They Stole My Heart and My Life novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: Seven Days
The heart I waited two years for arrived on a Tuesday at three in the morning.
It wasn't for me.
My husband told me, sitting on the edge of my hospital bed, in his white coat, hands clasped between his knees.
Marcial used the voice he reserved for patients, soft and patient, the one I used to believe existed only for me.
"Clemencia, I need to tell you something important."
"A donor showed up?"
"One did."
I felt my chest loosen, and with it, the machine humming beneath my rib.
"When's my surgery?"
Marcial looked at the floor.
"Clemencia."
"When?"
"The heart was assigned to Zulema."
The hum continued.
Only now it sounded very far away.
"My sister."
"She had a decompensation early this morning. She came into the ER in arrest, and there was no time to consult you. The committee decided she was the most urgent case."
"The committee."
"Yes."
"Who chairs the transplant committee at this clinic, Marcial?"
He didn't answer me.
We both knew.
"I've been first on the list for two years," I said.
"Your condition changed. You're unstable. You wouldn't survive the surgery."
"Yesterday they told me I would."
"Yesterday they didn't have the full picture."
He smiled sadly and took my hand.
"My love, you have to be strong. There's something else."
I waited.
"You have seven days. Maybe less."
A cleaning cart passed through the hallway, dragging a metal trolley.
The clinking of bottles echoed.
I looked at the ceiling.
There was a water stain shaped like South America.
I'd been staring at it for two years, every time they admitted me.
"Seven days," I repeated.
"I'm sorry."
"Tell me one thing, Marcial."
"Anything."
"Did you make the decision?"
He hesitated a second too long.
"The committee made the decision."
"Did you sign?"
"Clemencia, don't start..."
"I'm not starting anything."
I pulled my hand away.
He blinked, surprised I wasn't screaming.
I was surprised too.
But something very cold was settling inside me, piece by piece, like a machine that had been waiting years for an order.
I thought about my job.
I'm a biomedical engineer.
I design devices that help hearts like mine beat a little longer.
I know the timelines, the margins, the protocols.
I know, above all, a procedure almost no one considers, because it costs a lot and requires a signature.
"I want to talk about cryopreservation," I said.
Marcial went silent.
"There's an agreement between this clinic and the Foundation's cryobiology project," I continued. "Zulema runs it. Terminal patients can donate their bodies for research. The body is preserved. In years, if science advances..."
"Clemencia."
"I want to sign."
He ran a hand over his face.
I wanted to see a crack of remorse in his eyes.
I only saw relief.
A huge, barely disguised relief that loosened his shoulders.
"You're sure."
"Yes."
"You don't have to decide today."
"I have seven days."
"That's true."
He stood up, walked to the door, and signaled to someone in the hallway.
A nurse came in with a folder.
And behind her, my parents.
My mother wore a gray coat and her eyes were swollen.
My father, Doctor Montiel, a retired lawyer, dark suit, white mustache, walked with the straight back of someone going to a funeral.
"Daughter," my mother said, and hugged me.
She smelled of lavender soap and fear.
"Zulema is alive," she whispered against my shoulder. "Thank God. She's alive."
"I know, Mom."
"It was a miracle."
"Yes."
"You know how much you love her, right?"
"Yes, Mom."
My father cleared his throat.
"Marcial told me about the donation. It's a noble gesture, Clemencia."
"Thank you, Dad."
"You were always the more generous of the two."
I took the pen the nurse held out to me.
I signed in three places, in my usual handwriting, without my hand trembling.
Donation of body for research purposes. I authorize the Foundation to dispose of my remains and my medical history.
When I finished, my mother burst into tears.
My father placed his hand on my head, like when I was a child.
"I'm proud of you."
The door opened again.
Benicio came in wearing his school uniform, his backpack hanging from one shoulder and his hair messy.
He was nine years old with crooked teeth.
He ran over and climbed onto the bed.
"Mom, they told me you signed."
"Yes, my love."
"My dad says it was because of Aunt Zulema."
"That's right."
He wrapped both arms around my neck.
"That's good," he said, against my hair. "Finally you and Auntie made up."
I felt the smile come out on its own.
A clean, calm smile, from a woman who had just understood something.
Marcial watched me from the foot of the bed.
"You finally let go of the resentment," he said, his voice thick. "I'm so glad, my love."
I barely smiled.
Yes, this time I had finally learned the lesson.
I was going to give Zulema back my place as a daughter of the Montiel family.
And give them all exactly what they wanted.
When they left, one by one, to let me rest, the door didn't close.
A woman in a white coat and round glasses stood in the doorway, her bag hanging from her shoulder.
It was Doctor Aranda, my regular cardiologist.
The one who worked at another hospital.
The one who wasn't allowed on this floor.
She looked at me without smiling.
She locked the door from the inside.
"Clemencia," she said. "Don't sign anything else."
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