A Matter of Heart Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2015 by Amy Dominy

  Cover photograph copyright © 2015 by Justin Hill/Glasshouse Images

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouseteens.com

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dominy, Amy Fellner.

  A matter of heart / Amy Dominy. — First edition.

  pages cm

  Summary: Sixteen-year-old Abby Lipman is on track to win the state swim championships and qualify for the Olympic trials when a fainting incident at a swim meet leads to the diagnosis of a deadly heart condition and forces her to discover who she is without the one thing that has defined her entire life.

  ISBN 978-0-385-74443-0 (hc : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-375-99166-0 (glb : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-385-38993-8 (ebook)

  [1. Swimming—Fiction. 2. Heart—Fiction. 3. Identity—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.D71184Mat 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013048887

  eBook ISBN 9780385389938

  eBook design adapted from printed book design by Trish Parcell

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v4.1

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  FOR JAKE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would still be sitting in an idea file on my desk if not for the help of some very special people. Many thanks to the following:

  Krista Vitola, for believing in this story and for her vision and insight—and to the entire team at Penguin Random House/Delacorte Press for helping to bring this book to life.

  My agent, Caryn Wiseman, for her talent and wisdom, and for supporting me in so many ways.

  My critique partners and writer friends (who also double as my therapists when needed): Daphne Atkeson, Kiki Hamilton, Terry Lynn Johnson, Gae Polisner, Gene Lauritano, and the 2k11 Graduates. A special thanks to Maria Cari Soto for reading an early version and knowing just the right thing to say.

  My team of swim experts, including Julyann Hill, who did her best to teach me to swim and whose mantras and drills inspired Abby, and the amazing swimmers who had answers for hundreds of questions: Jessica O’Donnell, Ryan Dignan, and Ben Fitch.

  Cardiologist Jim Del Giorno, my good friend and an invaluable resource in writing this book.

  Sharon Bates, for sharing her story and helping to inspire this novel and for turning the loss of her son into a legacy of hope and help by founding the Anthony Bates Foundation.

  The readers, teachers, librarians, and bloggers who have friended me online and out in the world—your support and encouragement help keep me going.

  My family, especially Rachel and Kyle, who read many versions and only rarely demanded a bribe—I love you! And to Jake, for putting up with a crazy writer wife—I couldn’t do this without you.

  1

  I can’t breathe.

  There’s no time.

  All around the pool, coaches yell and pace along the edge as if that’ll make us swim faster. Parents shout out names. I don’t hear which ones. In the water, it’s a different kind of sound. The whoosh and thrum of the surface breaking over my cap. The churn of arms and the fizz of an exhale. The chant of pull, pull that I repeat in time with the bmm bmm of my heart.

  Mostly, I just hear the scream of my burning lungs.

  I don’t listen.

  In the last leg of a 100 free, there’s no time for breathing. Not if you want to win.

  Pull, pull.

  Twenty-five yards left. That’s it. Almost in reach. Everything I want is almost within reach.

  Pull, pull.

  Through the bubbles and froth I glimpse the rising beauty of the wall. I’m not breathing. Just pushing. Reaching.

  Pull, pull—

  My arm stretches, my fingertips search for the pebbly surface. There!

  Yes!

  I explode out of the water, my mouth wide as I gasp, dragging air into my clenched lungs.

  I grab hold of the wall and turn toward the scoreboard. I rip off my goggles. My eyes, blurred and achy, stare. There’s my name: A. Lipman, lane 4. Was it enough? Was I enough?

  “Nice finish, Lipman!” It’s Coach somewhere behind me, moving down the lanes. I hear him call to Alicia, another Horizon swimmer, in lane 6.

  I drink the air and will the scoreboard to show the results I want. It took so much to get here. Months of two-a-day practices. Of pushing myself so hard there were mornings I couldn’t lift my arms to wash my hair. All of it for one moment in time—literally. Fifty-eight seconds. Maybe fifty-seven.

  The board flashes red. Times appear, along with finishing places.

  Yes! First place, a school record, and my personal best—57:56. Olympic qualifying time will be around 57:19.

  My hand shoots up in a fist pump. Water splashes over my face and I blink my lashes clear as I smile because I don’t have the air to laugh.

  A shadow suddenly blocks the sun and I look up to see Connor grinning at me. He squats down at the edge of the pool and reaches out a hand. I grab hold and he lifts me out like I’m six instead of sixteen. Which is okay since I feel like jumping up and down like a two-year-old.

  “Freakin’ awesome, Abby.”

