Alive (27 page)

“Apparently there were signs of foul play. Whatever that means. No one’s saying a thing, but Mitchell told Connor, who told me that there were drops of blood on his deck.”

“Really?” My voice is hoarse. The image of blood splattered across the tree trunks springs to mind and then vanishes.

“I know, right?”

We sit quietly for a few moments, listening to each other breathe. I watch a few new photographs scroll on-screen. Tess in her cheerleading uniform. Tess in a goofy Christmas sweater. Tess
holding her scruffy shih tzu dog.

“You think she’s okay, don’t you?” I ask. This time it’s the impact of her head against a sharp corner that I see. A slow, controlled folding inward of the body,
like human origami. I push my head into the crook of my elbow.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even her. Anyway, it’s probably too early to start thinking about that stuff.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I wait a few more seconds. Part of me wants to say something, to tell Brynn about how I’d seen Levi talking to her outside. And about how I’d
looked but couldn’t find him. To have her say back,
Oh, isn’t that strange?
But in a lighthearted, what-a-coincidence sort of way. I want to tell her because it should be a small
detail, a nothing. Why should I think it is anything else? But I don’t.

Like Brynn had said, Tess was drunk. She had a fight with her mom. She could have run away or wandered off or anything. I think back to my vision, but what would I say to the police? I’m
not even sure what I saw. Trees? Wet trees? It’s Seattle. That will go over well. And besides, they could think I’m involved.

Then comes a more chilling thought. What if I
am
involved? What did I do during my vision? I have no idea.

“Brynn, about last night—” I say instead.

“Let’s not,” she cuts me off, and I can tell that she means it.

I sit quietly, not knowing how to continue until, to my surprise, I say, “I broke up with him. You were right.”

“I know,” she says, but for once she leaves out the I-told-you-so tone.

After a while, I tell Brynn I have to finish my homework but that I’ll see her tomorrow and then there’s a
click
and the line’s dead. The phone bounces on the mattress
and I stare blankly at the TV without blinking. Finally, when my eyes are dry and itching, I lie back down on my pillow and close them, the image of Levi and Tess burned like a brand into the back
of my lids.

That afternoon, I refuse to eat or get dressed or shower. Levi calls. My finger hovers over the buttons until I summon the willpower to hit ignore. As soon as I do, the space underneath my
breastbone swells with an agony so deep it nearly buckles my knees.

Then, at five oh eight, I crawl into bed and accept that there’s no way out from the pain. I slip in and let it engulf my body from head to toe like I’m drowning, and afterward, I
don’t bother getting up until morning.

The next day, they find her body. Even though I’m not there, the scene plays vividly in my imagination. A man with a forest-green uniform and a holster that swivels on his hips leans back
on the leashes of two black-and-tan German shepherds whose noses churn up the dirt and undergrowth. They find her beneath a thorny shrub. A torn piece of fabric hangs from one of the branches.
Twigs and leaves accessorize her knotted hair as though she were a fairy wood nymph waiting to awaken.

The dogs howl, long and forlorn. They paw at the ground as if they’re trying to dig a grave with their short claws. Yellow tape wraps around tree trunks. Sirens. A boxy ambulance. An
unzipped plastic bag. And when they lift her, the weight of her middle sags low.

But there’s one thing I can’t picture. No matter how many times the reporters insist in their zappy, sensationalized-headline way that it’s true.

Tess Collars was found Sunday morning with a single, gaping hole and nothing inside the cabinet of her chest.

Her heart, they said, was missing.

CONFIDENTIAL

St. David’s Healthcare: Confidential Document

This information is subject to all federal and state laws regarding confidentiality and privacy and to the policies and procedures of St. David’s
Healthcare regarding patient information. Any unauthorized use, disclosure, or reproduction of this information is strictly prohibited.

*Final Report*

*Final Report*

Post–Heart Transplant Note

Basic Information

History of Present Illness

“You look terrible,” Brynn says as I squeeze past her along the bleachers. I find a spot in the basketball gymnasium between her and Lydia, a few rows down from the
top, just high enough to be dizzying.

A recorded violin plays through the loudspeakers. Students shuffle to their seats, voices held lower than usual. I shed my jacket and fold it in my lap.

“Please, be more honest.” I say in a voice no louder than a croak. “Don’t spare my feelings.”

She levels her chin. “Serious question: Have you seen yourself in the mirror? Follow-up: Are you doing all right? Because—”

“Yes, I know.” I let out a tired one-note laugh and even that hurts. “I’ve seen myself. And I have no idea, it’s pretty touch-and-go at this point.”

“I’m sorry about Levi,” Lydia says quietly.

I give her a grim smile that I have no intention of making reach my eyes.

“It’ll get easier,” I say, unconvincingly.

She squeezes my hand. “Yeah, it will.”

