Under My Skin (2 page)

Mum shimmies up to him and molds her body against his side, two halves reunited. The top of her head barely reaches his shoulder. He wraps his arm around her, easy and relaxed like a dangling scarf. They’ve been together so long that it’s a reflex greeting.

This is how they’ll be after I die. A solid team, joined by love and affection. High school sweethearts who attended the same university so they could be together.

They’ll be fine after I’m gone.

My heart trembles at the thought, then sighs as if accepting the idea. If I die, it’ll get a break from working so hard to keep me alive. Not sure if I’m ready for such a permanent solution, though.

I stuff my hands in my leather jacket pockets and stare down at my trainers. One of the laces has come untied. For real, this time. I stoop over to tie it and while I’m down there, I recuff my dark wash jeans. One flip, two flips. Otherwise, I’d spend the whole time walking on the hems and I can’t stand how it feels.

When I’m done, I join Mum and Dad at the fencing. Dad holds up two coins and says, “Want to look through the viewfinder, Lisa?”

“Why not?” Mum says, planting a hand on either side of the viewfinder.

Dad inserts the money. “Your turn after Mum’s, alright Adam?”

Mum glances over her shoulder at me, hesitating. I wonder if she wants to turn the magnifier lens on me, into my brain to read my thoughts. I catch her staring at me that way a lot. The broken Rubik’s cube she can’t fix.

My throat tightens. “Yeah, sure.”

Mum peers into the lens, scanning the sights from left to right while Dad narrates. She gasps and coos, all jolly-good-times. It clashes with the look she’d just given me.

I sigh. She wouldn’t have to fake happy if she didn’t have to worry about me all the time. I’m the weight wrapped around both of their necks, dragging them down.

Yet they carry on. Stiff Brit upper lips and all.

Dad turns around, flashing his own smile-mask at me. It’s full of tension, held together by invisible strings running from his nose to his lips. Lines crease his forehead and tug at the corners of his eyes. They weren’t there a year ago. “Son, come take a look at this.”

I’m not the slightest bit interested in peering through the viewfinder, but I owe Mum and Dad the effort seeing as how they’ve sacrificed so much for me. The best I can manage is manage a half-smile, hoping Dad doesn’t catch on.

Mum steps out of the way.

Dad gives me a geography lesson—there’s New Jersey, and Ellis Island where all the immigrants used to be processed, and hey look, the Statue of Liberty, such a lovely gift from France. About thirty seconds into his lecture, the shutter drops with a click.

I straighten. “It shut off.”

“That quick? Bollocks.” Dad fishes his hand in his pocket. “Hang on a sec.”

I shrug. “Nevermind. I hate looking through those things anyway.”

He jiggles the coins. “Well maybe your mum wants to use it again. Lisa?”

“Sure, David,” she says. The breeze tosses a piece of her tawny, shoulder-length hair into her face. A heavy cloud rolls overhead, casting us in shadow.

Mum catches my frown. Her smile fades.

I don’t give her a chance to ask if I’m alright. “I’m going to head to the lobby. Take your time.”

“Are you sure?” Mum asks.

I nod. “Yes. You guys have fun.”

She narrows her eyes. “Are you alright?”

I drag my fingers through my hair. So much for avoiding the question. “Yes, Mum. I’m fine. It’s … ”

What is it? Is it that I totally hate how much I’ve wrecked everything for them, or is it that I’m getting tired of the faking, the bucket list that isn’t mine, being away from home (and the friends I’ve refused to keep in touch with), the constant tension of waiting for the other shoe to drop …

I suck in a breath and shiver from the wind. Without the sun, the previously warm fall day has taken on the frigid chill of winter. “It’s too cold up here.”

Dad’s gaze trips over us and volleys off toward the horizon. He probably thinks I’m a weakling.

Well, I am. Healthy people don’t wilt in the cold. Strong, teenage males don’t whine about the temperature. Loving sons don’t ruin family bonding.

“We won’t be long, honey.” Mum does the diplomatic thing by honoring my request, but she won’t tolerate being up here for long while I make my way downstairs alone. Can’t spend too much time without my guardian.

“Don’t rush. Really,” I say.

On her tippy toes, she pecks my cheek with a quick kiss. “Love you.”

“Love you, son,” Dad parrots.

