Deathtrap by Dana Marton

drew the gown closed.
    “No.”
    “Shortness of breath or feeling light-headed?”
    Here we go. “Some.”
    “Dare I hope it’s connected to your handsome young man and falling in love?” He kept the smile.
    She shook her head, pushing Ethan Bing’s picture from her mind. Her spells had started long before she’d met him. And he’d been a one-time annoyance instead of a romantic interest, in any case. “They don’t last long. The world starts spinning, then things go back to normal in a few minutes.”
    Dr. Pratt raised his gray eyebrows that could have used some trimming. “Since when?”
    “Since I moved. Just a few months. I had a bad one last night. I blacked out for a minute.”
    “You’re supposed to call.” The gentle chiding was said in a voice filled with warm care.
    “I was coming in first thing this morning anyway. It wasn’t that bad.”
    He watched her carefully. “We’ll know if it’s anything to worry about once the biopsy results are in. I’ll call as soon as we have them.”
    The results should have been in already; she’d had that done first thing when she’d come in, but a server meltdown was holding up the lab.
    “Thank you.” She folded her hands on her lap and drew a deep breath before changing the subject. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything on my petition?”
    He shook his head. “Unsealing donor records is an involved process. They might still be trying to contact the family for permission. I don’t want you to be stressing over this. Stress is the worst thing you could do to your new heart. What do I always say?”
    “Calm and serene.” She made a face, then hesitated before asking, “Do you believe in body memories? I have all this weird déjà vu. And I crave peanut butter. I never liked it before. What do you think that means?”
    He steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “Anything is possible, but as far as my medical opinion goes…donor recipients inheriting the tastes and memories of the organ donor has never been confirmed in a large-scale study. There’s some anecdotal evidence, but I wouldn’t put too much stock by it. It’s more likely that you have an iron deficiency. Peanuts are rich in iron. The body craves what it needs. I’ll add a check for iron levels to your next batch of lab work.”
    Okay, when he said it all reasonable like that, her worries seemed pretty silly. She didn’t like the idea of body memories. That some random stranger’s heart beat inside her chest was bad enough. If her thoughts and feelings were no longer her own either, then who was she?
    The doctor shoved her file under his arm, ready to go. “You remember the organ rejection warning signs, right?”
    She rattled them off. She also still had the card she’d been given after surgery at the hospital.
    He nodded. “Eat healthy, exercise with moderation, keep away from germs and stress. The more sterile you keep your environment, the better your chances will be for avoiding an infection.”
    “Cleaning is my new hobby. Call me Miss Scrubbit.” Not that she was complaining about the work. It was better than the alternative.
    Dr. Pratt pulled a flyer from the plastic sleeve on the wall by the door—Post-Transplant Support Systems—and walked back to her. “These are new. Are you attending the support group at your local hospital?”
    “Not much.” She hadn’t for a long time. She wanted a normal life. She’d spent way too much time in hospitals and on checkup visits. She didn’t need any more reminders that her new lease on life might be temporary, that her body might reject the heart at any time.
    “It might help with the psychological issues.”
    “I’m okay. Honestly.” She flashed her most self-confident, all-is-well-with-the-world smile. The support group freaked her out with their memorials for members who lost their fight, organ rejection horror stories, and all the nonsense about body memories.
    She dressed and left, her heart thrilling when