“Nevermind. How come you’re not with your parents?”
He offers me the carton. “I made them go home. Needed a break, you know? I’m sure they needed one too.”
I dig into a ribbon of caramel. “Yeah, I know.”
“How about you? Where are your parents?”
“Home.”
He sets his spoon down. “I think I’ve forgotten what home is like.”
“Me too.” It’s not a lie. I’ve been in the hospital so long, I’ve gotten used to the smell, the dry air, the noise all night long, and the craptastic color scheme.
“How long do you have to stay here?”
“Probably forever.”
He puffs his cheeks. “Sometimes I feel that way too.”
I wipe my mouth with a napkin and ball it up. Home is the last thing I want to talk about, or even think about. My stomach curls with anxiety. It won’t be too much longer before the doctor will say I’m ready to be discharged. Mom and Dad will have to pick me up. I’ll have to get used to living in the house, going to school, and just being … all without Daniel. “You supposed to wear that mask?”
He tugs on the elastic hooked around his left ear. “Yes, but it’s kind of hard to when I’m eating.”
“You weren’t wearing it when you came up to me.”
He twists his mouth to the side. “Touché.”
The angles of his cheekbones and chin contrast with the softness of his mouth. His black lip ring pops against his skin. I drool, thinking about the brushstrokes it’d take to capture his face. I could do it. He’d fit in my Fire and Ice collection.
I toss the container on my plate next to the pizza crust. “Why do you have to wear it? Are you contagious or something?”
He tugs the mask into place. “No. My immune system is crap because I have to take a bunch of medicine … ”
“Why?”
He slides his chair back and crosses his arms, stuffing his long, thin fingers into his armpits. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
He’s not the only one. “It’s too bad the mask hides your lip ring, because it’s bad ass.”
The corners of his eyes wrinkle with a smile. His laugh is muffled from the mask, but its warmth reaches me. “My mum and dad hate it.”
I giggle. “My parents hate my blue hair.”
“You have to keep it. It’s ace.” The joy in his eyes is genuine.
“Ace?”
“Um, yes. I think you Americans call it awesome?”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
He tips his chin down. “Let’s get something out in the open, yeah?”
I stiffen. He’s going to make me talk about Mom and Dad or the accident. “O-okay.”
He moves the chair to the table and leans his elbows against the tabletop. “Neither of us wants to talk about why we’re here.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So I say we call a moratorium on the subject.”
This kid uses some weird words. “A what?”
“A moratorium. It means we both agree not to discuss it.”
As long as he doesn’t dig into my story, I won’t dig into his. I stick out my hand. “Agreed.”
He slips his hand into mine. His skin is warm. “Ace.”
“Ace.” That tingle I felt before when we touched comes back, twice as intense. I pull my hand away even though I don’t want to. “You’re different, Adam. I like that.”
“You’re different too, Darby. I wish I could be as straight forward as you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Uh, you just were.”
He gives his soft laugh again. It’s so simple, like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or eating buttered popcorn in a movie theater. “I should probably get back before the nurses send a search party.”
“Good point. Don’t want to be counted as going AWOL.”
Adam insists on picking up the garbage. After dumping the leftovers, we head to the elevator.
We hit buttons for different floors.
“Too bad we’re not on the same unit,” I say.
“Agreed, though I kind of like these clandestine meetings.”
“I like your vocabulary.”
My floor comes first. The doors open and I hesitate.
“This you?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He presses the door open button. “See you at PT tomorrow?”
I’m not ready to leave. But I have to. I lean into him, rise up to my tippy toes, and kiss him on the cheek. “Yep.”
Hyped on adrenaline, I dash out of the elevator before he can respond. I can’t breathe normally until I step into my room.
I’m used to kissing boys, but it’s different with Adam. I don’t know why, but things mean more with him.
I snort. Things mean more with a boy I don’t know. But somehow it’s like I’ve known him forever. Maybe I’m just desperate.
I mean, really. I’m getting all romantic and sentimental. What would Shaw say about that?
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection. I draw my fingers along my upturned lips. It’s a smile. Haven’t used one of those in a while. I’d forgotten the pull and tug of muscles. The tingling in my belly from the urge to laugh.
I can’t wait to see Adam again.
Chapter Fifteen
Adam
Shaw and I visit the hospital’s atrium during our next session time, taking full advantage of every spare nook and cranny of the hospital with every passing day. We sit on a bench under a pergola ringed by holly. A fountain sits dry in front of us. Water isn’t flowing from it and the flowerbed at its base is empty, already cleaned out for winter. The slate under our feet is a dull gray, but the square of sky above us is a vibrant blue. Sunlight bathes us in warmth so it’s not too bad sitting here in a longsleeved t-shirt. Since we’re surrounded by the interior hospital walls, we’re sheltered from the wind.
Shaw takes a sip of her latte, then opens the session by saying, “How’s your Live Life List coming along?”
