Chapter 4

The day Isabella got the transplant, it poured in Los Angeles.

When I woke, Dr. Smith was standing beside my bed, telling a nurse, "Move her to the ICU now. She's unstable, and she could go downhill at any minute."

The nurse dialed over and over. The screen lit and went dark. Nobody picked up.

Dr. Smith kept his temper in check. "Keep calling. Her next of kin needs to sign both the critical condition notice and the high-risk resuscitation consent form."

An announcement came over the speakers: the donor heart had arrived at the hospital.

I said quietly, "I know where they are."

Dr. Smith turned. "Anna, you can't be moving around."

"I just want to see them once." I looked at him. "Ten minutes."

He was quiet for a long time. Then he hooked me up to portable oxygen. "Ten minutes. The second you can't catch your breath, you come straight back."

The private wing on the third floor was brightly lit.

Isabella's bed was being wheeled toward the operating room.

My mother had combed Isabella's hair and kept straightening the corners of her blanket.

My father stood with the doctors, going over the anesthesia plan, the risk of rejection after surgery, and the recovery schedule again and again. He asked about every possible side effect of every medication.

Howard crouched beside the bed and fastened the medal he'd taken off my neck around Isabella's neck. The broken chain had been patched with a short piece of clear tape.

"Don't be scared." He took her hand and kept his voice very low. "We'll all be right outside."

I leaned against the wall and watched them for a long time.

"Howard..."

He turned around and froze for a second when he saw me, then frowned. "What are you doing down here?"

I lifted my hand and held out the critical condition notice.

"Sign it. They want to move me to the ICU, and they need the resuscitation consent form signed."

My mother got to me first. She saw the blue tinge to my lips and the cold sweat beading along my hairline, and she finally panicked.

"Anna, how did you get like this?"

Her hand trembled as she gripped my arm.

But I'd barely opened my mouth when Isabella started crying on the bed. "Why is she here? Has she changed her mind? Does she want the heart back?"

Her hand stiffened around my arm.

She looked at me, then back at Isabella, and her tears began to fall.

"Anna, don't frighten her today, all right? Mom knows you feel awful, but she's about to go in."

My father moved in front of Isabella's bed and positioned himself between us.

"Did you have to go after her now, of all times? Anna, you signed the waiver. Nobody owes you anything!"

The critical condition notice slipped out of my hand.

I bent to pick it up, but my chest seized just before my fingertips reached the paper. My father grabbed my arm and pushed me aside.

"Enough! Every time we're all gathered around Isa, you have one of your episodes. Haven't you had enough of this after all these years?"

I braced myself against the wall and slowly held the paper out again.

"I'm not here for the heart."

I pushed it a little farther toward him, breathing hard.

"I only need one of you to sign."

Howard finally took the paper.

Before he could read it, the OR nurse urged them back. "Could the family step back, please? The patient is going in."

Isabella held on to his cuff, tears streaming down her face.

"Howard, I'm scared..."

He looked down at her. "Don't be. I'm not going anywhere."

He turned away, folded the consent form, and pushed it into his pocket. Then he said to me under his breath, "Go back to your room. As soon as Isabella is in, I'll go find your doctor."

I looked at him. "Will you come?"

His brows drew together, as if the question had struck a nerve.

"Anna, when have I ever lied to you?"

I didn't answer.

A nurse walked me back up to the seventh floor. We had just reached the hall when something closed around my chest like a fist, and I slid down the wall, powerless to stop it.

She screamed for a doctor. A crash cart rattled down the hall. Dr. Smith called my name over and over.

Somebody put an oxygen mask over my face.

The sounds grew more and more distant.

The pain was fading.

My body grew lighter.

I looked down at my hand. My fingers had turned translucent, and I was floating.

It turns out dying doesn't hurt the way I thought it would.

Down the corridor, the red light above the surgical wing went out.

Howard let out a breath. He stood by the bench and put his hands in his pockets out of habit.

His fingers touched the paper he'd forgotten about.

He pulled it out and unfolded it.

His gaze landed on the bold black words at the top. He went very still, and the hand holding the paper began to shake.

His head snapped around.

Near the service elevator, a cart covered by a white sheet rolled slowly past. One edge of the sheet had slipped, revealing a bloodless wrist.

I drifted beside the cart and saw the ID band on my own wrist.

The name on it was perfectly clear.

[Anna Adams]