The Color of a Memory (The Color of Heaven Series)

by MacLean, Julianne

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” I said, “and I’m going to see the house where he lived.”

  Jesse massaged the back of my neck. “It’s a big day.”

  Ellen reached her hands out to Jesse. He picked her up and held her in his arms while we waited for someone to answer the door.

  Footsteps approached from inside, and the door swung open.

  For a moment I couldn’t breathe as I found myself staring at the woman who must be Jean, Alex Fitzgerald’s mother. She was exactly as I imagined her to be—warm and friendly and outwardly classy. Her gray hair was swept into a loose bun on top of her head, and her floral printed dress was both casual and cheerful.

  “You must be Nadia,” she said with a smile. A man appeared behind her to greet us as well. I assumed he was her husband, Alex’s stepfather.

  “Come in,” she said, opening the door wider and inviting us inside. “I’m Jean and this is Garry.”

  Jesse introduced himself and Ellen, and we all shook hands.

  “We’re so glad you could come,” Jean said.

  I held out the bottle of white wine we’d brought with us. “This is for you.”

  “How lovely,” she replied, taking the bottle from my hands. “Shall we open it now? Or can we get you something else? A cocktail or iced tea?”

  “I’d love some iced tea,” I said as we all moved into the large kitchen.

  I looked out the back windows at a charming stone patio with a table and chairs made of teak, surrounded by greenery. Wildflowers and a selection of colored glass ornaments turned the space into something resembling a magical fairy land.

  There was something so familiar about all of this, and I wondered if I imagined that. “What a lovely home you have,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Jean replied. “We’ve been very happy here.”

  So far it was just the five of us, and though I wanted to meet Alex’s sister and other members of his family, for the time being I was relieved. This would at least give me a chance to talk to Jean and Garry about the dreams I’d had, and explain how I already knew their son’s identity…long before she had called.

  * * *

  Eventually we moved outside to the patio and sat down to enjoy our drinks and nibble on crackers, sliced cheese and grapes—all displayed attractively on a shiny silver platter.

  Ellen was rambunctious as usual, but Jean was patient and kind. She held Ellen on her lap and let her play with her keys and cell phone.

  Later Jesse suggested he take Ellen for a walk around the yard. This left me alone with Jean and Garry, and the conversation turned to deeper matters.

  “Did you feel different when you woke up from the surgery?” Garry asked. “I’ve often wondered about that—if having someone else’s heart inside you might introduce new thoughts or feelings. Or maybe that’s a silly question.”

  “It’s not silly at all,” I replied. “Some transplant patients have reported things like hating certain foods or activities before, then discovering they loved them afterward. As far as I know, there’s no real scientific proof to support these things. It’s just one of those unexplained mysteries of modern medicine.”

  “Did you have any changes in tastes for food or activities?” he asked. “If you did, maybe we could verify whether or not it had anything to do with Alex.”

  “What was his favorite food?” I asked.

  Jean smiled. “He loved mushrooms fried in butter and served with a steak.”

  “Mmm,” I replied. “I love that, too, but I loved it before the transplant, so we can’t blame Alex.”

  They smiled and nodded, and I felt very at home with them. They were nice people.

  “I’ve had some strange dreams, though,” I added, deciding it was a good opportunity to bring them up.

  “What kinds of dreams?” Garry asked, sitting forward in his chair.

  I inclined my head slightly. “This is going to sound a bit strange.”

  Jean reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. “You can tell us.”

  My heart warmed at the sensation of her touch.

  “Well…” I began to explain. “Not long after the surgery, I starting having a recurring dream that I was flying. It’s not an uncommon dream. Lots of people have it, so I looked it up. Most dream interpreters say that as long as you’re flying without fear and you feel you are in control, it means you overcame some sort of challenge in your life and you feel empowered.”

  “That makes sense in your case,” Jean said. “After what you went through…”

  I nodded. “Yes, absolutely, but there was a bit more to it than that. Sometimes I dreamed I was flying over the hospital where I had my surgery, and I started to wonder if maybe I was remembering or reliving some kind of out-of-body experience.” I paused. “Am I getting too crazy? Is this too much?”

  “No, I’m riveted,” Jean replied. “I read a book recently about a woman who drowned in a frozen lake, but they were able to bring her back after forty minutes because her body was so cold. She claims to have had a near-death experience and says she interacted with family members who were already dead.”

  “Is that The Color of Heaven?” I asked. “I read that book, too, and I met the author.”

  “Did you really? What was she like?”

  “Very down to earth,” I replied. “I talked to her about my dreams and she was very helpful.”

  Jean sat back and stared at me intently. “Tell me more about the dreams. Did you see Alex in them?”

  I took a moment to collect my thoughts, because it wasn’t an easy thing to tell a mother that yes, I did see her deceased son in a dream, and he told me his name.

  Eventually, I nodded. “I think so. It happened a year ago when I was sick with pneumonia. I called an ambulance and lost consciousness on the way to the hospital. While I was out, I had another flying dream, but this time there was someone with me. He knew how afraid I was and he helped me stay calm. It wasn’t until later, after I recovered, that I remembered the dream and the fact that he told me his name.”

