Page 4 of Broken Secrets
Derek’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “What happens if you can’t fill it out?”
“The cardiologist they’re sending me to will ‘work with what I have.’” I make air quotes. “But apparently family history is pretty important for heart stuff. Heart disease, high blood pressure…” I pause, the next words sticking in my throat. “Sudden cardiac death.”
The table goes silent. Even Sophie stops mid-sentence about Tyler’s texting habits.
“A cardiologist?” Derek’s voice is careful, like he’s handling something fragile. “Why are they sending you to a heart doctor?”
“Because my heart’s been racing and I get dizzy and sometimes I can’t breathe right.” The symptoms sound scarier when I list them out loud. “My blood pressure and heart rate were elevated today.”
Maya reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Doctors are careful these days.”
“Yeah,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound convinced even to me. “Probably stress from school and soccer.”
The bell rings, and everyone scatters toward their afternoon classes. Derek walks with me toward AP English with a solid and comforting presence on a day that’s felt increasingly unstable.
“You know,” he says as we reach my classroom door, “if you ever want to talk about the family history stuff… I mean, I know it’s complicated, but maybe there’s a way to get the information you need.”
I look at him; really look at him. Derek Lance, who’s been my friend since we were thirteen and awkward, who knows me well enough to see when I’m falling apart but kind enough not to push too hard.
“Thanks,” I say, and mean it. “I’ll figure something out.”
The drive home feels endless. Our beach bungalow comes into view as I turn onto our street, white picket fence, blue shutters, flowering jasmine crawling up the porch columns. Picture-perfect on the outside, like everything else in our life.
The front door bangs shut behind me harder than I mean it to. My bag drops with a heavy thud that rattles the picture frames in the hallway—photos of me and Mom at various stages of my life, conspicuously missing any third party.
“Everything okay?” Mom calls from the kitchen.
The smell of burgers and fries snakes through the air, but instead of making me hungry, it knots my stomach tighter. I drag my feet across the hardwood floor, each step announcing my mood.
She’s at the stove. Her hair is twisted in a bun so tight it looks painful. Cooking the way she looks right now is her signaturestress move. She glances over at me for a second before turning back to the skillet.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says, forcing brightness into her tone. “How was school?”
“Fine. Got my homework done in study hall.” I drop into a chair at the kitchen table with a deliberate slump And crossing my arms.
“And soccer practice?”
“Coach got irritated because I missed a few shots.” I kick the table leg hard enough to make the salt and pepper shakers jump. “I was distracted. Thinking about this morning.”
Her shoulders tense slightly, but her voice stays light. “How did the appointment go?”
“You would know if you’d been there.”
The spatula clatters against the pan. She steadies it quickly and flips a burger with more force than necessary. “I told you; I had an emergency at work. You’re strong enough to handle a check-up.”
“It wasn’t just a check-up.” I lean forward, watching her face. “She’s referring me to a cardiologist.”
The spatula goes still. “What?”
“A heart doctor, Mom. Because of my symptoms—the racing heart, the dizziness, the chest pain I told you about that you said was probably nothing.”
She sets the spatula down carefully and turns to face me fully for the first time since I got home. “What did she say exactly?”
“That my blood pressure and heart rate are elevated. That they need to run tests. And…” I take a breath, watching her expression. “That they need a complete family medical history.”
The color drains from her cheeks. “Olivia.”
“She specifically mentioned heart disease, high blood pressure, sudden cardiac death. Genetic conditions, Mom.Information I might actually need.” My voice rises with each word. “Details about my dad that you refuse to discuss.”
