stalked a billowing leaf, and Pearl Jean puttered beside her on a scooter. But nothing was normal for Cookie.
For 26 years, she’d felt as if she’d existed rather than lived. Never as fast or as strong as other kids. Kept on a strict diet and a never-ending medication regimen. Myriad doctor visits. Then, suddenly, the heart her parents had sparked at her conception was gone, cut out of her chest. Now, someone else’s heart powered her body. Someone who’d died, selflessly giving Chantel Melissa Bardot a chance to live. And yet...
She still lacked zest. For so long, she’d expected to die. She’d resigned herself to it, growing comfortable with her worldview. But her vantage point had shifted. Now she was supposed to live for herself, as well as the woman who’d saved her. No doubt her family expected Cookie to do great things with the gift she’d been given. The pressure!
And how many other patients had been more worthy of the heart? What if Cookie screwed up, the sacrifice wasted? She had no idea what to do with this second chance.
The worst part? Paranoia had reset her brain. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being hunted. She felt it all—the—time. Even now, a cold sweat glazed her palms.
Along with the paranoia came a sensation of being both unstoppable and as fragile as glass, capable of everything and nothing at once. Presurgery, she’d had motivation but no energy. Postsurgery, she had plenty of energy but a confused motivation. It was galling, and it kept her imprisoned on her property.
Did other—normal—people feel this way, as if they didn’t know up from down or in from out?
Had she gained a heart only to lose her mind?
She might ask her therapist, if ever she garnered the courage to leave the farm.
“You look ridiculous, by the way,” Pearl Jean said, mist puffing in front of her face. The woman was a truth teller, no matter what.
“Me?” Cookie took a sip of her steaming coffee...inside a wineglass, because dish day was tomorrow...then readjusted the ginormous sunglass perched on her nose. “I look ridiculous?”
“Yes, you.”
“I’m wearing clothes you knitted for me.” She spread her arms to show off the sweater and scarf Pearl Jean had given her last Christmas, paired with a T-shirt that read “Stay-at-Home Cat Mom,” black yoga pants, and fuzzy house boots with rubber soles. Only the world’s greatest attire. Well, that and Daisy Dukes paired with cowboy boots, her gonna-snag-a-good-time outfit. Oh, and also the gowns she sometimes donned for cosplay. Those rocked, too.
“I thought you’d be smart enough to bury the sweater and scarf in a drawer,” her friend said.
“What can I say? Comfort and warmth trump style, every time.” Undergarment-wise, she’d gone with a minimizing sports bra and her favorite granny panties. The must-haves for every woman’s lingerie drawer. This was a hill she would die on.
Except, lately she’d been eyeing sexy lingerie online with great interest, wondering how the silky material might feel against her skin and how a boyfriend might react. Even though she didn’t have a boyfriend, or even want one. Guys required work, and they always bailed.
There was a higher likelihood she’d get a tattoo. Her first and another recent desire. Sometimes she imagined strands of ivy etched in rich hues of green around her wrists, stretching over her hands and fingers.
“And the Cheetos in your hair?” Pearl Jean asked. “Is that part of your style?”
Locks of hair fell from her sloppy bun as she skirted around a plant, avoiding contact in case something freaky happened. Sometimes, with a brush of her skin, flowers instantly bloomed. But she wasn’t going to think about that. New panic would rise.
“Just so you know, you look ridiculous, too,” she said with a snippy tone.
“Please. Your Pearl Jeanlousy is showing.” Despite the chill, she sipped iced sweet tea from a squeeze bottle. Because “the hot stuff sucks” and “sometimes a girl needs to forget she might be coming down with diabetes.” A big yellow beach hat topped her silver curls, shielding two sunspots she believed looked more suspicious today than yesterday. As usual, a muumuu and bathrobe draped her plump frame. “I’ve always thought of myself as a good single malt. Better with age and able to knock anyone flat on their face.”
“I absolutely agree you’re a good single malt—older than time. Fingers crossed I’ll get to see you served on ice.”
Pearl Jean snorted. “Morbid brat.”
“Old crone.”
Sugars turned his attention to a bug, chasing it—No. Sorry. He ate the bug.