by Tiana Laveen
“Well, let me know if you change your mind.” She nodded in appreciation. “I’m the manager. My name is Kem. We’ve got a twenty percent off sale today too, on all posters. All of this month we’ve got a program where if you donate any of your old CDs or cassettes, you can—”
“CDs or cassettes?” She laughed. “Really? Those are still around?”
Kem shrugged and tossed her a friendly smirk.
“Yeah, I know, but there’s a buyer’s market for them again. You’d be surprised. Anyway, as long as they’re in good working order, you will receive a ten percent voucher for each off your next purchase, up to five, so you could get fifty percent off one item just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Well, I don’t have any CDs or cassettes, but I’ll pass that information on. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Yeah, no problem.”
He walked off, not gone for a few seconds before someone waved him down for assistance. Forty minutes later, she found herself heading to the cash register with a heavy red basket chock full of secondhand albums featuring the likes of Duke Ellington, Frank Sinatra, Charles Mingus, Mongo Santamaría, Donna Summer, Prince, The Police, and Eurythmics, just to name a few. When it was her time to be rung up and pay for her finds, the cashier, a White woman with light-brown dreadlocks, dramatic black cat-eye winged liner, and a matte red lip that truly was to die for tossed her a sly grin.
“Wow…You did good, girl. You have excellent taste.”
“Thanks.” Emily’s cheeks flushed. “You had some pretty good bargains. I’ll have to come back in a few weeks to see what other gems I can find.”
“Yeah, we get new stuff in all the time.”
Emily realized she’d not told the entire truth. She didn’t give a damn about a bargain. If she wanted something badly enough, she had the means and resources. She rarely went to such stores, especially ones like this in a strange area of Harlem to boot, but ordering the items online or hiring a middleman to fetch them on her behalf wasn’t an attractive option, either.
She’d been driven to place her body within those walls, to stand there and inhale the scent of the dusty, dank aromas of old shit people had tossed aside from their basements and attics. Shit they’d once held dear. And it felt so natural to walk among music enthusiasts and aficionados of their genre of choice, to hear sounds through speakers that somehow pacified her soul. She surmised this place was much like some people’s church. They entered, they prayed, they paid.
“You seriously lucked out. We just got this Eurythmics one here this morning. You snagged it before I could get my hands on it.” The woman grinned as she placed it inside a plastic bag, a mixture of adoration and ‘woe is me’ on her face. “Sweet dreams—”
Emily belted out the words of the song, the lyrics rolling off her tongue, line after line, like waves from an ocean. Her voice boomed over the soft, tranquil jazz music playing in the store, sounding out of place, yet, fitting in some odd way. She could feel eyes on her from all around, but she kept right on, compelled to keep on crooning the lyrics until she’d finished half the damn song. Pockets of applause burst throughout the establishment once she forced herself to shut her damn mouth, and the effort was immense. The cashier’s sparkling blue eyes grew wide and then she cackled and slapped the counter, a shocked expression on her face.
“Lady. You can really sing. Wow. See? Looks are deceiving.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like someone that would be on Wall Street, maybe even an elite lawyer. But you’ve got soul.”
Emily’s heart was beating a mile a minute. Where had the dynamic, robust voice come from? It was hers, that much was certain, not a disembodied sound or an echo from some shy songstress. It was definitely coming from within, spilling out for all to hear, but it was oddly surprising—foreign, an invader. It was finely tuned, yet cracked a bit initially, as if it were a baby bird trying to fly from the nest for the first time. By the time she’d reached the second verse, she was in full swing, had complete control, not one note out of sync. She sounded melodic, laden with raw talent, blessed with ability she’d never possessed a day in her life. Her voice held each note like a lifeline and didn’t dare let go.
If anyone was shocked, it was her.
“Uh.” She laughed nervously as the employee shoved the receipt in one of the plastic red and black bags with the store emblem that resembled a genie bottle and handed it to her. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You have a great day and enjoy your music.”
When she exited the store, she decided to board a bus, something she’d last done as a child with her mother when they’d gone into town for a special Christmas play.
Emily changed modes of transportation and caught a cab ride into Lower Manhattan. After that, she decided to get out of the cab near Grand Central Station. She found herself bypassing several illegally parked taxi cabs and not reaching for her phone to call an Uber or Lyft, either. Instead, she made her way to the subway.
She hadn’t ridden the subway in years. She hated the horrid heat of the place in the summers, and the bone-chilling bite of it during the winters. She detested the begging street performers who’d do odd things, like contorting their bodies to flute music in order to render a guilt-tripped coin tossed in their hat. She loathed the strange people who wandered about, drugged out of their damn minds or just plain insane—yelling at themselves in a foreign language or perhaps one they’d made up all on their own. The subway smelled like rotten piss and dejection, and she typically wanted no part of it. Besides, she had money to do otherwise, and often drove when she didn’t mind fighting traffic. Today, though, she was climbing down rows of concrete steps, going deep into an underworld filled with tunnels she had practically forgotten even existed.
