𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓 · 𝐣𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧¹

CHARLOTTE

The cold.

Every time I walked into that hospital, that peculiar cold would immediately wash over me. It was nothing like the damp cold outside. This one was dry, more subtle, but just as unpleasant. I shivered before wrapping my arms around myself, like a protective barrier, trying to bring myself a little warmth. Without even really thinking about it, my fingers tightened around my beige cardigan in a simple reflex.

It had become automatic as soon as I set foot in the drab, sterile hallways of the Forks hospital. Every time I saw that bland, sterile place, every time I smelled that bleach, my body shivered unconsciously. No matter how hard I tried to erase those memories to live like a normal teenager, they always came back. Especially when my eyes fell on the reception desk or the figures in white coats.

It all came flooding back to me, even though I didn’t want it to: the long nights spent waiting with my parents for my doctor to return and give us an update on my health, or the endless hospital stays where every minute felt like an eternity. There was also that icy feel of the room’s walls, which offered nothing but a certain solid, bland, and depressing emptiness. But nothing compared to those tasteless, often cold meals that almost turned my stomach. With my treatment, eating was already complicated. But the hospital meals took it to a whole new level.

In that orderly calm, I walked alongside my mother. We walked in rhythm, unlike the beating of my heart.

Never the same.

Never perfect.

Sometimes, if it wanted to, it beat normally, like most hearts, but that was only on rare occasions. For most of my days, it would either go too fast or too slow. And when it chose to, it would skip a beat, leaving behind a strange and unpleasant sensation: a gaping hole in my chest, a void quickly followed by a sharp, electrifying pain.

I couldn’t really think of a word to describe what I had just felt—and what I felt every day. It was something I was used to, a daily sensation that didn’t really alarm me.

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years I’d been living with this illness, with that feeling of being short of breath or of a burning sensation running through my sternum.

My mother, Margaret Swan, walked at my pace. She never forced her own pace on me, not wanting to tire me out any more than I already was. She made sure to always look out for me, to watch every one of my facial expressions; sometimes, she’d even check my heart rate when I looked a little too pale for her liking.

My fingers tightened a little more around my cardigan as we approached the reception desk. It was as if I were looking for a way to remind myself that I was still there, that I wasn’t going to collapse at any moment as the nagging questions clouded my mind: Why me? Why was my heart like this—so unstable, fragile, doomed to keep me from a normal life?

Suddenly, my breathing felt shallow and labored. My heart slowed down without warning, and I could feel that missed beat before it returned to a normal rhythm—at least for me.

Today was a calmer day than usual. Aside from my heart doing whatever it wanted, I didn’t have those unpleasant sensations: my lips getting dry, my fingers turning cold or almost going numb. I also didn’t have that nausea rising in my throat, or even that sudden dizziness that forced me to take a break.

The hall was quiet, with its usual background noise: the automatic doors opening when someone entered, the sound of the keyboard as the secretary tapped away, or the chatter in the background. But despite that, I could hear the commotion behind the doors restricting visitor access—that area reserved for staff.

You could hear the staff shouting or see, through the windows of the swinging doors, a team rushing by. I couldn’t see it, but I could tell from the hurried noise that they were pushing a resuscitation cart. I had already experienced this scene more than once, and it had left a deep impression on me. With every visit, that fear returned: the fear of finding myself in the patient’s place, the one they were trying to save.

For a moment, my mind took me back to when I was six years old, lying in that hospital bed for several days. I hadn’t been able to sleep, partly because of my treatment, but also because I couldn’t stand being alone in that place—and that was still the case. Images flashed through my mind and sounds came flooding back: the intensive care team rushing down the dark hallway, the shrill, continuous beeping, the medical staff’s screams. My blood ran cold then, and it ran cold again today, just thinking about it.

We were finally approaching the hospital reception area, and the icy air that hung there gave me goosebumps. A shiver ran up my spine and my heart raced. It pounded against my ribs, and I felt my breathing quicken to keep pace.

I know it was just a routine appointment, nothing too serious. Just a few tests, some electrocardiograms, a simple ultrasound of my heart, and two or three X-rays. It would let us know where I stood with my condition, whether my heart was still holding up and could hold out a little longer before the next surgery. No hospitalization after this appointment.

My life boiled down to living with a sword of Damocles hanging over my head, with this burden preventing me from living like a teenager my age. I couldn’t fully enjoy my youth; every aspect was controlled and meticulously planned by my mother, my father, and my cardiologist. It was practically like a military schedule. My condition kept me from joining the high school cheerleading squad and simply spending more time with my best friend. Running wasn’t forbidden, but I had to avoid it. In reality, I had to give up any activities that raised my heart rate.

Sometimes I wondered if falling in love could have a bad effect on me. Everyone around me kept saying it made their hearts race. My cardiologist had never really told me anything, only that I had to be careful.

