Chapter 29
The next day I’m barely able to drag myself out of bed.
Talia and Lou both stop by, and Lou confirms that Hunter came back after I left, but he won’t talk to her.
He went to work, did his job, but hasn’t spoken to anyone about anything other than the details of their job.
No one knows if he’s okay or what he’s thinking.
But I know.
He hates me. He hates me for being alive—for having his sister’s heart.
How could he not?
I hate that I have his sister’s heart. I hate that every time I wake up, every time I notice it beating, I have to think of the day she died. The day Hunter crashed his car.
“Sweetheart, I know this is . . . awful.” My mom hovers in the doorway to my room that evening after she gets home from working in the bakery and visiting Farmor again. “But don’t you think if you take a shower, try to eat a little, maybe it won’t seem quite so horrible?”
“A shower,” I repeat. “You think showering will fix this?” She opens her mouth to speak again, but I barrel on.
“I can’t eat, because when I do, I feel like I’m going to throw up.
But sure. Maybe I’ll try a magical shower that will suddenly make me not have Hunter’s dead sister’s heart in my chest. Then we can go back to dating and falling in love and not have to deal with any of this other stupid mess. ”
Mom’s eyes glisten in the evening sunlight. A new thread of guilt intertwines with the constant Lyla’s-heart-saved-your-life guilt that is so huge it practically chokes me day and night.
“Mom . . .” I sigh. “I’m sorry—”
But she’s gone.
I’m a terrible person. A terrible person who doesn’t deserve to be lying awake in this bed, snapping at her mom—who is only trying to help in an impossible situation, on top of trying to keep the bakery running and caring for her mother-in-law in the ICU.
The only thing I can think to make it better is to do what she asked and climb out of bed and force myself to shower.
The water sluicing over my hair and body is so hot it stings, but I welcome the pricks of pain. I deserve pain. I deserve to suffer—the way my being alive is no doubt making Hunter suffer. Even as I think that, I recognize it means I’m not in a good place, but I don’t know how to make it stop.
After I finish, I wrap a towel around myself and stand in front of the sink.
The mirror is fogged over, so I wipe a hand across it until I stare at my reflection, at the scar on my chest, delving down my sternum.
Something I’ve done -hundreds—maybe thousands—of times over the last seven years.
But it’s different now. As I stand there, inspecting the red, raised skin, instead of fear, instead of mere guilt and worry, I am suddenly, completely consumed by rage.
Impotent, all-consuming rage. And anguish.
I clench the edge of the bathroom counter, digging my nails into the granite.
“Why did I live and she died?” I shout at God, or whoever else might be listening.
“Why did I live because she died? How could You do that to him—to me? Why did You let me meet him, let me come to love him?” I dissolve into sobs and sink to the ground in a heap of towel, scarred sternum, and dripping-wet hair.
“Liv, honey . . . are you okay? What’s going on?” My mom’s voice through the bathroom door only makes me cry harder.
“Mom,” I keen, “why did this happen? How could God do this to both of us?”
She opens the door, and when she sees me on the floor, she sinks to her knees next to me, immediately gathering me in her arms, despite the fact that I’m still half soaked and was unpardonably cruel to her half an hour ago.
“God didn’t do this to either of you,” she says softly, stroking my wet hair.
“He didn’t cause Hunter’s sister’s death.
Hunter made a mistake, and a terrible thing happened—and you happened to be a match and next on the list. Is there a reason you met Hunter and came to care for him?
Maybe. There may be a purpose in you two meeting that we don’t know yet.
But nobody did any of this to either of you—not God or fate or anything else.
We are all free to make choices in our lives, choices that have consequences.
And sometimes things just happen—like your dad and your heart.
And when those things happen, we have a decision to make: whether we turn the pain in our lives to good or let it destroy us. ”
I cling to my mom like I’m a little girl, not a twenty-five-year-old woman, hot tears slipping over my chilled cheeks. “How? How can anything so awful ever be turned into something good?”
“It’s not easy, but it can be done,” Mom whispers with a conviction that makes my breath catch.
