The Cruelest Stranger

by Winter Renshaw

  “Your family’s stepping in?”

  “Of course not.” He frowns. “They’re not exactly on board with any of this—not that it matters. But I’ve hired one of the best nannies in the city, and I’ve heard she attends one of the best public schools in Worthington Heights. Starwood Academy. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  A strange knot twists in my middle.

  “Honor,” I choke out her name. “Honor is your niece.”

  He nods. “I’m told her teacher is Ms. Carraro …”

  “You’re letting her stay?” There are at least three other elementary schools between Starwood and Bennett’s neighborhood, not to mention a myriad of top-rated private schools peppering the county.

  “Of course. She’s adjusted and doing well. No sense in changing that.” He pushes his cart toward the elevator.

  “When were you going to tell me?” I push mine next to him, the world around me blurred.

  “I found out yesterday. In fact, I hadn’t met her until yesterday.” We step onto the elevator and he presses the button for the main level. “I had no idea she existed until the week Larissa died. None of us knew. Except my mother. But that’s a story for another day.”

  In all of my idealistic fantasies and well-wishes, I always imagined Honor going to someone like Linda. Someone with warmth and a contagious laugh and a zest for life.

  I study Bennett from the corner of my eye as we ride down.

  The man’s the antithesis of warmth.

  “Honor means the world to me,” I tell him when we step onto the main floor and head to the registers. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. I want to be there for her. I want to help you. If there’s anything you need—”

  “—Astaire. I know. Why do you think I called you today?”

  We find a lane with two customers ahead of us and get in line, an overflowing cart separating us and pausing our conversation.

  Ten minutes later, we’re leaving the store, toys in hand, and making our way to his idling SUV where George waits. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but we manage to get everything in the trunk and third row, with a handful of bags sitting pretty in the front passenger seat.

  On the way home, we stop for coffee. Bennett gives our orders to George, who runs into the busy café, giving us a few moments alone.

  “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he asks.

  “Like what?” I hadn’t realized been staring until now.

  “I don’t know—that’s why I’m asking.”

  I lift a single shoulder as a smile paints my mouth. “I guess … I guess I’m just happy for you. And I’m happy you’re letting me be a part of this.”

  He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “Of course you just have to go sprinkling your sunshine sprinkles all over this.”

  “You know, I was wrong about you.”

  “How so? Exactly?”

  There’s beauty beneath his cruel façade. I see it. I feel it. Even if he refuses to believe me. It’s chained beneath an impenetrable, ice-cold ego.

  “Turns out you have a heart after all.”

  24

  Bennett

  “And how long has this lightheadedness been going on?” Dr. Rathburn glides an icy stethoscope along the front of my chest Wednesday afternoon, avoiding the raised scar down the center.

  “A day, maybe two. Three at most.”

  “And the fever? When did you notice it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  She exhales through pursed lips and returns the stethoscope to her neck. “Next time this happens, you need to come in immediately.”

  I tug my shirt back into place.

  “You’re taking your antirejection meds?” The doctor peers over wiry glasses.

  “Like clockwork.”

  “Getting rest?”

  “Eight hours a night.” With a handful of exceptions.

  “Eating well? Lots of plants, monounsaturated fats, and lean proteins?”

  I nod. Sweets have never been my weakness.

  “Any new stressors in your life recently?” she asks.

  I shake my head. I don’t tell her about Honor because I know what she’ll say, and it won’t be anything I haven’t already considered.

  “Cutting back on your work hours?” She studies my face like she’s ready to call me out. “Last time you were here, you said you were putting in seventy, sometimes eighty hours a week.”

  “Certain things are beyond my control.”

  “Ever heard of delegating?” She washes her hands.

  “Clearly you haven’t met the staff I inherited from my father.”

  Returning to my side, she adjusts her glasses. “Look, Bennett. Either you can do things my way, add some quality years to your life and keep that borrowed heart of yours ticking … or you can continue making excuses and wind up right back where you started, waiting for someone else to die so you can continue living this life which you so clearly take for granted.”

  My post-transplant months flash through my head like a bad highlight reel. A laundry list of nurses and caregivers doting on me around the clock for months, cardiac rehab, biopsies, and never-ending appointments.

  I’d never felt so weak, so helpless.

  And I vowed to never feel that way again.

  Dr. Kay Rathburn is one of the best cardiovascular surgeons in the nation.

  She’s also a straight shooter.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this,” she says, “but I think we need to admit you. Do a biopsy of your heart tissue, make sure there’s no infection or inflammation.”

  I check my watch. I’m supposed to meet Astaire for dinner in an hour.

  “Don’t worry about whatever it is you’re worrying about right now. It can’t wait. It’s imperative that we …” The room begins to darken and Dr. Rathburn’s voice fades into nothing.

  And the world around me goes black.

  25

  Astaire

  I knock on his door at a quarter past five Wednesday night, juggling an overflowing brown paper grocery bag in one arm as my bag dangles off my opposite shoulder. The whole thing was his idea—cooking dinner together at his place.

