Ten

When I get home I park myself on the couch in the living room, but leave the lights off. For once what I’m afraid of isn’t the stuff I don’t know; it’s the stuff I do know. I can’t say why I didn’t think to ask where my donated heart came from. There’s been so much going on, so much to get used to. It makes me feel selfish to think I didn’t wonder. But that doesn’t absolve my parents for not telling me that I was walking around with Lizzie’s heart inside me.

The shadows change as the last bits of daylight move across the room. Finally a car pulls up and my dad’s keys jangle in the door. He comes in and flips on the light, looking a little bit relieved, like he thought he was going to come home and find me dead on the floor.

“Hey champ, the school called. Are you feeling all right?”

I don’t give him a chance to take his coat off. I move in front of him, realizing that we’re the same height now. Part of me wants to settle this like a man and take a swing at him. But I can’t; he’s still my dad.

Instead I push a finger into his chest. Surprised, he backs up against the door.

“Her heart? Of all the people in the world, they gave me Lizzie’s heart and you didn’t even fucking tell me?” I don’t think I’ve ever sworn at my dad and he looks completely shocked. He tenses and I think he’s going to fight back. But then his shoulders slump and he gently moves my arm away.

“Cal. Look.”

“No, you look,” I say, pacing around the living room like a caged tiger. “She was my friend. One of my best friends in the world. And you and Mom didn’t think it was important to tell me that it’s her heart that’s keeping me alive?” My blood pressure is going through the roof just like it isn’t supposed to do and I take a deep breath to try to calm myself until I hear his answer.

“Of course, we know it’s important. We know how close you were.”

This does it. This pushes me over the edge that I’ve barely been hanging onto. “No. You don’t know. How can you know? Neither of you have really been here enough to know. Did you know that Lizzie’s mom was a drunk and allowed her series of loser boyfriends to hurt her own daughter? Did you know that? Did you know that Spencer and I used to go over there and break up the fights and drag Lizzie out of there? Did you know that we’ve had to take her to the hospital more than once? Did you know that?” The words are pouring out of me like they can’t escape fast enough. Blood rushes in front of my eyes. I’m breaking every rule that the doctor gave me and I don’t really care if I drop dead here in the middle of the living room. It would serve them all right.

Dad goes pale and looks like he’s going to be sick. He’s afraid of me and right now he should be.

“We knew her mother drank, but no, Cal. We … ” He fumbles for words, but I don’t care what he has to say.

I poke him in the chest again to emphasis each word. “Then. Do. Not. Tell. Me. You. Knew. How. Close. We. Were.” I spin around to keep from slamming his head into the wall. I’m shaking and the tears start, but I don’t want him to see them. I don’t want to be the one who backs down. Not this time. “You didn’t know anything.”

I stand there, facing the window, on the verge of sobbing, trying to catch my breath. Dad comes up behind me, but wisely doesn’t touch me. I feel coiled as tight as a spring. The slightest thing will make all of this anger explode.

“We weren’t keeping this from you. We just wanted to wait until you were stronger.”

I turn around and clasp my hands together like I used to when I was a little kid and Mom would take me to stores filled with glass things. She taught me to keep my hands away from anything fragile. Anything that can break. Anything I can smash.

Dad stares, pleading with me to understand, to forgive. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve spent a month wondering if I was losing my mind, not able to tell anyone about the dreams and the voices. Figuring that I deserved them after what I’d done to Lizzie. But now I know differently. This is all her. And as much as I try, I’m not a little kid any more. And it’s too late to keep me from breaking anything. Lizzie is proof of that.

I do my homework and go to bed before Mom even comes home. I turn on the nightstand light and then turn it off, and then turn it on again. It’s like an SOS signal, only there’s no one out there to see it. For once the light isn’t helping. I don’t know what to do to keep the shadows at bay when they’re already inside me, beating like a badly timed drum.

Stars and planets glow on my ceiling. I put them up there sometime in middle school and never took them down. I spent weeks getting the configurations right and to be honest, I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to make out with a girl, Ally really, under these stars. I wonder if wishes on plastic stars can still come true.

