It's hard to move.
There's a cockload of pain, not localized to anything in particular, just...everything hurts.
Wait.
Post-op care?
No.
Fucking no.
I can barely get my finger to slide across the bed and hit the call button.
In less than a minute a middle-aged woman with brunette hair done up in a tight bun bustles in; all nurse efficiency and sharp friendliness.
"Mr. Montgomery. Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"
My voice, when I speak, is a rough, sandpapery rasp. "A...alive."
"And isn't it wonderful?"
"No."
She looks up from checking my charts. "No? What do you mean, no? It's a miracle you're alive. That they found a heart to match you, and that your system has accepted the new organ...it's a miracle. You are truly fortunate, Mr. Montgomery."
"I signed a fucking DNR."
"Your mother argued, successfully it would seem, that you signed the DNR under mental and emotional duress, and that you weren't in a position to make such decisions for yourself."
"It was my goddamn decision."
"You'll have to take that up with God, and your mother."
"Fuck God, fuck my mother, and fuck you."
"Well now, that's not very nice. I'm just doing my job, Mr. Montgomery, and my job is to help you get well so you can get out of here. So you can get mad at me for situations I had nothing to do with, and we can be at odds, or you can realize that I'm just the nurse and that I'm here to help, and we can get along famously."
"I don't want to be here."
"That much is obvious. So it's in your best interest to cooperate with me. Then we can get you out of here and you can get on with your life."
"I don't have a life to get back to."
"Then you get to start one." She smiles at me, and the smile is warm, bright, and--like everything about this woman--sharp. "You have a new lease on life, Lachlan Montgomery. It's a cliche phrase, but it's grounded in a very real truth. You were supposed to die. You should have died. You did die. And now you're alive. You have a strong, healthy new heart in your chest, and your whole life in front of you."
I swallow hard. Nothing makes sense. My emotions are all haywire. Wild, manic, frenetic, a hurricane of so much bullshit I can't grasp at any one thing. Everything hurts, but it's not a physical pain. It's emotional pain.
I'm alive. And I don't know how to fathom that.
I duck my head, stare at the thin white blanket covering my lap, and blink back the bizarre tears that burn my eyes and blur my vision. The nurse bustles around me, checking charts and paperwork and monitor leads, not looking at me. Giving me privacy to deal with my embarrassing emotions. God, I'm fucking crying? What the fuck? I don't cry. I never cry.
What the hell am I crying for? I'm alive. I should be glad.
I spent my whole life expecting to die. Waiting to die. Knowing I'd die.
And now I'm alive, and...
Now what?
*
Trinidad, California
Three and a half months later
I refused to see Mom through the entire post-op care process.
I refused to let her into my room. When she came in anyway, I refused to speak to her.
Immature? Yeah.
But I don't know how to deal with any of this. I don't know how to deal with the fact that she kept me alive when I specifically indicated the opposite.
I don't know how to deal with being alive.
I don't know how to fucking deal.
After the transplant, I remained in the hospital for two weeks and then spent the following three months in transitional care at the Mayo Clinic, enduring biopsies, lung function tests, EKGs, and echocardiograms. When it was all over, the team of doctors told me my body had successfully accepted the new heart. On hearing that news, I went back to Mom's house in LA, packed my shit and headed north.
Dad kept a property in Humboldt County, way north. A tiny little house, comparatively speaking. Only three thousand square feet, worth maybe five mil, in a remote little town called Trinidad. Compared to the castle in Beverly Hills and the sprawling estate in Franklin, it's nothing. But when Dad died, he left it to me. I think he knew I'd need this place someday. Maybe he meant for me to come up here to die.
It's mine, but I haven't been up here in years. I spent a week or so up here after I graduated high school, while I was waiting for the Vagabond to be finished, but I haven't been back since. There's a caretaker, of course, a local old guy with not much to do but swing by and check on things. His wife dusts from time to time and keeps the place clean and the cupboards stocked with non-perishable food. I called him after I left the Mayo Clinic, had him open it up, stock the fridge, shit like that.
