A Matter of Heart (9 page)

W
e leave the way we came in but everything is different now. I'm in front, moving fast because I still can't breathe and I don't think I'll be able to until I'm out of this place. Away from that room and that doctor. It doesn't make any sense. I'm fine.

I'm fine!

The elevator ride to the parking garage is quiet except for the thrum of Dad's keys. He's swinging them up in his fist and then down.
Swish…clack. Swish…clack
. I'd kill to know what he's thinking, but he's got his head bent so low I can see the thinning patch of hair on top of his head. Mom keeps looking away and wiping at her eye, as if it's an eyelash that's making her cry. I want to scream in her face to stop. Her tears are a sign of surrender, and I'm not surrendering.

I watch the lights flash on the elevator panel. B1, B2, B3. My lips are pressed tight so I won't breathe. It's stupid, I know, but if
I take a breath, I'll inhale everything that was said and then it'll be a part of me. I have to get clear of this place. I concentrate on the
swish-clack
, the elevator lights, and not breathing.

My phone vibrates. Another text. I ignore it. What can my thumbs say when the rest of me is without words?

We get to the car and climb in. There are all the normal sounds of seat belts, the key in the ignition, the motor coming to life. But no words. I'm sinking under the heavy silence. Choking on the now-steady flow of Mom's tears. She's crying like we're at a funeral. My funeral.

The car is idling but not moving, as if we're stuck going nowhere. I feel the scream working up from inside me.

“No!” The word explodes from Dad.
No!
Sharp and angry and loud.

The scream inside me dies and I breathe. My lungs open and air floods in. It's as if I'm alive again. This, I realize, is what I was waiting for. Dad isn't giving up. And if Dad believes in me, then it's going to be okay.

He slams a hand on the steering wheel. “This is not the end of this,” he mutters. “Who was this guy, anyway?”

“David.”

“I'm serious, Joanne.”

“He's a well-respected cardiologist.”

“Why?” Dad shoots back. “Because your friend Laney says so?”

“I researched the practice. It's one of the best in the state.”

“Even doctors make mistakes, and this is obviously a mistake. She has one dizzy spell and suddenly she's got a heart condition?”

“You heard him. It often presents itself during adolescence.”

“Don't give me that medical jargon,” Dad snaps. “I heard it.”

Mom's lips purse. She doesn't say anything. Dad's hands clench and unclench the wheel.

I lean forward, one hand on each of their seat backs. “It only happened the one time because I let myself get dehydrated.”

“There were tests, honey.” Mom looks back. Her eyes are red. “We have to accept what the doctor said.”

“It's one doctor,” Dad says. “Don't you think we should look into it a little more before throwing away Abby's dream? Or do you want to crush her now?”

“I don't want to crush her!”

“You think she pushes herself too hard. Admit it.”

“I think you push her too hard.”

Dad's voice is spilling fury. “If you'd ever had a dream…if you'd ever been close to something like the Olympics, you'd understand.”

Her mouth gapes as if he just slapped her. “I'm going to let that pass,” she says. “Because this has been a shock. We heard things tonight that are…difficult to absorb. But you can't let that cloud what's happening. What matters is Abby. Protecting Abby.”

“You don't think I want to protect my daughter?”

“I think we're faced with a reality you don't want to admit. She could die!”

“She has a mild case.” His hands twist around the steering wheel so tight there's a rubbing noise.

Mom swivels in her seat. “Am I the only one in this car who understands what's at stake here?”

I don't realize I'm crying until I taste the salt of tears on my lips. I've never heard my parents fight like this.

“Abby, what do you want?” Dad's eyes find me in the rearview mirror. “You want to quit?”

“No!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Mom snaps. “Be the grown-up here, David. This isn't about what any of us wants.”

Dad's face tightens like there's a screw behind his ears stretching his skin taut, so I can see the hollows beneath his cheekbones. “I'm not saying we put our daughter in danger. I'm just saying we question what we heard tonight. Is that so crazy? To want a second opinion? Doesn't Abby deserve at least that?”

