by Harry Kraus
“John 3:16,” Tori whispered.
“I wasn’t sure you knew it.”
She shrugged. “I seem to know it now.” She hesitated. “By heart.”
“You didn’t memorize it. You left my home rebellious and stubborn, never once doing the memory verses I suggested. You just couldn’t get past God allowing your mother to die.”
Tori sipped her coffee. “Phin thinks God used my mother’s death to get me to follow a path into medicine.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you two are ganging up on me.”
Charlotte laughed, her soprano heh-heh-heh staccato in the air like footsteps bounding down happy stairs.
“Can I serve soup today?”
“You gonna tell me what you think about my theory?”
“It’s a nice verse, Charlotte.”
“It’s truth.”
Tori sighed. “Can I serve soup?”
“Sure.”
“How’s Manny?”
“He hasn’t been by in a few weeks. We can go by his place and take him some soup once the kitchen closes.”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s dying, Tori.”
“Exactly why I don’t want to see him.”
“For a physician, you certainly seem to be spooked by death.”
“Death is the enemy. I spend all of my time trying to keep my patients out of the grim reaper’s bony fingers.”
“Sometimes death doesn’t have to be the enemy. Manny has been hurting. Death means the arms of Jesus and relief.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “Have you ever been with a person at their moment of death?”
She cleared her throat. “No.”
“Being a good surgeon isn’t just a technical adventure, you know.”
Tori waved her off. “Okay, I get it.” She hesitated. “What would I do?”
“Just be there. Offer your presence.”
Tori stayed quiet and sipped at the warm cup in her hands. When she spoke again, it was as if words were echoing across time from her childhood. Instinctively, they fell from her lips.
She began quietly, “For God so loved the world …”
13
That afternoon, with the aroma of chili still clinging to her clothes, Tori reluctantly rode along with Charlotte to visit Manny Benson.
Tori had first known Manny as a patron of the soup kitchen. She was a teenager when she first started hanging out there, listening to his stories of survival. As a Vietnam vet, Manny never quite fit in after his return from the jungle. He couldn’t seem to keep a job, fighting nightmares and posttraumatic stress. Then, in a blow that would have leveled most men, Manny suffered yet another devastating loss: his wife in an apartment fire. After that, he never seemed to find his footing. But that didn’t stop a young Tori Taylor from admiring his grit. Eventually, after living on the street for the best part of a decade, he became a local celebrity of sorts when a Richmond Times-Dispatch reporter did a series on Manny’s life, digging up several heroic reports where Manny had put himself in harm’s way to save a fellow soldier. Here he was, recipient of a Purple Heart and surviving yet again in a jungle of sorts in downtown Richmond. He found part-time work as a maintenance man in a tobacco warehouse and found motivation to stick it out because they let him roll his own cigars. He had finally escaped the streets, but if truth be told, he always felt a little claustrophobic indoors and would favor a park bench to a couch if given the option.
Two years ago, Manny had turned pumpkin orange and started to itch. Charlotte corralled him into Tori’s clinic where a CT scan told a predictable story: a mass in the head of the pancreas.
Tori operated, removing the cancer, carefully and meticulously dissecting the offending tissue from the vital vascular structures at the base of the liver. Now the enemy had resurfaced. This time, there was no cure. Like a bad neighbor, the cancer had set up residence in the liver. A tube inserted through his side diverted the flow of obstructed bile and relieved the itching, but survival now was a matter of time. Weeks, not months. “Don’t buy green bananas,” his doctor said.
As they entered his small apartment, Tori lifted her face toward an open window, a vain attempt to escape the smell of sweat, bile, and decay.
Manny was sitting in an old recliner with an Atlanta Braves fleece tucked under his chin. He brightened when he saw the two of them. He shook his head. “Leave the door unlocked around this place and you never know what kind of riffraff will find its way in.”
Charlotte huffed. “Just you be glad God made riffraff like me.” She set the Tupperware container on his kitchen table. “Got a pan? I want to heat this up.”
“Chili day at the kitchen,” he said, his voice threadbare.
Tori inched forward. “Hi, Manny.”
“Look at you. You got a new heart.”
She nodded.
“You don’t have to stand by the door.”
Tori edged closer and selected a kitchen chair. Somehow a wooden chair seemed a safer bet. Everything else was upholstered, and she could just imagine how the odor of death held the fabric with tiny bony hands. Worse, she found herself wondering if her immune system could handle the smorgasbord of bacteria in this place.
He held up his hand toward her. She approached, suddenly finding herself with the armor of a clinician. She wanted to check his drain, his incision, to ask about his bowel movements. Anything to put it back on a professional plane. Somewhere away from this place where friends needed a handshake or worse, to try to make sense of pain.
Charlotte clanked a pot onto the stove. Why doesn’t she come in here and rescue me?