God, it's gorgeous up here. The house is on a bluff overlooking the ocean and there are views from every room. There's a forest behind and the village of Trinidad spread out below. Eureka is even visible in the distance on a clear day. I park my brand-new truck in the driveway, step out and stand on the running board, stare at the house and look over at the rippling, winking blue ocean in the distance. I inhale the clean, clear air.
I say new truck, because I sold the Vagabond. I also sold the Pagani.
Jesus, I sold the Pagani. That car was Dad's baby, and the Vagabond was mine. I packed all my shit--clothes, a couple cases of Lagavulin, a kayak, a stand-up paddleboard, and my climbing gear. That's my life, and it all fits in the back of a tricked-out F-250 King Ranch.
I figured, I'm starting over. I'm moving up here to Humboldt County, for one thing, and Humboldt is rugged and wild, which means a Pagani Zonda isn't exactly practical. I brought everything with me, because I don't know what I'm doing, where I'm going, where I'll end up. I'll probably stay here in Trinidad for a while, but I don't think I'll be here forever.
Truth is, I don't know what to do with myself.
I've lived my entire life certain I'd never make it past thirty-one. Well, here I am, thirty-one, and alive. With everything in front of me.
And I'm scared shitless.
Confused.
Paralyzed, really.
Gregor, the caretaker, is in the backyard, putting a coat of finish on the deck railing. He hears me come around the corner, turns, can of finish in one hand, brush in the other. Gray hair, blue eyes, and wrinkled, weathered skin. Friendly smile. "Mr. Montgomery. So glad to see you, sir."
"Call me Lock. Things all set, Gregor?"
He nods, goes back to applying the finish. "Sure is. Just putting some of this on the deck, since the paint was peeling a little. The missus got everything cleaned for you, and we stocked up the fridge. Lots of fresh produce, steaks and fish, all of it local. You should be all set, but you got my number if you need anything."
"Thanks, Gregor. I think I'll be good."
He swipes the paintbrush a few more times, then pauses, and glances at me. "Gotta say, Lock, it's good to see you. Real good. I never thought--" he cuts off, unsure how to finish.
I take mercy on him. "I never did, either. That's why I'm up here."
He nods. "Your dad, he came up here, right near the end. I think he bought this place for..." a vague wave, "--to get ready. He knew it was coming and...he needed to--to get ready."
"He gave it to me so I could do the same."
Another nod. "Well, now...you're here for the exact opposite reason. That's...that's a damn good thing."
"You knew Dad?"
A shake of his head. "Not well. You get tourists and the occasional newcomer, folks up for summer vacation every year, things like that, and they keep to themselves, mostly. But your dad was...different. You all got money, and a lot of it, but he acted like a local. Friendly with everybody, generous, liked to drink at the local watering holes. Everybody liked him, round these parts."
"He spend a lot of time up here?"
A nod. "Sure did. Toward the end, he was up here more than anywhere else. I think he
wanted to...to pass on up here, but your mother talked him out of it. I think maybe--well, that's conjecture, and it don't do to speak on it. You're here, and that's all that matters. Does my old heart good, is all I'm saying."
I unpack, put all my clothes on hangers and in the drawers, pile my gear in the garage. It's weird, unpacking, being on solid ground and in one place after so long. The floor doesn't roll. There's nowhere to go. No Friends of the Day. No new adventure to go looking for.
Once I'm unpacked, I--
I have no idea what to do next. Mom said she would be coming up for the weekend. I did everything in my power to dissuade her, but she's not a woman to take no for an answer. I sure don't need or want a babysitter, but sometimes it's just easier to give in to her.
Gregor has left, and the house is utterly silent. Onboard the Vagabond, there was always sound of some kind. The caw of gulls, the chuck of waves, the ever-present wind, the clink of metal on the mast, the snap of bellied sails. And, usually, music, women laughing, men tossing playful insults at each other. Now...there's nothing. The doors and windows are all closed, there's no music, no voices. Just...complete silence.
And I don't know what to do.
I'm rarely alone.
Rarely enveloped in silence.
Rarely left to my own thoughts, left to let my emotions boil up and over.
And fuck, are there a lot of thoughts and emotions to deal with.