There's an edge of sarcasm in his voice and Mom winces. “Of course we should get a second opinion.”

My heart thuds like a mallet against my ribs. Does a sick heart beat that strongly? It's like my heart is sending me a message.
Get a second opinion. Don't give up
. Even if something is wrong, there's got to be a doctor who can fix it. Doctors put in completely new hearts. Mine just has a thick wall. How hard can that be?

“It might take time,” Mom says. “The only reason we got in so quickly with Dr. Danvers was as a favor to Laney.”

“Then let's find another connection,” Dad says. “Maybe someone at my school can help.”

“And in the meantime?” Mom asks.

“I'll swim easy,” I say.

“What if you forget? What if you get into a rhythm and suddenly you're going full force?”

“I won't.”

She shakes her head. “We can't take that chance.”

“I'm not going to die!” I cry. “The only thing that happened to me was I got dizzy.”

“You fainted, Abby.”

“You don't know that.”

“You woke up on a couch not knowing where you were. If that's not fainting, it's close enough.”

“It won't matter if she does try to swim hard. She'll be on the medicine,” Dad says.

Mom looks back at me.

I nod. “I will.”

She sighs. She looks like she's aged ten years in the past ten minutes. “Fine. I'll call in the prescription when we get home and we can pick it up tonight. Abby can start swimming next week but only if Dr. Danvers says so. Coach is going to want an okay too. Some kind of proof. You know he is.”

I wait for Dad to counter that. He doesn't. He slides the car into drive and we pull out from beneath the parking garage and into the world of lights.

All I'm thinking is that I shouldn't have to wait until next week. I'm fine. I settle into the backseat, a plan already forming in my mind. Mom wants proof?

I'll give her proof.

I
t's dark when I wake up. I hit my alarm before I can even tell what song is playing on the radio. I lie in bed and listen for a second. Quiet.

Mom and Dad's room is downstairs at the other end of the house. Dad will be up soon. He's an early riser and never sleeps past six o'clock. But I'll be gone by six.

Practice starts at five-thirty, and I'm going to be there.

I swing out of bed and rub my shoulders. The straps of my swimsuit have worked grooves into my skin. I know it's weird that I slept in my swimsuit, and the kind of thing Mom would want to “talk” about. If she knew.

As I shrug on my swim parka, I slide into my flip-flops, then grab my purse and the bag I packed last night. I open my window, pop off the screen, and step out onto the gravel of our backyard.

The air is cool but not cold. The streetlight in front of our house is still on, and enough light reaches my window to make this easy. It takes me a few seconds to close the window, fit the screen back on, and then I'm running softly around the side of the house toward the street. A dog barks from the next cul-de-sac over, but that dog always barks.

When I reach the neighbor's yard, I relax a little, glad for the quiet grass under my feet. I jog silently from yard to yard until I'm at the end of the cul-de-sac.

I see the headlights of Jen's car a second before I hear the crunch of road under her tires. The beams fall on me and I wave my arms. She slows to a stop.

I pull open the door and she's frowning at me.

“What are you doing at the end of your street?”

“I was outside early,” I say as I dump my bag in the backseat. “I started kicking a rock and ended up down here.” Also, I lied to Mom and told her I canceled the ride. I can't take the chance she'll hear the car pull up. But I don't say any of that. I slide in next to Jen and set my purse down at my feet.

She's wearing sweatpants over her suit, and there's still a chunk of sleep in the corner of her right eye. Jen turned sixteen a few weeks before I did. Her parents bought her a used Honda Civic. They said it was really a gift for them since they wouldn't have to get up for swim carpools anymore. Now Jen drives me every morning, and Mom gives her thirty dollars a month for gas. Since Jen uses most of that money to buy us Jamba Juices, we're all happy.

She shifts the car in drive. “Admit the truth. You just couldn't wait to get back to practice.”

I snap on my seat belt. “Yeah, all that sleeping in really sucked.”

She laughs as we head toward the school. “So your heart checked out?”

“All checked out.” Which is the truth. It
was
completely checked out.

“I got worried when you didn't text back.”

“It's a doctor's office. You know how long they make you wait.”