Manny took Tori’s hand and didn’t let go. “Here,” he said, pointing to the ottoman where his feet lay. “You can sit.”
She obeyed, sitting next to the sticks that used to be his legs.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
“That’s it? You just had a heart transplant.”
She shrugged and concentrated on his hand, now held in both of hers. She felt each finger, cold skin stretched over bone, imagining that warm blood was reluctant to go all the way to the tips for fear of freezing. “It’s been tough. I was back in the hospital once since my discharge. Seems my body wanted to reject such a nice gift.” She hesitated, putting away all the clinical questions she would normally use to assess cancer. Instead, with her mind slate swept clean of data, she asked the first thing that came to her mind. “Are you afraid?”
His eyes moistened. “A little.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes, and Tori just listened to the noise of Manny’s breathing. He seemed to be grunting his way from breath to breath.
“Soup’s on.” Charlotte set a tray with a steaming bowl of chili on Manny’s lap.
Manny took a few sips and set the tray on the coffee table. In leaning forward, his blanket pulled off to expose a bucket sitting beside his recliner.
Is that what I smell?
Manny belched, and then lifted the bucket to his chin. Leaning forward, he emptied his stomach.
It looked as if he’d gotten rid of a lot more than he’d taken in. Many more days like this and he’d be so dehydrated his kidneys would shut down.
Charlotte came running with a moistened washcloth. She patted Manny’s forehead as he spit into his pail.
“Let me bring over some IV fluids,” Tori said. “Some saline will make you feel better.”
“For what?” Manny whispered. “So I can live a little longer like this?” He shook his head. “No thank you.”
Tori brushed a tear from her cheek. She hated seeing him this way.
“That’s the only saline I need,” he said. “To see your tears means more to me than your doctoring.” He reached for her again.
She thought once about the vomit he had wiped away from his lips with his hand. Her head told her to be careful.
Her heart told her something different.
They stayed two hours until a hospice nurse arrived. For most of that time, Tori just held his hand and listened to him breathe.
When they got outside, Charlotte pointed across the street to a park bench on the edge of a little playground. “Why don’t you rest a few minutes? I need to pick up a few things at Checker’s Grocery.”
Tori sat but soon felt compelled to explore the playground. Why do I remember this place?
She listened to the children playing, their voices mingling with memories of a playground.
Just like this one.
She walked around an old set of swings and looked at three molded animals mounted on thick springs. A little girl with red hair bobbed back and forth on the back of a turtle, her voice rising and falling with the swaying beast.
At the edge of an enclosed twisty metal slide, Tori paused. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been there before. As an adult, she could look over the top of the slide. In her memory, the tunnel slide was much higher. She knelt in the sand at the exit of the slide and peered in.
Fire.
A bad man.
She gasped and pulled her head away.
A double tap on a car horn caught her attention. She looked up to see Charlotte wave through the open window of her VW Beetle.
She opened the door slowly, trying not to strain her chest.
“What’s with you? Seeing old ghosts?”
Tori looked at her friend. I’m that transparent? “Just take me home. I need a bed.” She lifted a small brown bag and inspected the contents. One bottle of Paul Newman’s Caesar salad dressing. “You know you have a full bottle of this in your refrigerator?”
Charlotte didn’t answer. She glanced in Tori’s direction and turned her attention to the road.
This wasn’t like Charlotte. Her kitchen was organized to the point of obsession. She knew what she had and what she needed, right down to every spice. Evidently, she felt Tori’s eyes boring in on her, because when she spoke, she’d taken on a rare defensive tone. “You can never have too much Caesar dressing.”
Tori stared through the window, letting the conversation drop. As they approached the end of the block, she turned to see the tubular slide one last time. A knot formed in the top of her stomach. Why does that thing scare me so much?
Social worker Stephanie Allen handed Emily a tissue. “You’re safe. I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”
Emily sniffed. “I need pain medicine.”
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened? Then I’ll get the nurse.”
Emily looked around the ER cubicle. The unit was quiet. Since Christian had left, only one other patient remained, a disheveled man sleeping off a drunk in the first stretcher. Across the nurse’s station, she could see the closed door to the waiting room. The room where certainly her father would be pacing. “I snuck out to be with my boyfriend. My dad caught me sneaking back in. We had a fight at the top of the stairs. When I pulled away from him, I fell. That’s all.”
“Did your father hit you?”
She shook her head.
“Why did you lie to your father and tell him that your boyfriend assaulted you?”
“I was afraid my father would think it was my idea.”
“What about the story about how you twisted your ankle?”
“I told you, I fell down the stairs. That’s the truth. My dad told me to lie about it so that no one would think he pushed me.”
“Why would they think that?”
“Because we were arguing when I fell.”
“And now I’m supposed to believe you when you’ve just admitted making up two lies.”
Emily nodded.