“Losing your dad . . . thinking I was going to lose you too . . . those were the worst times of my life. But because of that pain, because of how hard those days were, anytime I feel real, true happiness, I cherish it ten times more. Maybe even a hundred times more.” She leans back, only enough to take my face in her hands so she can look me in the eyes.
“One of the great ironies of life is that the more you’ve suffered, the more you can appreciate the good in your life—if you choose to.
I read somewhere that you can only comprehend joy to the degree that you’ve suffered.
“I think that’s why God lets heartbreaking, terrible things happen.
Because He knows that even though it will hurt, it can also lead to a greater kind of joy: the joy of having survived the worst days of your life and realizing how strong you truly are.
And that you are still capable of experiencing happiness. ”
She cups my cheek tenderly. “But it’s up to you.
You can choose to become angry and bitter.
Or you can choose to look for reasons to still smile.
A beautiful sunrise that takes your breath away.
Or a hug from someone that makes you feel like your heart might burst. Even finding ways to help others who are hurting.
When you do that, you’ll be shocked how happy it will make you.
One of the best things I ever did was move here to help Farmor.
Realizing that others are hurting, too, and that you have the power to bring them even a moment of joy? That’s truly a miracle.”
I shake my head in my mom’s hands. “You’re stronger than I am. You’re better than I am. I’m not just sad . . . I’m scared and angry. No, I’m furious. And devastated and . . .” I break off into a fresh round of sobs.
“This is all new and fresh, Livvy.” She blinks back her own tears. “It’s okay to be scared and devastated, even furious right now. But soon, you’ll find the right way forward. I know you. And I know how strong you are. You will make it through this. And I have a feeling Hunter will too.”
My tears gather in my pressed lips. Whether he does or doesn’t won’t matter.
If there’s anything I’ve realized from this horror movie come true, it’s that I was right all along: I never should have let us get close enough for the truth to hurt him so badly.
Because this, right now? Knowing I have his sister’s heart?
That’ll be nothing compared to the day Lyla’s heart stops working.
“I know you’ll get through this,” she repeats as if she knows I need to hear it over and over.
“And once you do, the days that were once the worst of your life will also be the ones that help you realize how strong you truly are. When you know the darkness so deeply, you appreciate the light even more. And it’s often in unexpected ways.
” She strokes my hair back. “I know everything feels impossible right now, but cling to any light you can find and hold on. There is good to come from all this—I believe it with all my heart.”
I can’t bring myself to agree with her, so I stay silent as I lean into her, curling into her lap and letting her hold me tight in the middle of the bathroom floor.
The next morning, I make myself get out of bed and dress, and I’m waiting downstairs for my mom at 5:00 a.m.
My carefully rehearsed speech blurs in my sleep--deprived, guilt-and-sorrow-ridden brain when I see her, and instead, I blurt out, “I can’t keep making you work and take care of Farmor without breaks. I’ll go back today. I’m not sick. I can go to work. I’m going to work.”
My mom looks at me for a second and then nods, stepping forward to envelope me in a hug. “It’s good to get your fingers back in the dough. Farmor taught me that. It always helps to bake.”
I squeeze Mom back tightly.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing behind my mom as she unlocks the front door to let us into Konditori.
I pause on the threshold and glance toward the title company, but it’s barely five fifteen; no one is there yet.
The sky is leaden. It’s a rare overcast morning, billowing clouds hovering over the Super-stition Mountains; there’s a zing in the air—a foreboding of restless energy that hints at the possibility of a storm later.
I wrap my arms around myself, chilled even though it’s already almost seventy degrees, even without the sun up yet.
When I finally walk into Konditori, shut the door, and lock it behind me, Mom is well into the kitchen. I head back, take my apron off its hook, and tie it on.
“What do you want to tackle first?” she asks, surveying the gleaming kitchen.
“Whatever you want me to do. Put me to work.” I think she can sense that I have no desire to make any decisions today, so she assigns me the semlor buns.
I begin to pull out and measure the ingredients.
It’s a three--part recipe—the dough infused with cardamom for the actual buns, the marzipan, and the cream for the filling.
Slowly, the familiar routine takes effect, settling my mind and soul, allowing me to turn off all thoughts except for measuring, mixing, kneading, and shaping.
Gratefully, I lose myself to the baking. This I know. This I can do.