Chapter 1
I was wheeled into the operating room three days after my daughter was born.
My room was still filled with unopened gifts from visitors. I hadn't had a chance to open them.
My husband, Eugene Lambert, stood by the bed holding a document, his gaze colder than the rain outside the window.
"Sign it," he said. "Amy can't wait."
I had given birth not long ago. I could barely sit up. The C-section incision still burned, sending a tearing pain through my body.
I forced myself upright and saw the words on the cover of the file, "Consent for Heart Transplant Surgery."
My hands trembled.
I said in a hoarse voice, "Eugene, I gave birth to our children. Twins. Have you seen them?"
He didn't answer.
"The girl is quiet. She eats and goes right back to sleep. The boy cries a lot. The nurse said he looks like you." I tried to smile. "Go see them, okay?"
"Natalie," he cut me off, tossing a pen onto the bed. "Sign it."
The pen rolled toward my hand.
Three years of marriage, and I thought I knew him well.
He was cold, yes, but not cruel. He was simply trapped, unable to move on from Amy.
I believed that once he came to his senses, he would finally see me.
Now I knew.
He wasn't unable to move on. He had simply never intended to.
*****
"Eugene, that's not how it happened back then." I looked up at him, my voice shaking. "I didn't steal her college application materials. And the person who saved you at the beach that day was me, not her.
"I was there when you fell into the water. I was the one who swam out and dragged you back to shore. She stayed on land, screaming for help. She never went into the water at all."
"Enough." Eugene's expression darkened. "You've been saying this for five years. Natalie, it's time you paid her back for what you owe."
Did I really owe her anything?
I lowered my head, looking at my pale hand. My wedding ring was still there. He had never asked me to take it off.
"What about the kids?" I said. "They were just born. They need their mom."
"They can survive without you," he said.
He pressed the call button.
A nurse came in. She was young, and there was hesitation in her eyes when she looked at me. She walked to the bedside and reached for my daughter.
Without thinking, I clutched my daughter's blanket.
She was so tiny and soft, fast asleep, not knowing what was going on at all. I gripped her blanket so hard that my fingers started to hurt.
The nurse glanced at Eugene, looking uncertain about what to do next.
"Take her," Eugene said.
The nurse pried my hand off.
The moment my daughter was lifted into the nurse's arms, she let out a small cry, like a kitten's mew.
That was the last time I ever held her.
My son had been taken earlier. I didn't get a good look at his face.
"The pen," Eugene said.
I picked up the pen. My hand was shaking so much that my signature turned out messy and slanted.
I had written my name my entire life, but it had never looked this bad.
Eugene picked up the consent form, glanced at it, and turned to leave.
"Eugene," I called after him.
He stopped, but didn't turn around.
I said, "If someday you realize everything you said and did was wrong, what would you do?"
He remained silent for a few seconds. "That's never going to happen."
The door slammed shut.
They wheeled me toward the operating room. The hallway stretched on endlessly, the lights overhead harsh and blinding. The wheels of the gurney rattled loudly against the floor.
As we passed by a hospital room, I saw Amy Sanchez.
She was in a hospital gown, being held up as she stood by the door. Her face was pale, and she looked weak, like someone who really did need a heart transplant.
However, there was a faint hint of a smile on her face.
That smile was quick and slight. If I hadn't happened to look her way, I wouldn't have noticed it at all.
When she noticed me looking, the smile disappeared, and she switched to a helpless look.
I looked away, staring up at the ceiling.
At that moment, it all finally clicked for me.
I had always been an outsider. He loved her. She needed my healthy heart. And I was nothing more than the donor who happened to be a perfect match.
There was no misunderstanding, and he wasn't tricked. He didn't need to realize anything because he'd always chosen her from the start.
The operating room doors opened. The surgical lights were blinding, too bright to look at. Someone injected something into my arm, and a cool liquid flowed into my veins.
The anesthesiologist bent down close to me. "Start counting down from ten."
Ten.
I remembered the first time I met Eugene, in the college library. He was sitting by the window reading, sunlight hitting his face. When I walked past, my book fell, and he bent down to pick it up for me.
Nine.
I remembered our wedding day. He got drunk and hugged me, thanking me for marrying him.
That was the only time he ever spoke to me with any tenderness. After he sobered up, he went right back to being his usual cold self.
Eight.
I remembered going to prenatal checkups alone during my pregnancy, buying baby supplies by myself, and setting up the baby's bedroom on my own.
He never came. Not even once. He said he was busy with work, and I simply said it was fine.
Seven.
I remembered the look in his eyes when I signed the consent form. It wasn't how a husband looked at his wife. It was how someone looked at a donor.
Six.
Amy's faint smile lingered in my mind.
Five.
I remembered my daughter's little cry, soft like a kitten.
Four.
I never got a clear look at my son. His face was blurry in my mind.
Three.
If I died, who would remember that they had a mom?
Two.
I didn't want to die.
One.
Wait. I didn't want to die.
With the last bit of strength I had, I reached out and grabbed the hand of someone beside me.
It was a nurse, dressed in light blue scrubs.
"Please—" My voice trembled violently, my tongue already beginning to go numb. "Please tell Mr. Guzman—"
"What?" The nurse leaned in, looking confused. "Who?"
The anesthesia rushed over me like a dark wave. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
The light in front of me faded and drifted farther away. The last thing I saw was the surgical lights. They were bright and cold, like his gaze.