Within These Walls (Within These Walls #1)(12)

“It’s always getting worse, Mom,” I said, trying not to let the words settle under my skin.

“It’s time, Lailah.”

Her words were gentle, but I could see how much it hurt for her to say them.

Congestive heart failure.

I’d heard the words before, and I’d known every treatment and surgery would still eventually lead to this.

“But, this has happened before—when they said a transplant was my only option. They managed to do other things, like replace my pacemaker. I’ve done just fine.”

“There’s nothing that can fix this, Lailah. There are no more treatments, surgeries, or procedures they can do. We got lucky after the last time, and Marcus was able to give you a few extra years, but not this time. The only thing that can fix this is a new heart.”

Her single tear had multiplied, and her face was now wet with mascara-stained tracks running down her cheeks.

“So, what do we do now?” I asked quietly. Don’t cry, Lailah. Don’t cry.

“Marcus is working on getting you set up at UCLA hospital again. Beyond that, we pray the insurance company does what they need to do.”

I nodded, feeling numb, when she came to sit next to me on the bed before pulling me into her arms. Everything had become iffy and unknown since my mother’s employer had switched insurance companies last year. Her premiums had gone through the roof, and then add in all the new health care laws, and no one knew what was going on.

The familiar sounds of the room—the beeps, the shuffling from outside the door—all faded away. All I could hear were the roaring in my ears and the words repeating and echoing in my head.

Heart transplant.

No other option.

My mother had spent every dime she had on my medical bills. We lived paycheck to paycheck in a small apartment on the outskirts of Santa Monica. She wouldn’t talk about it, but I knew she’d emptied her savings account and retirement plan to pay past-due bills to the hospital. If my transplant was denied or something happened to me, she wouldn’t be able to cover it. It would destroy her.

I hated that it had come to this.

I was the never-ending burden.

“We’ll figure it out, Mom,” I said against her shoulder.

“Yeah, we will. It’s just you and me.”

My mom brought in dinner that night, and we sat together on my bed, hunched over a meal of simple sandwiches and fruit.

Whenever we got bad news, my mom would bring in dinner. I thought it was her way of coping. Bad news was something she couldn’t control. My mother loved control. She’d practically raised me in a glass dome, trying to protect me from everything that could harm my fragile heart. When things went wrong, she would grow quiet, internalizing and regrouping.

After dinner, she would announce her master plan. When bad news struck, Mom always fired back with some sort of plan. Even if it were as simple as following the doctor’s orders or sending me to bed an hour earlier, it would put her back in control of the situation.

Mom loved control.

I feared this would be the one situation she couldn’t control with any of her master plans.

It wasn’t long after my mom had left that night when I began fidgeting with my hair.

I braided it to the side and then promptly brushed it through with my fingers. I gathered it up into a ponytail but then yanked it out. Finally, I just let the platinum blonde strands fall to my shoulders.

Am I seriously sitting here, playing with my hair?

One conversation with Jude—who was just being nice, I reminded myself—and I’d become one of those girls overnight. Feeling utterly ridiculous, I shook my hair out, letting it do whatever it wanted. The fact that I’d changed into one of my nicer tops and a black pair of leggings was just a coincidence.

I am so lame.

Sinking back against my pillow, I picked up my latest paperback and opened it up to where I’d left off. I’d barely made it a page in when I heard a quiet knock at my door.

“Come in,” I answered.

The doorknob turned, and Jude appeared, dressed in teal scrubs. He was carrying a chocolate pudding and—

A board game?

“Are we playing Scrabble?” I questioned, tucking my hair behind my ear as I tried not to blush. Placing my book aside, I crossed my legs in front of me and watched him enter the room.

“No, we’re playing Operation,” he answered, placing the game on the foot of my bed. “I found it in a staff lounge. I think one of the surgeons got it as a gag gift. Anyway, I hope the game choice doesn’t bother you, but I thought you might want to do something different.”

I glanced down at the goofy-looking man displayed on the front of the box and grinned.

“It’s perfect.” I let go of a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Just what I needed.”

He set down not just one, but two pudding snacks on the bedside tray, and then he dropped two spoons next to them. “One of those is mine,” he said with a slight grin.

He turned to pull the chair out of the corner, and he brought it closer to the bed. I considered suggesting that he just sit on the bed with me, but I quickly lost my nerve. The thought of having him so close gave me chills. He handed me a pudding cup, and we both dived in. There were no snide comments about eating it with a spoon rather than my finger tonight.

“So, bad day?” he asked as we began setting up the game.