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MAYA
C an a person survive without a heart?
Until last week, I would have said no, but I’m still here, walking around, existing,
breathing, without one.
So it must be possible.
I’m a medical miracle. Maybe I should update my will and donate my body to science. They’ll
want to study a woman with no heart. Maybe they’ll write an academic paper about me. At least then
someone would remember me when I’m gone.
I’m alone in the elevator, and it’s a small blessing. I deliberately came late to work today. I need
to push off the uncomfortable questions and the sympathies for a bit longer. People mean well, I know.
But I just don’t have the capacity for sympathetic smiles and chit-chat.
The doors open on my floor, and I step off into chaos. It’s always busy here, but this level of panic
is new. Something is happening, and I’m lost. What I amnotis bombarded by sympathetic colleagues.
Whatever is happening trumps me being away all week.
Weaving through the maze of open desks, I search for my assistant, Abigail. She’s normally right
outside my office, but her desk is empty. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s not just empty, it’s bare.
No plant, no pictures of her boyfriend, no coffee cups.
I spin in a slow circle, minor details adding up. It’s not just Abigail’s desk that’s empty. About
half the desks are. The rest have clusters of people around them, whispering. A little spark of interest
flares in my chest. Something is happening, and I welcome it. I can work on solving this little mystery
and forget about my missing heart for a bit.
“Ms. Miller.”
I turn and find a man in a tailored suit smiling at me from a few feet away. I don’t like the smile.
It’s fake. I can tell. It doesn’t crease the tanned skin near his eyes. I’ve seen a lot of those smiles
directed at me. The kind that curves the mouth and exposes the teeth but never touches their eyes.
My mother looked at me like that.
“Yes,” I answer crisply, matching his tone. His lips are firm as he rakes them down my body, over
my loose dress and simple black shoes. I know what he thinks of me. I look like a turd among the
beautiful, well-dressed people around me.
