I’d promised Harlow that I would come over and walk Collin with her after work. I knock on the door but there’s no answer. Her car’s sitting in the driveway, and I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t leave knowing I was coming over.
“Harlow!” I call out, opening the front door. “Hey, it’s me!” I make sure to shout as I let myself in so she knows I’ve arrived. There’s no answer as I walk through the house and head for her living room. I crane my head around the door noticing that the TV is switched on, a local news channel playing low in the background. I see a half-full cup of what looks like hot chocolate on the coffee table. I decide to check the kitchen, wondering if she’s maybe out back with Collin. The dog is sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor when I walk through.
“Hello, boy,” I say, bending to ruffle his head. That’s when I notice her feet poking out from behind the island.
No, no, no, this can’t be happening.
Panic grips me as I rush around the island to see her collapsed on the floor, her cell phone laying just a few feet away from her outstretched hand.
“Harlow!” I yell, grabbing her shoulders and turning her onto her back. She doesn’t look right; her skin’s always pale but has a rose tint to it. Today it doesn’t—the pinkness is replaced with a sickly gray sallowness that sends my heart rate into overdrive. Her face is the same shade of gray as clouds before a storm, and she has a very distinct bluish tint to her lips.
God, no!
“Harlow, baby, can you hear me?” I shake her shoulders slightly, but she’s completely unresponsive and limp. A tornado of dread forms in my gut, and I’m hit with flashbacks of her collapsing at the Bait House. I place my ear to her mouth and watch her chest. She’s breathing, I can see her chest rising, but her breaths are far too faint and shallow to relieve my fears. I immediately go into autopilot and pull her over into the recovery position as I lean and grab her phone to call 9-1-1.
“You’re alright,” I tell her, trying to stop the tremble in my fingers as I attempt to dial. “I’m here, Harlow, you’ll be fine.”
The call goes through, the operator’s voice merging with the ringing in my ears as she asks what service I require.
“Ambulance, I need an ambulance, now!” I bark out at the woman, putting the call on speakerphone and cradling Harlow. “Come on baby, wake up.”
Harlow’s eyes flicker before opening lazily as her head lolls to the side. I want to cry in relief as I answer the operator’s questions and relay our location.
“Harlow, stay awake for me, keep your eyes open,” I ask gently tapping her cheek in a bid to focus her attention on me. Her breathing seems more labored now that I’ve roused her.
Where the hell is the ambulance?
The first time this happened was different. Maybe it’s because Harlow’s now conscious, and there’d been no need for CPR that I left myself so unguarded against bad news. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t have anyone shouting out instructions about how to use a defibrillator, or fear that her heart wouldn’t start again. Maybe that’s why I assumed this time wasn’t as bad. At the risk of sounding like a complete jackass, this time it seemed so much easier. Surely it couldn’t be as serious because her heart was clearly still beating? She’d fainted, that’s all. It hadn’t stopped. Perhaps it was my naivety that was making the blow so much more painful. She didn’t look as sick as when she’d had her heart attack, and even though I know how ill she is, how badly her health has deteriorated over the years, her sitting up and being conscious has wrongly given me a false sense of security. I thought it was a good sign. How could I be so fucking wrong?
I gulp, squeezing her hand. “The doctor told me you’d fainted, and for a second I was relieved. Jesus, this all feels like some cruel joke now.”
Harlow’s eyes are red, and there are thin purple marks running across her cheeks from where the string of her oxygen mask has bitten into her skin. It’s now hanging loosely around her neck, and the clip on her finger is rubbing at the side of my palm where my hand’s still resting over hers. I don’t know how she’s remaining so calm; she hasn’t let a single tear fall. I wonder if she was expecting this news. I daren’t look at her any longer, I can’t disguise my pain as elegantly as she does so I rest my head against hers and screw my eyes shut as tight as I can. I kiss her forehead lightly, not knowing what else to do. One of her hands moves to her oxygen mask, pulling it from her neck and pushing it over her mouth and nose as she takes a deep breath. I move back, watching her draw in labored breaths, powerless to do anything other than be here so she’s not alone to process what the doctor just told us.
Her body is shutting down.
“It’ll be fine, Ellis. Don’t worry.”
My head whips back to look at her. She smiles. She actually smiles, and I can’t comprehend how she can be so brave when I feel so weak. I should be the one to tell her everything’s going to be okay. That needing a heart transplant is no big issue, and we can find a donor match inside of six to eight weeks.
Oh God, I feel sick.
Six weeks, that’s what the doctor just said. Maybe a few more, but only if she’s lucky.
Lucky, ha! What a stupid and callous word to use when you’re telling someone how long they have left to live. I’m restless so I stand, then sit again, perching myself back down on the side of her bed, trying desperately to hold on to my composure and not break in front of her. I’ve just listened to the same ten-minute diagnosis that she has, but I seem to be taking the news much worse. I had to hold my breath as the doctor harped on about statistics and percentages. I’ve done my homework; I know what they mean. I watched her face stay smooth and unaffected as the middle-aged doctor—one I’ve not met before—told her how big of a drop there is in those percentages when you factor in her blood type. They say these things like we don’t already know, and it infuriates me.
“There’s a critical organ shortage, which means that we must strictly evaluate who should receive a heart transplant,” he’d said. I wanted to grab his collar and shake him; scream that SHE should receive a transplant. “The major reason for transplantation is to improve our patient’s survival. Being able to predict how a person will do after transplantation is the most important part of our selection process,” he continued. I wanted to smack myself awake, I was sure it all had to be a bad dream, but I could feel Harlow’s fingers squeezing mine, and knew there’d be no waking from this.
