JUDE IS MY secret admirer.
My secret admirer is Jude.
Can I call him that? What do I call the person who has brought me chocolate dessert snacks late at night? Is there a name for that?
I like secret admirer, so I’ll go with that.
Jude.
Chocolate.
I sighed.
“Lailah? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”
“Huh?” I blurted out, pulling myself out of the ridiculous wheel of girlish thoughts spinning uncontrollably through my head.
“Are you feeling all right? You’ve been a little absentminded today.”
“I feel fine. Just a little tired.”
After my late-night visit, I’d been wide-awake, my head full of questions, thoughts, and possibilities. My first and foremost question had been, Why is he doing it? What is his motivation? Is he just being nice, or is it something more?
I’d quickly dismissed anything having to do with something more and concluded that he was just being nice. That man could easily have any woman he wanted. He could probably snap his fingers and groupies with bedazzled We Love Jude scrubs would show up, ready to play naughty nurse. He definitely didn’t need to deliver desserts to patients in the hospital to help his game.
Even if in some alternate universe, he could possibly see me as someone more than a patient, I couldn’t go down that road—ever. My life was too stressful and emotionally turbulent to share with someone else. Asking someone to step into my world would be like asking him to sign away his own life to take care of mine. I could never do that.
Love wasn’t an option for me.
I did, however, like the idea of having another friend. Outside of Grace, I didn’t know anyone around my age. Carrying on conversations with Dr. Marcus and Abigail were entertaining, but sometimes, I really wanted to connect with someone on equal footing.
“Well, I need you to pay attention,” my mother said, bringing me back to the conversation I was supposed to be engaged in. “I talked to Marcus earlier this morning.”
“Why didn’t he talk to me?” I hated that she still treated me like a child.
“He was going to, but I asked if I could speak with you privately first. He’ll be here in a few minutes.”
That doesn’t sound good.
“He’s been reviewing your test results over the last week and comparing them to the couple of weeks prior,” she said, hesitating.
Her eyes turned away from mine, but I saw a single tear trickling down her cheek. Her blonde hair masked her expression, but I knew it was bad.
“Yeah? And what did he find out? What is it, Mom?”
“He thinks your heart is getting worse.”
“It’s always getting worse, Mom,” I said, trying not to let the words settle under my skin.
“It’s time, Lailah.”
Her words were gentle, but I could see how much it hurt for her to say them.
Congestive heart failure.
I’d heard the words before, and I’d known every treatment and surgery would still eventually lead to this.
“But, this has happened before—when they said a transplant was my only option. They managed to do other things, like replace my pacemaker. I’ve done just fine.”
“There’s nothing that can fix this, Lailah. There are no more treatments, surgeries, or procedures they can do. We got lucky after the last time, and Marcus was able to give you a few extra years, but not this time. The only thing that can fix this is a new heart.”
Her single tear had multiplied, and her face was now wet with mascara-stained tracks running down her cheeks.
“So, what do we do now?” I asked quietly. Don’t cry, Lailah. Don’t cry.
“Marcus is working on getting you set up at UCLA hospital again. Beyond that, we pray the insurance company does what they need to do.”
I nodded, feeling numb, when she came to sit next to me on the bed before pulling me into her arms. Everything had become iffy and unknown since my mother’s employer had switched insurance companies last year. Her premiums had gone through the roof, and then add in all the new health care laws, and no one knew what was going on.
The familiar sounds of the room—the beeps, the shuffling from outside the door—all faded away. All I could hear were the roaring in my ears and the words repeating and echoing in my head.
Heart transplant.
No other option.
My mother had spent every dime she had on my medical bills. We lived paycheck to paycheck in a small apartment on the outskirts of Santa Monica. She wouldn’t talk about it, but I knew she’d emptied her savings account and retirement plan to pay past-due bills to the hospital. If my transplant was denied or something happened to me, she wouldn’t be able to cover it. It would destroy her.
I hated that it had come to this.
