think the whole bloody school was there. It was right and horrible.â He loosens his tie and shrugs. âI sang âNorwegian Woodâ of all things. Howâs that for a funeral song? But I knew it was her favorite.â
I remember all the times that Iâd heard Lizzie begging him to sing it. I think about how itâs a love song but completely unmushy. Just like Lizzie.
He sounded like a fucking angel, too.
My head spins around to see where the voice is coming from, but thereâs no one in the room but the two of us.
He sounded like a fucking angel, too. The words ricochet through my head and then dissolve like smoke, until itâs easy to believe that I didnât even hear them.
âAre you all right?â Spencer stares like heâs worried Iâm having a seizure.
I strain to listen for any other weird voices but donât hear anything. The meds and the stress must be making me crazy.
âIâm fine,â I say. Iâm not sure whether Iâm trying to convince Spencer or myself. Either way, itâs obviously not true.
But he lets it go. âIâm actually glad you werenât there.â
âWhy?â I ask. Itâs a really stupid question. Spencer knows Iâve never been to a funeral. He knows that I probably couldnât have made it through the service without totally freaking out.
He moves my leg over on the bed and his eyes glaze over a little as he talks.
âBecause I wish I wouldnât have been there. Because it was the saddest thing Iâve ever seen. Because all I wanted to do was to throw myself into the ground with her. Because her mom came drunk and because I still canât believe that sheâs gone.â He sounds like heâs reciting some lines he isnât sure heâs learned yet.
I donât know how to respond. So, instead, I ask another stupid question, the kind of thing that Spencer has always been able to answer. âHow are we going to get through this?â
He takes my hand and answers without hesitation. âTogether. Weâre going to get through this together.â
I know he means it. Itâs the same thing he used to say to Lizzie, that we were all together and that sheâd always be okay because we were looking out for her. But it turned out to be a lie, so, for the first time since I met him, Spencerâs words do nothing but clump together to form a concrete, softball-sized lump in my stomach.
I open my mouth, but Iâm afraid to say any of that to him. Weâve been friends so long that I donât really know how to navigate through everything thatâs happening if I canât take Spencerâs words at face value.
He looks hopeful. Heâs expecting me to agree, to tell him that someday weâll get over losing Lizzie. I canât push the words out, though. My heart just isnât in them.
So I take the cowardâs way out. Before he says anything else, I close my eyes and push the button for more drugs and give myself over to the medicated pool. Somewhere, there is a faint and distant lullaby being sung badly off key. I focus on that as I let myself slip off into nothingness and hope that my best friend will understand
Seven
I donât want to be awake, but I am. I donât want to hear that Iâve had a heart transplant, but thatâs what they tell me. I donât know why they waited to tell me. Actually, thatâs a lie. They waited to tell me because they were waiting until they thought I could handle it.
And then they must have given up and told me anyhow.
How the hell can you handle the idea of waking up with someone elseâs heart inside you? Itâs like being Frankenstein. There are a lot of things in this world you can run away from. Your body isnât one of them.
According to the doctors, my heart self-destructed in a rare and normally fatal series of events. They throw around terms like âtraumatic partial aortic
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