The boy named Tomas was thin and kind of frail-looking. “How old are you?” I asked him.
“Twelve. I was ten when I had my transplant,” he answered in a soft voice.
He was small for his age. But Ari was short, too, and he had a driver’s license, so he must be sixteen.
“You want to see my scar?” Tomas suddenly asked.
“What?” I was feeling embarrassed by the pony and my baby blanket, thinking they made me look younger than fourteen.
“My scar. Did you know you can tell what kind of transplant a person had by the scar? A heart scar is a straight line, a kidney scar looks like a J, and a liver scar looks like an upside-down Y.” He paused. “Have you looked at your own scar?”
I pulled the covers up higher. I wasn’t showing him mine.
“Tomas, lay off,” Ari said. “It’s obvious she isn’t ready for that yet.”
Ari leaned forward. “He only asked because it’s one of those things you have to get out of the way, you know, and the sooner you look at it, the sooner you can get over it.”
I’d caught little glimpses of it when the nurses changed the dressing, but I hadn’t stood in front of a mirror yet. I knew I’d never wear a two-piece swimsuit again.
Tomas pulled up his shirt. A white line stretched down his front like a faded battle wound. I wondered what battles he faced before he got his new heart.
“They fade.” He pulled his shirt back down. “Just so you know.”
It seemed like the wrong shape for a scar. A heart transplant scar should be more unique. I was reminded of a radish Mom had made into the shape of a tulip once.
I didn’t think I’d ever willingly show my scar to someone, even my parents or Kyle. Would I ever feel comfortable looking at it myself? “When did you get sick?”
“Two years ago. It happened really fast.”
“One day he was playing soccer, the next he was in the hospital hooked up to a machine. Literally. It was unreal,” Ari said. “He caught a virus that went to his heart.”
A metal tray rattled in the hallway. It sounded like the dinner cart passing by.
Tomas turned his head toward the sound as though he recognized it. “It’s weird coming up here as a regular person, not as a patient. Not that I miss it. When I reach the three-year mark, I’ll only have to come in once a year.”
Three years seemed so far off. I had to have a heart biopsy every week for the first four weeks. Then they’d stretch it out to once a month, then once every two months, and so on. I envied Tomas. He already only had to come in every few months.
“Do you miss playing soccer?” I’d read we couldn’t do contact sports after our transplants.
He shrugged. “I ride my bike, do other stuff. It’s not the same as before. But it’s not that bad. It’s better than …” His voice trailed off. He started cracking his knuckles as he spoke, then stopped when he saw me staring at his hands.
“Sorry. Bad habit.”
“A gift from his donor,” Ari added.
What did he say? My heart raced. I put my hand on my chest, feeling its reaction.
“What do you mean?” My voice sounded uneven.
“He never cracked his knuckles before. But his donor did.”
I leaned forward. A sudden chill spread up my arms. “You know who the donor was?”
“Yeah. It’s private stuff you’re not supposed to know, but a nurse let it slip out that his donor died in a snowmobile accident. Then, after Tomas started acting different, I did a little research on my own.”
I was shivering now. “Different how?”
“Well, Tomas was super outgoing before. Believe it or not, I was the shy one. After the heart transplant, he became quiet and shy. And more religious than before. They said it was normal but we knew different, didn’t we, Tomas?”
Tomas nodded. “And I started doing this all the time.” He cracked a knuckle on his right hand.
Ari lowered his voice. “Turns out Tomas’s donor did that. And he was this super shy kid, an altar boy at church.”
Was that the feeling I had? Was my donor’s heart affecting me in ways I didn’t understand? I remembered the dream with the horse, how real it had seemed. Was that connected to this feeling?
“We’re not trying to freak you out or anything,” Ari said. “I researched it after Tomas came home. Not everyone feels this way, but some heart transplant patients say they changed after their transplants. They took on characteristics of their donors. There’s a theory that memory is not just in the brain, that other cells in the body store memory as well. Most doctors think it’s the immunosuppressive drugs acting on people’s minds. But we knew the personality changes in Tomas were more than just side effects from the drugs.”