Unlike my cardiologist, my father told me quite the opposite. He had always warned me not to fall in love, that my heart might not be able to handle it. Today, I realized that deep down, he was mostly saying that because I was his daughter. His little baby.

But I couldn’t help wanting to know what it would feel like. To fall in love and even go through a breakup. Could my heart handle it? Wouldn’t it be too intense, too brutal? Could I handle it?

Standing in front of the reception desk, I didn’t really move. My arms were still wrapped around myself, providing a little warmth. My eyes, however, fell on the woman behind it. Even though she was busy with paperwork, I recognized her graying hair, pulled back into a perfectly styled high bun, not a single strand out of place. Her red glasses slid down her nose, and she used her index finger to push them back up. Kate tapped away at her keyboard while answering the phone, never letting her tasks get the better of her. It was both intriguing and fascinating.

Slowly, she looked up at us when my mother set my file down on the counter. A smile lit up her face and her eyes sparkled. Kate raised her index finger, a gesture she often made to ask us to wait. I looked away for a few seconds to glance around the room.

“Lottie, sweetheart! How are you?”

Kate’s voice was soft and full of kindness. A weary smile slowly spread across my lips as I turned my gaze toward her.

The nurses had always shown me endless tenderness, and surely all the other children who passed through this hospital as well. They had that maternal instinct.

I hadn’t forgotten those long hospital stays during which the nurses would sometimes stay by my side at night, when my parents had to go home. Or the day I turned ten, when I had to spend a few days under observation. With my parents’ help, the nurses had decided to throw me a little surprise party to cheer me up: a simple cake, a few gifts, two or three friends, my parents, and some of the nursing staff.

Despite the kindness and comforting smiles, I couldn’t shake that sense of unease and fear whenever I walked through the hospital doors. I no longer really saw it as a place for healing, but as a constant reminder of my illness, of my failing heart. As if that little organ weren’t reminding me of it constantly already.

“Isn’t Mr. Swan with you?” Kate asked, taking the file.

“No, let’s just say he has a few things to take care of!” my mother replied.

My gaze fell on my mother for a brief moment; her lips had that little smile she always wore.

“I hope it’s nothing too serious like last year,” Kate commented, her eyes never leaving the screen in front of her.

“Oh no, just a teenager going through her first breakup!” my mother replied.

“Ah, breakups… nothing like them for breaking a heart!”

Kate grimaced discreetly before getting back to work. She opened my medical file and tapped away at her keyboard again. Her glasses slid down her nose once more as she leaned her head forward.

Silence settled around us. My mom was looking at her phone after it started vibrating; my dad must have sent her a message, asking how I was feeling. Kate kept tapping away at her keyboard and looking at the information in my file. As for me, I didn’t say much.

My thoughts suddenly turned to my sister, Bella, who had been living like a zombie ever since her dear Edward had left her, before moving far away from Forks with his family. I didn’t care one way or the other that the Cullens were no longer here. I’d never really cared much for them, but that didn’t mean I didn’t feel bad for my big sister. Seeing her like that made me realize that maybe romantic relationships just weren’t for me.

I sighed and looked around.

The place felt familiar to me. I knew it almost as well as my own bedroom, except that here there was a constant chill and that unmistakable sterile smell. The single potted plant near the waiting room was still there, though I doubted it would survive another few weeks. Its green leaves were wilting a little more each day. Next to the waiting room, the bulletin board was overflowing with colorful posters for concerts, parties in Seattle, or events in Forks. Amid all those colors and lively announcements, the missing-person notices seemed terribly out of place.

In this lobby, there was really nothing unusual; even the leather wheelchair abandoned in a corner was still there. It was even gathering dust.

Everything was in its place. The staff went about their business as usual. The doctors gave instructions to the nurses while the patients’ families came and went from the waiting room. And then there was this family that caught my eye. Three people, a family, with caramel-colored skin and jet-black hair. They were standing there, in the middle of the hallway, in front of the waiting room. A doctor was talking to them, giving them bad news.

My hearing wasn’t particularly keen, and I wasn’t superhuman, but from spending so much time in the hospital, I’d learned to read the expressions on the faces of doctors and patients’ families. I watched the way they stood, slightly hunched over, arms wrapped around themselves just as I did. It was as if they were looking for a way to shield themselves from the doctor’s words, as if they were refusing to accept what they were being told.

Those who appeared to be the parents listened with almost feverish attention, standing slightly ahead of the teenager, who was a bit further back. He must have been my age, or maybe a little older; I couldn’t really tell from that far away. Unlike the two adults, his hands were buried in the pockets of his shorts. His gaze was fixed on the white vinyl floor of the lobby.

