Alive Read online

  Copyright © 2015 by Story Foundation and Chandler Baker

  Cover design by Tyler Nevins

  Cover illustration © Evan Hughes

  Designed by Tyler Nevins

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4847-0918-4

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Confidential 1

  Chapter One: 71 BPM

  Chapter Two: 95 BPM

  Chapter Three: 80 BPM

  Chapter Four: 116 BPM

  Chapter Five: 121 BPM

  Chapter Six: 100 BPM

  Chapter Seven: 105 BPM

  Chapter Eight: 104 BPM

  Chapter Nine: 117 BPM

  Chapter Ten: 112 BPM

  Chapter Eleven: 113 BPM

  Chapter Twelve: 101 BPM

  Chapter Thirteen: 121 BPM

  Chapter Fourteen: 133 BPM

  Chapter Fifteen: 102 BPM

  Chapter Sixteen: 107 BPM

  Chapter Seventeen: 131 BPM

  Chapter Eighteen: 122 BPM

  Chapter Nineteen: 131 BPM

  Chapter Twenty: 92 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-one: 107 BPM

  Confidential 2

  Chapter Twenty-two: 122 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-three: 153 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-four: 126 BPM

  Confidential 3

  Chapter Twenty-five: 142 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-six: 105 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-seven: 136 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-eight: 135 BPM

  Chapter Twenty-nine: 143 BPM

  Chapter Thirty: 105 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-one: 147 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-two: 154 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-three: 157 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-four: 151 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-five: 149 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-six: 160 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-seven: 171 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-eight: 191 BPM

  Chapter Thirty-nine: 206 BPM

  Chapter Fotry: 212 BPM

  Chapter Forty-one: FLATLINE

  Chapter Forty-two: 101 BPM

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To my grandparents, for love and wisdom

  “The death’s been made official. That’s it.”

  “Are you sure?” my mother whispers. I keep my breath steady. I don’t want them to know I’m awake.

  “Positive. Family went in to say their good-byes. I just got off the phone. They pulled the plug.”

  “And, will she…?” My eyes pop open. The shadows of my hunched mother and Dr. Belkin stretch over the wall of my hospital room.

  The cardiac monitor beeps softly, once, twice, three times. “That’s the plan.”

  CONFIDENTIAL

  St. David’s Healthcare: Confidential Document

  This information is subject to all federal and state laws regarding confidentiality and privacy and to the policies and procedures of St. David’s Healthcare regarding patient information. Any unauthorized use, disclosure, or reproduction of this information is strictly prohibited.

  Transplant NTE

  CROSS, STELLA M.

  *Preliminary Report*

  Document type:

  Transplant NTE

  Document status:

  Auth (Verified)

  Document title:

  Pre–Heart Transplant Note

  Performed by:

  Belkin, Robert H.

  Verified by:

  Belkin, Robert H.

  *Preliminary Report*

  Pre–Heart Transplant Note

  Patient:

  Stella Cross

  Age:

  17 years

  Sex:

  Female

  Associated diagnosis:

  Acute cardiomyopathy

  Author:

  Belkin, Robert H.

  Basic Information

  Reason for visit: Measurable deterioration of the myocardium; dilated & dyspnea with peripheral edema

  Transplant diagnosis: Transplant match

  Transplant type: Deceased donor heart transplant

  Allergies: Amoxicillin

  Blood consent signed: Y

  History of Present Illness

  Acute cardiomyopathy potentially leading to heart failure; irregular heartbeat; risk of sudden cardiac death

  I was fifteen when my heart betrayed me. Like with all truly masterful betrayals, I didn’t see it coming.

  I had my eye trained on the outside world—bad grades, horny teenage boys, college admissions—and all the while the real danger was lodged square between my rib cage and spine. It hatched its plan, welcomed the poison in like a Trojan horse that pumped the disease through every artery, atrium, and valve until it turned my whole body against me.

  That was two years ago. Life really isn’t fair.

  The hospital bed mattress squeaks beneath me as I try to wriggle my way upright, digging my heels into the paper sheets. Even that makes me tired. I feel my breath get short and wait, still, until my pulse slows. A Bachelor rerun blares in the background. I’ve been on a two-day bender—the hospital only gets a handful of channels—and I’m holding out hope that DeAnna wins this season, only I’m not sure I’ll be around long enough to find out. I suppose I can Google it, but even the thought of that feels self-defeating.

  I’ve been joking with Mom that I’m contestant material now. My athletic five-foot-nine frame has shrunk to a frail 112 pounds, burning calories overtime to keep the rest of my body functioning. Turns out not dying takes a lot of work.

  I drum my fingers on the plastic side rail of my bed and Mom glances up from the magazine she’s been pretending to read. She’s been doing that a lot lately. I can tell by the way she keeps glancing toward me or the cardiac monitor—anywhere but actually at the magazine. She’s put on makeup for the first time in days. Blush sweeps across her cheekbones and the bridge of her straight nose. She must have snuck out her compact while I was sleeping. Wisps of her black hair still stick out at her temples, though, and she looks the most tired I’ve seen her in ages.