A normal girl would eat a pint of rocky road, watch
The Notebook
, and spend an entire weekend wallowing in her PJs, but I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that I’m not
a normal girl. In the past seventy-two hours, I’ve deteriorated significantly. Brynn and Lydia pass worried looks between each other and quickly shuffle apart to make more room for me.

My doctors would call it something fancy, like “regression of pulmonary arteriovenous malformations.” I would call it something simpler. Withdrawal.

From Levi.

My legs are brittle and quiver even when I’m sitting. Plus, it hurts too much to eat, so I’ve given that up, too. When I left the house, there were rings underneath my
eyes—yellowish-blue, the color of three-day-old bruises.

“Don’t you have, like, a million doctors you could talk to?” asks Brynn. Considering she generally refuses to acknowledge the fact that I’m sick, this is a huge step for
her.

“I’m fine,” I insist. But this isn’t true. Last night I’d dreamed of Tess. Or at least I thought it was Tess. There was a girl and she had a hole in her chest,
hollowed out like somebody had taken a serrated cookie cutter to it.

The edges were toothed and flayed, shiny with thick, gelatinous blood. Sticky, if you touched it with your fingers. When I looked over, I could see all the way down, like I was staring into a
pit of molten lava. It gurgled when she tried to breathe.

I woke up from my dream drenched in sweat, and I could have sworn I saw a figure in the window, staring in. Dark hair, hooded eyes. But when I sat up, it was gone and I wasn’t sure anymore
whether I’d been fully awake or not. Either way, I hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

By then, the pain was raging. If I asked to skip school I knew Mom would make me visit Dr. Belkin and I didn’t want that. I could make it through this. I could be normal.

“At least you’re better off than her.” Lydia nods to the gym floor down below. At the center, an easel holds a blown-up picture of Tess Collars. Flowers and teddy bears litter
the mascot emblem.

My stomach turns like a screw.

The microphone screeches. Our guidance counselor, a thin man named Dr. Yang, calls for us to quiet down. Lydia and Brynn straighten beside me. I relax, thankful for the privacy that comes with
the new distraction.

I hug my jacket to my chest, trying to stanch the aching with pressure, but no luck. I settle in for the long, tedious business of memorializing Tess while suffering the sensation of my torso
being rammed through with a saw-toothed blade.

As soon as Dr. Yang begins, saying words like
a positive force
,
encouraging
, and
big-hearted
, I know this whole eulogy will be a work of fiction. Tess wasn’t that nice
and she definitely wasn’t encouraging. And if I were him, I might have stayed away from the mention of hearts altogether.

I look around, though, and the audience is nodding. Pairs of girls lean together, hugging, and we’re only a few sentences in. I’ve thought about my own eulogy often. Wondering what,
if anything, anyone would have to say. I flinch at the idea that it would have been anything like Tess’s, bland and dishonest.

Among a sea of peers, I feel a single shiver sneak its way up the back of my neck. Goose bumps pop up on my arms, puckered at the hairs. My throat tightens, fingers tense on my legs.

It’s the same sense that woke me from my dream last night. The feeling of being watched.

As casually as I can, I glance around the cavernous room. Everyone is listening attentively to Dr. Yang. Sniffles, quiet coughing and rustling clothes fill the surrounding air. But the tingling
intensifies.

I keep my breath steady. Slowly, I turn my head to one side. I search the bleachers. Nothing out of the ordinary. My knees start to jiggle. I want to shake off the sensation, but it sticks to
me. Gradually, deliberately, I pivot the other direction.

Just two rows up and catty-corner, Levi is fixing me with an unwavering stare. I nearly jump. When I catch his eye, he doesn’t smile or try to look away. He watches me, motionless.

My heart pounds. I realize in that moment that I’m scared of him. Terrified. How did I let it go on so long?

A single droplet lands with a plop on my lap. Breaking our eye contact, I look up to the ceiling, searching for a spot that’s leaky. Another drop lands.

It’s then that I see the two bloodstains on my pant legs. Three more fall with a satisfying pitter-patter. I rub at one of the spots. It smells like a penny.

One drips onto the back of my hand. Another on my cheek. My breathing grows shaky. Blood rains down on me. I whip my head back to Levi and he’s still staring, this time with a smirk and I
realize, with a start, that somehow he knows.

Meanwhile, Dr. Yang is telling us something about how Tess wouldn’t want us to feel sad forever. In fact, what she would want is for us to go on with our school year and live life to the
fullest. Or at least that’s what Yang’s takeaway must be. I can hardly hear, my ears are so full with a metallic buzz, and I sit very still, letting the scarlet soak my khaki pants.

At the end of the memorial, Lydia insists I have to go to the nurse’s office. Dazed and catatonic, I allow her to gingerly hold my hand so that she can help me pick my way over the
bleachers. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter, which should be the first sign that something about me appears seriously off. But it hardly registers, because I’m not listening.