A Matter of Heart (22 page)

J
en is waiting in the dirt lot, standing so still she might be a statue. A statue dangling a pair of high heels. My high heels.

If there were a contest to see which one of us looks worse, it would be a tough call. I'm scratched up and covered in dried sweat, dirt, and smeared blood. But Jen has been crying.

Jen is not a pretty crier. Her eyes puff up and go red as a vampire's, her cheeks bleach white, and her nose drips. Obviously, she's been crying a lot tonight. She doesn't say anything when she sees Alec is with me. She waits as I hand him back his shirt and then she holds out the high heels I yanked free before I took off up the trail. When I take the shoes, she turns silently and leads the way to her car.

Now here we are, putting on our seat belts like we have a million times before. My eyes close for just a second and it feels
a little like a prayer.
Thank you, God, for Jen
. She's pissed, yeah, but she's here for me. She always is.

I prop my dirty feet against the dashboard. My toenails are streaked with dirt, chipped, and the left big toe is smudged with caked blood. I have a flash of my feet a few hours ago, sitting on the stairs, the Graveyard Gray toes gripping the carpet.

“Please don't cry,” I say to Jen.

“I'm not.”

“You were.”

Defiantly she raises her chin. “You can't stop me from doing something I've already done.” Then she pulls out of the dirt lot and back onto the street. The cul-de-sac is still packed with cars, and music is flowing loudly from Tanya's house. I glance at the dashboard clock and realize that only an hour and a half has gone by. The party is still going strong, which feels pretty surreal.

“You going to tell me what you were doing with Alec?” Jen asks as we pass Tanya's street.

“He followed me up the trail.”

“Why were you on the trail to begin with?” I feel her gaze on me. “Why are you so scraped up?”

“Jen—”

“Abby, come on,” she interrupts. Her voice is thick with more tears and she swipes beneath her nose. “What happened? I saw you leave with Connor. Did you—”

“Nothing happened,” I said. “I fell. And no, we didn't. Connor and I…” I lean my head against the side of the car. “We're not so perfect together after all.”

I hear her sigh and it sounds like relief. But why? Because I'm okay? Or because Connor might be available? Do I even care?
I search my own jumbled feelings and think the answer is no—except for the fact that Jen deserves someone better.

I turn a little so I can squeeze her arm. “I'm so sorry, Jen,” I say. “If you liked him all this time, well, I didn't think how hard that would be.”

“I don't. I didn't.” She shrugs. “Maybe I could have if things had been different. Or if I had been different.” She rolls one shoulder as if putting that thought behind her. “Connor is too pretty for me.”

“No. You're too good for him.”

She shoots me a smile, but there's a sadness in her eyes I've never seen before. Jen always seems rock solid and now she seems, well, breakable. Maybe we all are. Maybe it's just a matter of time until we all trip up and fall. I rub at the throbbing in my temple.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Remind me never to drink beer again.”

There are new tears on her pale cheeks. “You'll get through this, Ab.”

“Yeah,” I say again. But will I? How? I shift lower in my seat and watch the streets slip by. Orange lights twinkle from passing houses, and ghostly white shapes dance from the trees. Halloween has always been one of my favorite holidays. Now it's just going to be a bad anniversary.

I feel for the window button and then wait as it whirls down. Jen is driving slow, so the wind is a soft whisper and the breeze ruffles my hair. I hardly feel it I'm so numb. It's as if I'm already dead. Maybe I am. The Abby I was meant to be is dead. And in her place? Who's left?

We're quiet until she pulls to a stop in front of my house. She puts the car in park, undoes her seat belt, and then hugs me. I hug her back. “I'm okay,” I say.

“Promise?” she asks.

“I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“Then later. I'll talk to you later.”

She searches my eyes. “But you're okay?”

I nod, because I am okay in the way she means.

But there are a lot of ways to be okay.

“Get some sleep,” she says as I open the car door.

“I will,” I lie.

I watch as she drives away. The alcohol has worked out of my system, leaving me tired, but there's no way I can sleep; my mind is too unsettled. I can't get the image of that broken glass out of my mind. The thought of me, broken.

Quietly, I slip into the house. I'm already late and I'm about to break curfew, but I don't think Mom is going to make a big deal about that tonight. I pull on a black fleece hoodie and grab flip-flops and Dad's car keys. Then I head for the one place where I can make sense of things.