“How did you find your donor?” I asked.
“Why? Do you want to know who your donor was?” Tomas asked.
“Yeah. Maybe.” But I definitely did. I wanted to know this girl—I was sure she was a girl. I wanted to know if she bit her nails or wrote left-handed or got sick on roller coasters. I wanted to know if she liked purple lollipops and jogging on the treadmill, if she was smart and had plans to go to law school, if she liked to read romance novels, and if she could draw as well as I could. I wanted to know everything about her. Was it normal to feel this way, to want to know? The two guys in front of me seemed normal. “Did you meet the family?”
“Yeah, with Ari’s help.”
Ari shrugged. “Tomas was going to write them a letter after his transplant, but I found out who they were, so we called and asked if it was okay to come visit.”
“What did they say?” I was sitting up now, hanging on his every word.
Tomas smiled. “They wanted to meet me as much as I wanted to meet them.”
“Was it weird meeting them?”
Tomas cracked one more knuckle before he spoke. “It was more than weird. It was like going home.”
17
EAGAN
I have no real proof that I’m dead. I don’t remember dying. I remember tripping, being too close to the edge, a searing pain. And then I was here.
Is this a dream? I’d never dream this place.
This can’t be heaven. Where are all the choirs of angels? Where’s God, the big guy with the white beard and deep voice? Where are Moses and all the other people we read about in the Bible? Where are those streets of gold? The pearly gates? It’s all gray and kind of gloomy here, except for the shiny meadow on the other side. But no matter how far I walk, I never get any closer.
Then there are the people. I don’t recognize anyone; they’re too vague through the fog. But I feel their anxiousness for me to leave the blur of never-ending grayness, which seems to be heavy with all the problems from the world I left behind. It’s almost suffocating. But I don’t know how to leave, and besides, the only place I want to go is home.
Maybe this is purgatory, and I’m reliving all the bad times so I can see what I did wrong. Or maybe there’s going to be a test on my life, and that’s why I’m going back over it.
And then there’s that voice. The voice without a name or face. “Whoever was speaking to me, show yourself,” I shout into the fog.
I miss Mom and Dad and Grandpa. I miss Scott and Kelly. I miss skating and eating peanut M&M’s, especially the purple ones. I miss my life.
I let the tears flow. They drip down, big, gray droplets that match the fog. I cry and cry until there are no more tears left, until I feel empty inside. I don’t think I’ve ever cried this hard. But a memory flashes before me, one that proves me wrong.
When I was little, I worried about Dad having a car accident on the way home from work. I’d wait at the window and watch for him. I imagined a man in uniform knocking on our door, and I’d know what had happened, and I’d be to blame because I’d thought of the accident.
Did my deepest self remember another tragedy? Was that why I always worried that something bad was going to happen? Why I tried to prepare for it in ways that most peopl
e would think was strange? Because my little-girl self had felt it?
I couldn’t ask Mom or Dad about the picture. Grandpa. I’d ask him Tuesday after school. He was going to cook dinner for the two of us to celebrate finishing the rocker. I’d bought a huge red ribbon to tie around the chair; we’d keep it in his basement until Christmas.
Scott gave me a ride home in his Jeep after school on Tuesday. We talked about the upcoming dance, and the football game beforehand. Our team had beaten Brookfield the last two years in a row. We agreed that we were pretty much assured of a victory. I leaned over and gave Scott a quick kiss before I ran inside. Mom was waiting at the door.
“Why didn’t you take the bus?”
“Scott said he’d give me a ride.”
“I thought we agreed you didn’t have time for a boyfriend.”
She’d agreed. “Lay off, Mom. We’re just friends.”
Not exactly true, but why should I tell the truth when she’d lied to me my entire life? She said I was an only child.
