by Harry Kraus
She turned her hand over and explored his, palm to palm, tracing her fingers against his.
She closed her eyes, content to let her hand lie in his. “I hope so,” she whispered. “I can’t take much more of this.”
A minute later, as Phin was changing lanes to get on the interstate, Tori looked at her watch. “Let’s go back to the apartment,” she said. “I want to talk to Kesha.”
She listened to Phin sigh, so she gave his hand a friendly squeeze. “Come on. For me?”
He glanced at her. “You’re used to getting your own way, aren’t you?”
She shrugged and offered a little giggle. “Only child. I didn’t have to share.”
They made a U-turn at the next intersection. In five minutes, they were back at the condemned apartment. She scanned the street and a dozen occupants. Across from the apartment high-rises, she saw the boy leaning against a storefront. “There’s Mike.”
They parked, and Tori made her way across the street, pausing to let a city bus pass.
Mike looked up. He didn’t smile. “So they let you out of jail?”
“I didn’t go to jail, Mike.”
“A brother would have gone to jail.”
She didn’t want to go there. “I want to visit your mother.”
He tilted his head. “She’s up.” He paused. “Fifth floor. 502.”
He didn’t seem to want to talk. She shrugged and looked at Phin. “Let’s go.”
Across the street, they took the elevator to the fifth floor. 502 was the first door on the left.
She knocked. She could hear loud rap music coming from inside.
No response.
She pounded harder.
After a minute, a young woman opened the door against a restraining chain lock. She wore short shorts and a T-shirt that ended above her navel. Without makeup, even with her caramel complexion, she looked washed out. She pressed her face to the opening. “What you want?”
“Kesha?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“I’m Tori Taylor. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Dakota Jones.” She nudged Phin forward so Kesha could see him through the opening. “This is a friend of mine, Phin MacGrath.”
“You police?”
“No. A friend.” Tori wasn’t sure how to answer, and she didn’t want to explain it while standing in the dim hallway. She hesitated. “Can we come in for a moment?”
“Dakota’s not around.”
“I know. Your son told me that Dakota was your friend and that she may have told you about some suspicions she had about the man she was with when she—”
“I know what happened. You sure you’re not police?”
Tori held up her hands. “I’m sure.”
The woman closed the door and reopened it without the chain latch. “You can sit there.”
The room was furnished with an old green couch. The TV was on. Several glamour magazines were on the floor by the couch. The room smelled of body odor, fried food, and something else. Maybe garlic.
“Why you want to know about Dakota? She in some trouble?”
Tori exchanged glances with Phin. Tori squinted. “You do know what happened.”
“I know about the fire.” Kesha frowned. “That was horrible. They should have fire escapes on all the windows.” She pressed a button on the TV remote to mute the sound. “How she doin’?”
“Kesha,” Tori began. “Dakota didn’t make it.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “No!” She shook her head. “Did you tell my baby?”
“No.” Tori reached for her hand. “I thought you knew.”
“I just knew she’d been taken away. They don’t tell us nothing ’round this place.”
“Look, I’m trying to figure out exactly what happened. I think someone may have started that fire in order to try to hurt Dakota. I think someone wanted her dead.” Tori paused, not really wanting to explain her reasons.
But Kesha probed. “Why would you think that?”
Tori took a deep breath. “Kesha, Dakota was a heart donor. When she died, they took her heart and gave it to me.” She hesitated, searching Kesha’s face. So far, she seemed to be tracking. “But when I woke up after my surgery, I had new memories, memories that I believe came from Dakota.”
“That’s wild.”
Tori nodded. “Exactly. Your son mentioned the man that was with Dakota, a doctor, I believe.”
Kesha nodded.
“Do you think that this man would have had reasons to want Dakota dead?”
She shook her head. “No. He was a doctor, a good man, I think. He saw my son down at the clinic.”
“Your son doesn’t think he was such a good man. He said he saw Dakota arguing with him.”
“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout that.”
“Mike said that Dakota told you something about people getting illegal drugs from the clinic.”
Kesha wiped at her eyes. “I can’t believe this. She cared about my son.”
Tori placed her hand over her own heart. “Did she tell you anything?”
“Dakota had a drug problem. She was interested in how people were getting OxyContin on the street. She mentioned that she thought the clinic might be involved somehow.”
“And what about this doctor, Christian Mitchell? Was he involved?”
“He worked at the clinic. That’s all I know.” She stood and walked over to the window, staring out at the apartment building across the alley. “That was Dakota’s apartment.” She turned back to face Tori. “Why would that doctor jump if he was trying to hurt Dakota?”
“I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out what happened, that’s all.”
“I don’t think I can help you.” Kesha looked down. “Dakota wasn’t a bad girl. She helped my son, took him to the doctor.”
“Is your son okay?”
“He got something in his leg.”
Tori nodded. She remembered the boy’s limp.
“Don’t tell him that Dakota is dead. I want to tell him myself.”