  He mentioned he wasn’t in the mood to go out, that he wanted a quiet night in.

  It’s silent on the other side.

  No music. No footsteps.

  I knock again. Wait.

  “Bennett?” I push my voice through the door and knock a third time before placing my things on the floor and calling him. Five rings later, I get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I’m at your place … maybe you got stuck in traffic? Anyway, just wanted you to know I’m here.”

  Leaning against the wall, I kill some time on my phone, pulling up every app I can think of to burn off a few minutes while I wait. But when ten minutes turns into fifteen and fifteen turns into twenty, I decide to call him again.

  Five rings.

  Voicemail.

  “Hey … I’m thinking you got caught up at work, so I’m just going to raincheck tonight. If you get this in the next couple of minutes, call me. If not … we’ll figure something out for another time.” I end the call, shove my phone in my bag, and grab the grocery sack, taking my time shuffling back to the elevator.

  I order an Uber when I get to the lobby, and by the time it arrives five minutes later, I still haven’t heard from him.

  I’m sure whatever it is, there’s a perfectly good explanation.

  26

  Bennett

  “It appears you came here in the early onset of a humoral rejection,” Dr. Rathburn stands at the side of my bed, clipboard in hand, a nurse flitting around the room.

  I have no recollection of getting from the examination room to this hospital bed—nor do I know who dressed me in this flower-covered flannel gown. The sky is pitch black outside. For all I know, I’ve been out for a couple of hours … or a couple of days.

  “Do you have my phone?” My thoughts go immediately to Astaire.

  “Be
nnett, did you hear what I said?” Dr. Rathburn’s tone is firmer than it was a second ago, each syllable accented. “Your body is rejecting your donor heart.”

  I sit up. “I thought you said once we made it past the one-year mark, it’d be statistically rare for that to happen.”

  “Statistically, Bennett. There are always exceptions. And those numbers were based on acute cellular rejections. Humoral rejections can happen months or years after transplant. Essentially what is happening is that your body is producing antibodies that are injuring your blood vessels—specifically the ones going to your heart. This likely accounts for the lightheadedness you’ve been having and also why you passed out in the exam room.”

  “Okay, so what now?”

  “We’re going to run a treatment on your blood to filter the antibodies, then we’ll put you on a steroid for the short term. Increase one of your antirejection medicines. If we can’t get this under control, we might be looking at open-heart surgery down the road, but we’re not to that point yet.”

  “All right.” I readjust, trying to get comfortable in an impossibly uncomfortable hospital bed. “Nurse, do you know where my personal belongings are?”

  “Bennett, I’m going to need you to take my guidelines seriously. Plenty of sleep. Good nutrition. Minimal stress. A few weeks off work to take it easy and then no more than forty hours a week at the office once you’re back. Live more. Work less. Do the things that make you truly happy and leave the rest. I’m going to do my part to ensure you have the longest, healthiest life possible—but you have to do your part, too.”

  The nurse behind her places a clear plastic bag on my tray table, my name scribbled on the label. Inside are my keys, cell phone, and wallet. I’d ask where the hell my clothes are, but I don’t want to get yelled at again.

  “Is there anyone we should call for you?” the nurse asks.

  “No.” I’ll call Astaire myself. Later. When I’ve got a shred of privacy. I’m still unsure what I’m going to say to her. I more or less gave her my entire life story the night we had our first date. I don’t know how she’ll feel about the fact that I left out a significant, recent portion of it. Not only that, but she’ll worry. And she’ll dote. And there’s nothing sexy about that for either of us.

  I may be lying in a hospital bed on the cardiac floor of Mercy Cross Hospital, but I’m still a red-blooded man with every intention of having my way with her—whenever the hell that may be.

  “Are there any questions I can answer for you?” Dr. Rathburn slides her hands in the front pockets of her white jacket.

  “How long will I be here?”

  “We have you scheduled for the procedure first thing in the morning. After that we’ll run a few more tests. If all goes well, we’ll discharge you in the early evening,” she says, heading to the door.

  The nurse hands me a hospital menu.

  I was supposed to have dinner with Astaire tonight, at my house. She’d suggested getting dinner some night this week, but I hadn’t been feeling well so I invited her over to my place instead, thinking a quiet night in would give us the best of both worlds.

  This morning, I was leaving my attorney’s office after updating my will and leaving everything to Honor when I nearly passed out on the elevator ride to the main entrance.

  After the transplant last year, I was well-versed in all of the rejection warning signs, and I passed my one-year check-up with flying colors.

  Denial got the best of me these past few days.

  “Press seven on your room phone to dial the kitchen,” the nurse says before handing me a red button. “Press this if you need a nurse. I’ll get you some ice water, and then I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour.”

  “Thank you.” I place the menu and call button aside and retrieve my phone from the plastic bag. A dozen missed calls—a mere two of them from Astaire. The battery is critically low, and of course I don’t have a charger.

  When I was going through cardiac rehab last year, I remember one of the nurses telling me that some cardiac transplant patients never have signs of rejection—they simply go into cardiac arrest without any warning.

