What the Heart Wants Read online

  Emily prided herself on the courting process she used to get clients, the way she made them feel special and wowed them with her expertise and charm. Her father, now CEO of the company since the death of her grandfather, had encouraged her to use her natural-born gifts to garner more business, and that’s what she excelled at. She was more than capable; after all, it was in her blood. She followed a perfect plan, and it worked like a charm.

  Looking good was the first order of each and every day. Her personal stylist helped ensure she wore the most flattering and expensive suits paired with simple yet elegant jewelry. Her nails and hair were always professionally done, and she used red lipstick as a color enhancement on her porcelain face, framed by blonde tresses. The perfect pop of platinum highlights had taken her six months to fully achieve to her satisfaction.

  Not only was she in control of her appearance, she had a steel grip on her own destiny and wouldn’t allow anything to stand in her way. She’d graduated at the top of her class from Fordham University, proving she could hold her own in a male-dominated field. She’d then worked her butt off in the family business, earning her way to becoming a top financial analyst. The Windsor Financial Group happened to be one of the best firms in the entire state of New York, and she had a high standard to attain to deserve her role in the company. She took great pride in her work, and she’d even appeared on NBC several times to discuss stock market news, investment advice, and the like.

  Flipping to another page, she read for a while, then suddenly paused, wrinkling her nose.

  Smells like an old, rotten banana in here. Where’s that coming from?

  She grimaced as she looked about the place, left to right, ahead and behind herself, then took a peek below her desk to ensure the trash had been dumped from the day prior. It wouldn’t have been out of the question for the presumably Asian-run cleaning service to purposefully skip her office—trying to save time, get paid for nothing, and game the system. The plastic liner within the small, Pottery Barn can was intact and empty, clean as a whistle. After one more cursory look as she reached for her coffee and took a sip, she shrugged it off.

  Must’ve been something stale in the air that has come and went. It looks good in here. Good thing I removed that whiteboard. Far more tasteful now.

  Emily’s office was spotless, a minimalist haven much like her apartment in the coveted area of Gramercy Park.

  “Great investments,” she whispered as she set her coffee down and flipped to another page.

  Just then, her desk phone rang. She smiled when she looked at the number and recognized it immediately.

  “Laura,” she squealed. “How was Prague?”

  “Beautiful as always.” She could hear her best friend practically grinning through the phone. Just as Laura began to get into the small, at times less interesting, details of her two-week vacation with her latest fuck buddy, a throbbing pain began from Emily’s head and seemed to spread within seconds to her chest. She blinked several times, feeling a bit dizzy. Perhaps she’d moved too quickly, throwing off her equilibrium. “And then we visited St. Vitus Cathedral,” the woman continued.

  “Mmm hmmm…that’s nice…” Emily ran her hand along her face. Her body felt loose, as if all the bones were melting, leaving behind only a pile of flesh. She attempted to rise from her seat, but her limbs failed her. Intense pain radiated in the core of her chest now. She grimaced and clutched her white silk blouse beneath her blazer. Blinking more times, she flailed her arms in a fit of panic, soon knocking the coffee onto the floor. She watched in a daze as the light-brown liquid seeped into the plush white carpeting.

  Ruining it.

  “We always see Charles Bridge, but this time, we noticed far less people. Isn’t that wild?”

  Emily’s vision began to blur and she could barely speak. Her tongue felt heavy, her mind a blur, like the watercolors of her best friend’s daughter’s picture depicting a sunset rising along the beach in Cancun.

  “Luh…Laura…He…help.”

  “And then we—Huh? What did you say?”

  “H…Help…me…”

  “Emily? Help you what?”

  She let the phone drop to the desk, and the sound seemed to echo through her entire body as she slid out of her chair, hitting her head on the way to the floor. Things soon grew fuzzy around the edges and darkness fell all around her. She pressed her fingers into the soft carpet, her eyes once again fixating on the brown coffee in the white fibers, soaking into it, merging…

  She could now hear her friend screaming her name at the top of her lungs through the phone that rested on the desk above her.

