Under My Skin

by Laura Diamond

  “I’ll stay here tonight, Dave, and I’ll call in at work tomorrow,” Mum says, her tone efficient and direct.

  Dad nods, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Sounds good. I’ll come right after work. Want me to bring take out?”

  “Sushi, please, dear. Let’s keep it healthy.”

  God, I hate sushi. Guess I’ll have to suffer with whatever the hospital kitchen offers.

  All because of a little wonky beat of my heart, I’m here, chained to a monitor, Mum’s going to sleep on a crappy cot and miss work—plus her weekly reading group—and Dad will be spending his evenings in the hospital instead of at home where he could be managing overseas projects when other researchers are still active.

  Camping out in a hospital room for an unknown amount of time isn’t on their bucket list for me. Suppose I can scribble it in pencil at the bottom.

  I sit in the middle of the hospital bed, with my legs folded. The nurse had insisted I change into a gown, but at least she’d also brought pajama bottoms so I don’t flash anyone. I pick at the silicone dotting the bottom of my hospital-issued gripper socks.

  “You guys don’t have to stay. I’ve got an entire team here and they won’t let anything happen.” I speak with my most authoritative voice, though I’m reassuring myself as much as them.

  “Of course I’m staying, Adam.” Mum slides off the window ledge. She tidies her cot to prove her point, making the tightest hospital corners I’ve ever seen.

  “Mum.”

  “I’m not leaving my son here,” she says. It’s a decree, binding, final.

  Dad stands. The leather of his jacket creaks with his movements. He’s been here for hours, but hasn’t bothered taking off his coat. “I can stop by early in the morning to drop off some fresh clothes.”

  Mum glances at the duffle bag Dad had brought for me, fluffing her pillow obsessively. I can pick her thoughts out of the air. Dad forgot to bring her bag, the brown leather satchel carrying a change of clothes and travel-sized toiletries housed permanently in her closet for emergencies.

  I stare at the ceiling. My gaze trails from the antennae picking up my telemetry signal to a metal track cutting the room in half. The curtain affixed to it is tucked between two bedside stands, an unnecessary divider.

  “Bring my bag too, dear.” Mum speaks with a jovial tone, but the smacks she gives the pillow are anything but light.

  I clear my throat. “Please, Dad, take Mum home. I’ll be fine.”

  Mum tips her chin down. “You’re anything but fine.”

  Dad rubs the top of his head.

  I dodge her jab and counter. “Wouldn’t you rather sleep in your own bed? I know I would.”

  Mum shrugs. “I’d rather be here with you.”

  She probably won’t let me have a moment to myself from now on, with what happened at school. I hope she won’t follow me into the bathroom.

  “What’s going to happen? I’ll be sleeping all night. I think.” I fuss with the wires connected to stickers spattered across my chest. They plug into a small device tucked into my gown’s pocket that transmits a wireless signal to the antennae above. An EKG tracing comes out on a monitor at the nurses’ station. The wires get in the way more than anything.

  Dad smirks. “You know nobody gets sleep in the hospital.”

  Mum sits on the cot, stubborn as ever.

  I play my final, most desperate, card. “I’ll sign myself out against medical advice.” Technically, I can’t really refuse treatment because I’m under age, but I give it a shot anyway.

  Mum doesn’t bother justifying my lame move with an answer.

  “Nice try, son, but you’re not going anywhere.” Dad pinches Mum’s cheek. “I’m sorry about forgetting your bag, love.”

  She picks at a fingernail, then lifts her face to him. A smile softens her lips. “No worries, David. I’m not mad.” She gives him a forgiving peck on the cheek.

  Dad kisses her forehead. “See you in the morning.”

  And just like that, they’re back to their lovey-dovey selves.

  “Goodnight, Dad.”

  “Love you, Adam.”

  The overnight nurse enters as Dad leaves. He’s wearing black scrubs and Hipster-style glasses that clash with his pudgy, middle-aged physique and way too mainstream crew cut.

