Page 25 of Broken Secrets
“I doubt it.” His voice is gentle, but there’s steel underneath—the same tone he uses when he’s trying to talk me through adifficult play at soccer practice. “You want to read it now, or wait until you’re in there?”
The air conditioning hums between us, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Funny how awareness of your heart makes you notice every skip, every racing beat that you normally wouldn’t think twice about.
“Now,” I say, though my hands don’t move. “I should read it now.”
He reaches over and covers my hands with his, warm and steady. “I’m right here.”
I unfold the sticky note with shaking fingers. Mom’s cramped handwriting fills the small space, bullet points in black ink that look clinical and impersonal:
Heart failure - grandfather, multiple bypassesHeart failure - uncle, triple bypass age 45Arrhythmia - grandmother
At the bottom, in different ink, blue instead of black, like she added it as an afterthought,Jeremy - tricuspid regurgitation, mild.
The words swim in front of my eyes. Heart failure. Multiple bypasses. Triple bypass at forty-five. The casual way she’s written it, like a grocery list, makes my chest tighten.
“Jesus,” Derek breathes, reading over my shoulder. “That’s…a lot.”
“A lot?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “My grandfather had his chest cracked open multiple times. His brother needed major heart surgery before he was fifty. And my grandmother had arrhythmia, which is probably exactly what I have.” My voice cracks on the last word.
“Hey.” His hand finds my chin, turns my face toward him. “Look at me. Your dad’s condition is listed as mild. Mild, Liv. That means it’s manageable.”
“For now. What about in ten years? What about when I’m forty-five like his uncle?” The sticky note trembles in my grip.“What if I need surgery? What if I can’t play soccer anymore? What if,”
“Stop.” His voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “You don’t know any of that yet. That’s what this appointment is for—to find out what’s actually going on, not to assume the worst.”
I stare at the note again, “She wrote this like it’s nothing. Like ‘pick up milk’ and ‘Jeremy’s family has a history of heart failure.’”
“Maybe that’s how she copes. By making it clinical.”
“Or maybe she still doesn’t understand how big this is.” I fold the note carefully and slip it into my jeans pocket. “Either way, I need to know what I’m walking into.”
“You want me to come in with you?”
The offer is tempting.
“I think I should handle this part myself,” I say. “But will you wait for me in the lobby?”
“Of course. I brought a book and everything.” He pulls a worn paperback from his backpack.The Great Gatsby.
Through the windshield, I can see other patients walking into the building—an elderly man with a walker, a middle-aged woman clutching her purse like a lifeline, a teenager about my age walking beside what must be her mother.
“You know what’s weird?” I say. “All this time, I thought not knowing about my dad’s side was the worst thing. Like I was missing some crucial piece of myself.”
“And now?”
“Now I kind of wish I could go back to not knowing. When it was just blank spaces on medical forms, I could pretend it didn’t matter. Now…” I touch my pocket where the note sits. “Now I know exactly what I might be facing.”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Whatever the doctor says, we’ll figure it out. You don’t have to handle this alone.”
“Okay,” I say, more to myself than to him. “I can do this.”
We get out of the car, and the afternoon heat hits us immediately. I can already feel my hair frizzing. The parking lot shimmers in the sun, and the medical building looms ahead like a beige brick fortress. My hand instinctively goes to my chest, feeling the steady thrum of my heartbeat—the heart that might carry my grandfather’s weakness, my uncle’s need for surgery, my grandmother’s irregular rhythms.
He walks beside me across the asphalt, close enough that our arms brush with each step. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him, quick and soft. “Thank you,” I whisper against his lips. “For everything.”
The automatic doors slide open as we approach, revealing a lobby that smells like hand sanitizer and a soft hint of Lavendar. I pause at the threshold, my hand finding the sticky note in my pocket one more time.
Behind me, Derek settles onto a bench with his book, already prepared to wait as long as it takes.