  “Emily? Are you there? EMILY?”

  *

  “No, Ms. Windsor, I don’t think you understand me.” Dr. Giannopoulos leaned forward as he sat on the side of her hospital bed. His salt-and-pepper hair caught the light from the window quite attractively.

  “I’ve told you a dozen times or more. Please call me Emily.” She smiled.

  He’s so handsome. I wonder if he’s ready to date again. He should be. That divorce happened at least two years ago.

  “Fine. Emily, this isn’t one of your little episodes, as you call it. We’re not going to look at your medications and change things up. This was different, it’s beyond all of that. We’re at the point of no return. Your congenital heart disease was manageable up to a while ago, but now the oxygen is not flowing properly and twenty-five percent of the valves of your heart are barely functioning at all. You need that heart transplant.”

  “Well.” She rolled her eyes. “I know that. I’ve been on the list for several years now, but I’ve always been able to make do. The other doctor said before that it was controllable and—”

  “It doesn’t matter what was previously said. That diagnosis was made when you were a teenager. Right now you’re thirty-one, and your heart is failing. It is giving out. No amount of treatment, medications, or wishful thinking will change this prognosis. Look at this.”

  He opened a folder, the same damn one he’d shown her before, which featured a heart that looked more like a shriveled piece of sausage—only it was no butcher cut. The thing resided within her.

  “Look at it, Emily,” he said sternly. She turned and glanced at it, then fought tears. “Do you see the progression of deterioration from even three years ago?” He snatched out an old X-ray, placing them side by side.

  “Yes.” She barely coughed the word out.

  “This is it.” He slowly closed the folder and stood to his feet. “We have to proceed with the transplant. I will look at the list and ask the board to expedite your situation. It’s dire. Now, will you please allow your father to come inside? He should know about this, too. You need a good support system, and it must be made clear that you cannot return to work right now.”

  “No. I mean—” She clasped her hands together and looked down at her lap. “No. I, uh, I’ll talk to him myself. Thank you.”

  He nodded and offered a sad smile before patting her hands and walking to the door.

  “It’s not like I’m going to die tomorrow.” She laughed nervously. “I can—I’ll still be able to do a lot. I mean, this will take years. I’m healthy. I do yoga three times a week. I have a few glasses of wine on the weekends.” She shrugged. “I eat right, I exercise. I’m fine. We’ll handle this.”

  “Emily, listen to me.” He shook his head. “Don’t do this to yourself. It’s not productive. You were born with this. You’ve always had it, you’ve always known about it. None of what you mentioned matters right now regarding the yoga, exercise, and all the rest. This isn’t your fault.”

  “I know it’s not my fault, and between myself and my father, we can afford any specialist I need. Let’s get on the phone and get a second opinion. I demand it.” Her voice rattled as she struggled to not fall apart. “Any doctor worth their salt wouldn’t just give up. They’d—”

  “I haven’t given up. That’s the whole point. You can’t tell me how to do my job, Emily, j
ust as I can’t tell you how to do yours. Now look, I need you to be realistic about this. You can’t escape or talk your way out of it. Tossing money at the issue won’t make you any less sick. Feel free to get a second opinion. They’ll tell you the same thing. Time is not on your side. Right now, your character and approach to life will do wonders. This attitude of yours is hurting you, in more ways than one. Purchasing a new Chanel bag won’t make this problem go away, either, Emily.”

  “How dare you. So much for bedside manner.”

  “I’ve been your doctor for three years, and you are one of the most difficult patients I have ever had. When you come in here, I’ve had nurses tell me they refuse to work with you. You can be abrasive, condescending, and rude.”

  She crossed her arms, vexed.