I was the never-ending burden.
“We’ll figure it out, Mom,” I said against her shoulder.
“Yeah, we will. It’s just you and me.”
My mom brought in dinner that night, and we sat together on my bed, hunched over a meal of simple sandwiches and fruit.
Whenever we got bad news, my mom would bring in dinner. I thought it was her way of coping. Bad news was something she couldn’t control. My mother loved control. She’d practically raised me in a glass dome, trying to protect me from everything that could harm my fragile heart. When things went wrong, she would grow quiet, internalizing and regrouping.
After dinner, she would announce her master plan. When bad news struck, Mom always fired back with some sort of plan. Even if it were as simple as following the doctor’s orders or sending me to bed an hour earlier, it would put her back in control of the situation.
Mom loved control.
I feared this would be the one situation she couldn’t control with any of her master plans.
It wasn’t long after my mom had left that night when I began fidgeting with my hair.
I braided it to the side and then promptly brushed it through with my fingers. I gathered it up into a ponytail but then yanked it out. Finally, I just let the platinum blonde strands fall to my shoulders.
Am I seriously sitting here, playing with my hair?
One conversation with Jude—who was just being nice, I reminded myself—and I’d become one of those girls overnight. Feeling utterly ridiculous, I shook my hair out, letting it do whatever it wanted. The fact that I’d changed into one of my nicer tops and a black pair of leggings was just a coincidence.
I am so lame.
Sinking back against my pillow, I picked up my latest paperback and opened it up to where I’d left off. I’d barely made it a page in when I heard a quiet knock at my door.
“Come in,” I answered.
The doorknob turned, and Jude appeared, dressed in teal scrubs. He was carrying a chocolate pudding and—
A board game?
“Are we playing Scrabble?” I questioned, tucking my hair behind my ear as I tried not to blush. Placing my book aside, I crossed my legs in front of me and watched him enter the room.
“No, we’re playing Operation,” he answered, placing the game on the foot of my bed. “I found it in a staff lounge. I think one of the surgeons got it as a gag gift. Anyway, I hope the game choice doesn’t bother you, but I thought you might want to do something different.”
I glanced down at the goofy-looking man displayed on the front of the box and grinned.
“It’s perfect.” I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Just what I needed.”
He set down not just one, but two pudding snacks on the bedside tray, and then he dropped two spoons next to them. “One of those is mine,” he said with a slight grin.
He turned to pull the chair out of the corner, and he brought it closer to the bed. I considered suggesting that he just sit on the bed with me, but I quickly lost my nerve. The thought of having him so close gave me chills. He handed me a pudding cup, and we both dived in. There were no snide comments about eating it with a spoon rather than my finger tonight.
“So, bad day?” he asked as we began setting up the game.
The cardboard lid came off, and he pulled out the large playing board. The same silly-looking man that was on the cover stared back up at us. His uneasy, wide-eyed expression was amusing, and it was already helping to lift my mood.
“How did you know?” I asked. Do I look that bad?
“Just a guess. You look like you need a mental break.”
“I do,” I admitted. “I really do. It’s been a rough one.”
“Wanna talk about it?” he offered.
I took the first turn. My tiny tweezers pulled out the little ice cream cone causing brain freeze in the man’s head.
No buzzing.
Success.
“Got a while?” I joked, the laughter not reaching my eyes.
“I got time. What else are lunch breaks for?” His warm gaze met mine as he took his turn.
“You mean, you don’t have any hot lunch dates?”
“Well, I did have plans.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You didn’t have to cancel. I mean, you could still try to…” The words tumbled out of my mouth like an overturned apple cart.
“I’m kidding, Lailah,” he said, his hand reaching out to touch mine.
My eyes wandered down to where his hand touched my skin, and I couldn’t look away. I felt branded. Like the brief times his fingers had grazed my skin before while he’d removed a blood pressure cuff or leaned over to check my IV block, my heart fluttered, and I felt my cheeks redden. My entire life had been spent being touched and examined. By this time in my twenty-two years, I’d become accustomed to random people invading my personal space, but my body reacted to Jude in a very different and completely new way. It nearly combusted at the slightest touch from him.