  He checks my blood pressure and makes sure the stickers are still sticking. “I’ll do my best to leave you alone, unless your heart decides to jump into an unstable rhythm, of course. The best thing you can do now is sleep. I’ll be watching on the monitor. Try not to toss and turn. The leads might come off and I’ll have to wake you up to reattach them.”

  After he leaves, Mum tucks me in like I’m a five year old. “Are you comfortable? Do you need another pillow? Are you warm enough?”

  “I’m okay.” I use the call button remote to turn off the overhead lights and then turn on the TV. I click through the channels, not really paying attention to the shows.

  She leans over me, blocking my view of a CGI-green screen-actor battle-scene mash-up of a SyFy super awesome train wreck of a movie. “That’s a horrible reflex you’ve developed.”

  I frown. “Huh?”

  “Whenever I ask a question you say, ‘I’m alright’ or ‘I’m fine.’ It’s hard to know what you’re really thinking.” The brightness from the TV illuminates her hair from behind, a holy glow. The way she’s sacrificing her happiness for me should earn her sainthood. I should write a letter to the Pope.

  Then again, if she’d ease up and drop the inquisition for a minute, maybe I wouldn’t have a “reflex” response.

  She peers into my eyes. “Adam. Are you in there?”

  I twist the call bell cord around my fingers. “Yes. It’s just … this sucks. I don’t want to be here.”

  She caresses my cheek with her warm hand. “You’re prioritized on the transplant list now. With any luck, we won’t have to wait long. But we have to be patient.”

  “You think everything will be fixed when I get a new heart.”

  She straightens. “It will.”

  I chew on my lip. A new heart isn’t the end of this. It’s the beginning. I’ll have to get used to taking a fistful of anti-rejection meds, wearing masks during cold and flu seasons, and a rigorous (for me) exercise routine. Plus, it doesn’t guarantee I’ll have a normal life span. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re just nervous. We all are.” She tucks into bed … um, cot. It doesn’t look comfortable at all. My mattress is a thousand times cushier in comparison, and it’s not that great either.

  “Don’t stay up watching TV all night,” she says.

  I should turn it off now, but I’m not tired. Well, my body is fatigued, but my brain gallops onward. How long will I be in the hospital? If my heart recovers some, do I have to stay until the heart comes, or will I be bumped down the list again? What if my heart gets worse before a donor comes along? Dr. Jervis had also mentioned things like LVADs—left ventricular assist devices—machines attached to my heart via tubes running into my chest and external pumps designed to keep my blood flowing.

  I suppress a full body tremor. I really will become Frankenstein’s monster.

  It’s unnatural to cheat death this way. How far can things go? Can I depend on a machine? Can I handle knowing someone else must die so I can live?

  I close my eyes. It’s clear to me now. I don’t deserve life if I’m stealing it from someone else. I don’t.

  It would be kinder, more humane, if I were to die.

  I take in a shaky breath. A tear slides from my eye. I let it trickle down my cheek unchecked.

  I should text Dr. Shaw, but it’s too late. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her. We’ll have enough to talk about when we meet. She’ll probably come to the hospital to see me. She’s done it before.

  At midnight, I shut off the TV and lay flat in bed, afraid to move lest I jostle the leads and telemetry pack.

  At three AM, I’m still
awake, listening to my pulse rushing in my ears. When—no, if—I get a transplant, it’ll be another person’s heart pushing blood through my body. I wonder if it will sound the same, feel the same. I wonder if I’ll know it’s not mine.

  I squeeze my eyes shut to push the questions and blinding fear from my mind. For a moment, it works and I float in blissful, quiet darkness.

  In the depths of infinite blackness, a vile idea claws its way to the surface. Blood drips from its fangs and its yellow eyes ooze contempt.

  It snarls, mocking me.

  I might die on the operating table.

  I shake my head, rattling the idea. Of course I’m going to die on the table. The surgeon will be removing my heart and replacing it with someone else’s. I’ll be dead in those minutes between. I’ll only come back to life if the surgeon has magic in his hands.

  Mary Shelley was decades ahead of her time.

