Chapter 8
I work out almost every day, and everyone knows it’s for my health. My mom, Farmor, Talia, even Lou, all watch, tracking how often I go, how hard I push. Their eyes, their whispers, their clutched hands all repeat a silent refrain: Be careful, be careful, be careful.
It’s the mantra of every beat of my heart.
But not even this new heart can erase the pain the last one held. Nor can it fill in the dark chasm that still threatens to gape open and swallow me whole when I least expect it.
So I do push harder than I’m told. I go more often than I technically need to for the medical tests on my heart function. It’s the other stuff that drives me here so often.
But not even an hour of cardio and weights is enough this time. I go home shaky and clammy and still feeling far too close to the edge.
The near-scalding spray of the shower at home can’t burn the despair away either, and the lure of a new book doesn’t push the darkness from my mind.
I attempt several tries of reading the first chapter, but my mind is still racing my heart for most-out-of-control organ.
I stare at the words on the page, but all I see is the look of shock in my dad’s eyes—the horror and agony contorting his face—as he knelt on the sand at the beach, holding his piece of birthday cake right before he collapsed.
I snap the book shut, thump it down on my dresser, then flop back on my bed.
I have another unanswered text from Austin, letting me know he has tickets to a Suns game for tomorrow night, and several more texts from Talia, telling me he stopped by her desk twice to ask if I’ve said anything to her about our date.
(Which she also reports is totally unlike him—to care what I thought and to ask me out on a second date at all, let alone so quickly.)
My mind whirls faster and faster, spinning through the last two days—and everything from long before that I’m desperate to ignore.
My heart rate is too high. And nothing is working to make it all just stop.
The kitchen. When all else fails, I bake.
And when I’m sick of baking (such as after a long, early-morning shift at Konditori), I cook.
For the first time since Farmor’s words sent me spiraling, I start to calm as I pull ingredients out of cupboards and the fridge to make chicken piccata and mashed potatoes.
I turn on Frank Sinatra and let him croon away my anxiety as I fall into the rhythm of slicing, dicing, peeling, and mixing.
I lose track of time until the kitchen is fragrant with sautéed garlic and onions, the citrus steam of seared lemon slices, and sizzling chicken.
I’m so lost in the process when my phone rings that I startle and nearly drop the butcher knife.
I glance at the screen and see a picture of me and Talia—one year after my heart transplant, when we were college roommates, arms slung over each other’s shoulders.
We’re wearing matching ASU T-shirts and shorts, our legs long and tan from a spring break trip to Puerto Vallarta, where her abuela is from.
That was also the year her parents announced they had stayed together only for her and were getting a divorce now that she had moved out and was an adult.
I flush when I remember I still haven’t responded to her texts. But my hands are covered in flour and chicken. The call goes to voice mail.
And then the phone promptly starts ringing again.
I heave a sigh. At least I’m finally a bit calmer. I barely glance at the screen long enough to use a pinkie to swipe the call and hit Speaker before turning back to my chicken to make sure it doesn’t burn.
“Hey Tal! Sorry I haven’t—”
“Livvy! Th—there’s . . . been . . .” My mom’s voice is hysterical.
“Mom?” Cold fear spears through my chest. “Are you crying? What’s going on? What happened?”
“It’s—it’s Farmor. She . . . collapsed. Sh-She . . . wasn’t b-breathing . . .” My mom gasps, nearly incoherent.
“What?” The thud of my heartbeat echoes in my skull. “I’m coming—just tell me where you are!”
“I called 911 . . . They’re putting her in . . . the ambulance.” She’s full-on sobbing now.
Farmor collapsed. Farmor wasn’t breathing.
A spear of terror impales me; the kitchen tilts as though I’ve suddenly stepped into a carnival fun house, where the mirrors distort everything—up is down, right is left, everything is wrong, wrong, wrong.
But somehow, I manage to calmly instruct, “Go get in the ambulance with her and find out where they’re taking her. I’ll meet you there.”
There are other voices, other sounds around my mom, coming through my phone. I don’t know what the sounds are. I don’t know what they mean.
She doesn’t say anything else but doesn’t hang up either. I’m trembling; my hands are clammy. It’s an almost out-of-body experience as I turn off all the burners, leaving the nearly completed meal to spoil and go to waste.
Once everything is off, I stand in the kitchen, paralyzed. Muffled sounds come from my phone. I fight off visions of Farmor lying on the ground, her beautiful face gray and -foreign.