“I’m not blind, Eagan.”
I started to push past her.
“Eagan, Grandpa … had a stroke.”
I stopped partway up the steps. Mom’s eyes were red. She was wringing her hands. I hadn’t noticed. My fingernails dug into the railing. “Is he okay?”
“A neighbor found him this afternoon on the kitchen floor. He’s in the hospital. They think he may live, but you never know …” I turned and ran up the stairs before she could finish, slamming my bedroom door. My throat tightened and my body shook. I felt a sharp pain deep inside my chest.
Mom’s footsteps sounded on the steps, but they stopped and faded back downstairs. I threw myself on my bed and wrapped my bedspread around me. I wanted to scream, but all I could do was cry into my pillow. My body shook with each sob.
How could this happen to Grandpa? Was I taking my social studies test, writing about the colonization of Africa while Grandpa lay helpless on the floor?
I got up and wiped away my tears. Even though I wasn’t religious, I pleaded to God to make him better.
“Mom,” I called as I hurried down the steps. “Can I go to the hospital?”
Mom hesitated. “He’s in intensive care. You probably won’t be allowed in.”
“I don’t care. I just want to go there.”
“All right.” Mom nodded and picked up her purse.
The car ride was silent. I was lost in thought, barely aware that Mom was beside me. Grandpa was old. I knew that. But he was so full of life. He played old tunes on his harmonica, and in the summer he filled his kitchen with smells of vinegar and watermelon as he mixed up batches of homemade watermelon pickles. He bragged about me to all his buddies. Next summer he was going to take me camping.
Had he overdone it with the rocking chair? Had all that bending and standing been too hard for him? Were the fumes from the varnish too strong?
It wasn’t until we pulled into the parking lot that I thought to ask, “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s here. I came back to wait for you.”
“Why didn’t you get me out of school?”
Mom shrugged. “What could you have done?”
“Are you crazy?” I screamed. “I could have been there.”
She put the car in park and turned toward me, her eyebrows narrowed down into almost a straight line. “Don’t act so righteous with me, young lady. Your grandfather doesn’t need you throwing a tantrum in the hospital. If you can’t act appropriately, I’ll take you home right now.”
I closed my eyes tight and steadied my voice. “I’m not throwing a tantrum. I just want to see Grandpa.”
Mom let out a breath and turned off the engine. “Then keep your voice down. This isn’t about you, Eagan.”
I stuck my hands into my jacket pockets. Tight fists squeezed out my anger onto the loose change.
I thought of the pictures I’d found, the ones she’d hidden at the back of her closet. Why were they hidden? Who were they hidden from? Mom was always so guarded, so controlling.
Today was no different. She could have gotten me out of class. She could have told me about Grandpa sooner. But instead, she hid the truth from me as long as possible. I kept my mouth shut and resisted slamming the car door.
Two elevators, both on upper floors. I pushed the button and willed the lower numbers to light up, but they stayed frozen in place. I pushed the button again and again.
“Eagan.” Mom’s voice held a warning.
The stairs were off to the right. “I’m walking up.” I left before Mom could object.
She was waiting for me when I reached the fifth floor.
“You should have taken the elevator,” she said as she walked ahead of me down the corridor.
“I wanted the exercise,” I panted.
She threw back a glance. “Right.”
“I did,” I mumbled. Mom was at the intensive care desk talking to the nurses when I caught up. I spotted Dad in a room off to the side of the desk. He was staring out the window.
“Dad,” I called. He turned around. His eyes were splotchy red. I’d never seen him cry before.
Then I saw Grandpa in that sterile bed, snoring softly. His arm had bluish marks from where he’d fallen. White tape covered his hand, where an IV pumped medicine into his transparent veins. Scruffy white stubble framed his gaunt face. His glasses sat on a metal tray, and his mouth hung halfway open.
He looked older than old. But he was alive. He was breathing.
