Page 43 of Hearts to Mend

I squirm in this stupid chair, feeling incredibly uncomfortable, like I’m too large and too small for it, all at the same time. Seeming to sense my discomfort, it’s Rico who changes the subject this time. “What’s a bubble study?”

Oh excellent, a new subject, and one I love. “It’s this really cool procedure where they blow bubbles into one chamber of your heart and watch on the echocardiograph to see if the bubbles travel to another chamber. If they see the bubbles in both atria, then that means you have a hole between the two chambers, a defect. If they don’t see the bubbles come through, then they investigate other, less common, causes of your stroke. I’ve watched footage of a few bubble studies online. The procedure’s really cool. A total miracle of modern science.”

“They blow bubbles into my heart?” He looks alarmed. “Won’t that kill me? I thought a bubble in the bloodstream was a bad thing. Isn’t that why you guys flick the bubbles to the top when you’re giving an injection—so you can push the bubbles out with the plunger?”

That’s a lot of questions. Where to start… “Okay, first, that whole thing about flicking the needle is actually to ensure we’re getting an accurate dosage of whatever we’re injecting. And the bubbles we’re talking about in a bubble study are tiny. You know, ‘Tiny Bubbles’ like that Don Ho song.”

I expect more of a laugh from him, but his train of thought must have derailed somewhere along the way. Rico clenches his fists around the edge of his blanket. It’s an old tell; often the only way I could ever read Rico’s emotions was by the position of his hands. Right now, he’s freaking out.

I return to sit on his bed, clasping my hands over his, and he lets me lace our fingers together as I try again to comfort him. “Rico, seriously, they are tiny. They’re like a lather, super itty-bitty. And they do no harm—I promise. They just help the physician see if there’s a hole in your heart.” Like I’m the chicken noodle soup fairy again, I say. “If you want, I can come with you to your appointment. So you’re not alone.”

He stares at me a moment, then smiles. “Will you hold my hand through it?”

I try not to smile back, but I can’t help it. “Yeah, okay.”

CHAPTER 18

RICO

* * *

Her text reads: When are they going to blow bubbles into your heart?

Another text immediately follows: This is Dee, by the way.

It’s cute that she thinks I don’t have her number programmed into my phone. Or that I’ve talked to anyone else about the goddamn bubbles in my heart. I shiver at the reminder. To distract myself, I fuck with her: Dee? Dee who?

Her reply comes immediately: Dee Snyder, from Twisted Sister, of course. Here to rock you like a hurricane.

Oh, sweet, naïve Dee, so clueless about music history: That wasn’t Twisted Sister. That was the Scorpions. Twisted Sister were the ones who were not gonna take it.

How do you know so much about ‘80s hair metal?

Older brothers.

Totally awesome, dude!

I love texting with her like this. It reminds me of when we were young, texting back and forth after lights out because mamá set a no-more-talking-on-the-phone-after-ten curfew on us but never thought to set a texting curfew too.

I throw a metal hand emoji her way, knowing it will bother her. And right on cue, my phone chimes as her response comes in: Oh no! Demerits for using an emoji, Rico Suave.

Ugh. She’s dusted off that awful old nickname from my junior-high days. In revenge, I fill my next text with a whole string of adult-themed emojis. Everything from the tongue and water droplets to the eggplant and peach. Covering all the bases in harmless-yet-lewd little icons.

What are you, twelve? Bye boi.

I’m not sure where else to go with this except, well, answering her initial question: They’re blowing bubbles into my heart tomorrow. 3:30.

Great. I’ll pick you up at 3.

It takes all my restraint not to text back, “It’s a date.” This is not a date, jackass. It’s a scary medical procedure whereby they blow motherfucking bubbles into my motherfucking heart. I shiver at the thought.

I know that Dee is only coming along as a favor to me, but I’m so relieved she’ll be there. I’m too old—and manly—to drag my sixty-eight-year-old mother to these sorts of things, but I didn’t want to go alone. Knowing Dee will be with me sets my mind at ease. I smile, almost looking forward to it now, and text her: See you then.

* * *

“How did you get the shrapnel in your shoulder?”

I blink at Dee’s random question and glance around the waiting room of my cardiologist’s office, a little lost.

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