Her words to me today—the way I turned my back on her and walked away—
Farmor collapsed. Farmor wasn’t breathing.
The last thing she may have ever said to me—
“Osborne Medical Center—That’s where we’re—” My mom’s voice is suddenly back, but she’s cut off by someone else shouting something I can’t understand.
And then the wail of a siren echoes through my phone, into the kitchen where the chicken has stopped sizzling and the water has fallen still around the diced potatoes.
It’s the sound that has made my blood turn to ice ever since I was thirteen. The soundtrack to my worst nightmares for over a decade. The one sound that can make my heart immediately lurch into a panicked gallop, slamming into my rib cage.
The line abruptly disconnects, leaving me in a silence so complete it feels deafening. And that’s even worse, somehow, than the sirens.
My terror-induced paralysis morphs into frantic action; I scramble to find my car keys, snatch my purse off the counter, and careen through the condo and out the front door, clumsily trying to type Osborne Medical Center into my GPS.
A sleek, silver BMW pulls up behind my Volvo and parks as I finally manage to pull up the hospital.
Fifteen minutes away.
“Olivia!”
I ignore Hunter and rush to the driver’s-side door of my car.
“Liv! What’s wrong? What are you—”
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I’m barely able to see to get my key in the stupid lock on the side of my stupid old car that I have to open like a house door—
“Here, I can help—”
“You’ve done enough!” The words are a ragged shout.
Hunter’s voice is calm, even soft, when he says, “Liv. Let me help you.” His body is big and warm and steady next to mine, and I nearly crumple to the street when he wraps his hand around mine and gently pries the key from my stiff fingers.
“Farmor,” I whisper, or maybe I shriek it, I honestly don’t know. I don’t know how I can contain this much fear. A raging tsunami of regret builds in me; anticipatory pain limns my skin and muscles like ice, cold and sharp. Is she gone? Did I lose her too?
Can’t.
Breathe.
I fought it. I tried so hard—
. . . But I’m back there—in that room—I’m clutching his hand, begging my dad not to go, pleading with God to save him—
“Liv, look at me.” Hunter’s voice is low and insistent, tender but firm. His hands are on my face. His hands—gentle, strong hands—tilt my head up so my eyes meet his. Darkness tunnels the edges of my vision. “Olivia, look at me,” he repeats. “Breathe with me. Breathe in. Yes, like this.”
I’m drowning, but Hunter holds my head above the surface. He inhales, and I copy him. He blows out through his mouth; his minty breath brushes across my icy skin, and I exhale. In and out.
“Breathe with me.”
Inhale . . . eyes on his.
Minty breath on my cheeks . . . exhale.
My legs are partially numb. My arms ache. My heart surges and surges and surges.
Gray skin, unseeing eyes, caskets lined with silk and the feel of formaldehyde skin . . .
“Stay with me. Olivia, look at me!” Hunter’s voice is sharper, commanding.
I obey, and the ghosts retreat. I stare into his eyes.
Green-flecks-and-burnt-autumn-leaves eyes.
One hand is still on my face, but the other is wrapped around my body, half propping me up, pulling me against him.
The spinning slows. He breathes. I breathe.
The numbness is replaced by sharp pins pricking my muscles—oxygen flowing back to deprived tissue.
The panic attack recedes.
“There you are,” Hunter says softly, carefully releasing me, making sure I’m steady on my feet.
I stare at him.
“Proceed to the route,” my GPS says, woken up by my move-ment.
“I have to go.” I spin away from Hunter, cheeks burning and lungs tight. I search the ground for my fallen keys.
“You’re in no condition to drive,” he says, gentle.
I hate him for being right. “I don’t know if she’s okay or not, so I’m upset—not incapable of driving!” The panic is ebbing away, leaving space for the embarrassment that floods my body with heat.
Hunter reaches around me to slide the key he somehow has into the driver’s-side door. The lock clicks, and he opens the door. But when I try to slide into my driver’s seat, he grasps my arm to stop me.
“Quit manhandling me,” I snap, whirling to face him, chest heaving.
Hunter’s too close. “I’m not manhandling you, Olivia.” The flecks of jade in his eyes glint in the bright sunlight.
His eyes saved me from drowning moments ago, but now I’m mad that they did. I’m mad that he is the one who reached down and pulled me out.