I’m not offended. It’s a reflex, like how he wraps his arm around Mum whenever they’re within reach of one another. I’m just glad he doesn’t hug and kiss me like Mum does. “Ditto,” I say.

Like a slip of fog, I slink inside and wait for the lift along with a crowd of windblown, ruddy-cheeked tourists. The doors open, spilling out a flood of eager sightseers. I tuck into the left front corner once the folks ahead of me board.

There’s really nothing to do in the lobby except stand around awkwardly, trying to stay out of peoples’ way, so I wander outside. I stuff my hands in my pockets to protect them from the chill. My knuckles scrape against my cell phone.

Dr. Shaw, my psychiatrist, wants me to check in with her whenever I think about death, even if it’s the middle of the night. I don’t go so far as to text her at three am, but lately it seems like I’m phoning her all the time. She reassures me that therapy is working. I feel it’s making me more obsessive.

I pause next to a potted evergreen, out of the way of the foot traffic. I draw my mobile out of my pocket and select
Dr. Shaw
in the message app.

Thumb hovering over the keyboard, I stare at the blinking cursor. To text or not to text. That is the question. We’ll end up discussing the trip during our next session anyway. She’ll catch my lack of updating her in real time by pulling out my thoughts word by word. The conversation will invariably end with her asking, “Why didn’t you text me when it happened, Adam?”

Best to get it over with now. I type:
I had the thought today
.

I click send.

For a few seconds, I watch the screen, waiting for her to reply. I can’t expect her to be right there to answer me. She’s probably in session with someone.

A group of students pass by, chattering and laughing, light as bubbles. They halt at the curb to wait for the light to change. They’re all wearing NYU sweatshirts and carrying messenger bags or laptops with silkscreen logos about “being green” and “tolerant of diversity.” Adventurers embarking on the quest known as Life. What it must be like to have a whole lifetime to look forward to, no dead end staring back at you.

My mobile buzzes.

It’s Dr. Shaw.
Tell me the exact thought and context
.

I had a flutter. After, I saw Mum and Dad. Their backs were turned to me and I thought: They’d be happier without me. They’ll be fine after I’m dead
. I click send and try to ignore the gnawing pit in my stomach. My message seems dramatic now that I’ve sent it off for her to scrutinize. It was better left unsaid.

A bubble with three dots surfaces at the bottom of my screen. She’s typing right now. I suck in a dry, exhaust laden breath.

She replies:
What evidence do you have that they’ll be happy?

That was simple.
They were laughing
.

Your death will be devastating to them
.

My heart twinges a bit. Will be? Does she somehow know I won’t make it until I find a donor? Maybe the surgeon told her I’m not a candidate. I blink and re-read her statement. No, I’m over-reacting. She’s just countering my argument with logic. It’s her style to challenge me with the opposite idea so I’ll find the reality somewhere between. Still, I’m not ready to admit she’s right. Mum and Dad don’t need me dragging them down. I text,
Yes, but they’ll be alright.

Of course they will. Life goes on.

Dr. Shaw is unrelenting in her approach. So different from Mum who tries to comfort me with delusional happy thoughts.

Right. And I’m such a burden on them now.

Whatever you think they’re sacrificing is nothing compared to how much you mean to them
.

I’m tired of waiting for my heart to stop
.

Do you want it to stop? You won’t suffer anymore.

My chest tightens, trapping air in my lungs. Tears prick my eyes. She’s supposed to be talking me off the ledge by convincing me that life is worth fighting for. I sniff and wipe my eyes.

I mutter, “Stop it, Adam. She’s sparring with you, to make you think about things from another perspective and to assess if you’re strong enough to go through this. It’s her job. And it’s your job to prove to her that you deserve a new heart and that you’ve got enough strength to handle it.” I glance around, afraid I’ve made a spectacle of myself by yapping at the plant. No one pays any attention.

My mobile buzzes.

Adam, do you want your heart to stop?

I have to answer her. The truth is, I want out of this life … but I’m terrified of death.
NO. I don’t. I want my heart to keep beating for another hundred years
…
or more.

I’ll see you at our next session and we’ll talk more about this. We might need to adjust your meds.

Ugh. I’m sick of swallowing pills. I’m not even sure they’re doing anything. Still, I don’t want to argue via texting. I already sound irrational enough with all this death talk.
OK.

