I wish this were more like my fairy tale.
Valentino should have many decades under his belt before finding peace with passing his heart like a baton to a young person in need.
But unless there’s a miracle, our story won’t have a happily ever after.
It’ll end in tragedy.
Valentino
2:11 a.m.
We waste no time getting started.
One moment, we’re all together in the ER, and the next, Dr. Emeterio splits us up into our own examination rooms to conduct tests to determine if Orion and I will be a match. Dr. Emeterio personally oversees my blood work and X-rays and other evaluations that I don’t pretend to understand, since it’s not as if I have to worry about a pop quiz tomorrow on the difference between electrocardiograms and echocardiograms.
There’s a small treadmill in the corner, and I really want to go for a run. But what if I fly off like some character in a comedy and my neck snaps? Death by stationary running. What a way to go.
If I had my phone on me, I’d probably give in and google how other Deckers have died tonight. Some of the gunshots in Times Square must’ve found their targets. But what about the other Deckers? Did someone crash their car into another or directly into a Decker who was crossing the road? What about those who’ve chosen suicide because the uncertainty of how everything will unfold is too much for them? These thoughts are so upsetting and depressing, and obsessing over them won’t help me predict my own fate.
I need to focus on life while I still have one.
This whole production for Orion is already underway, but I still need to go over everything with Scarlett. She needs my bank info so she can keep my savings and buy some extra months in New York. I hope she doesn’t move back in with our parents. They’ve been the worst with me, but they haven’t been angels to Scarlett either. I’m assuming Scar still hasn’t called me back on Dalma’s phone, which remains so nerve-racking. She should be wrapping up the Death-Cast party and heading to the airport soon.
“If all goes well,” Dr. Emeterio says as she studies my X-ray. “Your contribution today may change the future of all heart transplants.”
“I won’t even get to see it.”
The silence is short-lived, like I’ll be. There’s a beeping machine that’s carrying on. No fear of being turned off or unplugged forever.
“I promise I don’t think of you as some test subject,” Dr. Emeterio says, meeting my eyes. “I was only hoping to offer some comfort, but I’m sorry for being out of line.”
“No, you’re fine. It’s just strange how I’ll be gone and not know how everything turns out.”
“If only Death-Cast could clue us in on all that too,” Dr. Emeterio says.
If only.
I’d love another call with Joaquin Rosa where he answers all my burning questions. Will I change the future of heart transplants? Will Orion actually survive the procedure? Will Scarlett live a happy life? Then there’s the scariest question of all. No, it’s not about the afterlife. I’m not concerned about that. Once I’m dead, I’m dead. I’m not expecting much beyond that, especially as I’m struggling with my faith. What I am concerned about is the Big How—how will I die today? Death-Cast isn’t like Catholicism where I’m asked to trust in God and his reasons and his heaven without any evidence. There’s clearly concrete proof about Death-Cast’s abilities that gained the support of the president and the government and beyond.
I’m supposed to believe Death-Cast knows the When, but not the How?
I don’t buy it.
Someone has to know.
“I have your results,” Dr. Emeterio says.