Tori and Phin stood. “Of course.” They stepped to the door. “If you can think of anyone that might have wanted to hurt Dakota, could you call me?” Tori handed her a card.
“You a doctor?”
Tori nodded.
“Maybe you can help my son.”
Your son has cancer. Tori shook her head to dispel the thought. Where did that come from? “What’s wrong with him?”
“They’re not sure. It might be cancer.”
It was several weeks before Christian went back to the hospital to round with his father, and several months before he learned how to deal more effectively with his “gift.”
He called it that because that’s what his mother had dubbed it. “Call it what you want,” she said. “But your ability to see below the surface and feel people’s real needs is special. It’s God-given.”
At first, Christian was skeptical, but more and more, as he tested it, he was dead-on with his accuracy. In one situation after another, he applied his discernment. With one person, he’d sense loneliness. With another, a broken heart. With another, an unforgiving nature. Gently he probed his friends in conversations that plunged beneath a surface of calm into the cold water of their pain. Their reactions were similar. How did you know? I’ve never told anyone.
At school, it became obvious that an interaction with Christian Mitchell would be more than a flippant banter about sports or the weather. Classmates sought him out for advice.
At the hospital, his father respected Christian’s impressions. If Christian sensed that a patient needed extra attention, he was free to stay behind during rounds and pray.
Over time, he learned not to bear the burden himself. His mother t
aught him the necessity of unloading his concerns on God, taking him back to one of her favorite verses in the Bible, Casting all your care upon him for he cares for you.
His joy returned.
In April, he received his acceptance letter to the University of Virginia, where he planned to study biology as a premedical student.
Throughout high school, after Emily Greene, Christian didn’t date. Mostly, he found the girls in his class to be consumed with the daily drama of who liked whom, clothing, and sports, while he wanted to understand the whispers of the Holy Spirit and the Bible.
On spring nights he liked to lie out on the rugby field and look at the dusting of the Milky Way. Show me your ways.
And sometimes he wondered if Emily gazed at the same stars, thought the same thoughts, or dreamed the same dreams.
He remembered her kisses.
Those he would never forget.
20
As they neared Richmond, Tori pointed at an exit sign. “Get off here.”
Phin flipped on his turn signal. “What’s up?”
“I’m going home.”
“But Dr. Parrish—”
“Phin, I’m tired of imposing on Charlotte. I’ve recovered enough to be on my own again.”
Phin looked over. She met his gaze. He held up his right hand in surrender. “Whatever.”
“She doesn’t believe me.”
“Charlotte’s known you for a long time. Don’t let this become a rift.”
“That’s all the more reason to move back home. I need my own space to work this out.”
“You know I’m a part of the transplant team. It puts me in a funny place knowing that you’re not complying with doctor’s orders. Dr. Parrish wanted you to have help until—”
“He isn’t God. He doesn’t know what’s best.” She paused, studying his face. “Look, Phin, I appreciate all you’re doing. Especially taking me all the way to Baltimore. You’ve been a friend. So if knowing what I’m doing is going to be a problem, I just won’t tell you. As far as you know, you just dropped me at my house to pick up a few things and I took the bus back to Charlotte’s.”
“Except I know that that isn’t true.”
“I need things to normalize. I need to be in my own place again.”
“Is this a control issue?”
“No.” Tori huffed. “Charlotte’s been great. But we don’t see eye to eye on everything. I need my own space.”
They drove in silence for a minute. “Here,” Tori said. “Turn right. I live in Windham Estates.” She sighed. “What’s happening to me, Phin?”
“You thinking about Mike?”
“Him and everything else. Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. I’m so different since my transplant.”
“People can change, Tori, even without transplant surgery.”
She looked out the window and didn’t reply.
“So what’s changed? You seem more in touch with feelings. More intuitive.”
“I cry. I never used to cry.”
“That’s a good thing. But all of these changes could just be a result of you coming face-to-face with death. You were this close,” he said, lifting his hand and holding his thumb and index finger out, barely separated.
She waited until he pulled into her driveway. “You’ve spent enough time with me to know. Can you write a report and tell my chairman that I’m okay? Tell him that after a few more weeks, I’ll be good to go.”
“Maybe you should stay off until the nightmares are controlled.”
“Phin, I need to work.”
“That sounds like the old Tori.” He touched her arm. “Driven.”
“Hey, I’m going to see that Baltimore psychiatrist, okay?”
“I’ll write my report. I’ll say you’re good to go. But they still have you on administrative leave. I doubt they’ll let you back before that expires.”
She let her hand rest on his. “Thanks.”
“So that’s it. Our counseling sessions have finished. I’m no longer your counselor.”
They looked at each other for a moment. Phin cleared his throat.
Tori broke the silence. “Thanks for the ride.” She reached for the door handle. “I guess your duties have been fulfilled, huh? No more Tori Taylor.”