  “What did he say?” Jean asked.

  “He said his name was Alex.”

  She covered her mouth with a hand.

  “As soon as I remembered that, I began to wonder if he was my donor, so I looked up some obituaries on line and found information about a firefighter named Alexander Fitzgerald who died on the same day I got my new heart. I just knew it was him.”

  Jean stared at me with fascination. “So you’ve known who he was for a while now.”

  I nodded. “Yes, but I couldn’t contact you because of the confidentiality agreement. I’m not even sure I should have told you now. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  Jean bowed her head and began to weep. Garry wrapped an arm around her.

  “I’m very sorry,” I softly said.

  “It’s fine,” Garry replied. “We’re glad you told us. It’s both wonderful and difficult to hear.”

  My blood coursed quickly through my veins. I wanted to smother myself with a pillow for making Jean cry.

  Her watery gaze lifted. “I’ve had my own dreams, too,” she said, “though I’m never flying. And they’re usually daydreams.”

  “What happens in them?” I asked.

  She collected herself and sat back in the chair. “I’m usually here in the house and I swear I can hear him puttering about in the garage. Sometimes I think I hear him calling me, as if he wants me to bring him a drink of water or something.”

  “From the garage?” I asked.

  She smiled and wiped her cheeks. “He loved working on his father’s old car. Spent a lot of hours out there. The car’s still there, beautifully restored. He used to say he wanted to pass it on to his firstborn, so we’ve been keeping it for our granddaughter, Wendy. When she’s old enough, we’ll give her the keys and papers. It’ll be worth a lot of money by then.”

  “What kind of car is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a 1948 Buick Street Rod,” Garry proudly replied. “
Would you like to see it?”

  “I’d love to.”

  Jesse and Ellen returned just then, and I stood up, eager to see the place where Alex had spent so much of his time, and see the car that had been so important to him.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  “It’s beautiful.” I ran my hand over the shiny black hood of the car. “He did all this work himself?”

  “That’s right,” Jean replied. “After his father died, I put it in storage for a number of years and eventually, when he got older, Alex started asking about it. He said he had fond memories of his father taking him to the race track. I’m amazed he’d remember that. He would have been very young.”

  “How old was he when your husband died?” I asked.

  “He was nine.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, and Jean nodded.

  Jesse followed me deeper into the garage while keeping a close eye on Ellen.

  “Are these his tools?” I asked, moving toward the work bench. I picked up a heavy wrench and held it in my hand, imagining Alex’s hand gripping the same handle. Then I turned to face the car and could just see him lying on his back, his jean-clad legs sticking out from the undercarriage as he adjusted something.

  Sometimes it felt like time passed in layers…that if I could hop down to another level in my mind, I could see him and talk to him.

  What would I say?

  I’d say thank you, of course.

  “Do you come out here very often?” I asked Jean.

  She shook her head. “Not so much lately. I used to, though. In the early weeks after he passed, I’d come just to sit in the car and cry.” She paused. “He was such a good son.”

  Together we walked out of the garage to where the sun was shining brightly.

  “How is your daughter doing?” I asked. “Marg mentioned her name was Sarah?”

  “She’s doing well. She works for a marketing firm in Boston and designs websites.”

  “That sounds like a fun job.” I then treaded carefully around the next question. “And what about your daughter-in-law, Alex’s widow? How is she holding up?”

  Jean’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. She looked away toward a tall row of cedars blowing in the wind. “Audrey took it pretty hard when we lost Alex, and she’s still struggling. It’s not easy at the best of times to be a single mom, and on top of that she’s a nurse and has to do shiftwork. We take care of Wendy as much as we can, but sometimes I worry that Audrey will never be ready to move on.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  Jean met my gaze. “I hope she’ll let herself love again someday. I sincerely want that for her. The last time she was here—it was three weeks ago, the two-year anniversary of Alex’s death—she went out to the garage and sat in that bloody car for over an hour. Then she left abruptly, barely saying good-bye to us. I just don’t want to see her waste all the years of her life by not letting go of the past.”

  We began walking around the back of the house to the patio where Garry had lit the barbeque. The smell of steaks cooking on the grill caused my mouth to water. “Maybe she just needs a bit more time,” I gently suggested.

  “Maybe,” Jean said, not sounding terribly optimistic. “I invited her to come today but she told me she couldn’t bear to meet the woman who had Alex’s heart beating inside of her.”

  I stopped on the lawn and looked up at the windows of the house. “I can sort of understand that.”

  I imagined if it was Jesse who had died and given his heart to another person—especially a woman—I’d feel slightly territorial, because Jesse’s heart belonged to me.

  But despite that, I’d still want him to be a donor—because I, of all people, knew the importance of organ donation.

  Either way, it would still be difficult to face someone with his heart after I’d lost him.

  Jean stopped as well. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look troubled.”

