Under My Skin by Laura Diamond Page A

with the accusation. She’s paler than normal and deep, purple circles color the skin under her eyes. “This is hard on all of us. You’re not the only one going through it.”
    “Never said I was.”
    “Why are you so angry? This isn’t like you.”
    “It is me. You don’t want to see it. Just because you want me to better, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”
    Something breaks in her eyes. “If you look at the world—”
    “ Mum .”
    “Let me finish.” Her tone cuts me deeper than a surgeon’s scalpel. “This pessimist viewpoint you’ve adopted won’t get you anywhere. In fact, it’ll interfere with your healing and I won’t tolerate it anymore. We’ve come too far—we crossed the bloody ocean for god’s sake—and we’ve waited too long for a donor heart to give up now.”
    “I’m not giving up.”
    “Could’ve fooled me.” She crosses her arms. “You really think no one notices how you’re acting? It’s obvious you’re not telling the truth and you’re doing a piss poor job at pretending.”
    “I’m not the only one pretending.”
    Her mouth drops.
    “You want honesty? Well, the truth is that I can’t take any more of your ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ philosophy. You need to stop pretending we’ve got the happy ending, because we haven’t.” My chest tightens in progressive notches with each jab I throw at her, twisting like the wires holding my sternum together.
    Her lips thin. She grabs her coat and shrugs it on, fighting with the collar a bit before it folds the right way. “I think Doctor Shaw needs to adjust your medications again. No matter what you say, I know this isn’t you and I want my old son back.” She turns on her heel and stalks out of the room.
    I’m left alone to suck on the chalky bitterness of our conversation. Mum will be on the mobile with Dr. Shaw before she reaches the lift. Should be an interesting meeting when I see her next.
    I move back to my windowsill perch to watch night fall. The snow has stopped, but dark clouds obscure the sky, blocking out the stars.
    There’s no light for me.
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    After snoring all night, Dad leaves at five AM. I pretend to be asleep. True to form, he doesn’t bother me, not even to press a hand against my shoulder or whisper a goodbye. He didn’t say much last evening either. Except for three little sentences that have run through my mind all night, shocking me awake when I teetered on the edge of sleep.
    “You should be more grateful. Not everybody finds a donor. And you should give your mum a break.” He said it between bites of his chicken salad sandwich.
    I’d barely eaten half of mine. The taste of it had instantly shifted to sawdust in my mouth, so I’d abandoned the idea of finishing it. Dad either hadn’t noticed or decided not to comment on it. He’d spent the rest of the evening working on his computer.
    I toss back the covers, tense from spending several hours in a small room with him. I don’t intend to be a disappointing son, but it’s what I am. What I’ve been. New heart or not, I’m still broken. Ruined. Useless.
    The window faces southeast, so the sunrise greets me, unashamed in its nakedness. I boldly stare at the pale yellow orb as it crests the horizon, daring it to blind me. A veil of haze diffuses its power so I end up with a couple darkened spots in my vision that fade in a few seconds.
    When Dr. Shaw arrives late morning, I’ve accomplished five laps around the unit, a bath (no showers because of all the bandages and wires and things), and half of my History reading assignment. The gist of it is that Brits are bad and Americans are brave and relentless in their righteous quest for freedom. Good for them, dumping a bunch of tea in a harbor. Mum calls it a bloody waste. I’d say the same, if it was coffee.
    A quick knock comes on the door. Shaw prances in with a bright smile on her face. “It’s good to see you out of bed.” She plops her coat and purse on the