“Tell me where you’re going.” Hunter looks at me steadily, his expression inscrutable. The directness of his gaze sends a quiver down my spine, straight into the depths of my stomach. “I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“I’m not really giving you a choice.” His jaw is set. “The last thing anyone needs is for you to crash on your way to the hospital.”
“I’m fine now. I promise.”
Instead of responding, he merely reaches for my wrist and holds up my hand between us so we can both see how my fingers tremble in the space between our bodies.
I swallow.
“I know I’ve been a jerk, and I’m probably the last person you want to accept help from,” he says, “but please let me drive you.”
I can stand here arguing with him, or I can accept that he’s not going to let me drive. What I won’t accept is the unexpected—and unwelcome—sensation of relief that swoops through my belly when I relent. “Okay.”
He nods and stays by my side as we hurry to his car. I slide into his passenger seat as he starts the engine with a low rumble of power.
“Where am I going?”
I pull up my GPS. “Go to the stop sign and then take a right. And hurry!”
Hunter doesn’t exactly floor it—we’re in a neighborhood after all—but he gets up to twenty-five really fast. His car is immaculately clean and smells like leather and a hint of something sultry and spicy that I think might be his cologne.
No rogue, stale french fries or stinky gym bags halfway open to be found.
I don’t know why I catalog these details.
Something to focus on other than my fear.
“Do you know what happened?” Hunter asks.
“Farmor collapsed. She wasn’t breathing. That’s all I know.” I force the tremor out of my voice, even though I feel like glass about to crack.
We fall silent, except for when I have to give him directions as he deftly maneuvers through the heavy traffic. There’s nothing to say. Every red light we hit makes my hands shake harder. The ghosts of the past are banished once more, but I have no control over the terror of my present.
When my GPS says we’re only four minutes away, I can’t take it anymore. I dial my mom’s number. But it rings and rings before going to voice mail.
“Why isn’t she answering?” I toss my phone onto my lap and squeeze my head between the heels of my hands. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
“Your farmor is going to be okay,” Hunter says, but his hands flex around the steering wheel, and he pushes down on the gas. His powerful car surges forward, weaving between slower vehicles.
When we finally turn the corner, I can see the flashing red and blue lights of an ambulance in the ER bay.
“No matter what we find when we go in there, you will make it through this,” he says.
I clutch my silent phone harder.
Hunter pulls into one of the first empty spots by the ER. I’ve opened the door and am halfway out of the car before he’s even put it into park. I don’t wait to see if he’s coming as I sprint for the hospital, silently pleading that Farmor is still alive.
When I burst through the ambulance bay doors, it’s to total chaos, doctors, nurses, and techs darting and pushing and rushing every which way.
Machines beep and whine, and alarms sound every few seconds.
People are yelling and dragging crash carts in opposite directions down the hallway.
There must have been a major trauma recently. This can’t all be for Farmor.
My heartbeat surges again, hammering violently beneath my scarred sternum, as I search the trauma bays—futilely—for any sign of my mom. I catch glimpses of people covered in blood as medical staff yank curtains open and closed; someone down the hallway is screaming.
“What are you doing? If you aren’t immediate family of one of these patients, you can’t be here.”
My lungs squeeze with another wave of rising panic as I turn to see a police officer appraising me with his arms folded over his uniform.
“Her mom and grandma were taken here by ambulance—-we need to find them right away.” Suddenly, Hunter is here, taller and broader than the policeman, imposing in his tie and expensive slacks, his striated skin even more jarring in the florescent lights.
For reasons I don’t have the emotional bandwidth to investigate, the sight of him brings me another surge of relief. “Can you help us locate them?”
The officer looks up at Hunter. His eyes flicker over the scars, but if he’s shocked by the uneven skin grafts, he manages to hide his reaction.
There’s a long pause, and I fight the irrational terror that he’s about to arrest us until he says, “I can’t help you.
I suggest you go to the front desk and ask there. ”
“Thank you,” Hunter says, his hand lightly brushing the small of my back—a barely noticeable touch, merely enough to let me know he’s here, he’s with me. “We appreciate your help.”
“Code blue, bay 10! Code blue, bay 10!”
The overhead announcement is followed by another burst of activity. When a tall guy in scrubs with a crash cart yanks open the curtain around bay 10, my entire body goes cold.
My mom stands behind a team of doctors and nurses, her knuckles jammed against her mouth.
And on the table, her apron and clothes cut away so they can put the paddles on her exposed body, is Farmor.