  Dad took Elsie downstairs fifteen minutes ago, since she’d been crying like it was her heart that was about to get ripped out. That kind of attention-hoarding behavior is what makes Elsie the perfect replacement child. She fills up practically every nook and cranny of my parents’ attention.

  I’m getting antsy when Dr. Belkin walks in, white tennis shoes squealing along the speckled tile floor. “How’s the patient?” he asks, making a beeline for the little digitized screens that will tell him exactly how “the patient” is doing. I don’t say anything, since I don’t really know. For the two years since my diagnosis with cardiomyopathy, computers have proven a much more reliable indicator of my overall health, seeing as I feel pretty much the same as always—kind of crappy, but not terrible.

  “Her color’s good.” Mom folds the magazine without marking her page and sets it on the table next to her. She puts a lot of stock in my color. She adjusts the trendy Kate Spade glasses perched on her nose and reaches mechanically for her big stack of research, the voluminous file she keeps on Yours Truly. Career criminals have case reports that are shorter than my medical records.

  Dr. Belkin offers a thin smile. “Everything’s still on track,” he says kindly, which is nice of him to say and all—only one problem:
which track? The one where Stella Cross goes on to stay up late nights watching reality TV, attend college, and lose her virginity, or the one where she dies, like twenty-five percent of other transplant patients, but in utter teenage obscurity, having never done a single thing with her life? Ever? “Are you ready, Stella?” he asks, apparently unable to read my mind. Dr. Belkin has bushy blond eyebrows and reddish skin, the face of a man who would sunburn in Alaska.

  My rotten heart hammers at the inside of my chest. “So…I’m going to be dead?” I ask, even though I know the answer. “As in, one hundred percent not living?”

  “Stella!” Mom shushes me like I’ve said something offensive instead of totally true. She’s always on me about asking too many questions.

  “Yes, technically.” Dr. Belkin checks the tube that trails out of my left arm. I can’t say I like him much—not personally anyway—but we reached an understanding a long time ago. We’re on the same team, he and I. It’s my job to maintain a pulse and his job to see that I do and, believe me, I’m all too happy to be another bump in his success rate.

  “What we’ll do is prepare the cavity in your chest. A spot for the new heart to sit.” Dr. Belkin draws a circle in the air and I picture a bunch of people in white face masks hovering over me at an operating table, scraping out my insides like I’m a human jack-o’-lantern. My palms start to sweat at the thought of the foreign heart. I dig my fingernail into the white flesh underneath my forearm, the spot where the blue veins push up into a plump little bulb at the base of my wrist, and scratch a cherry-red line. A nervous habit I picked up during my sickness. Illness upon illness, that’s how it works. “Once your new heart is positioned, we’ll sew it in place and stitch together the arteries.” He locks his fingers together to demonstrate and my stomach performs a flip-flop.

  “I’ll look like Frankenstein.” I feel the sting on my skin leftover from my fingernail, and picture it fading away from red to pink to white. Then gone.

  Dr. Belkin forces a chuckle that doesn’t reach his eyes, which are cold and calculating, as always. “Maybe a little. But at least you’ll be walking and talking.” The man makes a good point.

  “And what if you put it in wrong?” I ask. This time my mom doesn’t interrupt me.

  “We won’t put it in wrong.”

  “But my body could reject it. The heart, I mean?”

  Dr. Belkin frowns. “We’re going to do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  There are more questions on the tip of my tongue, but I let them sit there unasked. Instead, I chance a look at my mother, whose expression is unreadable, and take a deep breath, thinking again about how there are fifteen dead people in the history of the world for every living one and wondering which end of the chart I’ll wind up on.

  On the nightstand next to me, there’s a vase full of daisies from our neighbors and a big pink teddy bear sent by my teachers. Dozens of cards line the windowsill, some from my best friends, some from people I’ve never met.

  My ears start ringing now, and I’m getting a tingly sensation in my toes, and I’m watching the room and my mother and Dr. Belkin, and suddenly it feels like there’s a piece of glass between me and the rest of the world. I swallow hard: the glass evaporates, but the ringing is still there.

  The moment hangs there a second too long before Dr. Belkin asks me again if I’m ready and pats my knee under the thin hospital blanket. He’s awkward when he tries to have a good bedside manner, but I don’t mind, because I can barely feel the spot where he touched me. It’s as if this body is somebody else’s. “Three o’clock,” he says, glancing at the clock on the wall and then back at his clipboard. “We better get going.”

  “Ready.” I lie.

  Dad strolls in, holding the hand of a teetering Elsie, who toddles over the threshold and into my room looking frustratingly adorable, as usual. Big pink bow, soft brown curls, and chubby cherub fingers you can’t help but get the urge to lick icing off of.

  Dad scoops her up and places her on the side of my bed. “Tell your sister we’ll see her soon,” he coos. He’s all scruffy beard and smiles and his calming presence spreads over me like a warm bath. When Mom’s watching Elsie he winks at me, and I know it’s a secret meant for just us two to share.