  I’m living with a borrowed heart on borrowed time, and the gravity of those facts coupled with the fact that I’m adopting a child render me paralyzed for a moment.

  If I drop dead a year from now, I need to have someone else lined up to take care of that little girl.

  I imagine how Astaire might fare as a mother.

  There’s a gentleness to her, a softness in her disposition that I’ve yet to find in another person. Her sunny disposition can get exhausting at times, but her heart is always in the right place. And clearly she adores children.

  She’s patient, intelligent, curious, and sweet.

  Her voice alone was made for bedtime stories.

  It’s the strangest thing … and maybe it’s the meds or maybe I hit my head when I passed out … but I think I miss her right now.

  It’s as if there’s an indescribable void in the room where she should be, as if a piece of me is missing.

  I tap out a text message on my phone, nothing more than MERCY CROSS HOSPITAL and FLOOR 4, ROOM 4677 followed by BRING PHONE CHARGER. Then I lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and wait for what feels like forever.

  27

  Astaire

  It’s been hardly over a year since the last time I stepped foot inside the beige brick walls Mercy Cross Hospital, when Trevor was braindead and hooked up to machines and his mother was signing his organs away—exactly what he would’ve wanted.

  I never dreamed I’d be back.

  Certainly never thought Bennett no-showed to our dinner plans because he was here.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me lingering in the doorway of his private room. “Come in.”

  I’ve never liked the smell of hospitals.

  Antiseptic. Sterile plastic. Bleached flannel. Fresh-and-dying flowers.

  I sanitize my hands, place my bag on the counter, and strip out of my jacket.

  “Are you okay?” I go to his side. Instinctively, I reach for his hand and then I stop myself when I see the IV taped to the top. “What happened? And why are you in the cardiac unit?”

  Everything about him is unfamiliar in this setting.

  No power suit.

  No healthy flush painting his bronzed skin.

  No wicked gleam in his eyes.

  No smart-mouthed quip readied on his tongue.

  Bennett sits up, adjusting the pillows behind his back, and then he tugs at the top of his hospital gown until his chest and shoulders are exposed.

  And then I see it.

  The thick, pink scar going down the middle of his chest.

  “A year ago, I underwent a heart transplant.” He studies me, though for what, I’m not sure. “This week, I started showing signs of rejection.”

  My breath catches as I wait for him to continue.

  “I’m going to be okay. For now. I’ve got a procedure in the morning and they’ll run some more tests.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before? The heart thing?”

  He lifts a brow. “Because it never came up in conversation?”

  I don’t remind him of that night when he refused to remove his shirt. The man’s lying in a hospital bed—now’s not the time to pick a fight.

  I reach for a chair and pull it closer to his bed. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay as long as he needs.

  “Statistically, twenty-five percent of heart transplant patients don’t survive past five years,” he says.

  “Stop. We’re not going to focus on that. We’re going to focus on the seventy-five percent who do survive past five years …”

  The light shuffle of feet behind me and a quick rap at the door interrupts our moment, and I turn to find his nurse headed our way.

  “Mr. Schoenbach, you haven’t ordered dinner yet and the kitchen closes in half an hour,” she says as she checks his pulse ox. “Should probably get something in yo
ur stomach before you take your next dose at nine.”

  “You want me to run out? Grab you something?” I offer. “If you want, I can run to your place and get some things for you?”

  He contemplates his response. I imagine he isn’t used to being so needy, having to rely on the kindness of others. It can’t be easy for someone like him, so autonomous in every aspect of his life.

  “I brought a phone charger like you asked.” I point to my bag on the counter, and before he has a chance to reply, I grab his phone and find a spot to plug it in next to him. Turning to the nurse, I say, “I’ll make sure he eats something tonight.”

  As soon as she’s gone, Bennett looks me up and down. “You don’t have to do all of this.”

  “I know.” I wink, and then I help myself to his apartment keys in a plastic bag on his tray. “Clean clothes? House slippers? Books? Any other comforts of home I can get for you while I’m out picking up your dinner?”

  He shakes his head no.

  “I’ll be back …” I collect my jacket and bag and tread softly down the tile floor to the elevator at the end of the hall. When the doors close, I can’t help but wonder if the heart beating inside Bennett’s chest … is Trevor’s.

  But we’ll never know.

  Those records are sealed, private.

  And no amount of wondering will bring Trevor back.

  Bennett’s place smells exactly the way I remember—cedar and Valencia with a hint of vanilla bourbon. I locate a small duffel bag in his closet and fill it with a change of clothes, a pair of house slippers, a dog-eared book on Greek philosophy from his nightstand, as well as a pre-packed toiletry bag I found in his bathroom.

  There’s a depressing quietude in the air tonight. The night sky blanketing his living room in darkness, nothing but the tick of the walnut clock on his fireplace mantel.

  It doesn’t seem right being here without him.

  I pass through the kitchen and take a peek at the menus stuck to the side of his refrigerator to get a feel for what he likes. There’s a Mediterranean place not far from here and a handful of entrees are circled in blue ink. Easy enough. I call and place an order.