It isn’t, but I can’t tell her that. I could mention Darby, not that there’s much to say. Well, nothing I’d want to share with Shaw anyway. I rub my cheek where she’d kissed me last night. My skin tingles at the memory of it. I wish I could so easily embody her ability to take any moment and turn it into opportunity.
“Earth to Adam.” She nudges me with her shoulder.
I swirl the coffee Shaw brought for me—I wonder if this is some new tradition—and take a tentative sip. Less grit than before, but it’s still there. I prop the cup on my heart pillow that’s resting on my lap. “This is a bit gritty.”
“Must be the sweetener. So, are you actually going to talk about what’s on your mind? Because you have to if this is going to work.”
I’d prefer sitting here for the entire session in silence, but Shaw will keep prodding until the words pour out of me. I don’t have the mental energy for another drawn out battle with her. “I met a girl.”
Shaw shifts position to catch my sightline. “Really?”
“She isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met before.”
“How so?” Her gaze falls to my coffee. She purses her lips slightly, then adopts her usual clinical flatness.
A smile plays at my mouth as I take another sip—I don’t want to give Shaw another reason to think I’m resisting her by refusing to drink it. “She’s interested in talking to me,” I joke. Only it doesn’t come out as a joke. It sounds pathetic. Internally, I groan, knowing Shaw will delve deeper into my lack of self-esteem.
Shaw relaxes a bit. “I’m sure a lot of people want to talk to you, but you don’t let them in. What about your friends? Have you reached out to them since you were admitted to the hospital?”
“You know I haven’t.”
“Right, which means you push people away.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just like you’re doing now. You’re afraid of letting people in.” Shaw picks a piece of fuz
z off her wool jacket. Imperfections aren’t allowed in her world. Maintaining an immaculate persona must be her way of dealing with the messy lives of the people she treats. I wonder what she’d think of my pop psychology interpretation of her.
I give a non-committal shrug, even though she’s wrong. I’m not afraid of letting people in. I’m afraid of letting her in. Doesn’t matter. She’ll burrow through anyway. She always does.
“So what’s different about this girl that you’ve decided to bring her up?” She takes another sip of her latte, then bonks her cup against mine. “Cheers, by the way, for stepping out of your comfort zone.”
I chew on my lip ring. Every word I say has significance. I can say I hate hangnails and Shaw will interpret it to mean I hate a part of myself and fantasize about ripping it off. Ordinary conversations don’t go like this. They’re spontaneous, words are just that—words, and there’s no pressure or wondering if what you say will be torn apart and analyzed bit by bit. Finally, I say, “Meeting people is living life.”
“True. But you didn’t have to talk to her.”
“She came up to me first. I couldn’t ignore her.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at. What was it about her that drew you in?”
That couldn’t possibly be important for Shaw to know. I consider asking her, but my last question got shot down so I’d be wasting my time by following up with another. “She’s direct. Says what she means. She doesn’t twist my words around or analyze them. And I don’t have to talk about the surgery or my heart or anything.”
Her lips thin into a line of displeasure. “You think I’m forcing you to share your most secret thoughts and emotions and you think I twist them around, and you like her because she’s the exact opposite of me.”
How’d she turn this into being about her? I examine my last words like a scientist reviewing test results. … “twist my words … or analyze them.” Oh. Crap. I’ve done a brilliant—and by brilliant, I mean awful—job of screening what I say. I need to hit the brakes and shift into reverse if I want to prevent this session from spiraling out of control. “No, I didn’t mean you … ” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s your job to analyze what I say.”
And I hate every single minute of it.
“I don’t need you to be considerate of my feelings and I know what my job is.” She runs her fingers along the rim of her cup.
So much for smoothing things over. I slump into the bench, resting my coffee on my pillow again. “How am I supposed to be open with you when you attack everything I say?”
“I’m not attacking you.”
“Feels like it.”
“Sometimes therapy is painful.”
I debate if she’s offered a white flag, then say, “Sometimes it’s nice to hang out with someone who doesn’t know a lot about my heart condition.”
“How much have you told her?”
“Not much, but the subject had to come up.” I lift the pillow, feeling a bit like a toddler with a security blanket.
Shaw pins me with her needle-like gaze. “Tell me exactly what you told her. I need to know everything.”
I shift to the left until the armrest stops me. It digs into my side. Still less painful than talking to Shaw. “Why is it so important?”
“This is a new potential relationship and I need to know how it may impact you and our work.”
I never should have said anything. My stomach curdles. I don’t need Shaw meddling in whatever I might have with Darby. If I have anything.
I hug the pillow tighter. Maybe it is a security blanket, or in the very least a shield against her … a rather ineffective one. “She knows I had heart surgery, but I didn’t say anything about the transplant.”
“What else?”
Maybe she’ll drop her inquisition if she knows about Darby’s and my moratorium on the subject of our illnesses. “We decided not to talk about why we’re in the hospital.”
“So she’s a patient. What’s her condition?”
Again, I have no idea why Shaw would need to know that, but I have no hope of dodging her question either. “She broke her neck in an accident.”