  His grin dips to one side and it’s so s
exy—still sexy. I’ll never stop getting jelly knees every time Connor Moore grins at me like that.

  I grin back. I don’t know what to say. I’m so happy, I can’t find the words to express it. Maybe there aren’t any.

  He grabs me and lifts me into a hug. I hold on and let the happiness fill me. Deep-from-the-core happiness that finally brings up a laugh from lungs that have stretched themselves for pain and victory and now just want to let loose and celebrate.

  Connor sets me down. I pull off my swim cap, shaking my dark hair out until I feel it cold, wet, and heavy on my shoulders. Connor’s hair is almost dry now from his earlier warm-up, still dark by the tops of his ears but sun-bleached blond everywhere else. He’s wearing his team Speedo suit and he’s tanned and gorgeous. And mine.

  “Knew you’d do it, Ab.”

  I laugh again, but a man in a polo shirt with a whistle around his neck moves past us and catches my eye. “Off the deck.”

  My race is over and there’s a schedule to keep. I nod and squeeze Connor’s hands before letting go. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad. He’s hanging on the fence, waiting. Impatient, I know. For years, he was the one I ran to and hugged. The one who lifted me and spun me around. As of about five weeks ago, it’s been Connor. Dad isn’t used to it yet. Me neither, maybe because it still feels like a dream.

  I part with Connor at the gate. “You better get ready,” I tell him. I gesture toward the warm-up area, where the other guys who swim the 100 free are loosening up. Alec Mendoza is staring our way. He’s a senior, like Connor, and ever since Alec transferred to Horizon High this year, they’ve been jockeying for one and two on the team. There’s something else going on there, but I don’t know what. I don’t ask.

  “Kick some butt out there,” I tell Connor.

  “You know it,” he says. “Then tonight, you and I are celebrating.” His words could mean anything, but the look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s thinking.

  My stomach does a flip turn. “Just get out there and swim,” I say. “This one is yours.”

  He nods. Connor’s best events are the 50 and the 100 free. He’s a great sprinter. Not quite fast enough for the Olympics, but second place in State last year as a junior. This year he’s had some bad luck. Got pneumonia early in the season and missed a full week and a meet. His times dropped, but not as much as I would have expected. It’s only the second week of October and he’s already back in the game and looking for a personal best. Maybe today. But even if it doesn’t happen, he’s already qualified for State.

  The State meet will be amazing, but I’m after a bigger prize. My fingers twitch a little, as if they’re straining now for that huge imaginary wall that says Olympics.

  I turn and head for my dad. The sun is hot on my shoulders, and bright enough to make me squint. It’s a little toasty, even for Phoenix, but at least the mornings and nights have started to cool off. Dad has edged back from the crowd and found a shady spot by the building so we can have a little privacy. He waits until I reach him, and then his arms are around me. His words are warm in my ear. “You’re only half a second off the qualifying time.” There’s pride in his voice, and the sound of it runs down my spine, raising goose bumps like a standing ovation.

  “You know what that means?” he says. “You can qualify at State this year. That’s three weeks, Ab. We’re that close.” He pulls back, a frown on his face as his hands rub my arms. “You’re shaking, honey. You cold? Where’s your towel?”

  “I’m not cold,” I say. “I think I’m in shock.” I take a breath. I’m still recovering, maybe, because my lungs feel too tight.

  Dad looks back at the stopwatch in his hand and shakes his head. I know he’s itching to get home and plot this on the chart that hangs in his office. It’s gigantic, the chart. On it he’s got all my times from every major meet since freshman year. This year, he added a side panel with qualifying times of the other sophomores across the country. This side panel isn’t about charting my personal best. It’s about me being the best.

  About winning Olympic gold.

  Maybe I am cold. I shiver again. I look into Dad’s eyes—a deep olive green, same as mine. And I think, no, I’m just happy. Dad was a world-class backstroker. He would have been where I am if he hadn’t broken his collarbone in a freak accident his senior year of high school. He never got the chance, but nothing will get in my way. I’m going to win gold for both of us.

  Dad’s eyes are shiny. He’s not a crier. He’s more the tough guy—work hard and don’t whine. But this wasn’t just any race. We both knew I needed to drop time if I’m going to have any hope.

  “You did it,” he says. “You’re there, Ab. You keep training and you’re one swim away from an invitation to the United States Olympic team trials.” He shakes his head, almost as if he can’t believe the words himself.

  I feel dizzy. Because of his words, maybe. The way his head is still moving. The way there’s cold creeping up my neck and making my head feel numb.

  Dizzy.