  Elsie pats my arm and laughs. A lump grows inside my throat as I look at my baby sister. She was brought into this world a short ten months after I found out I’d probably be making an early exit. As if I was a replaceable doll that happened to be back-ordered by a few years. I wonder if she’ll grow up to look like me, with stick-straight black hair and green eyes that are too wide, or whether her hair will stay brown and curly, like Dad’s, her skin the same tan color. I wish someone could promise to send me a postcard in the afterlife just in case I die.

  “Are you nervous, sweetie?” Big fat tears line my mother’s eyelashes as she slides off the bed and studies me with her head tilted.

  I shake my head and force a smile. “This body ain’t big enough for the both of us,” I tease, donning a thick Western accent. My parents like when I joke around about my condition. That sort of humor is sick-kid gold. It makes adults think we’re resilient, when really, my limbs have that shaky feeling I get just after I throw up.

  What I really want to tell her is that I’m terrified. Terrified I’ll miss high school and my friends and a normal life. Terrified that Elsie will take my place in the family and I’ll be forgotten. Terrified that I’ll never have a real boyfriend.

  Dad ruffles my hair with the hand that’s not clinging to Elsie. “That’s the spirit, kiddo.” The creases lining the corners of his eyes are damp.

  For a brief moment, my heart physically aches and I think maybe there’s some good left in it after all, but I catch myself right away, since now isn’t the time to get tricked all over again. There’s only one punishment for treason and it’s death. And if I have to wrestle my stupid, defective heart all the way into the depths of the underworld, then that’s what I’ll do, and I swear to God, if only one of us can survive, it’s sure as hell going to be me.

  I slide my iPhone out from underneath the back of my hospital gown. I’ve been clinging to it—my only connection to the outside world—but now I’ll have to give it up. My hands shake as my thumb slides across the screen. The nurses are unhooking me from machines. My family is staring at me. Orderlies are busy clearing a path. And yet I’ve never been so alone. My bed is a planet around which everyone else orbits. It must be this realization that plants inside me the sudden desire to tell one person in the world how I feel. It’s a need that takes hold like roots in soil.

  I’ve been avoiding Henry, but with trembling fingers I type one sentence: I’m scared. The words appear one letter at a time until I’m left staring at them all spelled out in front of me. If nothing else, I think, they’re true, and there are worse ways to end things. So I hit send and try to imagine I’ve mailed the fear along with it.

  Mom pulls my head to her lips and pushes my hair back, so the scrub nurse can put a shower cap over it. Mom takes my phone and the jewelry that I’m wearing, along with the stuffed puppy I keep for good luck.

  Before I know it, they’re starting to roll me away. Panic wells up inside me and I just barely get out, “See you soon,” even though I’m already facing backward as Dr. Belkin and the nurse push me out of room G216. Of course, Elsie’s crying again.

  The double doors rush at me, swinging open at the last second. I stare up at the ceiling tiles instead and watch them whiz past one by one. We’re in a new room now, with a giant light overhead and a crowd of masked clinicians. From somewhere behind me, an anesthesiologist is telling me to count, so I do it, and I’m counting out loud: “Ten, nine, eight…”

  I see myself holding Elsie, right after she was born. Seven…Covered in blood, she’s sticky and screaming, but brand-new and strangely beautiful. She stretches her fingers up, clasping at nothing. Her tiny mouth sucks the air.

  Six…

  I watch as black
water closes over the top of her head, submerging tiny wisps of baby hair. My eyelids flutter. Or at least they try to. Bubbles break the surface.

  Five…

  Only I’m not sure if I’m counting anymore. There’s a boy. His eyes are shaded. His face is a flash and then it’s gone, replaced by a body. I can’t see whose. The face is turned, hair splayed out like it’s floating in the ocean. I should tell someone. I should.

  But I can’t because four. The word is announced as if over a loudspeaker.

  On cue, the room goes dark, or at least it’s dark for me. There’s a tight squeeze against my lungs and then—

  Spoiler alert: I’m not dead.

  I know there are people at school wondering, wanting to ask one of my (very few) close friends, but not sure how. They’ve probably tried checking my Facebook page for signs of life—or death. They can’t. It’s locked unless I let you in.

  The truth is, I’m superstitious. In the weeks after surgery, every day was a waiting game, breath held, an anybody’s-guess version of Russian roulette—will my body accept the new organ or not? Staying at the hospital was a routine step in the surgery, but it felt like purgatory.

  Days turned into weeks and still my clock kept ticking. My parents are still the last holdouts, even more hesitant than I was to make the big Stella’s okay broadcast. Nobody wants to show our hand, to publicize that we cheated death. The weaker hand has won. Only you can’t live that way forever. Can you?

  I snap shut the lid of a yellow marker and admire my handiwork. On the wall of my bedroom hangs a calendar. Between this year and the year before there are a total of 237 red x’s, one for each day of school I missed. The five weeks are a solid block of angry crosses. I slashed each over the date, often pushing so hard the ink bled onto the page beneath.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Mom leans in the doorway, warming her fingers with a steaming mug of coffee. “Dr. Belkin said—”