The social worker made a note and muttered something about being out at two in the morning to talk to a lying teen.
Emily looked up to see her father through a crack in the curtains. “My daddy wouldn’t hurt me,” she said. “Daddy loves me.”
The social worker looked at her watch. She nodded. “Okay, I’ll ask the nurse to get you some pain medication.” She opened the curtain and nodded at Mr. Greene. “You may as well come in.”
“Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry. Don’t take it out on Christian.”
Mr. Greene eyed the social worker. “That’s okay, baby, as long as you’re going to be all right.”
Stephanie stepped away from the cubicle just as Dr. Stanfield, the orthopedist on call, entered. After an introduction, he lifted an X-ray toward a fluorescent light in the ceiling. As he leaned closer, Emily caught the scent of a heavy aftershave.
The surgeon pointed to the black-and-white image. “See how these bone fragments are separated here? A few screws should do the trick.”
Emily hugged her chest and looked at her father.
The surgeon smiled. “Since your daughter is a minor, I’ll need you to sign the consent, Mr. Greene.”
Carolyn Greene entered and took her place at her daughter’s side, between Emily and her husband.
Emily shook her head. “Mom, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be waiting for you after you wake up.”
14
Tori knocked softly on the open door. Phin MacGrath looked up from behind his cluttered desk. “Hey, you’re out on the town.”
She smiled. “Can’t stay away from this place, you know?” She looked at the stack of papers in front of him. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” He lifted his hand toward a chair across from his desk.
Tori sat. “I wanted to know if you’ve found out anything about our little investigation.”
He leaned forward, squinting. “Are you in pain?”
“No.”
“You were rubbing your chest.”
“I’m trying not to scratch.” She forced a chuckle. “My incision itches.”
“My grandmother says that’s a sign of healing.”
“Smart woman.” She purposefully took her hands away from her blouse and gripped the arms of the wooden chair. “So what do you know?”
“Not much. My buddy, the one that used to be a cop, remember? He talked to the police in Baltimore. The stab victim was basically dead when EMS picked her up, never even had surgery.”
“Okay, so no time for a transplant. That leaves the car accident and the jumpers.”
“No obituary for the car-accident victim. He found a phone number and confirmed that she lived.”
“That means my heart came from Dakota Jones.”
“Not necessarily. There could have been others that were flown in from somewhere other than the city who wouldn’t be in the Baltimore paper.”
Tori sighed. She studied the top of his desk. Her eyes paused on a small framed photograph. A slightly younger Phin and a smiling young woman bundled up in winter jackets and gripping a set of skis. She looked up to see Phin watching her. Busted. She cleared her throat. “She’s pretty.”
He didn’t bite.
Tell me she’s your sister.
“How’s Dr. Baker?”
“Jarrod?” She made a dismissive wave. “I wouldn’t know.” She smiled. If you aren’t telling me about little miss snow skier, I’m not telling you about Jarrod.
“We should set up another appointment to talk.”
“Can’t you just write the report? Say I’m okay?” She stared at him. “You know I’m okay, right?”
“That’s cheating.” He opened a file drawer in his desk. Moments later, he retrieved a folder.
“My file, huh?” Tori shifted in her chair. Somehow in her conversations with Phin, it hadn’t felt like a professional coun
seling session. It felt more like talking with a truly concerned friend. This reminder caught her cold. He talks to me because he has to.
He opened the folder. “We’re making progress.” He appeared to be reading his report. “We still haven’t gotten to the root of your anger.”
“I thought I told you, I’m not angry. I’m just demanding.”
He smiled. “Not very tolerant of imperfection.”
“Not in myself or others.”
“Fair enough. But when that driven behavior affects the way you interact with others, it becomes an issue. If we understand what has caused it, then we can help you control it.”
Tori sighed. “Look, I watched my mother’s cancer being mismanaged. I think that would be enough to understand my resolve not to err.”
He just looked at her with that same annoying smile.
“What? You think there’s more?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.” He closed the folder. “You haven’t shared with me about your childhood before your mother became ill.”
“Not much to know,” she said, shrugging. “Typical childhood.” She stood. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I just really wanted to see if you’d found out anything else.”
His voice stopped her at the door. “About that appointment?”
She didn’t want to look at him. Why it even bothered her that he seemed to want to keep this professional was so not her. “When are you free?”
“I could come by Charlotte’s place tomorrow evening.”
She shook her head. “You’re confusing me.”
He stood. “What?”
Clueless male. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”
“Help me out here.”
“I’ve liked talking to you.” She looked at the floor. “But it didn’t seem like a counseling session. It seemed like I was talking to a friend. Then you started helping me with a search for my donor and I just thought—” She stopped talking and looked at his expression.
“I shouldn’t have come by the house, is that it?” he said. “It wasn’t professional.”
“No, I liked it, but—”
“We could meet here.”