But the only girl who has ever been in my room is Lizzie and she doesn’t really count. She thought the stars were just some sort of bullshit nightlight.

I must fall asleep at some point because the next thing I know, I bolt straight up in bed and hear noise down the hall. Mom and Dad aren’t exactly arguing but their voices are tense and loud in the way they get when they’re upset, but self-aware enough to know it and trying to be quiet.

My shirt is damp with sweat, so I pull it off. The L-shaped scar that runs around my chest is so ugly I can’t stand to look at it. The edges are puckered and red. The doctors say it will fade with time but for now I look like the monster I am.

It’s weird to think that somewhere under my skin is Lizzie’s heart beating away inside me. Even thinking about it gives me chills so I put my shirt back on and reach my hand under the bed for my baseball mitt.

The leather is warm and smells like summer, freshly mowed grass, and sweat. It’s the one I was going to keep for … it doesn’t matter anymore. Still, it feels good to have it on. If I close my eyes and run my hands over the worn laces, I can pretend for a minute that none of this has happened. That the season will start soon and that my biggest decision is going to be whether to play college ball or pray for a minor league contract.

I fall asleep that way. Holding onto the glove like a security blanket. I’m still wearing it when my mom comes in and wakes me up in the middle of the night. I don’t think she means to because she’s just sitting there, but it’s like her thoughts are loud enough to pull me out of whatever thankfully dreamless sleep I’ve taken refuge in.

“I’m sorry, honey,” she says when I open my eyes. “I’m sorry that we didn’t know what was going on with Lizzie, and I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you what happened.”

My mouth opens and then closes. I’m more tired and sad than I am angry at this point. I know she really is sorry, but there’s nothing I can say.

“When they brought you all into the hospital, everything happened very quickly. Lizzie was a registered organ donor, but because she was a minor they needed her mother’s approval,” Mom says.

“That nutcase actually agreed to do something nice for someone?” I can’t imagine Lizzie’s mom approving of anything like that.

Mom gives me a look like she’s going to tell me to watch my mouth, but she holds back.

“I think her mother’s specific words were that she didn’t care one way or the other.” Mom’s mouth tightens when she admits this and I’m sure that bit of honesty cost her something. I want to ask if Lizzie’s mom was drunk at the time, but as she’s pretty much drunk all the time, it’s a fair bet she was and it doesn’t really matter. Ultimately, it was Lizzie’s choice, which is the only thing out of all this craziness that makes me feel a little bit better.

“Spencer knew because he was the one who brought Lizzie’s mom to the hospital after he was checked out. There wasn’t a lot of time and we didn’t want to leave you. Don’t be mad at him, honey. He’s a good friend.”

I smile a little because it’s a silly thing for her to be telling me. “No, Mom, it’s okay. Spencer and I are fine.”

She nods. “Good. And we would have told you, too. It’s just that you’ve been through so much and I can only imagine … ” She stops and puts her hand on my wrist, the one that still has the mitt on it, and looks at me like she’s really seeing me for the first time in forever. “No … sorry. I can’t really imagine what you’re feeling. It’s hard sometimes for parents to understand that their kids aren’t really kids anymore. But I hope you know that we love you. And that we’re here for you.”

I choke up a little. This is the most I’ve heard my mom say in a while that didn’t involve notes about keeping my grades up, reminders about changing the oil in the car, or apologies for not making it to my games.

“Thanks,” I manage to squeak out.

She gets up to leave and then turns back and takes a card out of her pocket. She looks at it, and then at me, and then back at the card. There’s a long pause and then she places it on the nightstand. “Cal, do me one favor. Think about calling Dr. Reynolds. It can’t hurt to talk to someone.” And then she leaves without waiting for an answer.

I put my glove back under the bed and pick up the card. It’s totally official-looking and kind of imposing. Even though I can’t imagine why I’d need to talk to anyone other than Spencer about what’s going on, I slip it into my mitt so that I’ll know where it is. If I need it.