I slide open the windows, pull open the back door and move out onto the deck. And that's not helping, because the ocean is there. The sea has always been my siren, calling me. And there she is, right there. Wide and blue, whispering to me. Come, she says. Follow my currents. Ride my winds.
I can't, though. That was my old life. This is my new one. If I go out there, if I follow the sea, I'll never come back. I'll fall into my old patterns. And now, that just...it feels wasteful.
It feels like running away.
I put my hand over my chest, feel my heart beating. The thud under my ribcage is steady, strong, reassuring. No defect. No end in sight. I reached the deadline, and I'm past it. I'm alive.
In the back of my mind I know I will only have a few hours to myself before dear old mom arrives so, somehow, I'm off the deck, but I don't remember leaving. I'm barefoot, stumbling through scrub to the wooden staircase leading down to the sea. It's a long way down, hundreds of stairs. I start the descent, and my pulse remains steady and slow. My old heart would have been pounding by this time, reminding me, reminding me.
Eventually I reach the beach, sand cool underfoot, and the ocean azure and endless. Surf crashes. Gulls caw. Wind soughs through my hair, touches my cheekbones, ruffles my hair. I scuff through the sand to the water's edge, and the lap of Pacific against my toes is cutting and cold. There's no one, not in either direction. No boats, no neighbors. Just me, and the sea, and my thoughts.
The temptation to crack a bottle of Lagavulin is strong. My mouth waters. I want that drowning feeling. I don't have to think, or feel. I don't have to decide. All I'd have to do is drink, and drink, and drink.
Wake up, and repeat.
Shit, the need to escape the chaotic welter in my mind is so strong I'm tempted to wade out into the frigid sea and swim until my arms and legs and lungs give out.
Great-Grandpa didn't get this chance.
Grandpa didn't.
Dad didn't.
Why did I?
Why do I get to live?
Why couldn't Dad have gotten a transplant? Why couldn't I have grown up with a father?
I have no one. No one expects anything of me. No one is waiting for me. No one cares whether I come or go.
No one cares.
I made sure of that.
Jesus fuck--I can't handle that line of thought for long. I head back up the stairs, amazed at how easy it is, jogging up those steps, feeling my heart beat harder and harder without hurting, without worrying, without getting dizzy or faint.
I wonder whose heart is in my chest?
*
I sit on the deck with a bottle of Lagavulin tucked between my legs. I'm weak. I'm so fucking weak. I shouldn't be drinking. At all. That was, like, number one on the list of injunctions from the doctors. Yet here I am, on the deck, pounding it back like a fool.
I hear a door open, but it's too late to hide the evidence, so I kick my feet up on the railing, cap the bottle, and sip from the glass as Mom comes out onto the deck.
She's dressed in her "casual" clothes, which means she's only wearing like ten or fifteen grand worth of designer clothes rather than twenty or more. She's got her hair--naturally blonde like mine--piled on top of her head, and a pair of Chanel sunglasses wedged into her thick locks. Diamonds on her wrist, fingers, neck, and ears. She's wearing heels, even out here. Just a casual day at the beach.
She takes one look at me, and goes into full freakout mode. "Lachlan Thomas Michael Montgomery! You're drinking?!" She snatches the bottle and, before I can stop her, upends it over the railing. "That has got to stop. You know this is the one thing you're not supposed to be doing. The doctors were all very clear on that fact, Lachlan. Your liver has been through enough, and now it has to work even harder to break down the Cyclosporine and all the other medications." She pauses to take a breath. "Speaking of which, have you taken your meds today?"
"Jesus, Mom. It's a couple drinks. What's the big deal?" I attempt to stand up and immediately regret it, because it belies my claim.
She's got tears in her eyes. "Because it could kill you. You're alive, Lachlan." She grabs my face, looks me in the eyes and whispers, her voice broken. "I lost you. You died. I was there--I watched you--I watched...I watched you die. But then we got the call to say that an organ donor had been identified, a perfect match for you. Because of that, you're alive. Don't waste it, Lachlan. Please...don't waste it."
"I don't know how not to, Mom." I feel the words tumble out, unbidden. "It's all I know how to do."
