Under My Skin (10 page)

I kick and scream and flail and cry, but all it amounts to is a few lame jerks and a long whoosh from the tube.

I’m alone.

I’m going to die.

Three people rush in. The doctor follows them, shouting, “Sedate her, quickly before she injures herself more.”

A woman in green scrubs holds me down by the shoulders. “You’re okay, Darby. The machine is breathing for you. Try to relax, hon. It’s alright.” She talks in soothing tones, but she doesn’t know
there’s no air in my lungs. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I’m trapped. Let me go
.

The nurse injects a needle of milky white stuff into my IV.

A raw burn crawls up my arm, blends with the fire in my chest, and pulls me under.

* * *

I’m floating, alone, in darkness. No sound, no light, no touch. Nothing. I’m nothing. Just random thoughts bobbing along, attached by silky threads dipped in dew. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, or where here is, but I know it’s peaceful. There’s no fear, no pain, no anger, no sadness, just quiet. I could stay here forever.

“Darby?” A familiar voice calls to me. It’s bright and sharp.

My soft thoughts jitter, disturbed by the intrusion. The threads holding me together stiffen. Soon, I feel the weight of pressure, squeezing around me, pushing me down.

“Darby, please, open your eyes.”

Mom
.

“How is she, doctor?” Panic cuts through her question, tight and itchy.

“She’s coming along. Woke up on her own earlier today. She fought the breathing tube, so we sedated her again, but she might come around soon.”

I exhale, dragged back into my body, away from the soft comfort of where I was.
No. I don’t want to leave this place. Leave me alone
.

“Will she be able to move, walk … ?” Mom sounds so worried. It brings me closer to being awake.

I huff against the tube blocking my throat.

“She just breathed again on her own,” the doctor says. “Darby, take another breath for us.”

I try to swallow but the tube is so thick I gag and cough.

“Good. Try again.”

This time, I focus on moving air in and out of my lungs.
Whoosh. Sigh
.

“Excellent!”

I’m fully back in my body and I
hate
.
Every
.
Moment
. A scream pushes through me, but it comes out as: “Whooshhhhsighhhh.”

Dr. Wong shines a penlight into my pupils, then says, “Follow my finger with your eyes.”

I fist my hands and shake my head no.

“Don’t try to move your neck. Just your eyes.”

Mom rests her palm on my arm. “You can do it, hon.”

She stands next to the doctor smiling, all encouraging and supportive. Her smiles are usually saved for Daniel while I get the narrow-eyed, thin-lipped disappointed face. She must be totally freaked out.

“Darby. Follow my fingers. I need to see if you can follow directions.” The doctor barks.

I clench my jaw and follow the doctor’s finger left to right, up and down, side to side.

“Good,” she says. “I think we can wean you off the vent pretty quickly.” All business, she flips a couple of switches on the machine next to me, and the rhythmic rush of air being pushed into my lungs pauses.

Nothing happens. I’m gonna suffocate again.
Shit
. A scratchy heat grows in my chest and pressure builds in my skull.
Why are they torturing me?

Mom clamps her hands on either side of my face and stares into my eyes. The vertical line in the middle of her forehead deepens. This is the Mom I know. “Darby Fox. Breathe. In and out, like me.” She shows me. In through her nose and out through her mouth.

I inhale. Air flows into my lungs. The machine assists me, but a lot less than before.

The doctor and nurse watch me for the next half hour, turning knobs and dials every few minutes.

When I’m completely breathing on my own, she shuts off the machine and says, “Alright. Let’s get this tube out.”

They sit me up, tear off the tape from around my mouth, and the doctor grabs hold of the tube while the nurse says, “Breathe out, hard.”

Dr. Wong pulls the tube out and I start coughing.

The nurse rubs my back. “It’s okay, keep breathing. Slowly, in and out, yes, just like that. Good job!”

“Y-yeah, I got it.” My voice is gravelly.

The doctor places her stethoscope on my back and moves it around. “Lungs sound clear,” she announces.

The nurse fits an oxygen tube to my nose. “We’ll keep this on for a while and observe you closely. You’re doing great.”

Dr. Wong says, “Ellison, keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, doctor.” Ellison raises the head of my bed. She fusses with my blanket. “How are you feeling?”

I wiggle my fingers. “Take these off?”

