HEART SICK (Heart Memory Transfer #1)

“Sweetie, he’s gone.” Those words play on a loop—over and over again. But they can’t be real, because what sort of world would cut short the life of a twenty-three-year-old man who had his whole future ahead of him? A cruel f*****g world I want to burn to the ground. When I feel the gentle hands of my best friend, Joy McNelly, attempting to pry me away, my body switches to fight or flight mode, but at the forefront is fight because no one, no one is taking me away from my…son. My son who lies in this sterile hospital bed…brain dead at age twenty-three. “No!” I scream over and over again. This has to be a bad dream. “Mom, it’ll be okay. I’ve got you. It’ll be okay.” That’s what Misha would say. He always knows what to say to calm me down. It’s only been us since Misha was born, as his father left the day I told him I was pregnant. I was fifteen, almost sixteen. A young girl who shamed her devout Catholic family by having a baby out of wedlock. But it was even more shameful having an abortion. I was sent away to reform school for deviant girls like me to have Misha in secrecy. The moment he was born, I lovingly counted his ten fingers. I kissed his ten perfect toes. I knew then and there what my purpose was, and that was to be his mother. I didn’t care that my family would disown me because it was decided by them that I was to put Misha up for adoption. But the moment I saw him, I knew I had met the love of my life, and I would do everything in my power to protect and love him unconditionally. I brought Misha home and thought my parents would also fall in love. How couldn’t they? He was perfect with his blond hair, blue eyes, and cherub cheeks. He was an angel sent from God. But when my father dropped dead from a heart attack the moment he set eyes on his grandson, my mother only saw Misha as a punishment sent from the heavens to chasten her for raising a daughter with loose morals. She threw Misha and me out, convinced this is what her God would want. This was her atoning for her sins, and it was from that day forward that I renounced religion because what sort of God would be so cruel? Is this my punishment for turning my back on a God which has never shown me any mercy? “I’ll get your medication. You rest,” Misha had said as he kissed my forehead before grabbing my car keys from the coffee table. I was sick with the flu and needed the medication my doctor prescribed me. Misha offered to get them for me. If only I insisted he didn’t go, none of this would be happening. If only he stayed home… He had his whole life ahead of him, and I know he would have accomplished great things. He was playing college football and the scouts saw that he was something special. But I already knew that. My Misha would have changed the world. But he never got to reach his full potential, thanks to a driver who veered onto the wrong side of the road. Misha didn’t stand a chance. The driver fled, while here he is…my beautiful boy, kept “alive” by these machines where each beep taunts me with everything that I’ve lost. I link my fingers through Misha’s. He’s still warm. “Ms. Huxley, I’m Dr. Sterling. My colleague and I have looked at Misha’s scans, and I’m afraid the swelling in his brain has just worsened. These machines are the only things keeping him alive. His brain activity is—” I go to a better place, a place where Misha is alive and well, where he is playing professional football, where he is everyone’s hero and not just mine. I see his children. A boy and a girl with blue eyes just like their daddy. I hold my grandchildren with love and pride because family is the only thing that matters. I’ve not spoken to my family in years because if they didn’t accept my son, then they didn’t accept me. And we didn’t need them anyway. Misha lived on campus, but he often visited as our home wasn’t far from school. We lived in an expensive neighborhood and could afford lavish things because I busted my ass to provide for my son. But I didn’t mind. I learned early on that men would do almost anything for a damsel in distress. And a young damsel in distress, well, she could get anything she wanted. I was a homeless, teenage, single mom. Desperate times called for desperate measures and I don’t regret a thing. I learned that women are the superior s*x, and I used that to provide for me and Misha. I worked as an exotic dancer, or as most would say, a stripper, until one photographer who was thirty years my senior asked if he could take photos. I agreed, for the right price, of course. It turns out he was a photographer for a popular men’s magazine and that was when I was “discovered.” Before I knew it, I was the most popular centerfold girl in all of America. But I never forgot why I was doing this—everything I did was for Misha. I now work for that men’s magazine, recruiting models. My modeling days are over. But I offer my experience to newbies who were just like me. Most times, there are no magical potions. Just pure luck. But I refuse to believe that in this circumstance because there is no luck, no silver lining in Misha being unresponsive and relying on machines to breathe. “Ms. Huxley, your son is an organ donor and we were wondering—” “Don’t you touch him!” I cry, covering Misha with my body as I glare at the doctor. “You will not touch a hair on his head!” A guttural sob breaks free, grating my throat raw. But my heart, my heart suffers in the worst possible way. It isn’t just broken; it is destroyed. I doubt it’ll ever beat the same way ever again. “Luna, if he can help another person live—” Joy softly says. “I said no!” I bellow, clutching Misha tightly. “He is my son, and I promised, I promised to keep him s-safe. You can’t…you just can’t. I won’t allow you to desecrate his body. You vultures! Keep away!” I bury my face in Misha’s chest, my