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where the fuck r u?
went to your house yr mom not happy to see me
WTF?
Is it b/c of me?
My eyes fill up at his last text. The others asked if I was okay, wondered where I was, or wanted the truth about what actually happened. Isaac was the only one who had the guts to ask if it was his fault. And it wasn’t, even if him leaving that night is what pushed Shanna to great lengths for his attention, it’s not his fault.
It’s hers. It’s the fault of a girl who doesn’t know how to live what little bit of a life she’s been given, a small space tucked into the dark cavity of my chest. It’s the fault of a girl who doesn’t know how to be a real person, the fault of a girl who maybe already knew that she only had so much time left.
I run my thumbs over the phone, not sure who to answer first or what to say to any of them. Brooke is the easiest, so I tackle that first.
From Brooke
WTF?
Phone works—ty!
From Heath
I don’t know what to think.
I talked to Brooke. Sounds like you figured it out.
I’m surprised when three little bubbles pop up right away, which means Heath is typing an answer.
Will come visit. You can be mad at me then.
Maybe I will be and maybe I won’t be. It’s hard to say. Whatever corner of my heart was reserved for Heath has been subsumed by Shanna, and she has no use for him. Even though he’s only coming to officially dump me to my face, I have to give him credit for making the drive and being a gentleman. Or maybe he just wants it on the official record for when he runs for governor that he didn’t abandon his terminally ill girlfriend. I can picture him as an adult wearing a three-piece suit, holding up one of my senior pictures and the cardiac center’s visitors’ log at a press conference. He might even manufacture a tear.
I ignore Lilly’s assertion that she will try to come see me. If she brings it up I’ll tell her I tried to text her, but I had a lot going on in between therapy and surgeries. Which leaves me with the last text that came in, from Isaac. I tap my thumbs against the screen.
From Isaac
Is it b/c of me?
Hey. Not your fault. I’m at the cardiac center in the city. Surgery scheduled for tomorrow.
Just like with Heath, my response is immediately followed by the ellipsis inside a bubble. But I don’t picture him the way I did Heath, someone looking to be absolved. Instead I can see him keeping his phone nearby, needing to hear from me because he actually cares. And that’s kind of terrifying.
What kind of surgery? U scared the shit out of me.
I’m getting an LVAD . . . it helps my heart work. Mom says it’s a good thing I fell out the window b/c that’s how we found out I need a transplant.
My answer to Isaac is longer than my texts to anyone else, mostly because there was no planning involved. With everyone else what I texted was designed to procure a specific response. A breezy thank-you to Brooke so that she wouldn’t worry, a quick jab for Heath, one he could choose to respond to or not. If I ignore Lilly completely she won’t have the guts to text again, easily excised from my life. But with Isaac I’m just typing, saying what I think, and he’s answering the same way.
U gonna be ok?
Don’t know yet . . . I have to stay here until I get a heart and don’t know when that will be.
I pause, thumbs hovering over a new text, unsure whether I’m giving up on future Sasha Stone, waiting on rewards that I might not live to reap. Like with my clarinet, my hands make the decision.
Come see me?
Tonight? Can be there but it’d be late. Have to take dad to work.
Visiting hours are over at five, but rules are the last thing on my mind when I reply. Tomorrow morning Mom and Dad are coming to help me pack up loose clothes and my toothbrush, all the little things that have become my life. Then we’re going to drive over to the hospital and a doctor is going to slice open my chest and put a machine in my heart. After tomorrow I’ll have a scar between my breasts and a power cord underneath them. I have to see Isaac before then.