  I suck in a breath. My heart pushes against my ribs. My lungs still ache. I want to smile at Dad. This is amazing. Life is amazing. First place. Trials. Connor.

  Smile, Abby. Smile with Dad.

  Only, now Dad isn’t smiling either. He looks dizzy. No—wait. He looks worried. I’m the one who’s dizzy.

  Something.

  Is wrong.

  I can’t breathe.

  2

  I’m lying on a couch, my feet up on the armrest. I’m not sure how I got here. It’s like I’m waking up, only I wasn’t asleep. I’m in a room with overhead lights and seriously strong bulbs. I close my eyes again, wanting the dizzy to go away.

  “Honey?”

  Dad’s voice. I swallow and try my eyes again. The lights don’t feel so bright this time. I shift and there’s a squeaky noise. The couch is leather, and I’m stuck to it in my wet swimsuit. There’s a scratchy blanket on top of me. My head clears and I look down at myself.

  I’m going to ruin this couch with my wet suit, and where did this blanket come from and when was the last time it was washed? I push it off—it’s brown and nubby and it doesn’t exactly smell Bounce fresh. I sit up. Dad reaches for my shoulder to steady me, but I don’t need steadying. I push the hair off my face. It’s still wet, and my fingers get tangled for a second. My thoughts feel the same way. Tangled.

  “Where am I?”

  “An office inside the swim facility.”

  “Oh.”

  “You okay?” There’s a question in his voice, along with worry.

  “Yeah. Just got dizzy all of a sudden.”

  “Probably the exertion and a little dehydration.”

  “How is she?” A woman peeks in at the door. She’s wearing glasses and her chin is down as she looks at me over the top of her maroon frames.

  Dad smiles. “She’s fine. Much better.”

  “Water?” the woman asks.

  “That would be great,” he says.

  I watch as she backs out and my stomach rolls a little.

  “How do you feel now?” Dad asks.

  “Like we just took a plane trip with a bad landing.”

  He studies my face, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. “You scared me.”

  The woman is back, and this time she hands me a small paper cup. “Sorry. We don’t have any bigger cups.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip and feel the cold slide all the way to my stomach. It wakes me up a little, and my brain starts churning. I’m suddenly a little freaked out—I remember being cold, but then it’s all a blur. I wait until the lady disappears again and then I ask Dad, “Did I faint?”

  “Maybe, but only for a second…” He lets out a breath. “You lost your balance, started folding up—”

  “Folding up?” I interrupt. “Like a chair or something?” I rub my hands over my face. “Were people watching? Did Connor see?”

  “I doubt it. Connor was getting ready to swim. Besides, you were very graceful.
You folded up nicely.”

  “Dad!”

  “It happened in a split second,” he says calmly. “We were standing so close to the door, I don’t think anyone even noticed.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  He rubs my arms. “Like I said, it happened so fast. You didn’t look right. Your knees started to buckle and I reached out before you could fall. You mumbled something about being cold.”

  “I was talking?”

  “A little,” he says. “Then I helped you inside and the lady at the desk pointed me in here.” He looked around. “I think it’s someone’s office.”

  Today’s meet was held at the Liberty Community Center. Sometimes the facilities are no more than a locker room and bathrooms. Here, there’s a whole complex with a gym and a rec room.

  “I’ve got to get back out there,” I say. “Connor must be done by now.” I stand, but Dad still has a hand on my arm and he pushes me back down.

  “Connor can wait. I want to be sure you’re okay.”

  “Dad, I’m fine. It was just the excitement of winning.”

  His whole face changes as he remembers. “I think it was your flip turns. You’re coming off the wall so crisp. A little more work and you won’t just be competing in the trials—you’ll make the team.”

  I nod. Fortunately, my head no longer feels like it’s full of scrambled eggs. “I’m all for more work, but can we talk about that later? Right now, I just want to bask in my victory.”

  Dad laughs. “Of course, of course. Bask away.”

  “So can I go now? Connor is going to wonder what happened.”

  Another face appears around the corner, but this one I know.

  Coach Rick strides in, his blond eyebrows puckered up like they’re ready to kiss each other. “What happened? Someone said you fainted? Your dad had to help you inside?”

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  He squats in front of me. Coach is a big, strong guy on the edge of stocky, but he still has the look of an athlete. His blond hair is cut short and barely falls over his wide forehead. He’s tanned year-round from all the hours coaching poolside and has enough lines around his eyes to make him look like he has a permanent squint. He’s squinting now as he looks me over.

  Dad shifts to the couch beside me. “She seems fine now.”