  “Regardless,” he continued, “you’ve always thanked me for my honesty. You never wanted anything sugar coated, so that’s what I’m presenting to you. The pure, unadulterated truth. These are the facts: You have an extremely stressful job. Your family’s reputation and pedigree are of the utmost importance to you, and you’re highly competitive. You’ve admitted this many times. Hell, the first thing you said once you became conscious today was, ‘I am missing my appointment.’ Not ‘How am I doing?’ This has to stop, Emily. This is your life, and it’s hanging in the balance.”

  She hung her head, shame filling her, though she’d never admit it.

  “You will not live another six months if you don’t have this heart transplant.”

  Her breath hitched as her world crumbled right before her eyes. Running her hand along her arm, she squeezed, needing to feel alive, to feel pain, to remember what it felt like to live before it was far too late.

  “What if, what if no viable candidate shows up? I know it’s not done by who is first on the list, but by priority.”

  “Well, your situation is critical now, so all we can do is be proactive and hope for the best. It may be a long shot, but I hope we can get a viable candidate in the next few days if not sooner.”

  She nodded and looked at the clouds passing by outside the window.

  “How does this happen? I haven’t cried about this in years, ya know?” She shifted her attention to one of the many monitors she was hooked up to and shook her head. “Why is it that people that piss their lives away by taking a bunch of harmful drugs, complaining, and making excuses about their lives get to live until a hundred years old and here I am, working hard, living my life, loving it, and my existence is threatened? I’m not on crack. I am not out here living some wild, crazy life. I’m not a thief or murderer. It’s not right. It’s not fair.”

  Tears streamed down her face, born from unadulterated rage. Dr. Giannopoulos remained silent, his gaze on her. Then, he crossed his arms and took a deep breath.

  “Emily, not everyone’s definition of quality of life is the same. What you may consider squandered, they may feel is decent, perhaps even happiness. Answer this question, and be truly honest with yourself: If your health were fine and with this removed as a problem in your life, would you consider yourself really happy?” She stared blankly a long spell, then turned away. “What I want you to focus on is not what everyone else is doing, okay? Don’t worry about the choices that someone else made…Instead, I want you to focus on what you need to be doing.”

  “And what’s that? Waiting to die?” She picked up a flower vase from the table next to her and tossed it across the room. Glass shattered everywhere when the damn thing hit the wall. Her tears flowed faster and her heart pumped violently in her chest, the pain excruciating, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about any of it at all. Dr. Giannopoulos casually looked at the broken vase, the fragments of glass scattered about the floor like the broken pieces of her life. Everything was dark against white fibers. Everything ugly and horrid was soaking into the last shred of dignity she had, soiling her hopes and dreams with the sooty, dark filth she didn’t deserve. The doctor glared at her, and then at her heart monitor, before reaching for the door and opening it. Before he stepped out, he threw her one last look from over his shoulder.

  “No Emily, you need not focus on waiting to die. Rather, how about racing to live?”

  Chapter Two

  A Cry for Help

  “The United Network for Organ Sharing called.” Those were the last words Emily heard before she began to frantically sign papers from her seat on the hospital bed. She went through the motions, barely reading what was written. A viable candidate had fallen out the sky, materialized from thin air like some answered prayer—the kind she seldom believed in.

  According to her doctor, the donor lived in the area, had a similar body type, shared the same blood type, and had just passed away two hours earlier. She asked few questions as her anxiety rose to a level she’d not felt since her college days, particularly the week of final exams. Taking a sip of water, she glanced down at her wrist, reading her hospital bracelet. She itched to be out of there, living her life. The staff, the smell of the place had begun to drive her crazy.

  Her father stood in a corner of the room, shrouded in darkness, but his smile could be seen as he crossed his arms along his broad chest and nodded a time or two. Dad remained strong, encouraging her to move forward with what needed to be done. When she was all finished with the paperwork, she answered a few questions and was once again alone with her father.

  He took a seat next to her bed. Pulling up close, he grasped her hands and held them. She closed her eyes, her body suddenly feeling cold, clammy. She shook as the tears fell down her cheeks.