Several minutes later, she was trying to recall how to use the damn MetroCard. With a little help from some androgynous Hispanic teenager sporting a long, dark brown river of waves and a heavy emerald-green backpack, she managed and soon was on the train. She knew she was going the wrong way as she sat there taking in the sights of people wearing earbuds or chatting with a friend, but didn’t really care. She took a deep breath, then another, before pulling out her phone and checking her call log.
She’d contacted her doctor several times, but had yet to receive a call back. She swallowed hard and lowered her gaze, focusing on a crumpled silver gum wrapper on the ground. Her eyes watered as worry, excitement, and fear of the unknown consumed her. Cradling her bag of albums to her chest, she drifted away in senseless daydreams as she perused the streets. When she’d had enough, she got off the train and exited the subway. She stood outside for a spell, breathing slow and easy, taking in the sights, the smells, her surroundings. She spun in several directions, trying to get her bearings. She didn’t feel lost, but she certainly didn’t feel found, either. Making her way up the street, she clung to her sack of songs, then paused and leaned against a bodega window. The smells of fresh salads and fruits drifted out of the place. Pulling out her phone from her pocket once again, she sighed and dialed her doctor.
Maybe this time I can reach him.
“Hi, this is Emily Windsor. I have called several times for Dr. Giannopoulos. I—”
“I’m sorry, he’s gone for the day. You can call back tomorrow or—”
“I know he’s gone. I don’t mean to interrupt, but this is really important. I’m a patient of his. He had his assistant or whatever she was contact me a few days ago, but she wasn’t really any help and I asked her to have him call me directly. She said that she would, but he didn’t. I need to speak to him. Tonight. Please.” Tears wet her cheeks as her emotions overflowed. “I had a heart transplant. I came in for my follow-up and couldn’t speak to him because he was out of town then. It’s always been something, ya know? Someone else examined me, and they did a fine job I suppose, but this situation is one that I wish to speak to him and him alone about. I don’t mean to sound desperate, but I am. Please
, I am begging you. Have Dr. Giannopoulos call me as soon as possible. I just can’t talk to anyone else.” There was a long silence on the other end. “I’m just so frustrated. My life…my life is falling apart.”
“I’m sorry that you’re havin’ such a hard time. I tell you what. Hold on a second, okay?”
“Okay.”
Several minutes later, the evening receptionist returned to the phone. “He’s not the doctor on call tonight, but I did leave a message for him on his private emergency line, all right?”
Emily smiled as the tears continued to fall. She was grateful for the woman’s compassion in her time of need, regardless of the possible outcome.
“Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome. He’s pretty good about checking messages on there because they’re usually critical in nature. Call back later if he doesn’t call you in the next two hours or so, okay?”
“I will. Thank you again.” Emily disconnected the call then requested an Uber.
It wasn’t until forty-five minutes later that she realized how far away from home she’d traveled. Once she entered her apartment, she was relieved to find the nurse gone for the day. The nurse was now only working part-time hours, much to Emily’s father’s chagrin. She pulled out the record player she’d ordered from Amazon.com, removed the Duke Ellington album from its sleeve, and placed it on the turntable. Then, she prepared some microwave popcorn—sadly for her, without butter. She wasn’t supposed to consume fatty foods until further notice. While the snack popped, she poured herself a glass of ice-cold diet cola, turned off the album, then made her way to her living room. Folding one leg under herself on the couch, she reached for the remote and turned on the television.
Let’s see what’s on Cinemax. Hmmm, maybe HBO or hell, even Lifetime. Someone’s life has got to be more bizarre than mine right about now.
Her phone suddenly rang. She snatched it up once she saw a telephone number she didn’t recognize.
“Dr. Giannopoulos?” she blurted out.
“Yes, hi Emily.” She took a deep sigh of relief upon hearing his voice. “I understand you needed to speak to me directly. Everything okay? I was told you were quite upset.”
She ignored the microwave signaling her, letting her know her snack was piping hot and ready to go.
“Dr. Giannopoulos, there’s no easy way to put this, but uh, first I’ll just ask for what I need and go from there.”
“What is it you need?”
“I would like to know who my donor was. It’s been on my mind a lot lately and it would really help me from an emotional standpoint at the very least. I understand that the donor left voluntary personal information about herself for the recipient of her heart. I’d like to know what that information is.”
“Well, I’m not at the office right now and don’t recall her name off the top of my head. I do remember, however, that she had given consent for such information to be given to you should the recipient of her heart request it. Let me see, uh…” He seemed a bit distracted, then she heard papers shuffling about. “Let me make a couple of calls and get back to you in a few minutes, okay?” Anxiety filled her like a vessel. “I promise I won’t take too long.”
“Okay, thanks.” She disconnected the call, retrieved her popcorn from the kitchen, and returned to the comfortable couch, this time pulling a sage-green blanket over her body as she lay on her side, gazing at the television. As soon as she took a bite of her food, her phone rang again. This was a different number altogether. She snatched it up. “Hello?”
