Within These Walls (Within These Walls #1)(84)

“Will you tell him?” my mother asked.

I looked up to find her staring at me. The TV was off, and Marcus was gone. Two hours had gone by, and I had stayed locked up inside my head.

“Who?”

She raised her brow as if to say, Really?

I gave an exasperated huff. “No,” I answered. “He left me, Mom. He wasn’t strong enough to stay when things got hard. Just because I have the approval doesn’t mean the road ahead is paved in gold. What if he came back, and the transplant didn’t take? Would he leave again?”

“I don’t know,” she answered as sorrow etched her features.

“He chose his own life, and now, I guess I’m choosing mine—alone.”

Waiting for a heart to become available was a lot like waiting on a natural disaster. I knew it would eventually happen, but I didn’t know when, and I didn’t know how.

For weeks, I was glued to the phone and pager the hospital had provided.

After the third week, I started to lose hope.

It’s never going to happen.

“It will happen, Lailah. Give it time,” Marcus encouraged as we sat on the couch one evening, watching The Vampire Diaries.

“I know. But will I be sane by then?”

“Probably not, especially if you keep watching this ridiculous show. Seriously, it’s horrible.”

I hit pause on the remote and turned to him. “Say you didn’t mean it.”

“What?” He grinned.

“Turn to the screen, look deep into Damon’s gorgeous blue eyes, and say you didn’t mean it.”

“Um…”

“I’ll call you Uncle Marcus,” I sang, causing him to laugh.

“Fine,” he grumbled. He repeated the words, which were nearly inaudible due to the amount of mumbling.

“That was terrible, but I’ll take it. Damon and I forgive you. Now, quiet, Uncle Marcus, and finish the show with me,” I said.

I must have dozed off after the show had ended because I was suddenly being shaken awake.

“Lailah, wake up.”

“What?” Why? Just let me sleep here,” I protested.

“The hospital just called,” Marcus said. “It’s time.”

I jolted upright, looking around the room, until I found him standing in front of me. My mom was racing around the apartment, packing things into a duffel bag. Absolute fear took over as I watched her.

This is real. No more waiting for the phone to ring.

It is happening—now.

I could die. I could die on that operating table, and this could be my final moments with my family.

I’d die never seeing his face again.

“Lailah, breathe,” Marcus said gently, pushing my head to the floor, between my knees. “Deep, slow breaths through your nose,” he instructed.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I cried out.

Every single procedure, surgery, and test came racing back at that moment. I remembered every minute of recovery time, every second of pain.

“Oh God,” I moaned.

Suddenly, I wasn’t staring at Marcus’s feet anymore but his face. Kneeling down, he grasped my chin and centered me.

“You are the strongest person I know, Lailah. UCLA has some of the best surgeons in the country. You’re going to do just fine.”

“Okay,” I said weakly, nodding my head.

He cradled me in his arms like a child.

My mother followed us as we walked to the car, and he tucked me in the backseat. I stretched out and rested my head against the cushion as I watched the two of them work in tandem, throwing bags in the car. Marcus drove and pulled out of the complex. My mother was bent over her phone, her fingers furiously dancing across the keys. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her use it for anything other than brief conversations.

“Who are you texting?” I asked.

“Grace,” she answered, stopping briefly, before continuing again.

I realized, sitting in the back of that car, that this was probably the closest thing I’d ever have to knowing what it was like to go into labor. I’d watched my loved ones run around on my behalf, making frenzied calls and text messages, before the rushed late-night car ride to the hospital. The only difference was, at the end of the day, the only new life would be mine.

What would I do with it?

Within fifteen minutes, we were pulling into the UCLA medical plaza parking lot and walking through the glass doors of the transplant center. After signing about a zillion forms that I honestly didn’t pay attention to, we headed to a room and waited for the surgeon.

Already dressed in scrubs and booties, a middle-aged man greeted us a few minutes later, shaking my hand firmly and introducing himself as Dr. Westhall.

“Nice to meet you,” I answered softly.

He turned and did the same greeting to my mother. Then, he perked up when he saw Marcus.

“Good to see you again, Marcus.”

“You, too, Todd,” he replied.

“So, this is your niece?” Dr. Westhall said, taking a casual seat in the free chair near the door.

“Yes,” Marcus answered. “She’s the closest thing I have to a daughter, so please take care of her.”

He smiled and winked. “We’re going to fix you up good as new, sweetheart.”