Page 44 of Hearts to Mend

She elaborates, “Was it the same attack that killed John and injured Theresa?”

I’m impressed she remembers John’s name. Though, it makes sense that she would: his death had a profound effect on me, and her as well, considering it’s why I broke us up… On second thought, I’m not at all surprised she remembers his name. And of course she remembers Theresa’s name. It carries baggage too.

With a sigh, I explain, “Yeah, same attack. I was far enough from the blast to survive but close enough to take some damage to my right shoulder. The doctors removed what they could without causing further damage, but a few pieces remain.”

I rub my shoulder, where I can still feel the faint scars from that night in Kandahar. The memories of the worst night of my life are sewn up in those scars.

“So you weren’t discharged with your injury?”

“No. I was treated at a field hospital and returned to duty within a week. I wasn’t discharged until Theresa’s neglect landed Matty in foster care.”

She stares at me for a moment, as if she’s considering what to think about that. “But you have full custody now?”

I smile and nod, so relieved to finally be free from that nightmare with full custody and a divorce. “Yes. Thank God.”

She smiles sweetly and says, “Mateo is lucky to have you for a dad.”

That’s probably the kindest compliment anyone has ever given me, and it’s not true at all. I have no clue what I’m doing or how to be a good father. I moved back home so mamá could help keep me from drowning under the pressure of failing Matty…again.

But then I remember Dee’s dad, and I don’t feel like such a failure. Her mom had been addicted to pills, too, so much so that she overdosed when we were kids. When she died, I felt like some kind of subject-matter expert because I’d already lost my dad. But Dee’s loss was so different from mine. Hers was a different kind of tragedy with a different kind of grief.

And her surviving parent was nothing like my mom. Mark was a mess. From what I’ve seen since I returned to town, Mark is still a mess. Dee has always been the adult in that relationship. I imagine she’ll understand more than most people when I say, “I regret the second chance I gave Theresa. I was naïve about what addiction can do to a person and how much she could hurt Matty with her empty promises and neglect.”

Dee clasps my hand in hers. “You were trying to do the right thing. Sometimes, it’s hard to recognize when doing the right thing is actually the wrong choice.”

I raise a brow, knowing the answer before I ask, “You speak from experience?”

She bites her lip and plucks at the little freckle on her chin, finally saying, “I’ve tried more times than I can count to help my dad get sober. After so many broken promises, I had to pull away. For my own sanity, I can’t keep believing him when he lies. Now, I just let him live the life he wants, even if it means witnessing him slowly drink himself to death.”

I hate this reminder that all of Dee’s important relationships have ended in disappointment and abandonment, including her relationship with me. But I’m back, and maybe that counts for something. I squeeze her hand in mine. It’s my left hand, which is still somewhat numb from the stroke, so I have to squeeze extra hard. It makes her smile, like she recognizes the added effort.

The door to the doctor’s office swings open, and a woman hollers my name. Dee stands, and with our hands still linked, she helps me stand too. I’m a little less steady on my feet these days, but not too bad. Technically, I don’t need to hold her hand as we walk to the exam room, but now that I have her in my grasp, I don’t ever want to let her go.

The room we end up in is small and dark, with a narrow bed in the corner and a large monitor and console beside it. I take off my T-shirt, then sit down on the bed so a nurse can get an IV into my arm.

“Bet you’re tired of us blood suckers, aren’t ya?” she jokes.

She’s not wrong. My laugh comes out sounding strange. The echocardiograph technician easily senses my nervousness and kindly explains the steps of today’s procedure. First, she’ll do a normal echocardiogram. Then, the nurse will administer a saline push for the bubble study.

I only half understand because I’m only half listening. Mostly, I stare at Dee, who watches me from the corner, like a fly on the wall, trying to stay out of the way. Her presence is more of a comfort to me than anything.

So I keep my eyes on her as we start the procedure. After I lie down on that little bed, the technician rubs some lube on my chest and starts moving the wand against my skin. The rhythm of my heartbeat fills the room, and Dee’s grin widens. She moves her gaze from me to the monitor, and I turn my head to look too.

It’s strangely fascinating.

That’s my heart, there on the monitor in black and white, pumping my lifeblood through me. I’m staring inside myself at so much movement. I’m hearing inside myself, and it’s very noisy.

I think back to those lonely, quiet nights in the vast silent wilds of Afghanistan, staring up at the stars, as the world lay still all around me. But it was an illusion. Nothing was still then. The Earth moved through the cosmos, turning on its axis, as creatures tunneled and sifted through the dirt all around me; everything was always moving. And inside me now, blood pumps through my veins, electricity snaps along my neurons, and nothing is still. Nothing is ever still.

“Okay, let’s start the bubble study,” the technician says. “You’ll see the bubble solution enter this chamber here. If there is a hole, then a small trail of bubbles will enter this chamber over here.” She points to the sections of my beating heart on the monitor as she explains what’s about to happen.

I follow the technician’s every word as the nurse stands behind me, working a pair of plungers to push saline from one tube to the other until it’s a bubbly froth. At the same time, the technician makes sure the probe is positioned well against my chest, then starts a recording on the monitor as she instructs the nurse to push the froth into my IV.

The nurse pushes a plunger on one of the tubes, and on the monitor, I see the moment the saline fizz reaches my heart. Bubbles fill the first chamber, as expected. The thin stream that escapes into the next chamber is a surprise.

“Holy shit, there’s a hole,” I say, stunned.

I glance over to Dee, who is just as stunned as I am, eyes wide, jaw hanging open. In that instant, we’ve found it: the reason I’ve lived for nearly thirty years and survived a damn war, only to come home and have a stroke during sex. I have a motherfucking hole in my motherfucking heart!

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