cries echoing into his lethargic heart. “I won’t let them hurt you, baby boy. I promised to protect you and I will do so with my very last breath.” I run my fingers over Misha’s face. His arms. I close my eyes and become in sync with the gentle lull of his breathing. I refuse to believe this is the end. “Take these tubes out. He can’t breathe.” A panic overcomes me as I frantically scramble to take the tubes out of his mouth and nose. “Ms. Huxley! Stop.” But I will not. The doctors and nurses don’t know my son better than me. He was born a fighter. He doesn’t die this way. Strong arms pull me away, but I am stronger and fight with all my might. I may be slender, but that’s never stopped me in the past. I kick, scream and bite, but in the end, I am yanked away from Misha as doctors and nurses attempt to restrain me in a brown leather chair. Spittle dribbles from my chin as I am a rabid momma protecting her cub. Dr. Sterling crouches low as I thrash wildly. “I know this is very painful for you. I can’t even begin to imagine your pain. But we have a match for Misha’s…heart. Don’t let his death be in vain. Your son can live on by saving the life of another. Please, Ms. Huxley, honor your son as I know he would want.” His heart? Vomit rises and I turn my face, expelling nothing but bile onto the polished linoleum. “You want to take his…heart?” I ask, horrified, my voice quaking when I can construct a coherent sentence. “You monster!” The doctor doesn’t take offense. “Only with your approval.” I know protocol is that the hospital can proceed even over family objection, and I am objecting very damn hard. But Dr. Sterling is trying to reason with me. She wants me to see this is the right thing to do. But there is no right. Why does this person deserve to live while Misha dies? He walks around with the heart that is as much a part of me as it is my son’s. No, that isn’t fair. That is a cruel reminder that I will never get back the only person who I ever loved in this world. “Think if it was me, Mom. If I had the chance to live…” Misha’s words ring loudly and I cover my ears, blocking out what I know is the truth. “If I do that, that means you d-die,” I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. “Who are you talking to?” Joy asks, her concern clear. “I’m already gone. But I can live on. Every beat of my heart helps another live.” Misha has always been selfless, and it seems even in death, it’s no different. But how do I say yes? How can I live knowing I said yes to ending my son’s life so another can live? “We don’t have much time,” the doctor says softly. “Who is it?” “We are not at liberty to—” “If I am giving you my son’s f*****g heart, then I want to know it’s going to someone who deserves it!” I remove my hands and blink back my tears. The doctor peers around the room to ensure no one can hear. “It’s a young man, a little older than your son, and I can assure you…he will look after Misha’s heart.” “What’s his n-name?” The doctor appears torn whether to reveal this information to me, but she knows this will make all the difference. If I can humanize this match as not merely a number but a person, she knows I will say yes. “Dutch.” “What sort of name is that?” I ask abruptly, sniffing away my tears. “It’s a unique name for a very unique man. He will honor Misha because his heart is theirs. It’s because of Misha that Dutch can live. Please.” Peering over at Misha, I can’t help but think he would actually like Dutch’s strange name because Misha never judged. He accepted everyone. I watch the rise and fall of his chest and memorize every single breath. But this won’t be the last memory I have of my son. I come to a shaky stand and forget where I am as I climb onto the hospital bed and press my ear to Misha’s chest. I listen to the tender rhythm of his heart, the heart which was always too big for this world. Wrapping my arms around him, I sob quietly. I don’t think I’ll ever run out of tears. “I’m sorry, Misha. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. You deserve to live. If I could give you my life, I would, because I am nothing without you. Please forgive me. This is my fault.” Clutching Misha, I remember his smell, the softness of his skin. I remember that no matter what happens, in life or death, he will always, always be my son. “Okay,” I whisper, choking back my tears. “You can have his heart because mine is f*****g broken.” And those are the last words uttered as I succumb to the darkness, wishing to never see the light again. This is f****d up. There is something incredibly morbid about being excited to accept the heart of another to help you live because you know for that to happen—they have to die. But here I am, in an Uber, on the way to the hospital because I got “the call.” When Dr. Norton called, it was apparent she was more enthusiastic than me. She explained the donor was a healthy male and was on life support. She didn’t give me any other details. With her colleague, Dr. Sterling, they had run the tests and he was a perfect match. But that seems like the wrong phrase to use when speaking of taking someone’s heart and making it your own. I hate that I need it. I wish we both could live and if this were a perfect world, that’s what the outcome would be. I think of his family, how they probably hate me for doing something their loved one can’t—live. I was born with a congenital heart defect, a hole in the heart which should have closed over, but didn’t. I had surgery which “fixed” it. For a little while, anyway. I lived a relatively normal life, doing all the things a kid with a normal heart can do. But the doctors told my parents I wasn’t to do anything too strenuous. I stayed away from sports as my overprotective parents were worried I would overdo it and undo the surgery. Not possible, but lucky for me, I didn’t like sports.