“Now that you’re calm, we can remove them. No jumping out of bed though, okay?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She unties my restraints while Mom watches, hovering at the foot of the bed.

“Where’s Daniel?” I ask.

Ellison glances at me, then to Mom. Her smile is sweet, but I catch the hint of worry in her gaze.

Mom circles to my side. She brushes my hair away from my eyes, a painfully tender gesture that I’m not used to. My first instinct is to jerk away, but for some reason I don’t. For once, I’m comforted by her touch. “I’m so glad you’re okay, honey.”

“What happened to him?” I take in a shaky breath, grinding my teeth against the new tears blurring my vision. Seems I can’t stop crying.

She tips her chin down, casting shadows on her face. Her brow twitches. “Let’s talk about it when your father gets here. I’ll call him.”

“Is he in the hospital too? I want to see him.”

“You just woke up. You need to focus on you now.”

“
Tell me
.”

“Later, sweetheart.” She goes back to fussing with my hair.

“Mom?” My chest tightens. If he was fine, she’d tell me. “He’s okay, right?
Mom?
”

Tears pool in her eyes. She curls her fingers around my fist. “Daniel didn’t make it.”

Shock crashes into me, white hot. My insides melt. “What do you mean ‘didn’t make it?’”

“H-he survived the crash, but by the time he arrived at the hospital, he was brain dead.” The tears stuck to her lashes fall down her face.

A wail grows in my chest, uncontrollable, powerful, and jagged. It rips out of me, exploding in a sob. “No! That’s not true!”

The muscles in Mom’s throat tighten. “His seatbelt was defective. It broke.” Her voice is stringy and taut.

Fragments of the drive home whizz through my mind. Daniel struggled to keep control of the car while I argued with him. I distracted him. We’d probably be fine if I hadn’t bitched at him for looking out for me like always. Selfish Darby strikes again. This time, my brother paid the price.

I shudder.

Daniel’s dead.

Gone forever.

An ember of guilt flares deep in my belly. Heat spreads through my veins, singes my lungs, and engulfs my mind in a blaze.

It’s. My. Fault.

I scream. The sound streaks across the room, down the hall, and returns to me to burrow deep into my soul.

Mum grabs hold of me. Her flowery perfume cocoons me in unfamiliar comfort. I sit rigid in her arms, struck by the truth that Daniel should be in this hospital bed instead of me.

I should be dead. He should have the second chance, not me.

But I can’t take his place.

So I’ll suffer here, wrapped in my mother’s displaced love.

TÊTE-À-TÊTE

Adam

I’m surrounded by darkness and cold. It encases me in a coffin of ice, heavy, leaden, and unforgiving, as if concrete has been poured down my throat in the hopes of turning me into a statue. I am my own sarcophagus.

A steady beeping rings in a pulsing rhythm, a death knell meant for me.

This is the afterlife, and I will spend eternity here, alone, immobile, unfeeling.

More weight is added to me, shoving me deeper underground. I’m being sent to Hell. The agonized scream of another damned soul sounds in the distance. It turns the air to ice. I shiver, uncontrollably. Who knew Hell would be so frigid?

My eyelids are shut. I try opening them, ripping through the glue that gums them together. Distant light blurs above me, a glimpse of Heaven. Why is it so far? Why am I being punished?

I moan.

A shadow flits over me, an angel in white. Shimmery wings brush past, tickling my skin with warmth.

Take me with you
. I reach up, but oh, my arm is too heavy to lift. The angel leaves, and with it, her peace.

“Don’t go,” I rasp. My throat burns as if I’ve already tasted hellfire.

Two familiar faces take shape before me. I blink a few times to focus.

“Mum … Dad … ”

They erupt into toothy smiles, then descend upon me, all teeth and claws.

I jerk back, yelling, hoarse. “No! Stop! Don’t hurt me!”

They retreat, startled. Mum covers her mouth with a shaky hand while Dad holds her by the shoulders. Frown lines warp their foreheads.

“What’s wrong honey? It’s Mum and Dad,” Mum says, her voice shaky with a sob.

“Stay away, demons,” I hiss.

The angel flies back in. Her wings have been replaced by a long white coat. Her halo is covered by a pink bonnet. “Adam, it’s Doctor Hillborn. Remember me? Your surgery went well. How do you feel?”

“S-surgery? I’m not dead?” I ask, searching her face for an otherworldly glow.