“It’s not like that. I had hoped that I could keep seeing you, but not in the same way.”
“The same way?”
“Not professionally. You see, there’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time, but something I couldn’t consider if we were in a professional relationship.”
She raised her eyebrows and turned back toward him. “And just what, Phin MacGrath, have you been thinking about?”
He reached for her cheek, touching her tenderly with his palm. She pressed in toward his hand. His voice was quiet. “I’ve been wondering what your lips would feel like.” His thumb passed across her mouth. She pushed her lips against his finger.
“There is a better way to experience this,” she said, her eyes locked on his.
He leaned forward slowly, teasing her with a closeness that was beyond physical. Soon, she felt the warmth of his breath. She would not pull away. She exhaled into his mouth, blowing across his lips. His nose grazed hers. Finally, their lips met and she sucked his lower lip between hers.
When they separated, she could not keep the new Tori beneath the surface. She sniffed and let the tears flow.
He kissed her cheeks.
She saw the moisture of her tears on his lips. Her throat tightened. She found her voice in a husky whisper. “I’d better go.”
Tori entered her house, locked the door behind her, and placed her purse on the island in the kitchen. She’d not been home other than to gather her clothes since the week before her operation, the week her heart began to fail.
That day marked a step toward a normality she desperately wanted. She walked from room to room turning on lights, turning down the thermostat, and closing the drapes. A light coating of dust had settled over the bookshelves. She grabbed a dusting rag from underneath her sink and ran it across the surfaces.
She paused at a picture of her father in uniform. The one next to it was one of her favorites. Tori after a junior high play, sandwiched between her parents. Another showing Tori, the valedictorian, at her high school graduation with Charlotte. She noticed the arrangement of the pictures. Before. On the left of the bookshelf divide. After. On the right.
Charlotte’s words came back to her. Tell me about kindergarten.
Tori paused to think. Nothing. A big blank. My teacher was Mrs. Rohrer, wasn’t she? She nodded an affirmative answer to her own question.
Why can’t I remember the details?
She moped back into the kitchen. The refrigerator contained ketchup, mustard, a bottle of habanero hot sauce, a half-empty jar of mayonnaise, and a few eggs. She sighed. I need to go shopping.
The challenge of resuming normal life meant driving.
She plodded to her Mazda 3 parked in the garage. She sat in the driver’s seat. I can do this. She inhaled the car scent. It had been her first purchase after landing her attending job at VCU. She loved her little car. It boasted a 2.5 liter engine, heated leather seats, and a Bose stereo system that could blast away any nagging doubts about upcoming cases as she cruised to the hospital.
Ten minutes later, she pushed a cart up and down the aisles of her local Food Lion, making selections. It was all supposed to be so routine, she thought. So why does something as mundane as grocery shopping feel so special?
She told herself that it was crazy, that experiencing commonplace activities should fall into the category of the humdrum, but she couldn’t push aside the feeling of excitement she had from being back in a routine. She picked up a box of cereal and studied t
he nutritional-contents label. Is it my new relationship with Phin?
Is it the fact that I haven’t been able to do this for weeks?
Or is it deeper? Her hand traveled to her blouse and rested over her sternal scar. Is an appreciation for the ordinary another change?
As she shopped, she thought about Phin, what he would choose, what he might like. She smiled. Six months ago, she might have felt a date with a social worker to be a mismatch, a step down on the social ladder.
A young mother with an infant in a car seat on her grocery cart approached from the end of the aisle. Tori looked twice. The woman seemed to be radiating … peace. Tori looked again and discreetly watched as she worked her way down the column of cereals. After she passed, Tori turned around and followed her, listening as she hummed an old and vaguely familiar tune. Although she didn’t know the words, Tori felt certain it was something she’d heard Charlotte sing, probably one of those Christian hymns.
Perhaps her intuition was only the recognition of a familiar and comforting tune. How else could she have any idea what a stranger felt?
She lingered in the store, comparing, shopping, watching customers, and filling her cart. When she finally slotted herself in a checkout lane, a man in front of her turned and smiled, exposing a too-generous offering of teeth and gums. His only purchase was a case of Keystone beer. “You must be fixin’ to entertain,” he said, looking at her purchases.
She looked at her cart. Somehow she’d selected black smoked salmon, Brie cheese, Tuscan wheat crackers, capers, imported Dijon mustard, chopped walnuts, caraway seeds, and a ten-year-old bottle of Pinot Noir. She offered a weak smile and picked up the caraway. “Never know when a recipe might call for this.” She set down the seeds and let her hand graze over a bottle of imported olive oil. She felt like a poser. I’ve never even tried caraway seeds before.
Shopping before her surgery had always been quick in, select premade frozen dinners, quick out, and avoid eye contact because she didn’t like running into the families of all the cancer patients she’d treated. Her choices had always been straight Americana. If it was microwavable, she’d probably tried it. She glanced self-consciously at her cart. When did I ever start liking capers?