Text me if you need to. ~S

The initial meant she’d signed off.

As usual, she’s left me more confused than when I started. Here, in the middle of a crowded city sidewalk, I’m on my own, alone, sucked into the quicksand of my jumbled thoughts.

Shaw is always warm and open with Mum and Dad, but when we’re alone, her tone trickles with ice and the lines of her slender face sharpen. Her questions become knifelike jabs—straight to my jugular—all under the guise of therapy.

I rake my hand through my hair. Shaw works on the transplant team. She wouldn’t blunder or lead me astray and risk my depression worsening—too much is at stake.

Since my mind is spinning on hyper drive, my body trembles with the overflow. I drift toward a coffee shop, lured by the temptation of the bitter brew. As a Brit, I should be craving a nice, classic,
cliché
cup of Earl Gray or English Breakfast tea, but call me a traitor. I don’t care. Coffee is better.

I yank open the café’s door.

Inside, I take a sniff, savoring the aroma of earthy Arabica beans. A barista scuttles behind the counter working machines I’ve seen before but have no idea how to use. The abrasive swooshing of the cappuccino maker cuts through the echoing conversations around me.

Mum doesn’t want me drinking coffee, soda, and, yes, her beloved tea (unless it’s green or even better, white). She’s afraid the caffeine will induce tachycardia or make my heart “irritable.” It’s a word she picked up from my cardiologist.

Irritable. Like my heart has feelings.

The line isn’t too long. I could order a decaf, slurp it down, and return to the lobby before Mum and Dad. I need it to take off the chill from the day. Yes. That’s it. Besides, it’ll take them fifteen to thirty minutes to catch a ride on the lift because of the ridiculous amount of people waiting, so I have time.

I snag a ten dollar bill out of my pocket and file in line behind a guy wearing a tweed jacket. The smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with cat pee wafts off him. When we get to the counter, the guy orders a small coffee while scrounging through his pockets. He ends up forty cents short.

The cashier recounts the coins in her palm. Her frown deepens. “Sorry, sir. If you can’t afford it, you’ll have to go.”

Mr. Tweed smacks the counter. “Come on, can’t you help me out? You overcharge anyway.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” The cashier—her nametag reads
Monesha
—furrows her carefully crafted brow in that same sympathetic but helpless expression that Mum gives me. She can’t help it that the guy can’t pay for his drink.

Mr. Tweed groans. “I was in Vietnam, you know. I served this country. Fought for your freedom. And you can’t look past
forty cents
?”

Monesha cups a hand around her mouth and calls, “Thomas? I need some help here.”

A tall, skinny man cranes his long neck in her direction. He waves to indicate he’s on his way, but three other workers are surrounding him with their own mini-crises.

Monesha is on her own.

Seizing the opportunity, Mr. Tweed leans over the counter. “How about a half a cup?”

Other patrons have caught on that there’s a scene.

I step around Mr. Tweed, make eye contact with Monesha, and plop the money on the counter. “I’ll pay for his and I’ll take a medium decaf light and sweet, please.”

Monesha launches into action, clearly relieved I’ve solved her problem for her. She picks up the money. “That’ll be five dollars and thirty two cents.”

Mr. Tweed slides his hands off the counter. His rheumy eyes lock onto mine with gratitude.

I give him a nod. “Thank you for serving your country, sir.”

A thick beard obscures his chin. “You British?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Ain’t it grand how a foreigner respects me more than my own countrymen?” He snags his hand around my wrist. “Bless you.”

“No worries.”

The loud chatter and whir of machines resumes as we make our way to the pick up area. When I reach for my drink, my sleeve climbs up my forearm a couple inches.

Mr. Tweed taps the medic alert bracelet dangling from my wrist. “What’s that for?”

“My heart might stop at any moment.” I grip the coffee cup tightly, letting the warmth seep into my fingers.

He chuckles and shows me the bracelet on his wrist. “Mine ain’t too good, either. Doc says I’m not supposed to get upset. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

“Aren’t you worried your heart will stop?” I sip my coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue.

He chugs his, smacks his lips, and shrugs. “I lived my life, son. Besides, not knowing if the Viet Cong’s gonna ambush your squad and slit your throat in the middle of the night kind of cures you of the fear of death, you know?”