“The only hot date I’ve ever had on my lunch break has been the vending machine. Believe me, there is nowhere else I have to be,” he said, pulling his hand back to grab the tweezers.
“Oh…well, okay, if you’re sure. I mean, we could always do this another time.”
“You’re deflecting—on purpose. Come on, tell me about your day,” he challenged, calling me out on my purposeful rambling.
“I have to have a heart transplant,” I said simply.
Jude’s attention to the game immediately ended, and his green gaze met my eyes instantly. “Are they sure?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. I was born with an enlarged heart. I had open heart surgery when I was days old. Since then, I’ve had several more surgeries and dozens of other procedures. It’s kept me alive, but a damaged heart can only last so long.”
“Are you scared?” he asked softly.
“Yes, but mostly for my mom.”
“Why?”
“I just fear the what-ifs. What if the insurance doesn’t go through? What if something goes wrong? What if I don’t make it…then who will she turn to?”
“You don’t have any other family?” He chucked his empty pudding cup in the trash.
“No, I never knew my father. He bailed before I was born. Since my grandmother died, it’s always just been my mother and me. I just hate having to see her go through all of this again.”
“What do you mean, again?” he asked, the game now long forgotten.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been told I need a transplant. My heart started failing a few years ago. They told me a transplant was the best option then, so I was put on the donor list. Then, miraculously, one became available.”
His brows furrowed together in confusion. “What happened?”
“I wasn’t supposed to know. They don’t usually tell you until it’s a sure thing, and you’re being called in for surgery, but Dr. Marcus was so hopeful. It wasn’t his fault,” I clarified.
He’d only been trying to do the right thing.
“Finding a match and in the same hospital was like angels bringing me a miracle. He was just trying to make sure everything was falling into place. He came into my room and told me that a woman had been in a car accident, and she was an organ donor. He said we were a perfect match, and it was hopeful.”
“What happened?” he asked softly.
“The family changed their minds at the last minute.”
Silence filled the room as I stared at our dark shadows against the wall. I finally looked down at Jude sitting back in the old blue chair. He’d grown incredibly quiet and still.
“And you said this happened here—at this hospital?” he asked.
“Yes, here,” I answered, wondering why he was asking.
“How long ago?”
“Um…it was right around my nineteenth birthday so it was three years ago. Towards the end of May I guess.”
More silence filled the air as Jude remained motionless. I didn’t understand this abrupt change in pace.
Did I upset him somehow?
Suddenly, almost startling me, he rose from the chair and turned to me. “I’d better go. I think my lunch break is just about over,” he said in an almost monotone fashion.
“Oh, okay,” I answered.
“I’m off the next two days, and when I get back, I might be pretty swamped, so I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get away,” he said rather quickly, taking a step backward toward the door with each word uttered until he vanished.
Looking around the room, I took a deep breath. Then, my eyes returned to the closed door.
I was alone—again.
I stared down at the abandoned board game, which we’d barely begun, and my empty pudding cup lying next to it. At that moment, the reality of my day finally caught up to me.
No amount of chocolate, silly games, or odd visits from nurses’ assistants could hide the fact that my heart was giving up on living.
What if I’m not ready for that?
After I’d found out the family had changed their minds, I’d been so upset that I asked Dr. Marcus to do anything he could to hold off on the need for a transplant. He wasn’t thrilled with my decision but he’d managed to make it work, finding alternate treatment methods over the last few years. That night had scared me and reminded me of how precious life was.
One life had to be given in order for another to live on. I hadn’t been ready for that responsibility yet.
After taking one last look around the room, I closed my eyes. Finally breaking down the walls I’d constructed around myself to keep my emotions at bay, I curled into my bed, succumbing to the emotions of the day and cried myself to sleep.