  “There’s no need to be afraid, Emily.” She breathed in slowly, then exhaled. The scent of his rich cologne subdued her. He’d worn Armani Eau Pour Homme for as long as she could remember. “We’ve been waiting for this moment.” She nodded in agreement, but her sick, racing heart refused to hear anything of it. “I have full confidence in the staff here. They’ll take good care of you.” He patted her fingers. “They’ve been properly vetted. Top-notch.”

  She opened her eyes and peered into his kind, blue eyes, framed with crow’s feet. He looked so majestic, so wise.

  Dad’s skin was a light beige color, as if he got just a touch of sun all year-round. His silver hair was brushed away from his broad forehead, and his mane was still thick, a sea of light in the illustrious platinum waves. He was clean shaven, sporting a deep cleft chin and a small scar along his lower lip that he’d gotten while wrestling with his brother as a child.

  “You’ll be up and running in no time.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. Many of her friends had stopped by until staff informed them that visitation, with the exception of her father, had to cease. It had been nice to see everyone’s faces, but her mother’s hadn’t numbered among them. How could she be? Mom had been dead for over ten years.

  Emily took deep breaths, only to fly into one of her many coughing spells. Minutes later, a balled-up tissue in her hand and chest pain burning through her ribs, she lay back in her bed, glaring at the ceiling. Nurses and doctors entered the room, speaking to her. She heard them, but didn’t care. Nothing seemed real or important at that moment. Nothing felt organic; it was just individuals going through the motions, including her.

  She could feel herself being lifted and moved to a gurney, but she barely made eye contact with anyone. Her lips remained sealed. She had no words, nothing to say. She shook inside the white sheets when one was pulled over her, up to her waist. Her body grew increasingly cold, as if she were going into shock, but she knew it was all in her head. What games a brain could play; the cruelty was surreal. Her father spoke a few last words of encouragement.

  “Emily, you’ll be fine and back to work in no time.”

  Her eyes darted in his direction and she blinked back tears. He smiled as she was whisked out of the room and into the hall with blinding light shining down upon her. She kept her eyes on him until all she could see were the faces of the people rolling her down the hall, into the operating theater. On a dare with h
erself to keep her damn composure, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths.

  You’re being silly. This doctor has done hundreds of these surgeries. You’ll be fine. Get through this operation and you can reclaim your life, go back to business as usual, only in much better shape.

  Minutes later, the surgeon was explaining the process while they prepared her for anesthesia. In no time flat, the room began to get fuzzy and frosty around the edges until all she saw was light. A beautiful feeling came over her—warm, like a tight, loving hug. She blinked several times, then slipped away into a stark white dream.

  *

  “She was an organ donor,” Mrs. Coleman explained as she gripped her white foamy cup of coffee with trembling hands, her head bowed. Spirals of thick, salt-and-pepper curls fell forward, hiding mahogany skin. “My daughter was always giving somethin’ away. This was no different.”

  The middle-aged woman smiled sadly, her dark brown eyes like pools of maple syrup as she blinked away another wave of tears. Cameron could hear muted voices all around them in the hospital. At one point, someone in the distance broke into laughter. It unnerved him, shook his resolve.

  “Cameron, we’ve got to take this day by day.”

  They met eyes once again. Cameron could see Brooke in Mrs. Coleman’s face and the sight halted his breathing. He sat across from the woman that was supposed to become his mother-in-law in the not-so-distant future…but now they were sitting inside Lennox Hill Hospital, in mourning. He wasn’t certain what to do with his body, his mind, his heart. They were all breaking at the same time, falling apart, dropping to the floor and shattering like fragile pieces of glass.

  This can’t be happening, he kept telling himself. But it was happening all right, every agonizing second of it. Here he was in this cold, sterile place, not the type his girlfriend would wish to be in while taking her final breath.

  Just a few hours prior, he’d been at work setting up at the club for a few acts, missing her performance due to prior obligations. And then, all hell had broken loose. He’d lost his love. Just like that.