  I slide my gaze around the darkened room, abandoning any hope of sleep. My phone rests on the bedside stand, neatly tucked next to Frankenstein. Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of reading material. I stick my tongue out at the book for good measure, then pick up my phone.

  Selecting the web browser app, I wrack my brain trying to remember the ridiculous name of the newest drug Shaw prescribed. I doubt Mum would’ve given it to me if the risk was too high.

  I type Z-I-P-R and Google does the rest.

  Ziprasidone pops up. I select it and get a list of links. Clicking on the second one, I gulp.

  Ziprasidone: For the treatment of Schizophrenia, Bipolar Disorder, and hallucinations.

  What the hell? I’m not schizophrenic.

  I scan the rest of the article, skimming over phrases like take twice daily and take with food for better absorption and halt at the words:

  Although rare, ziprasidone can cause significant QT prolongation, leading to a potentially serious unstable rhythm of the heart.

  I sit up in bed, clutching a palm to my chest. My raspy breaths fill the room. I don’t know what the bloody hell a QT is, but I do know Shaw had given me a drug that could affect my heart.

  Surely, she knows about this side effect, especially since she works with heart transplant patients.

  The question then is: Why did she prescribe it for me?

  * * *

  Dr. Shaw stops in after lunch.

  I chew on the questions I want to ask her, grinding down each word into a finely polished accusation. The temptation to speak first settles in the back of my throat, hot and coarse, but I want to see what she has to say first.

  Mum pops out of the Barco lounger parked next to the foot of my bed. She sets her Kindle on the windowsill. “Hello, Doctor. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Dr. Shaw smiles at Mum. Her dark eyes simply glow with warmth for her. “I wish I could’ve gotten here sooner, but I had other clients scheduled this morning.”

  Mum eats it up like chocolate pudding. My stomach churns on the stale sandwich I’d choked down. “Oh, it’s not a problem, really.”

  Dr. Shaw extends a hand. “What happened yesterday must have been quite a shock.”

  Were you expecting it? I wonder.

  Mum clasps both hands around hers. “You have no idea. It was so sudden. He was fine when I dropped him off at school and then the teacher called. I’ve never driven so fast in my life. Blasted through a couple of red lights, even.”

  Dr. Shaw nods in sympathy, gesturing for Mum to sit back in the lounger. “I can’t imagine how frightened you were.”

  “I’m still terrified,” Mum confesses.

  “Of course.” Dr. Shaw lowers her brows. “I hear Adam’s heart isn’t functioning as well as it was, but at least he’s been prioritized on the list.”

  Mum sucks in a shaky breath. “Silver lining, I suppose.”

  I love how they talk about me like I’m not here. I dog-ear the page I’m on in Frankenstein and lay the book next to me. I wasn’t reading it anyway, what with all my stewing on Shaw’s choice of medication for me.

  Dr. Shaw turns her attention to me. The brightness in her eyes dims. The lines of her face, earlier fragile and soft, morph into stern angles as her brows arch and lips thin. A sign of guilt? “Good afternoon, Adam. How are you?”

  I pick at a snag in the blue blanket covering my legs, dissecting the fibers like I want to dissect her expression. “Fine.”

  Mum clucks her tongue. “It’s so frustrating, doctor. He just doesn’t tell us how he really is. I don’t know what to do anymore.” She wrings her hands. The vertical line in the middle of her forehead deepens.

  I curl my fingers into fists. “Maybe if you hadn’t made me take the new pill, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Mum withers, stepping away from me as if I’d spewed poison at her. “I … I don’t believe that.”

  My sickly heart plummets into my stomach. I didn’t mean to hurt Mum. This is Shaw’s fault.

  “It was the stairs. The added stress weakened your heart.” Mum sniffs, shaking her head. She wipes wetness from her eyes with a tissue snaked from her pocket.

  “Ziprasidone causes unstable heart rhythms. I should think a doctor would know that.” I give Shaw a death stare.

  Dr. Shaw frowns at me like a Catholic nun judging a misbehaving child. “I don’t think it’s the medicine, Adam. It was designed to help you stay calm.”