“But you're fine?”

“Don't I look fine?”

Jen spares me a quick look as we bounce over a speed bump. “So how was Dr. McDreamy?”

“He was more like Dr. McElderly.”

The car lights pick out a path for us on the dark roads. There's a truck up ahead and even in the dark I know it's a maroon Ford with a Coexist bumper sticker. We see the same cars every morning—there aren't many at 5:15, and I like that. Let the rest of the world sleep. We've got places to go.

Five minutes later, Jen pulls into her parking spot in the school's front lot. The motor dies and I can hear the faint sounds of ROTC practicing on the baseball field.

“You got any ChapStick?” she asks.

“Purse,” I say as I reach back for my swim bag.

She grabs my purse and a second later I hear something crackling. “What's this?” she says. When I look over she's frowning at a crumpled piece of paper. “Hypertrophic cardio
what
?”

Crap. I forgot it's still in there—the paper Dr. Danvers wrote on. I yank it from Jen's hands and it tears loudly, leaving only a ragged edge in her fingers. Her eyebrows shoot up, and I know I have to take it down a notch. I force a shrug. “It's something the doctor wrote down.”

“Is that what you have?”

I wad up the sheet until the words are gone. Then I shove it down to the bottom of my purse. “I have a murmur. That's it. But doctors get paid by the syllable, so whatever.” I hand her my tube of ChapStick. “Here. Wipe the dried toothpaste off your lips first.”

“I don't have dried toothpaste.” But she checks herself in the rearview mirror, and I know I've distracted her. I'm pretty sure not even Jen will remember hypertrophic cardiomyopathy after one glance.

We dump our school stuff in the locker room and then head out to the pool. I'm bummed that Connor is swimming with his club team again this morning. Once a week he'll swim with Horizon, but unfortunately, it's not today. I could use another sexy smile. A few of the guys are shaking out their arms by the edge of the pool, but no one's swimming yet. Except Alec. I don't need to look to be sure that's him. I recognize the rhythmic
whoosh
of his long, even strokes; besides, he's always the first one in.

Coach looks surprised when he sees me. He's got a black knit cap pulled over his ears and he's wearing a swim parka with the school logo. “Abby! I wasn't expecting you this morning.”

“I told you I was seeing the doctor yesterday.”

“You got the results already?”

I nod, glad it's still shadowy, even with the pool lights, so Coach can't see the heat I feel rolling up my cheeks. “Yeah, they did everything right there at the doctor's office.”

“And?” he says.

“I'm here, aren't I?”

A slow grin spreads across his face. It's beautiful, that grin.

I grin back.

“Then what are you waiting for?” He tilts his head toward lane 1. “Let's get to it.” For all of his tough talk about “health comes first,” Coach is happy to have me back.

But not as happy as I am to be back.

I have this urge to whoop out loud, to let out some of the happiness that's racing through me like adrenaline. I feel so good, how could anything possibly be wrong? I belong in the pool, and I'm going to prove it. I'm such a freak, I know, but sometimes I thank God that I live on a planet that's seventy-one percent water. I breathe in the tang of chlorine. No garden could smell any sweeter.

It takes me a second to dump my things on a deck chair and jump into lane 1. I love the instant shock when my skin shivers awake. I dunk my head and let the water fill my ears. I press down to seal my goggles, then adjust my cap. Jen jumps in next to me, and then Bree, who swims in group three.

Like always, I check the big green chalkboard where Coach writes the workout for the day. Lane 1 has an 800-yard warm-up, mixed stroke. There are three of us in the lane, so we'll circle, swimming up on the right side and back down the left side. Each person following at a ten-second interval. I'm in front. I push off, smiling as I take that first long pull under the water. It feels good. I settle into even strokes and stretch myself out, long and lean. My breath is coming easy, and I'm in a rhythm. A rhythm of breath, of stroke, of heart, of mind.

Reach, reach, reach, breathe; Reach, reach, reach, breathe
.