I
t's a little after two when I turn the van into the school parking lot. The tires crunch over the asphalt as I roll into the closest spot. It takes a second for me to register the blue-and-white rectangular sign in front of me. A handicapped space. My throat tightens. It's stupid, but I shift the car into reverse and move to a visitor's spot. I take the keys as I climb out and close the door. There's a bite to the air. It's nice. I like when the weather turns. I like finishing a warm-up with my blood pumping hot but my breath a cold cloud. Is that feeling lost to me too? The thought is a sharp pain just beneath the Horizon logo. My heart works just fine in so many ways.

I follow the path of the walkway around the school gym. The high walls block the streetlights here but I don't need a flashlight. I've walked this path hundreds of times in every kind of
light and no light at all. I've always known exactly where I'm going. But now, even as I move forward, I've never felt so lost.

As if the sheet of paper I wadded up at Danvers's office has been stuck in my head all this time, it unfolds behind my eyes.

HYPERTROPHIC CARDIOMYOPATHY.

It strikes two in five hundred people. It causes dizziness and palpitations. Sometimes it kills.

And I have it.

The path is lit up ahead. It's the security light outside the pool area. It'll stay on until the sunlight triggers the automatic shutoff. This time of year, it won't be until close to seven. I sigh, my chest rising and falling in time with the soft
swish
of my flip-flops. Only a few more hours until the new day is here, followed by a new week, followed by State. This isn't how it was meant to be.

I reach the black metal pool fence and fit my key into the lock. It's a spare that Coach gave to my dad so I'd be able to practice even when the team was off or Coach was out of town. It's not something he's supposed to do or something he's done for anyone else.

But I was special.

The gate creaks the way it always does, just a little bit, from the loose bottom screws. I close it behind me, feeling the latch click into place. Then I turn and face the pool.

My breath catches at the stillness and the beauty. Goose bumps prickle up my arms. I don't want to move; I want to melt into the air and be a part of this place. The water is moving yet still, the ebb and flow a whisper as it brushes against the edges of the cool deck. It's a deep blue-black that swallows the light and reflects it at the same time.

The air is a little more humid in here, and as I breathe in, it's as if I open from the inside out. I can taste the chlorine on my tongue, and it's sweet and familiar. I was born in waters like these—that's how it feels as I stand here at the edge of the pool. As if these are amniotic waters, waters of life.

I slip off my flip-flops and the raised pattern of the cool deck shapes to the curves of my soles as if it were made for me. The thinnest layer of smoke hovers above the water line where the heat from the water clashes with the cooler air. In the next few days, Coach will cover the pool at night, rolling over a huge blue tarp the length of the water. But tonight it's just me and the pool, and it feels more special than any church. It feels like home.

I sit on the deck and slip my feet into the water. My toes flutter at the cold and I watch the ripples breaking along the surface. How do I give this up?

My fingers curve around the edge of the deck and I rock forward and back. This is where life first began to make sense. The water has given my life meaning and if it also takes my life? Then what? I know the thought should scare me, but it seems almost fitting. I swam for a dream.

I died, living for it.

Is that really the worst way to go?

I flutter my feet, toes pointed so I catch the water and send sheets of it into the air, listening to the music of it as it comes back down. Besides, there's no guarantee I would die.

I might.

I could.

But I could also live. I could come out here on Friday and swim all out with everything I've got. No fear. No doubts. And I
could beat this disease and win my life back. My lips are dry, my throat tight. I'm not going to lie to myself. Yes, it's a risk.

Life is full of risk.

How many kids at this school climb into a car with someone drunk behind the wheel? How many of them jump off rocks at the Salt River, or race their cars down dark roads at midnight? And for what? For a rush? Because it's fun? And even the kids who do everything right—they still die in car crashes and freak accidents.

Anything can happen to anyone, that's the truth. It's not that I want to be stupid—I'm not going to throw my life away, but what about living my dream? Isn't that what we're taught? Go for it? Be brave? Live like you might die at any time?

I think about people who died for their dreams. The explorers who died climbing to the tops of mountains. The teacher who was killed when the
Challenger
blew up. Did we call them stupid? Or did we call them heroes?

With my throat full, I look around the pool once more, trying to see it as a stranger might. But it's impossible. This is my home, and for me it's worth any risk. Every risk. Without this, I might as well be dead.

Standing, I shake the water off my numb feet and slide back into my shoes. Exhaustion is hitting me now. But I'm also more settled, more at peace. I've made a decision.

I'm going to swim next Friday, and I'm not going to swim on beta-blockers.

In one week, I'll be holding a trophy, or it'll all be over. Either way, I'll be remembered.

Either way, no one will ever say I was like anyone else.

Off to the east, the sky is beginning to soften into a deep gray. I've been here longer than I realized. A pulse has been building over my left eye as if someone inside my head is hammering to get out. I really shouldn't have had that beer.

I'm in training.