The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,309

I remember one of the nurses telling me that some cardiac transplant patients never have signs of rejection—they simply go into cardiac arrest without any warning.

I’m living with a borrowed heart on borrowed time, and the gravity of those facts coupled with the fact that I’m adopting a child render me paralyzed for a moment.

If I drop dead a year from now, I need to have someone else lined up to take care of that little girl.

I imagine how Astaire might fare as a mother.

There’s a gentleness to her, a softness in her disposition that I’ve yet to find in another person. Her sunny disposition can get exhausting at times, but her heart is always in the right place. And clearly she adores children.

She’s patient, intelligent, curious, and sweet.

Her voice alone was made for bedtime stories.

It’s the strangest thing … and maybe it’s the meds or maybe I hit my head when I passed out … but I think I miss her right now.

It’s as if there’s an indescribable void in the room where she should be, as if a piece of me is missing.

I tap out a text message on my phone, nothing more than MERCY CROSS HOSPITAL and FLOOR 4, ROOM 4677 followed by BRING PHONE CHARGER. Then I lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and wait for what feels like forever.

Twenty-Seven

Astaire

* * *

It’s been hardly over a year since the last time I stepped foot inside the beige brick walls Mercy Cross Hospital, when Trevor was braindead and hooked up to machines and his mother was signing his organs away—exactly what he would’ve wanted.

I never dreamed I’d be back.

Certainly never thought Bennett no-showed to our dinner plans because he was here.

“Hey,” he says when he sees me lingering in the doorway of his private room. “Come in.”

I’ve never liked the smell of hospitals.

Antiseptic. Sterile plastic. Bleached flannel. Fresh-and-dying flowers.

I sanitize my hands, place my bag on the counter, and strip out of my jacket.

“Are you okay?” I go to his side. Instinctively, I reach for his hand and then I stop myself when I see the IV taped to the top. “What happened? And why are you in the cardiac unit?”

Everything about him is unfamiliar in this setting.

No power suit.

No healthy flush painting his bronzed skin.

No wicked gleam in his eyes.

No smart-mouthed quip readied on his tongue.

Bennett sits up, adjusting the pillows behind his back, and then he tugs at the top of his hospital gown until his chest and shoulders are exposed.

And then I see it.

The thick, pink scar going down the middle of his chest.

“A year ago, I underwent a heart transplant.” He studies me, though for what, I’m not sure. “This week, I started showing signs of rejection.”

My breath catches as I wait for him to continue.

“I’m going to be okay. For now. I’ve got a procedure in the morning and they’ll run some more tests.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before? The heart thing?”

He lifts a brow. “Because it never came up in conversation?”

I don’t remind him of that night when he refused to remove his shirt. The man’s lying in a hospital bed—now’s not the time to pick a fight.

I reach for a chair and pull it closer to his bed. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay as long as he needs.

“Statistically, twenty-five percent of heart transplant patients don’t survive past five years,” he says.

“Stop. We’re not going to focus on that. We’re going to focus on the seventy-five percent who do survive past five years …”

The light shuffle of feet behind me and a quick rap at the door interrupts our moment, and I turn to find his nurse headed our way.

“Mr. Schoenbach, you haven’t ordered dinner yet and the kitchen closes in half an hour,” she says as she checks his pulse ox. “Should probably get something in your stomach before you take your next dose at nine.”

“You want me to run out? Grab you something?” I offer. “If you want, I can run to your place and get some things for you?”

He contemplates his response. I imagine he isn’t used to being so needy, having to rely on the kindness of others. It can’t be easy for someone like him, so autonomous in every aspect of his life.

“I brought a phone charger like you asked.” I point to my bag on the counter, and before he has a chance to reply, I grab his phone and find a spot to plug it in next to him. Turning to