Chapter 27
Lou and I are supposed to meet Talia at the gym this morning for a “celebration of having a healthy heart and body” workout together. I woke up so early that I still have forty-five minutes before we leave, but there’s no way I can go back to sleep.
Instead, I get out of bed and walk over to my dresser, studying my pale reflection in the mirror.
Even in the darkness, I can easily see the red, puckered skin of the scar bisecting my rib cage.
I trace it with my finger. Seven years ago tonight, I was lying on a table, my chest cracked open, my heart literally getting cut out of my body.
It’s unfathomable. There are times I honestly don’t know how to wrap my head around the fact that I don’t have my own heart.
“You are a miracle. You are alive, and that is worth celebrating,” I whisper to my reflection.
Looking away from the mirror, I take my immunosuppressants, put on my workout clothes, and turn on my light.
Then I pull out a sheet of paper from the stack I keep on the top shelf of my closet—the same ones I used for my original letter to the donor family.
I picked a plain white paper with gold angel wings embossed in the left top corner, representing their angel who gave me the ultimate gift.
I have a tradition on this day that’s only for me.
Every year, I write a letter to the donor family, telling them I’m still healthy and expressing my gratitude for the gift of their loved one’s heart and my sorrow for their loss.
But I don’t know who to send them to since it was a closed transplant—the donor family didn’t want to know who I am or have any contact with the recipient of the heart.
I was allowed to send one letter that the transplant coordinator forwarded to the family shortly after my surgery, but I wasn’t allowed to sign it.
The fact that they didn’t even want to know my first name is more proof to me that the donor family was completely devastated by their loss.
I carry that guilt and sorrow around with me everywhere I go, along with the heart they gave me.
I write these letters every year, sign my name because I know they’ll never see them, and then fold them up, put them in an envelope, and stack them on my top closet shelf.
By the time I finish writing this one, I have tears streaming down my cheeks—a few drip off my chin and splat on the paper, soaking the ink so it spreads like a black bloodstain.
The sound of someone in the hallway pulls me back from the abyss.
I quickly gather the letters, stacking the new one on top of the others, but I don’t have time to put them back in my closet before there’s a soft knock on my door.
I don’t know why I keep it a secret; maybe I’m afraid of what everyone would say if they knew.
Especially since they all want me to focus on the future and believing I have decades of life still ahead of me.
Writing yearly letters of grief to the family who gave me the heart probably won’t convince them that I’m as mentally healthy as they want me to be.
I swipe at my cheeks, hoping whoever is up won’t be able to tell I’ve been crying.
I figure it’s Lou since we’re going to the gym together, so I can’t disguise the jolt of surprise when I open my door and Hunter is standing there, looking even more broad than normal in a fitted black tech shirt he often wears running.
“I was trying to be quiet, but I saw your light—you’re up early. Everything okay?” He studies me, his gaze shadowed, even with the light from my room spilling out over him. I hope because I’m backlit, he won’t notice if my eyes are still a little red.
“You’re up early too.”
“Yeah,” he says. “At the risk of sounding like I’m eight instead of twenty-eight, I had a nightmare and couldn’t go back to sleep.”
There is a tightness about him; his shoulders are tense, his mouth drawn.
“Must have been some nightmare.”
“Why are you up?” he deflects, peering more closely at me. “Have you been crying?”
“No,” I say too quickly, looking down. “I, um, yawned a bunch. I woke up before my alarm and decided since I’m leaving for the gym soon anyway, I might as well get up and get ready.”
When I dare glance up, Hunter’s gaze has moved past me to the stack of letters sitting in the glow of my lamp. There’s a question on his face when his eyes meet mine again. But he doesn’t question me.
“I’m heading out for a run,” is all he says. “Try to clear my head.”
“Okay.” I kind of hope he’s going to kiss me but realize I probably have terrible morning breath and then hope he isn’t going to. But it still stings when he merely nods and turns on his heel to jog down the stairs.
He pauses almost at the bottom and turns back to me. “By the way, you’re not the type to do pranks on April Fool’s Day, are you?”
