pills better if you take them with a meal. I’ll go get them.”
Caroline looked down in her lap, her cheeks now flaming red and a small tic visible in her jaw, as if she were clenching her teeth very tightly. Her chest was moving in and out very rapidly, and he could hear the breath whistle out of her mouth. She reminded him of Shelby in childbirth, practicing the breathing techniques she had learned in her Lamaze classes when she was pregnant, and he had the absurd urge to laugh.
Margaret appeared with a green slushy concoction—presumably the papaya-and-spinach smoothie—and placed it next to the glass of iced tea Caroline had poured for herself. Then Margaret placed four pills of varying colors and sizes next to the glass before seating herself again.
“Could you please pass the bread?” Drew asked, trying to switch everybody’s attention from Caroline, whose chin now seemed to be firmly pressed into her chest in an apparent attempt to disappear.
“What are those pills for?” Jewel asked at the same time.
Unfortunately, Jewel was sitting on the far end of the table from him, so he couldn’t pinch her. Along with all the good traits she’d inherited from Shelby, she’d also received an uncanny forthrightness that took no prisoners.
Caroline finally lifted her head from her chest, meeting Jewel’s eyes. “They’re organ transplant antirejection drugs. I have to take them every day of my life.” She took the breadbasket and handed it to Drew as if she had just made a comment about the weather.
Jewel’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she said, and Drew did a quick mental calculation to see if his leg was long enough to reach under the table and kick her gently in the shins. It wasn’t. “What sort of organ transplant did you have?”
Without blinking, Caroline faced Jewel again. “Heart. I had a heart transplant.”
Drew saw Jewel lean forward, as if prepared to play Twenty Questions. Without thinking, he picked up the breadbasket and knocked it into the glass of thick green liquid, sending its contents spilling out onto the white linen tablecloth and Caroline’s pale pink T-shirt.
They all sat in appalled silence for a brief moment, watching the spread of green form abstract elementary artwork. At the same moment, all four of them stood and began mopping up smoothie and moving plates and silverware out of the way. Caroline mumbled a quick, “Excuse me, I need to go change,” then turned from the table and walked away without another word.
Caroline sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her reflection in the mirror, not really seeing the pink shirt with the growing green stain across the chest. Instead she saw the white walls and white ceilings of a hospital room, could almost feel the tubes in her arms and smell the sickly clean aroma that had clung to her skin and hair.
She closed her eyes, not wanting the memories to take her to the places that had led up to the hospital room. She rubbed her arms hard, turning the skin pink and waiting for the burning sensation to bring her back into the present. Standing, she slid the soiled shirt over her head and tossed it in her bathroom sink to soak. Her serviceable white cotton bra was tinged green on the left cup, and it soon joined the shirt in the sink.
Pulling open the lingerie drawer, she dug past all the lacy confections her mother had sent her from Victoria’s Secret that still had the tags on, and pulled out a plain beige racer-back bra whose straps had begun to fray. After yanking a T-shirt from another drawer, she turned her back on her reflection, unwilling to look at the puckered pink scar that bisected her chest like a line of demarcation outlining the before and after of her life.
The neck of the shirt snagged on her ponytail as a soft knock sounded on the door. Resigned to another confrontation with her mother, Caroline faced the door with her head and arms still stuck in the top of the shirt. “Come in.”
“It’s me.”
Caroline
Caroline looked down in her lap, her cheeks now flaming red and a small tic visible in her jaw, as if she were clenching her teeth very tightly. Her chest was moving in and out very rapidly, and he could hear the breath whistle out of her mouth. She reminded him of Shelby in childbirth, practicing the breathing techniques she had learned in her Lamaze classes when she was pregnant, and he had the absurd urge to laugh.
Margaret appeared with a green slushy concoction—presumably the papaya-and-spinach smoothie—and placed it next to the glass of iced tea Caroline had poured for herself. Then Margaret placed four pills of varying colors and sizes next to the glass before seating herself again.
“Could you please pass the bread?” Drew asked, trying to switch everybody’s attention from Caroline, whose chin now seemed to be firmly pressed into her chest in an apparent attempt to disappear.
“What are those pills for?” Jewel asked at the same time.
Unfortunately, Jewel was sitting on the far end of the table from him, so he couldn’t pinch her. Along with all the good traits she’d inherited from Shelby, she’d also received an uncanny forthrightness that took no prisoners.
Caroline finally lifted her head from her chest, meeting Jewel’s eyes. “They’re organ transplant antirejection drugs. I have to take them every day of my life.” She took the breadbasket and handed it to Drew as if she had just made a comment about the weather.
Jewel’s eyes widened. “Wow,” she said, and Drew did a quick mental calculation to see if his leg was long enough to reach under the table and kick her gently in the shins. It wasn’t. “What sort of organ transplant did you have?”
Without blinking, Caroline faced Jewel again. “Heart. I had a heart transplant.”
Drew saw Jewel lean forward, as if prepared to play Twenty Questions. Without thinking, he picked up the breadbasket and knocked it into the glass of thick green liquid, sending its contents spilling out onto the white linen tablecloth and Caroline’s pale pink T-shirt.
They all sat in appalled silence for a brief moment, watching the spread of green form abstract elementary artwork. At the same moment, all four of them stood and began mopping up smoothie and moving plates and silverware out of the way. Caroline mumbled a quick, “Excuse me, I need to go change,” then turned from the table and walked away without another word.
Caroline sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her reflection in the mirror, not really seeing the pink shirt with the growing green stain across the chest. Instead she saw the white walls and white ceilings of a hospital room, could almost feel the tubes in her arms and smell the sickly clean aroma that had clung to her skin and hair.
She closed her eyes, not wanting the memories to take her to the places that had led up to the hospital room. She rubbed her arms hard, turning the skin pink and waiting for the burning sensation to bring her back into the present. Standing, she slid the soiled shirt over her head and tossed it in her bathroom sink to soak. Her serviceable white cotton bra was tinged green on the left cup, and it soon joined the shirt in the sink.
Pulling open the lingerie drawer, she dug past all the lacy confections her mother had sent her from Victoria’s Secret that still had the tags on, and pulled out a plain beige racer-back bra whose straps had begun to fray. After yanking a T-shirt from another drawer, she turned her back on her reflection, unwilling to look at the puckered pink scar that bisected her chest like a line of demarcation outlining the before and after of her life.
The neck of the shirt snagged on her ponytail as a soft knock sounded on the door. Resigned to another confrontation with her mother, Caroline faced the door with her head and arms still stuck in the top of the shirt. “Come in.”
“It’s me.”
Caroline
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