"Well, it's time to learn." She turns away, placing the sunglasses over her eyes, hiding her own emotions. We're a lot alike, in that way. "You're the only man in our entire family to survive the defect. You owe it to them, if nothing else. You owe it to Thomas--to your dad. To Grandpa Michael. You owe it to me."
"To you? To YOU?" I'm shouting. "You took away my choice! I signed a DNR. I wanted to die. I didn't want to be brought back. Or to be kept alive."
"I wanted you to have a chance." Again, her voice is a whisper, now barely audible. Her voice is smaller and quieter than it's ever been, I think.
"It was my choice, Mom."
"I couldn't lose you, Lachlan! I only had thirteen years with your father. I deserved more. I thought I'd only have maybe thirty years with you. And then I did lose you. They barely brought you back, and then there was no guarantee we'd ever get a match.
"Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Lachlan? Sitting in that room for two months, watching you lie there, unconscious, kept alive by a machine, knowing I'd have to be the one to tell them to pull the plug? I knew you didn't want to be kept alive like that. And I'd--I'd made a deal with myself. We'd wait for three months, maybe four, and if there wasn't a donor in that time, I'd--I'd have to let you go. And I would have. But...can you even fathom what it was like? Knowing--thinking I'd have to watch you die a second time?"
She's standing closer than I think she's ever gotten to me. Inches away, so I can smell her perfume and see the makeup under her eyelids and on her eyelashes, and see the lipstick on her lips. "Don't--don't waste this, Lock. Please...please don't. I know you're mad at me. I get it. I deserve it, maybe. That's fine. But don't...don't waste this."
She leaves me then, going back into the house, shutting the door quietly behind her.
And I stay out on the deck, watching the sun go down, sobering up, and repeating her words over and over and over.
Don't waste this.
Going nowhere with no one but me
Ardmore, Oklahoma
I slide the tip of the t
hermometer under the little girl's tongue. "Okay, now just hold still for a few seconds for me. All right, good job, Eva. Now I need to look in your ears, okay?"
I go through the motions. Temp, ears, reflexes, nose, the works. Routine checkup. The next patient is the same. And the one after that. Then a young guy arrives with a sprained wrist and a concussion--he got tossed off a mule and landed the wrong way. All the usual stuff you'd expect to see as a physician's assistant in a small rural town. The whole day goes that way. A summer cold. Some stitches in a forehead. Prescription refill. An annual physical.
As the PA, I take ninety percent of the patients. Dr. Amos Beardsley is going on eighty-five, and he really only sees the patients who've been with the practice for several generations, so I get the rest, the walk-ins, the checkups, the refills, the sutures and fractures and concussions and "is this rash normal" sort of questions.
It's work.
It keeps me busy, and that's all I need.
By the time the last walk-in has been seen, everyone else has cleaned up and shut down. Just as I prepare to close up for the day, a teenage girl arrives, too embarrassed and scared to ask her parents for contraceptives.
Finally, I grab my purse and head out to my vehicle. I'm tired, ready for bed. It's seven o'clock, and I was at the office before seven this morning, and I didn't have time for lunch. I'm still in my lab coat; still have my stethoscope draped over my neck.
I climb up into the cab of the truck and slam the door closed. I lower both windows to let the heat of the Oklahoma summer billow out. I'm already sweating, and I've only been in the truck for two seconds. It's only going to get worse, too, because this old wreck doesn't have AC.
I could afford a new truck, of course--I make decent money. But this was Ollie's truck. He fixed it up himself, back in high school. When I first moved down here, after the accident, I visited Marcus, Ollie's younger brother. We didn't click, Marcus and I. He was country, and I'm...not. We just don't see the world the same way, and I think the grief of losing Ollie was too much for both of us.
But Marcus was sympathetic to my grief, and realized my need to have something to connect me to Ollie. So he gave me this truck. I paid to have it looked over, anything broken got fixed. I spent more on it than it's worth, probably, and it still breaks down all the time. The AC went at the beginning of the summer, and I just haven't gotten around to getting it fixed. It's not a big deal, though, since I work six days a week, sunup to sundown, and thus I'm rarely in it during the real heat of the day.
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