“Grandpa,” I cried. I’d thought if I always imagined the worst in life, then I’d be prepared for anything. But I wasn’t prepared for this. Grandpa had almost died, and I never saw it coming.
18
Amelia
It was the best I could do. I read the letter again for the fifth time.
My name is Amelia. I’m fourteen years old. I’ve had a bad heart for six years, and I was put on the waiting list for a transplant three months ago. My doctor said I was lucky to get a heart when I did. I wouldn’t have lived another three months.
Your child’s heart has given me a second chance at life. I will think of him/her every day and pray for him/her. I know this doesn’t take away the loss you’ve suffered. Nothing could. I would like to meet you in person to thank you, if you’re willing. I would like to know the family and the person who made such a great sacrifice so that I could live.
Sincerely,
Amelia
P.S. Did your child like purple lollipops?
No last name, according to the directions on a sheet Mom had given me. Nothing beyond my first name to identify myself. I was a recipient, he or she was a donor. We were both anonymous.
Would the family write back to me? I wondered how they’d react when they read my letter, if it would make them feel any better or just be a sad reminder of what they’d lost.
I lay back as I folded up the paper and put it in an envelope. I’d been awake since five a.m. writing the letter, trying to come up with the right words. Something that would tell them how I felt. I was pretty good at writing, but how could I put in words how much their gift meant to me?
I turned off the overhead light and closed my eyes. The physical therapist would be in soon. Then more tests. How was anyone supposed to get any rest in this hospital? Especially after being moved to the pediatric ward, where screaming toddlers kept you awake half the night?
Mom complained that my room was too cold, and she constantly added more blankets to my bed, which I promptly kicked off. Before my transplant, I was cold all the time, but now it didn’t bother me much. I’d been in this room for three days now, but it felt like I’d lived here forever. I’d memorized the tiles on the floor around my bed, knew the kinks of the TV (push the volume button repeatedly instead of holding it down). The hospital noises were background sounds that felt familiar now, like the furnace turning on at home. I barely noticed the beeping of the machines, and the IV felt like part of my body.
But the crying; I wasn’t used
to that. It sounded more than sad. It was pitiful. One night in particular it bothered me. Was it last night or the night before? The sound seemed to seep through the walls, and even the nurses acted edgy and hurried. The next morning, I’d found my own pillow wet with tears, and the ward was unusually quiet.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” a nurse named Sara warned as she walked in. She had a smiley face sticker stuck to the back of the stethoscope around her neck. “I need to check your vitals.”
I stuck out my arm and yawned. “It’s vital that I sleep.”
She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my upper arm. “You’re sharp this morning.”
“I didn’t used to be.”
“Well, you were sick a long time.”
“I mean, I was never sharp that way. Ever. My donor gave me that.”
“No kidding? I’ve heard of people developing strange tastes afterward. One lady suddenly started drinking beer, when she’d never been able to stand the taste before. Turns out her donor was a college boy who died after falling down the stairs during a frat party.”
I perked up. “How did she find that out?”
Sara’s eyes flicked from the blood pressure monitor to me, then back to the monitor. “Oh, I don’t know if she really did. Mrs. Lewis, the transplant coordinator, used to tell that story. It’s become sort of an urban legend around here.”
“But people do meet the donor families if they both want to.”
Sara nodded. “Sure. I’ve heard that it happens. Not as often as you’d think, though.”
“Maybe the lady met the college boy’s family, and that’s how she found out that he was a beer drinker.”
“Could be.”
“Unless she knew he was a beer drinker before she met the family.”
“How would she know that?”
“Because her new heart told her so. She wanted to drink beer after she got his heart.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure the doctors would buy that as proof.”
“So, have you heard anything about my donor? I mean, I already know it’s someone who checked the organ donor box on his or her driver’s license. So I figure he or she was a little older than me, probably in high school.”
In a Heartbeat Page 7