“Patients are divided into statuses and further divided between low, medium, and high risk. We’re upgrading you to status one, Harlow. The final decision about listing you for a transplant will be determined by Dr. Butcher, he’ll be by to come and assess you shortly.”
That was only a few minutes ago, but I’ve replayed the words over and over. Harlow has been silent save telling me it’ll all be okay. I don’t know what to do. Should I say something? Should I let her sit here all quiet and numb? Should I give her time to process?
I can’t take it. This is too unfair.
I just got her back.
“Do you need me to get you anything? Are you thirsty?” I ask standing and looking around the room for a jug of water. I need to do something, anything; I’m desperate to calm my anxiousness. I don’t want her to see me like this. I want to be strong for her, and right now I’m having trouble faking it. The tension in my body has to be obvious.
She doesn’t answer me and I turn my head, letting my gaze fall back to her. The only noise registering in the room is the hum of the machines and the steady beep of the monitors she’s hooked up to. Dark shadows ring her sad eyes, pulling on every fiber of my being. I want to rip this room apart from one end to the other. I scrub a hand over my face and take a few steps over to the window. It faces out against a brick wall, and for some reason that makes me furious. But I remind myself that showing her how pissed I feel over this shitty fucking life she’s been dealt won’t do her any good. I need to make her feel better, not worse. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with the dry, sterile air that offers none of the refreshing sense of renewal I was hoping for. God, I hate hospitals.
“I’ll go to the cafeteria and get you something,” I say in a thick voice that scratches the back of my throat as I turn in confused circles. Her hand reaches out, grabbing my arm and steadying me.
“Will you stay? Just until my mom gets here?”
Her voice trembles and breaks my heart into a thousand tiny irreparable pieces. I don’t answer with words. Instead, I envelope her body with mine and hold her as tightly as I dare. I swallow down my grief and despair at this cruel situation we’re in, and inhale the scent of her skin, trying my best to commit it to memory. Softly, her cold lips kiss a brief path over my jaw in a slow and devastating caress that’s more sorrowful than passionate. My resolve slips and I pull her closer than I think I have ever held her before.
Do not cry, Ellis. Hold it together—for her.
Her arms squeeze my waist, and her fingers press into my shoulder blades while I silently vow to never let her slip away.
The nurse who administered the inotropes told Harlow they’d take twenty-four hours to take effect and then she could go home. I’m not sure if she’ll want to go to her place or her mother’s, but one thing I am sure of is that I don’t want to leave her. I need to stay with her—whether she wants me to or not.
Dr. Butcher passes by the doorway, and I take the chance while Harlow is sleeping to ask him what options we have for getting a donor. I’m a mumbling mess, not making much sense and I badger for answers to questions I already know he can’t answer. Why is he so impassive? It pisses me off. I grab his shoulders, visibly shaking his calm demeanor.
“You have to help her now! She needs a goddamn heart now! Please,” I beg. “Please.”
He looks at me, his face betraying that he’s not about to say anything I want to hear.
“Ellis.” He gently pulls my hands from his shoulders and guides me to the brown plastic chairs lining the corridor. He sits beside me, resting the files he’s holding on his knees as he raises his face to the ceiling and takes a deep breath. “I need to point out that to ensure donors’ hearts are distributed fairly, there has to be a system. It outlines rules and considers time on the waiting list, the severity of a patient’s illness, and then also the geographical proximity to the donor.”
He adjusts his position, leaning forward and wresting his arms on top of his folders as he turns his face to look directly into my own.
“At the moment the average wait time on the donor list for a heart is around four months. That’s for patients that are status one and do not have a rare blood type. I think that you need to prepare yourself for the fact that Harlow’s body probably won’t be strong enough to hold out while we wait for a donor, and if by some small miracle we do find a match, she still might be to too weak to survive the surgery.”
I drop my head to my knees, tears falling faster than I’m able to blink them away as I grip the back of my head and sob. Not the quiet, reserved kind of cry, but the soul crushing, body wrecking moans that stem from the very core of you, stripping your throat bare and setting it on fire. My chest aches so bad that for a second I wish myself dead. Anything would be better than this feeling. Dr. Butcher’s hand rests on my back, giving it a few pats before letting it fall still against my shoulder blade. I can’t breathe, let alone speak, so I sit in the corridor bleeding out my sorrow and knowing there’s only one way to make it end. There’s no question anymore.
Last night was probably the longest night of my life, and I’ve experienced some pretty bleak ones before. They pale in comparison, every last one. I called Logan first thing this morning. He’s on his way to my apartment and I don’t know how I’m going to get through this, I just know I have to. Harlow’s dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed when I walk back into her room.
“You ready?” I ask
“Yeah, my mom’s finally given in and gone home. She said she’d be at my place tomorrow afternoon. I didn’t think I’d be able to convince her to let me go home, she was pretty adamant that she wanted me to come stay with her.”
“Yeah, I had to promise her that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight for even a minute,” I confess.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, but honestly, I’m just thankful that she’s finding the strength to smile at all.
“Let’s go home, Ellis.” She says it like it’s our home, and I don’t know if she even realizes it. My chest grows tight, and I don’t know if she realizes that she’s my home.