1.
Liv, 18
When I was little, I begged my mom to tell me stories every night. She would lie beside me, allowing me to melt into her warmth, the softness of her arms cradling me. I’d breathe in the calming notes of lavender from her lotion that mingled with the sweet, lingering scent of whatever treat she’d baked that day. She’d weave tales about princesses and inventors and world-renowned doctors. All of them were named Olivia—and all of them saved the world in one way or another.
In none of her stories did Olivia end up spending the second half of her senior year of high school in a hospital with a machine forcing her heart to continue beating, waiting for someone else to die so Olivia could live.
It turns out, my mom’s stories were a load of crap.
“You’re going to the dark place again, aren’t you.”
It isn’t a question, so I don’t answer.
“We could play a prank on Dr. McHottie. ItisApril Fool’s Day. It would be criminalnotto take advantage of this opportunity.”
“Seriously?” I gesture to the tubes and machines that keep me tethered to this world but also trap me in this bed,and I lift my eyebrows at Talia. “How do you suggest I prank any of the doctors here when I can’t even go to the bathroom without paging my nurse?”
“We can come up with something.” Talia shrugs, her long, brown hair falling over one shoulder. If I look closely, I can see my reflection in the glasses she put on to “do homework”: my greasy blonde hair (because dry shampoo can do only so much, and showers are not the easiest with an LVAD), my blue eyes with bruises the color of overripe plums beneath them, and the faint cyan line, like an unfortunate shade of liner, that traces my lips. My face, pale and colorless, blends into my pillowcase. Talia, by contrast, glows—olive skin kissed by sunlight, and her “root-beer eyes,” as herabuelaso fondly calls them, spark with mischief. “Ooh! What if I run out of the room in a panic and when I see him, I grab his arm and say it’s an emergency and drag him in here and tell him you need mouth-to-mouth and—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No!” I point at her, scowling. “You stay in that chair, and don’t ever grab Dr. Nielsen by the arm—or anywhere else either. He’s at least twenty years older than us, and he’s mydoctor. You can go home and never see him again if you want, but I’m stuck here. I’d have to remove myself from the transplant list so I could die of humiliation along with heart failure if you did that.”
“Okay, okay. Geez.” Talia lifts her hands in defeat. “Drama much? I’m justsaying. It would be a funny prank, and if you got a kiss from him in the process, it wouldn’t be theworstthing in the world.”
“A kiss from whom?” The door to my room opens, and of course, because the universe hates me, Dr. Nielsen himself walks in, as if summoned by Talia. Barb, one of the nurses who has been like a second mother to me, trails behind him, holding my chart.
Heisattractive, but also too old—this doctor who has literally cut through my chest to access my lungs and heart (notsexy). Not to mention, he’s married. The LVAD’s rhythmic pulse urges life into my pale skin, aiding the furious blush that creeps up my neck to my face and stains my cheeks with color.
“No one,” I say at the same moment Talia says, “Well, actually—”
But I glare at her with so much force (If youdare,I will hate you forever, I say with my eyes) that she trails off and ends with a low, defeated echo. “No one.”
Dr. Nielsen’s eyebrows rise, but he says, “Well, I have news for you—and it’s no prank.”
There’s something in his eyes that makes my diseased heart squeeze. Somehow, I know. Even before he speaks the words.
“You’re getting a heart, Olivia.”
Talia’s hands fly to her mouth ... and she bursts into tears.
I stare at him, this brilliant surgeon who saved my life when I came into the hospital in heart failure six months ago, who has never wavered in his belief that this day would come, and I can hardly draw a breath. “A heart?” The words come out softly, a whisper that threatens to buckle beneath the weight ofallthe ramifications of his pronouncement.
Dr. Nielsen nods, and I’m struck by the tears in his eyes. I knew he cared but not enough tocry.
Barb moves past him to come to my bedside and takes my hand, her cheeks wet, too, though her tears are less of a surprise. “It’s real, honey. The heart is already on its way here; they’re rushing to stay in the four-hour window. But she’s such a perf—”
Dr. Nielsen shoots her a sharp glance, and she cuts off abruptly.
“It’ssuch a perfect match,” Barb corrects with a wince. “Everyone is determined to make it happen.” But I caught her slipup.My donor is a girl.
Barb squeezes my hand. “You better call your mom.”
I nod. Swallow.
A heart.I’m getting a heart.