Bmm bmm bmm bmm

After the warm-up, we start the main workout. We've got 500-yard repeats at tempo. Tempo isn't an all-out sprint, but it's
not a jog either. I'm halfway through the first set when I start to loosen up. I dive into a flip turn and my feet smack the wall, perfectly centered, perfectly timed. I shoot back into the lane. It feels good, the water rushing by me, and I pick up the pace, my legs driving behind me, my arms turning over faster and faster.

Reach, reach, bmm bmm

I've put nearly half a lane between myself and Jen. I flip again, my first 500 nearly behind me.

Reach, reach, bmm bmm

Reach, reach…

Bmm…mmmm…

A weird stutter comes from beneath my ribs. Startled, I tense and come up for a quick breath.
I'm fine. I'm okay
. I stretch forward, searching for my rhythm, but my muscles have seized up.

My vision blurs and black spots swim along the edge of my sight. Panic rushes over me like a cold wave. My heart is beating but it's wrong.

Bmm-bmmm-bmm

I reach again but this time for the surface. My toes hit bottom as I blink to clear my sight. I realize I'm nearly at the wall. Thank God. I grab the edge and breathe deeply. My heart skips over itself, fast, then slow, then…

“Abby?”

Jen is next to me. Her hand is on my arm. “Are you okay?”

Nodding, I suck in air. I'm not dizzy, not exactly. I just came up too quickly. “I'm fine,” I say. I am. My heart is pounding, yeah, but now it's in rhythm. It was just a hiccup. A heart hiccup.

Bree hits the wall and reaches for her water bottle. Jen ignores her and pulls off her goggles. “Are you sure?”

I'm not so dizzy that I don't recognize the danger in what Jen is doing. “Get your goggles back on,” I hiss. But it's too late.

Coach stands over us. “What's going on? Abby?”

“Nothing,” I say. My breath is a little ragged, but that's normal. Everything is normal. Just a hiccup.

“You sure?”

I look up and smile. “Yeah. I pulled up for a second. I think I started that one a little too fast.”

And I'm telling myself that's all it is when there's a loud clang. The metal gate swings open and slams shut. I look over.

Oh no.

Striding onto the deck is my mother.

“Joanne?” Coach says.

She ignores Coach and moves toward me, her face a mask of fear. She's wearing a white blouse, a navy skirt—and her pink house slippers. As if she ran out of the house in a panic. Which I'm sure she did. I cover my mouth with a hand or else I'll scream.

“What are you doing?” she says to me. “Get out of the water.”

My face is hot. I've never been so mad in my life. “You can't be here,” I say in a near-growl.

She turns to Coach. “She's not supposed to be swimming.”

He glares at me and his jaw begins to tick.

“Coach—” I begin.

“You told me you were fine.”

“I am.”

“She has a heart condition,” Mom says.

There's a horrified squeak behind me—Jen. The water swells against my back as she moves closer. I don't turn around to look but I can sense everyone watching. Listening.

“Get out of the water,” Coach says. His voice is quiet and measured. Fear snakes through me.

“Coach. Please. Listen—”

“Get out of the water,” he repeats slowly. His voice is like ice. “Now.”

“Just listen—”

“You have a heart condition and you show up here to swim like nothing is wrong?”

“So I could prove I'm okay!”

“But you aren't, are you?” His hands are fisted on his hips. “A minute ago, you pulled up gasping.”

I hear a low moan and look over. Dad is standing outside the fence. His mouth is open, the stubble of his beard dark against his too-white skin.

It's not true!
I say to him with my eyes.
It was only a hiccup
.

“It was nothing,” I say loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Obviously Jen didn't think it was nothing,” Coach says. “Now out of the pool.”

Fear and panic threaten to choke me. My voice is hoarse as I cry, “No—I'm fine. I just need to get back into rhythm. We've got State, Coach.”

“Out of the pool,” he repeats. “You're done.” His hands are trembling at his sides. I'm trembling too. This isn't fair! None of this is fair! The water is cold around me but in the pit of my stomach acid is boiling, rising up my throat. Helpless fury radiates through me as I grab the edge of the pool and spring out onto the deck.

Does a sick girl move like this?