  I dropped my gaze to the grass and began walking again. “I am a little, because I have something I need to confess to you.”

  Jean linked her arm through mine. “I’m sure it’s nothing so terrible.”

  “It probably depends on who you’re asking,” I replied. “Remember when I told you that I looked up information about Alex after I had that dream?”

  Jean nodded.

  “Not long afterward, I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see where he lived and worked, so I drove here with Ellen. We found his apartment and stopped for a little while to play in the park across the street.”

  “The playground with the red slide?” Jean asked.

  “Yes. And while we were there, your granddaughter saw us out her front window, and she and Audrey came outside to join us.”

  Jean’s head drew back slightly. “Really. So you’ve already met Audrey? She never mentioned it.”

  “That’s because I didn’t tell her who I was,” I admitted. “We had a nice time chatting, but she thought I was some random stranger. When I came here today, I was worried she’d be here and might be upset when she recognized me.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Jean replied. “That’s quite a story. It must have been a shock when she walked out of the house.”

  “It was,” I replied, “but I was glad I got to meet her. I loved how she talked about Alex. She said he had a good heart. It was a special moment I’ll never forget.”

  We stepped onto the stone patio and Jean kissed Garry on the cheek. Turning to me as she opened the door to go inside, she said, “Help me set the table?”

  I nodded and strode toward her.

  “After we eat,” she said, “I’ll get out those photo albums I promised to show you.”

  “I can’t wait to see them,” I replied.

  Jesse and Ellen came running across the lawn just then. Ellen was wearing a crown of daisies around her head.

  “What have you been up to?” I cheerfully asked, lifting her up over my head.

  “Playing,” she replied, and I squeezed her against me.

  The day had been quite perfect so far, and I was glad we had come. It hadn’t been awkward at all.

  At least not until later, when it was time to go.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  After we said good-bye to Jean and Garry at the door, Jesse and I walked back to the car with Ellen between us holding both our hands.

  “Elevator!” she said, wanting to play the game where Jesse lifted her up and down.

  We both laughed and swung her like a little monkey between us.

  When we reached the car, Jesse got into the driver’s seat while I buckled Ellen into the back. As I was bent over, fiddling with the straps, I became vaguely aware of a car pulling up behind us and parking at the curb.

  With Ellen fastened securely into her seat, I straightened and shut the door, then found myself standing face-to-face with a woman. For a few seconds I stared at her questioningly, then realized it was Audrey.

  She glanced down at Ellen in the car seat, then back at me. “You…” she said.

  My stomach did a somersault. “Yes,” I replied. “I’m sorry, this is awkward.”

  “I’ll say it is.” Her cheeks flushed the color of two red hothouse tomatoes, and her chest heaved, as if she were suddenly hyperventilating. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to meet Jean and Garry,” I replied. “They invited me.”

  Her eyebrows pulled together in a frown. She looked fit to be tied. “They did? My God.”

  Suddenly I realized I was not looking at a woman in pain who was still dealing with her grief. This was something else entirely. It was flat-out rage, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why.

  Seeing Through the Smoke

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Audrey

  Three Weeks Earlier

  It had been two years since I was forced to watch Alex take his last breath. Or rather, I watched the machine do it for him.

  Wendy still had some memory of her father—mostly beca
use I made a point to talk about him every day—but I worried that later in life, she would have trouble recalling anything about him.

  Memories of early childhood are muddy at best for most of us. I certainly couldn’t remember anything from my toddler years, though it helped to see pictures. I only wish I had used my camera more often during my brief marriage to Alex.

  At least I’d had all of them printed at the local photography store. My collection of photos consisted of a somewhat archaic shelf of albums with cellophane-covered pages.

  Who even has these anymore? I wondered as I stood in my living room one morning, staring at them. Everything in our modern world had gone digital in such a short span of time. Whenever I visited my friend’s houses, all they had was a single battery-operated picture frame sitting on a shelf with a continuous dissolving slideshow.

  I had to ask myself…what would happen if there was some sort of apocalypse, zombie or otherwise, where batteries were hard to come by? In a situation like that, only the photos printed on paper would be any good to look at. So I printed everything. I needed our memories to survive, to never fade. I needed physical evidence of Alex’s existence. Nothing less would do.

  But it was that very physical evidence that nearly destroyed me on the second anniversary of his death. A part of me wishes I’d never unearthed that picture because the heartache that resulted was unimaginable.

  Then I began to wonder if I was meant to unearth it…if Alex had somehow led me to it. Perhaps he had called to me from the great beyond. Jean sometimes said she felt as if he was still nearby, calling to her from the garage.

  And so, I went there. I sat in the front seat of the old Buick that held so many special memories for us.

  Then, in an instant, my life was turned upside down. Everything I believed in was crushed.

  I was crushed, and I felt like a fool.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  What was I looking for when I opened the glove box? Nothing. I was just bored and tired of weeping like a baby from behind the wheel, staring out the open garage doors at the row of cedars on the far side of the paved driveway.