Shaw’s on her feet in a flash. “I’m glad you didn’t tell her about the transplant. You have to be careful who you share that information with.”
I peer up at her, startled. “Why?”
“Some people don’t understand it. They think it’s unnatural.”
I frown. Up until now, she’s been trying to get me to accept a new heart as a gift, not as cheating death, and now she’s telling me I have to keep it a secret so I won’t be ridiculed.
“Everyone at school knows.” Sure, the other students have given me odd stares or pity glances, but they’ve never called me out for being “unnatural.” I was the one who did that to myself.
“Just be careful with this girl.” She turns and walks away from me, her heels clicking on the slate tiles.
I stare at her back as she yanks open the door and slips through.
What the hell?
I run my fingers over my lip ring, replaying the conversation in my mind. Things were okay—well, for our sessions—until she found out I discussed my condition with Darby. Like it pissed her off I talked with someone else about it besides her.
Weird.
* * *
Mum and Dad are waiting for me when I return to my room. They’re hovering by the window. Mum holds onto her purse like I hold onto my pillow.
I pause inside the doorway. Seems like it’s been forever since we last spoke. Finally, I drop my coffee in the waste bin and say, “Hi.”
Brilliant, I know.
Mum strides toward me, then halts, uncertain. It reminds me of a deer scoping out a new situation. I’m not a threat, per se, but I can be unpredictable. “How are you?”
“Fine.” The word reflexively flies out of my mouth. I’ve said it so often it’s my tic.
Dad crosses his arms. The downturn of his mouth tells me he’s not pleased.
Mum slumps onto the cot. “We haven’t spoken in days and all you can say is ‘fine?’”
“But I am. I’m doing everything I need to do. I’m exercising, taking my meds, talking to Shaw. She’s making me write a Live Life List. Is that what you want to hear?” I lean against the wall, pining for my coveted windowsill seat, and fumble with the pin Shaw gave me. I attached to the pillow like she’d suggested. It’s surprising she didn’t mention it.
“Live Life List?” Dad asks.
I don’t miss the sarcasm hanging on every “L” with dirty claws.
“It’s part of therapy. I’m supposed to make a list of things I’d like to do with my life. You know, hobbies, goals, that kind of stuff.” It’s an easy thing to explain, yet an impossible thing to complete.
Mum leans forward. “Can I see it?”
And here’s where my argument faceplants. “Well, I haven’t actually written anything on it.”
Dad puffs his cheeks out and exhales.
“But I’m getting out of my room and … I don’t look depressed, do I?” I toss my pillow on the bed and spread my arms wide to match the toothy grin I bare to them.
Mum’s scans me up and down. “No. You don’t look as depressed as you did.”
I lower my arms. “See? I’m alright.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She mimes Dad’s posture.
“I wish you guys would give me a break.”
“We’d ask the same of you.”
“Right.”
“Don’t talk back to your mother,” Dad says.
“I’m not.”
“It’s okay, David.” Mum stands again. “Honey, this isn’t how I wanted our visit to go. I’m glad you’re doing what you need to do. We worry about you, is all.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m not sure we know how to stop.” Mum gives a little chuckle.
“Maybe Shaw could give you some tips.”
“Maybe.”
Mentioning Darby might perk them up, but it didn’t go so well when I told Shaw about her and I’m not sure I’m ready to take the risk with Mum and Dad. On the other hand, telling them about her might give them a reason to lay off me a bit. “If it helps, I’ve been hanging out with someone.”
Mum perks up. “Is that where you’ve been? Who is it? I hope you didn’t have caffeine in that drink.”
I hesitate at her flurry of words. I could confess Shaw’s new habit of bringing me coffee, but don’t want Mum to question me about that. Every time we talk about Shaw, it turns into an argument. Darby it is then. “She’s my age. Her name is Darby. She’s a patient here, too. Well, on the Pediatric wing. She got hurt in an accident.”
Relief softens her face, makes her look five years younger, easy. “That’s so wonderful, honey. Not that she’s hurt, of course, but that you enjoy spending time with her.”
“She’s so different from anyone I’ve ever met.” It’s the truth. Talking seems easy for her, like swimming is for fish, or flying is for birds. I’m more like an ostrich flapping my useless wings.
“Are you going to see her again?”
“I hope so.” We’d planned on seeing each other during PT. I glance at the clock. Ricky should be showing up any minute now.
“That’s great.” Mum’s face shines brighter than the sunlight streaming through the window.
Dad breaks his crossed arm stance and hooks his thumbs through his belt loops. “You should get her number so you can keep talking after you come home.”
Both of their defensive strategies are softening. Good.
“Yeah.” I try to suppress the smile tugging at my mouth. I’ve never asked a girl for her number before. I’m checking items off my Live Life List before I have a chance to write them down.
Mum pulls me in for a hug. After patting my back a thousand and one times, she says, “Is that a smile I see trying to break through?”
A rush of heat blossoms in my cheeks. “Um … yes.”
She laughs. It’s the genuinely happy.
Under My Skin Page 14
