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“I woke up hours later with my body hanging half out of the shattered front windshield. I couldn’t move. There was blood leaking out of my spine. I was freezing, staring up at the sky with snow twirling down on me. I remembered thinking it looked pretty, but then reality kicked in, and I noticed every injury. And I realized I didn’t feel any of it.”
“I screamed for my mother, but she didn’t answer. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t wake up. The sharp edge of a snapped tree branch was lost in her chest. I wished I’d never looked. Her pale face and the bright red blood dripping from her nose will haunt me forever.”
“I had to lay there, stuck on the hood, knowing she was dead. I cried for more than a day. And no one showed up for that long. We’d taken a shortcut with not much traffic. The bad weather meant even fewer vehicles than usual.”
“Then a guy in a truck pulled up. I could hear his boots crunching the snow and him saying something in the distance, but I couldn’t make out the words. He vomited before he reached me, and I heard that, too. He thought I was dead because I was too cold to move, and then I sneezed. That was why I needed the heart transplant.”
I glanced to see if Mercer was still listening and he was...he was so immersed that he was trapped in my story. On the sideline, unable to help as I lie frozen on the car, waiting for death.
“I’d caught influenza, a really bad case, and it led to severe myocarditis. I was born with a heart defect so that complicated things. Weeks later, my heart started failing.”
“My father was beside himself. He was suffering through the grief of my mother. He couldn’t cope and started drinking heavily. He lost his job. None of it changed how much he cared for me. He was still a good man, but he wasn’t himself. He couldn’t lose me, too.”
“He got involved with some dodgy people. I think it had to do with money. He lost our insurance when he lost his job, and there wasn’t much time to help me. He insisted on a private transplant, and I think that was how he paid for it. I guess someone didn’t want to give that organ away.”
I couldn’t read Mercer’s face, but there was pain in his eyes, matching mine, and it made me feel more connected to him.
“I don’t see any scars on your body.” I eyed his torso. Lots of tattoos covered him, all hyper-realistic. I wondered if they were memories of the moments of his life he had enjoyed. Did they hide a transplant scar?
“No transplants? Do you know why you’re here?”
No transplants for me, another note confirmed. I’ve unfortunately met a lot of dodgy people from work. I’m assuming he’s one of them, but I haven’t seen his face.
My eyebrows dipped, falling into a frown. Before I could ask him what his job was, another note fell in my lap.
Do you get any physiotherapy to maintain muscle mass?
My eyes widened; my brows lifted. “Are you a doctor?” He talked like a doctor...scribbled like one, too.
I’m an art dealer.
Another note quickly accompanied the one stating his job role.
But I can take an interest in your well-being, can’t I?
I nodded. A gentle swallow stole the moisture from my mouth, and I found myself looking at his. I closed my eyes to his perfect face.
He'd be the exact type of guy I’d like in different circumstances. Tall, muscular, handsome, good lips, teeth—any teeth were good, seeing as my first boyfriend had an incisor that often popped out due to his love for boxing. But Mercer’s were perfect.
Mercer was perfect. And it was nice to feel like someone cared again.
I pinched myself, remembering where we were. Remembering that there was no point in feeling any kind of attraction to this guy, because we would probably never get out of here, and if we did, guys like Mercer liked the Barbies of the world.
I blinked, my eyes opening to see him with the physiotherapy note stuck to his forehead, and it made me laugh.
“I’ve never had physiotherapy.”
We could try it. We have the time.
I choked on a laugh, wondering if that was even true.
I’m good with my hands, another Post-it told me. The winking face in the corner begged to differ.
“That drawing disagrees.”
A silent laugh slipped from him. He liked the banter and needed it as a distraction like I did.
“I am sorry about what I did to you. I—” I feel so guilty, I think it might kill me.
