maybe that’s what was making the chicken look pink, but I still didn’t want to eat it.

  I made a face at Dad, who was chomping away. He could eat anything. I ate more pasta.

  Mom put down her napkin. “You’re not becoming anorexic, are you? You’re awfully thin.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, Mom. You see me eat all the time.”

  “A lot of figure skaters have that problem. How do I know you’re not one of them?”

  I picked at my chicken. That’s what she sounded like: a chicken clucking. The senseless noise irritated my ears.

  “Not our Eagan,” Dad reassured her. “She eats all the time. She just aced her physical.” Dad patted his round stomach. “She’s thin because she inherited your genes, Cheryl.”

  Mom always said she’d been fighting off the same twenty-five pounds ever since I was born. Now she smiled at the compliment. I took a drink of milk to hide my smirk.

  “Keep eating, Eagan,” she told me.

  I sighed and picked at the chicken. How could she not know that I ate? And I did ace my physical after throwing a fit when Mom tried to follow me into the exam room.

  “Dr. Joyce let me listen to my heart through the stethoscope, Dad. She said I had a low heart rate, like a trained athlete. She’s so much better than old Dr. Peterson too.” I’d listened for the first time to my heart beating in my chest, the thump-thump of my own percussion section.

  “You always loved Dr. Peterson when you were little,” Mom said.

  Dad smiled. “Well, she’s not little anymore. She’s growing up into a young woman. In a couple of years she’ll be off to college.”

  “Or maybe in two years she’ll be competing at the senior level. Maybe she’ll want to see how far she can go in skating first.”

  “Hello? Isn’t that up to me to decide? It is my future, after all.”

  Dad stuck his fork into another piece of chicken. “Of course, pumpkin. We just want what’s best for you.”

  Mom reached over with her fork and knife and cut my chicken into smaller chunks. “We know how hard you’ve worked. We know how much talent you have.”

  “I’m not two years old.” I pulled my plate away from her. “And I don’t like to eat a lot before a competition. That doesn’t make me anorexic like …” I stopped before the name popped out.

  “Like who?”

  I fiddled with my fork. “None of your business.”

  “Eagan, you lose that attitude this instant. Anorexia is a serious sickness. Is this girl getting help?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, who is it?”

  I leaned over and looked out the window. Where was Kelly? I needed saving. My packed bag and skates sat ready in the foyer.

  “Eagan,” Mom persisted.

  “Okay, okay. Just stop bugging me. It’s Bailey.”

  It wasn’t often that I could surprise Mom. She was reaching for her water and almost knocked the glass over. “Bailey? But she’s …”

  “A little heavy? Our coaches have told us all about anorexia and bulimia, Mom. You don’t have to be überthin to have it.”

  “Well, I’m just flabbergasted. I thought she was trimming down so she could make her jumps better.”

  “Do her parents know?” Dad looked up from his plate but didn’t stop eating.

  “Yeah. She’s getting therapy, but the coaches might not let her compete for a while.”

  “What about Nationals?” Mom’s voice sounded hopeful. I suspected the hope wasn’t out of concern for Bailey.

  “It’s up to the coaches.”

  “But you’re the first alternate.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  Mom clapped her hands together. “I have to get time off work. Nationals. Colorado!”

  I tried not to get caught up in her excitement. Sure, I wanted to go to Nationals. If Bailey had accidentally torn a ligament or something, that’d be fine. But not this way. It would be kicking Bailey when she was already down.

  No way would I eat a bite of Mom’s chicken now. She claimed she wasn’t one of those pushy skating moms, that she was diligent when it came to making an investment of time and money. I could quit whenever I wanted. But if I wanted to skate, I had to do it her way. In ten years she never let me skip a practice. She watched at least one practice a week and my coach was on her speed dial.

  I stretched my legs under the table. I hated this glass table, hated how everything underneath was visible. Mom’s feet folded at the ankles and tucked under her chair. Dad’s brown loafers tapped the floor as he ate, as if he couldn’t wait to be done. I couldn’t even flip Mom off under the table. She’d see.

  What if I dumped my plate off the edge? How would that look through the glass?

  I peeked at Mom. She was frowning at me as if she knew my thoughts, so I distracted her by pointing at the lighted candles. “What’s the special occasion? The last time you lit the candles was Easter dinner.”

  Mom’s eyes were different shades of brown that changed depending on her mood. Now they held a copper tint as she flashed a quick look at Dad. He raised one eyebrow at her. The bald patch on the top of his head glistened in the candlelight.

  “We have something to tell you,” Mom said, playing with her napkin under the table as she spoke. “It’s about the trip Dad and I took to Hawaii.”

  The trip where I had to stay with Grandpa and rake wet leaves into a garbage bag instead of sunning on the warm beaches of Maui? The trip where there had been lots of fighting beforehand, and Dad said it would help their marriage? “The tri
p you took for your marriage problems,” I said.

  “Well, I’d call it more of a vacation,” Mom said, blushing.

  “Then why didn’t I get to go?”

  “We needed time to ourselves, Eagan.”

  “I would have left you alone if you’d taken me.”

  “You had practice. Besides, we needed to get away.”

  “From me?”

  “For God’s sake, Eagan, it isn’t always about you.”

  “You’re right. It’s always about you.”

  Mom sighed and shook her head. “You know what? Just forget it.”

  Yes, please. I didn’t need this before a competition.

  I felt grouchy, ready to fight again. I hadn’t slept well, but I didn’t dare mention that I was tired. Not after they’d caught Scott in my room last night when they’d returned from the movies. Not after I’d argued with Mom and confronted her with her lies. Not after she’d found my stash of bottles and granola bars and had yelled at me and said she’d take me to a therapist if I didn’t change my outlook.

  “Hey, now.” Dad put down his fork. “I don’t want my two girls fighting during dinner. Eagan, parents go on vacation without their kids all the time. It’s not a crime.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I didn’t care if they went away without me. I’d just wanted to go to Hawaii.

  Mom jutted out her chin like she was getting ready to yell, but then she reached over and pulled my plate back, away from the edge of the table. “So tell me more about Bailey. How long do you think she’ll be out? I’ll have to say something to Barbara. Poor woman.” I could see her brain working, coming up with something sympathetic to say, even while planning how I would take Bailey’s place at Nationals.