After a few minutes, they walked away with the doctor, but the teenager remained alone, unable to move. He watched them disappear behind the swinging doors. His hands rubbed his face before running up through his hair. His chest seemed to rise, as if he were taking a deep breath. When his arms fell back to his sides, he turned around, retreating into the waiting room.

My eyes were glued to that door, though I didn’t know why. I was lost in a bubble that filtered out the sounds around me, reducing them to a muffled hiss, making them almost silent. But it didn’t last long.

I felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to the reality around me. Her voice drifted into my ears, with that tender gentleness so characteristic of her.

“Lottie, sweetheart?”

“Yes?”

I replied softly, almost in a whisper, looking away from the waiting room. I looked at my mother, who was already looking at me. She had that sweet, tender little smile of hers, the same smile that always warmed my heart. Her hand on my shoulder slid between my shoulder blades, rubbing them in a familiar gesture.

“Kate told me we have a new doctor,” she continued.

“Did Dr. Hayes resign?”

My voice rose slightly in pitch.

Dr. Hayes had always been my doctor. He had been my cardiologist since my condition was diagnosed—in other words, since I was born. He was a pleasantly gentle and patient man. He had always taken the time to explain things to my parents calmly, even if it meant repeating them several times. With my father, that happened often.

Without realizing it, my gaze fell on Kate. She had stopped typing and set a few sheets of paper down on the counter. Her eyes were fixed on me with a warm glow.

“The cardiology unit at a private clinic in New York has expanded, and Dr. Hayes applied,” she replied.

“Who’s my new cardiologist?”

A wave of stress washed over me. Which didn’t really surprise me.

My life had always followed a precise balance. So when something came along to disrupt my routine, I immediately felt lost.

“He’s a new surgeon who arrived last month,” Kate replied. “It’s Dr. Andrews, a young doctor who’s just joined us from Texas. Don’t worry, he spent a few weeks with Dr. Hayes to get up to speed on his new patients’ most critical cases.”

Kate’s words reassured me somewhat, even though I could feel my heart racing, pounding a little too fast and too hard against my ribcage. The pain radiated through my chest with that familiar burning sensation that I was trying, once again, to ignore.

“Besides,” she added, “I have to admit he’s pretty cute. A real treat for the eyes.”

Kate’s words were accompanied by a mischievous little wink. It made me let out a little chuckle that turned into a fit of coughing. It wasn’t something I enjoyed. I actually hated it deeply, and my mother knew it. She reacted immediately, rubbing my back with her hand. It brought me a little comfort and warmth, but it didn’t erase the discomfort that had overtaken me.

My throat burned, and a dry sensation ran through my sternum.

“Take it easy,” my mother said, picking up the papers Kate had left. “I need to fill out some information for Dr. Andrews. Go sit in the waiting room while you wait; I’ll come get you when I’m done.”

My reply was so faint that I felt as though I hadn’t said anything at all. It was as if the words were stuck in my throat, trapped by my vocal cords.

I gave Kate a weak smile before heading to the waiting room. A dull fatigue weighed on my body, turning every step and every movement into an effort. My arms were still wrapped around myself, holding onto the little warmth my body could muster.

I finally reached the waiting room, a bit more welcoming than the hospital’s bland lobby and hallways, even though that dry cold still lingered. As I entered the room, soft music played in the background.

My eyes quickly scanned the room; a few people were sitting there, some of them asleep. I didn’t dare say a single word, for fear of breaking the tranquility that had settled in. So, silently, I sat down in one of the empty seats, and my gaze automatically fell on the vinyl floor. I needed to retreat into my own little bubble of calm before my appointment, to conserve my energy. But I couldn’t find it. My gaze fell on a pair of black shoes. One of them was trembling slightly, betraying its owner’s anxiety.

Unconsciously, my gaze drifted back to the boy I’d spotted a little earlier. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth, and one leg trembling. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, as if lost in thought, barely blinking.

As was my habit, I watched him and could clearly sense the anxiety slowly consuming him. I could do nothing and try to shut myself off in my own little world, but I couldn’t just leave him like that. There was nothing worse than letting yourself be devoured by this feeling, as contagious as a virus. I knew it all too well: the heart racing, the doubts setting in and gnawing from the inside, until they seeped deep into your being, clinging on like a leech.

I grabbed the metal chair, clinging to it instinctively as a strange weakness washed over my body. The icy feel of the metal no longer really affected me. I leaned forward slightly and spoke, my voice breaking the silence of the room.

“Bad news?”

Deep down, I already knew the answer. Good news doesn’t leave someone in a state like this. Yet I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

His face slowly lifted.

His hands rubbed together as our eyes met. Suddenly, the trembling in his leg stopped. He simply let his hands fall between his knees, as if drained of all energy.

My eyes didn’t leave him for a single second as I waited for a response, but he seemed to have drifted off into his own thoughts.

He seemed to be completely elsewhere.