He Asked for My Heart

Chapter 4

The ward door wasn't locked.

I changed out of my hospital gown, put on my own coat, and walked to the elevators.

Julian Foster was standing by the window at the end of the hallway.

He hadn't called his bodyguards, nor did he try to stop me.

He walked up to me and held up his phone.

The time was displayed in the upper right corner of the screen.

In the center was a line graph.

The peak of the graph was steadily dropping.

It was the real-time data from Theresa Vance's ventricular assist device.

"She has 24 hours left at most," Julian said, his voice very low.

"And?" I looked at him.

"And so I have every right to leave. But if I walk away and she dies, it'll all be my fault, right?"

Julian remained silent.

"I didn't say that."

"But you want me to think that way."

He reached out and pressed the down button for the elevator.

The red light on the button lit up.

The metal doors slid open to both sides.

The mirror inside the elevator car reflected both of our figures.

"Claire, she's only 20."

I stopped in my tracks.

The elevator doors slid shut in front of me again.

I turned around and walked back to the ward, step by step.

From that moment on, I lost my freedom.

My meals were delivered to my room on a strict schedule by a nutrition team.

Every single pill had to be double-checked by two nurses in front of me.

Every time I left my room, someone would tail me exactly three paces behind.

During the night, my abdominal muscles suddenly spasmed.

I curled my legs up.

The fabric of the hospital gown chafed against my skin.

I felt a warm liquid spreading along my inner thighs.

I pulled back the blanket. There was a red blood stain seeping through my pants.

I pressed the red call button at the head of the bed.

The nurse on duty rushed into the room.

When she saw the blood on the sheets, she immediately flipped open the medical chart at the foot of the bed.

"Potential organ donor. All medications must be reviewed and approved by the transplant team."

Terrified of administering the wrong drug, she turned and ran out of the room to make a phone call.

I picked up my phone from the pillow and dialed Julian's number.

The call connected, and the receiver filled with the beeping of medical monitors and chaotic footsteps.

"Julian, I'm bleeding."

"How much? Is the abdominal pain on the left or the right? Are you dizzy?"

He spoke incredibly fast, barking orders to the people around him at the same time.

"I'll send an obstetrician-gynecologist and a neurologist over right away."

"Are you coming back?" I interrupted him.

Julian stared at the monitor screen.

"Theresa's device is failing.

Claire, give me ten minutes."

I gripped the sheet beneath me.

"Three years ago, when I had a fever of 100 degrees, you postponed two meetings. Now I'm bleeding, and you're telling me to wait for her."

Only the sound of breathing remained on the other end of the line.

"The doctors are already in the elevator. You'll be fine."

"What if I'm really not going to be fine?"

He didn't answer.

I pressed the end call button.

The next morning.

I walked out of my ward and passed Julian's temporary office.

The office door was ajar.

Two printed documents lay on the desk.

The edges of the paper looked sharp.

The first line, printed in bold, read: Five-Year Recovery Plan.

This was the arrangement for Theresa Vance.

On the third line of the second form, it read: No funeral dirge.

This was the post-mortem arrangement for me, Claire Jennings.

He had planned a future for Theresa, and a burial for me.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Julian pushed the door open and walked in.

He picked up the cashmere shawl from the sofa and draped it over my shoulders.

"The floor is cold."

I held up the post-mortem arrangement document.

"Have you ever, even for a single second, considered that my diagnosis might be wrong?"

Julian's hand, which was adjusting the shawl, froze mid-air.

I pulled the examination schedule from the desk.

The donor compatibility review was at the very top of the list.

The comprehensive diagnostic review was at the very bottom.

"What if I don't have a terminal illness?"

Julian looked at me.

"I wouldn't take the heart of a healthy person."

"But you clearly already suspected it," I said, my voice trembling. "You were just too afraid to find out the truth too soon."

His face turned pale.

A sharp, agonizing cramp hit my abdomen again.

The schedule slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.

Fresh blood trickled down my calf, dripping onto the white tiles.

Julian's pupils contracted.

He bent down, scooped me up into his arms, and rushed toward the emergency area.

The door to the examination room slammed shut in his face.

Ten minutes later.

The neurologist, wearing green scrubs, walked out of the examination room.

He pulled off his mask.

"Mr. Foster, Ms. Jennings does not have a brain tumor. The old diagnostic report's serial number does not match the system, and the electronic signature was forged.

"She is completely healthy.

"Furthermore, the patient is seven weeks pregnant and is currently experiencing a threatened miscarriage."

The silver mechanical pocket watch in Julian's pocket stopped ticking.

And the woman whose death he had planned in advance was carrying his child.