“No.” My brow furrows. It might be a deal-breaker if he says he loves pranks.
“I’m glad to hear that. Neither am I.”
I’m relieved I don’t have to worry about saran wrap on the toilet seat or salt in the sugar container or stupid things like that.
“Well . . . have a good workout.”
“Thanks. Have a good run.”
He nods, and then he’s gone, leaving me standing in my doorway, a little baffled at the odd exchange and lack of kiss or hug or anything.
But then Lou emerges from her room, looking like something a raccoon hauled out of a garbage can, her hair sticking out at all angles and mascara smeared across her face, and the sight makes me burst out laughing.
“Shut up,” she growls as she shlumps her way to the bathroom. “I’m giving up my beauty sleep for you. I hope you appreciate it.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” I point out. “Talia is the one who thinks we all need to celebrate my ability to lift weights together.”
But Lou’s only response is to shut the bathroom door.
The steady hum of the machines in Farmor’s room are even more difficult to listen to today than normal—a reminder of what my life was before my transplant.
I hold her hand in mine and track any movement in her eyes.
She sometimes reacts when I talk to her.
In those moments, I can almost believe she is going to wake up.
“Any day!” the doctors keep promising us.
But she still hasn’t done more than squeeze my hand the one time.
“I haven’t read any more of your journal,” I admit quietly to her.
“I’m too scared. I’m afraid if you don’t wake up, whatever I read in there might make me hate my grandpa.
And you won’t ever be able to tell me why you stayed.
” I trace the veins on her hand with my fingertip. “Please, Farmor. Please, wake up.”
Her eyes flutter, and my breath catches—and then . . . nothing.
There are several seconds of nothing but the beeping of the machines tracking all her vitals. I wait.
And wait.
“I gave Hunter another chance, like I promised you. Actually,” I say, “more like multiple chances. But you were right. So you need to wake up and tell me, ‘I told you so!’ And then tell me what I should do now. Because I’m totally falling for him .
. . and I’m so scared. I’m trying to do what everyone says and assume I’ll live a long time.
It’s not that simple though.” I wish it were.
But she doesn’t inexplicably wake up and immediately answer all my questions and allay all my fears.
I look up to the ceiling. “I got my miracle seven years ago today. Is it too much to ask for another one for her?”
There’s no response—from heaven or Farmor. Because two miracles is two too many, I’m afraid. She stays completely still and silent. And I’m left to my questions, fears, and regrets.
Mom switches places with me around lunchtime.
I hope that work will distract me, but the afternoon at the bakery drags.
I haven’t seen Hunter after our brief interaction before his run.
Lou comes to get the office treats instead of him shortly after I get there.
I try to hide my disappointment when she walks in, but I’m sure she notices.
“You’re not allowed home until five thirty,” she announces as she checks out.
“You want me to show up to my party covered in flour, wearing jeans and a Made in Sweden—Just Like Our Buns T-shirt?” I scowl.
“No, I want you to come to your party wearing this.” She lifts the duffel bag she’s carrying and sets it on the bakery counter. “And you can use the bathroom here to freshen up.”
“Do I even want to know what’s in this bag?” I’m scared to look.
“You’ll love it, I promise. I have to go—I have a ton of work to get done since I’m leaving early to decorate and stuff. See you tonight!” She leans across the counter to grab me in a hug.
When I only halfheartedly return it, she puts her hands on my shoulders and pushes me back to look into my face. “I know this party isn’t your favorite thing. But I promise I’m trying to make it something you’ll enjoy,” she says.
“Thank you, Lou.” I summon a smile, knowing she’s really trying her hardest.
Once she’s gone, I busy myself as much as possible at the bakery, cooking and cleaning and organizing, anything to keep from being still too long and letting myself think too much about those months in the hospital when I didn’t know if I would live or die.
Later that afternoon, when Rebecca asks if I want to leave to go get ready for my party, I tell her no, that I’m not allowed home until five thirty, so I let her go instead while I stay to clean up and close for the day.
I lock the door and turn up the music, blasting songs to help drown out all the thoughts in my head as I mop and wipe down counters and wash pots and pans.