“Of course not. You’re in the PACU. We’ll monitor you here for a while, then send you to the post-cardiac surgery floor.” She straightens a gadget on my finger. “Your vitals look good.”

“You’re an angel,” I say.

She laughs. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“He thinks we’re demons,” Dad says.

I tear my gaze away from the angel calling herself Dr. Hillborn to Mum and Dad, or rather, the creatures who look like them. “This isn’t real. I’m dead and in Hell.”

Mum’s face collapses deeper into anguish. “You don’t know what you’re saying. We need Doctor Shaw.”

The Devil herself.

“NO, not her,” I say, eyes wide.

The beeping that was so steady moments ago, quickens.

Dr. Hillborn places a warm hand on my shoulder. “Easy now, Adam, try to relax. It’s common for folks to be a bit disoriented after surgery. You’re not dead. This isn’t Hell. You’re okay. Things are oh-kay.” She speaks slowly, looking directly in my eyes.

“But … ”

“We’re in the hospital. You just had heart surgery. This is your mom and dad. See?”

I scan the room, searching for any hint of falseness. It all looks normal. Except for the horror on Mum and Dad’s faces.

They aren’t demons. They’re the same as they ever have been. Dr. Hillborn isn’t an angel.

The only thing different here is me.

I lift a tentative hand to my chest. It’s covered by a thick bandage. “God,” I say.

Dr. Hillborn asks, “Are you in pain?”

I swallow. My throat hurts, like I’ve eaten a gallon of sand. The center of my chest aches as if it’s been stuffed full with rocks. “Some.”

“We’ll help you manage it the best we can. It will get better, okay?”

I extend my hand. “Mum? Dad?”

Mum takes a tentative step closer. Dad follows.

I splay my fingers. “
Mum?
”

She nods, biting her lip, and clasps her hand around mine.

Dad moves to my shoulder and plants a kiss on my head. “We love you, son.”

“I thought I had … ”

“Shhh, it’s okay, Adam,” Mum says. “You made it. Things will be better now.”

I smile at them. Because I’m supposed to, not because I feel it.

* * *

I sit on the windowsill, watching the flurries in their silent assault on the city below. The clouds have consumed the sun’s rays, leaving the world to suffer in shades of blue and gray.

My butt is sore and I’m shivering from leaning against the cold windowpane, but I don’t want to move and risk losing the sensation, my only anchor holding me to reality. I’m out of phase with the rest of the world, a half step behind, removed from everything and everyone.

Something changed in me when I was in surgery, other than the obvious heart-swapping. I came back different, un-whole somehow, wraithlike, a shadow of my former self. Not that who I was sat firmly planted, fully realized, to begin with. Illness had robbed that from me, uprooting my life, sapping the soil I tried to grow from. It left my limbs brittle and my mind starved.

On his ridiculously early morning rounds, Doctor Jervis reassured me everything went well. After claiming success he paused, staring at me with his brows lifted and hands spread apart. I guess he expected me to give him endless praise and thanks, like Mum. I didn’t. Chance and fate wouldn’t dare interfere with his confidence, and yet I dared to spoil his success with my crap attitude. He shrugged it off and turned to glow in Mum’s gushing.

I should be grateful. Part of me is. The man saved my life, after all. Another part—the one that’s sealed, separate from everything else—still wanders, indecisive, lost, convinced I didn’t have much of a life worth saving.

Mum and Dad are ecstatic. They have no idea, of course, what’s going through my mind. Neither does Dr. Shaw. She hasn’t pried much from me since the surgery, not that she’s had much chance to, given my post-op foray into hallucination. Once the anesthesia cleared—thanks to a good night’s sleep from Dr. Shaw’s prescribed dose of olanzapine—I got over thinking Mum and Dad were demons set on torturing me for eternity in Hell. Cheers to me. That being said, I still don’t feel solid. I’m sure Shaw will catch on soon enough and we’ll begin Round Two of our mental boxing match, with Mum and Dad standing by sidelines to cheer Dr. Shaw on.

I glance at the calendar posted on the wall across from my bed. Day two of a New Me. I’ve just got to figure out who this Me is.

I suppress another shiver. Ice huddles in the window’s corners and spreads its feathery tentacles across the surface. It’ll dominate the entire area in frost if the temperature keeps dropping.