“It’s me calling from my landline. Okay.” She could hear what sounded like him typing. “I got the password from a colleague to look in the database. Here it says, for you, that your donor’s name is Brooke Coleman.”
“Brooke Coleman,” Emily repeated, saying it over and over in a whisper. “Anything else?” She sat up and put the television on mute.
“She was African American, age thirty.”
Emily swallowed and played with the collar of her cream night shirt.
She was Black?
“What uh, what was her profession? Does it say what she did for a living?”
“Hmmm, let’s see…Says here listed for occupation, she was a singer.”
The phone tumbled from her hand. She could hear the doctor calling out to her as she fell to the ground, groveling about trying to retrieve the damn thing.
“Yes, yes, I’m here. Sorry.” She laughed nervously. “I dropped it by accident. Anything else?” She sat back down on the couch, breathing hard and heavy. Sweat broke out all over her body, making her gown stick to her flesh.
“Well, she was in great health, that’s for sure. Says here under hobbies that she enjoyed walking around a lot. She also did yoga, just like you. She was a vegetarian, worked out sometimes, too. Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but according to this photo, she was a very attractive woman, too. Quite pretty.”
“Was she married? Any children?”
“I see she wasn’t married, no children either, but she was in a long-term relationship with a boyfriend, whom she lived with.”
“Any other hobbies listed? Interests?”
“Let’s see. Okay, here’s something. She listed singing, naturally, poetry, fashion, the vegetarian lifestyle, and cooking, dog parks and—”
“Dog parks? She had pets?”
“Yes, a dog, but I don’t know what breed or anything. Emily, what is this all about? Or are you just genuinely curious?”
She sat there twisting that collar tighter and tighter, not certain if she should be truthful and risk being ridiculed or worse, called crazy.
“I’m curious. I was just…Oh, the hell with it. Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever had any of your heart transplant patients, like, have a change of personality after an operation?” She was met with a wall of silence.
The doctor cleared his throat.
“I have not personally heard of any of my patients stating that, but I…Never mind.”
“No. Tell me, please.”
“Well, I have heard of a few rare cases where some patients believed that their personalities had somehow transformed, if you will. That they weren’t completely themselves anymore after the surgery.”
“Did they say they took on the personality traits of the person who’d donated their heart?”
“Not in all cases. Some just stated that they felt different, as if their thoughts, passions, and desires were different than they used to be. I attribute that to people valuing their lives more, quite honestly. The surgery you had makes some people reflect on life differently, cherish it more, if you will. Do you…Do you feel out of sorts, Emily? If so, I have a list of wonderful counselors I can refer you to who can help.”
“Thank you. I may take a look at your list after all. Yeah, a bit out of sorts you could say—that’s a good way to put it. Thank you for calling me back, Dr. Giannopoulos.”
“Emily?”
“Yes?”
“You sound different. Are you okay? Do you need to come to the hospital?”
“I’m fine.” She squeaked the words out as she ran her hand through her hair and pressed her eyes shut. “I guess it’s an adjustment period is all. I wanted to know who’d been my donor, too. I’m quite surprised.”
“Some people want to know, some don’t. It’s a completely private choice and understandable either way. I’ll be in the office tomorrow, okay? Call me if you need anything. I can have that list of counselors emailed to you, as well.”
“That sounds good, and thanks again. I know you weren’t scheduled tonight, so I appreciate you making an exception for a non-urgent call. I know you’re quite busy, so yeah. Thanks.”
“Emily, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you seem subdued in a way, not as high strung. You also are showing gratitude.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, how do I put this? Look, I am so proud of you for making ef
forts to slow down your life and smell the roses, as they say. Even the nurse that left me the voicemail said, ‘A nice but unhappy woman called and needs you right away.’ When she said your name, I thought she had the wrong person.” He chuckled. “Emily, nice? What a joke.” He guffawed.
She rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth. “Thank you, Dr. Giannopoulos. That helps a bunch.”
“That was terrible of me. I’m sorry.” She could still hear him chuckling. “I truly apologize if I sound uncaring, but this is just such a pleasant surprise and it seems to me that you’ve taken the advice that has been given to you. I can already hear the improvement in your mood. If I don’t hear from you soon, I’ll see you in a couple weeks, just as scheduled for your next follow-up regarding your lesion that’s formed where we made the incision.”
“What about getting it looked at by a surgeon?”
“Yes, I remember. You’d stated you’d be interested in plastic surgery for the wound if it didn’t look the way you wished. We can discuss that, however, six months from now when it’s had time to fully heal. I want to be able to make a good assessment of the situation, and it’s just too soon right now to determine that.”
“Okay, I understand. Thank you again for calling me back. I’ll see you soon.”
“Good night, Emily.”
“Good night, Dr. Giannopoulos.” Emily ended the call, stood from the couch, and made her way to her bedroom to retrieve her MacBook, then headed back into the living room. After turning the music back on, she got situated on the couch and turned the muted television off. She took a sip of her cola, then placed the computer across her lap and typed: Brooke Coleman New York City singer.
She began to scroll the various Google links, looking at pictures and reading countless headlines.