  “Did you forget about me having heart failure, oh, and the fact that I’m not schizophrenic? Minor details, I guess.”

  Mum huffs. “Adam! How could you doubt Doctor Shaw’s expertise?”

  “Look it up. Everything I’ve just said is written down, in black and white.” My voice echoes in the room.

  Mum glances at the open doorway. Chatter from the nurse’s station drifts in. “Shh, lower your voice.”

  Dr. Shaw purses her lips. “Perhaps Adam and I should speak in private for a bit.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. I need some fresh air anyway.” Mum snatches her coat from the cot and rushes out, shutting the door behind her.

  Mum left me. She left, never second guessing Shaw’s intentions. Unbelievable.

  I toss the blanket aside to draw my knees up.

  Dr. Shaw’s direct attention is sort of like throwing yourself on a fire. My skin feels like it’s burning.

  “I discussed the side effects with your mother. I told her it was safe, especially at the dose I prescribed.”

  “Thanks for talking to me about it.”

  She places her red bag on the plastic chair for visitors and strides to my bed, heels clicking on the tile floor. Her tight bun, crisp white shirt, and black skirt contrast starkly with the mint green walls and pastel flower wall border. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

  Dread scrapes its dirty nails down my back. I glance at the door. My legs twitch, ready to launch me out of the room.

  “Have you had more suicidal thoughts since you texted?”

  “No.” I curl my fingers around my toes.

  Shaw eases onto the bed so close that her hip touches my arm. I drag my gaze up to meet her dark eyes. She arches a brow. “Uh-hmm. Considering what your mom said about you minimizing things and your uneducated assumption that I purposefully prescribed you a medication that will make you sicker, how can I trust you?”

  Anger burns through my entire body. “Trust me? How can I trust you? That medicine could’ve killed me.”

  “I thought you wanted to die.”

  My whole body tenses. I can’t even blink. Inside, my heart withers, as unsettled as I am about what she’s said.

  “It’s hard to have a conversation when only one person is talking.” She shifts closer.

  “Adam, are you in there?” There’s a silvery tinkle to her voice. She’s playing with me. This whole thing, it’s all a game. Mum is duped, Dad is oblivious, and I’m stuck in a room alone with a viper. I’m just not sure if she wants to poison me with her venom or simply mess with my head.

>   “Um … ” I’m disarmed. The argument I was so prepared for before her arrival demolished. My trippy heart leaps into a faster—and wobblier—pitter-patter. I try to keep my breathing steady. The room is so stifling that my throat screams for water.

  She taps a finger against my temple. “You’re such a bright, insightful, and pensive boy with so much potential. Don’t shut me out. I can help you.”

  I pinch my eyes shut. “No.”

  Her fingers press lightly on the inside of my wrist.

  I hold my breath.

  After a few seconds, she sighs. “Your heart isn’t regular now and the medicine isn’t in your system anymore. Do you need more proof that it wasn’t the ziprasidone, or are you satisfied?” Her weight leaves the mattress. After a few clicks of her heels on the floor, the plastic chair creaks.

  I chance taking a breath and open my eyes.

  “Shall we start our session?” Shaw sits with her hands laced in her lap.

  “I don’t have anything to say,” I whisper.

  “Your mother is terrified you’ll die before you get a transplant.”

  “I might.”

  “Do you want that to happen?” Her voice is smooth like her serene expression, as if I’d never accused her of anything. As if she hadn’t just played with my emotions.

  I shake my head, hoping it’ll clear the confusion from my mind. It doesn’t. “No.”

  “Then why do you spend so much time thinking about suicide?”

  “I don’t want to kill myself.”

  “But you’re thinking about death. Fantasizing about it. Desiring it.” The quicksilver in her tone cuts me.

  It also severs the noose she’s tied around my neck. “That’s not true.”

  “But it is. Would you like to review the texts you sent me?” She unclips her phone from her belt and holds it up. A new rope binds itself around my psyche.

  “You’re twisting things around.”

  “I’m challenging your thoughts so you can see how illogical they are.” She tightens her hold.

  I struggle against her. “What happened to insightful?”