Maybe he did. Maybe this prompted his dad to tell him about Sarah being a donor, and he figured out the rest. And maybe Kai — like me, right now — didn’t know how to feel about this news or how to react.
And that’s why he ghosted.
Instead of heading east back over the hills, I decide to take the long way home and drive south, down the coast. I need to clear my head. I need motion. Speed.
I put some music on — The Drums, “Days”— and open all the windows. Maybe I shouldn’t even try to find him. Not now. He changed his phone number. He obviously doesn’t want to see me. And why would he? If he is Sarah’s son, I’m nothing but a living, breathing reminder of what was probably the worst day of his life.
The coastal scenery flashes past. Gnarled oak trees. Hillsides covered in golden, rippling grass. Clusters of impossibly tall sequoias, the ground beneath their trunks thick with ferns. A gust of air blows across my face and, mingled with it, the scent of wild lavender.
And that’s when I see it — or rather, remember it.
A house, overlooking the Pacific. A wind-weathered redwood fence. A gate with a rusted latch.
The memory, so vivid, nearly makes me veer across the dividing line of the narrow, two-lane road. Heart thumping, hands shaking, I pull off onto a crumbling patch of pavement near the shoulder and turn off the ignition.
Great. Now this.
It’s shaded and peaceful where I’ve stopped, underneath a stand of pines. But I’m still gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles white. It feels as if everything that has happened over the last weeks and months is coming to a head, whether I want it to or not.
Breathe, Chloe, breathe.
I need to calm down. To think like a scientist. Maybe that will help me figure things out. The lavender . . . Thanks to my fifth-grade science project on the five senses, I know that your sense of smell is the one most likely to trigger a really vivid scene from your past. It’s because your olfactory bulb is directly wired to your amygdala and hippocampus, the brain regions responsible for emotion and memory. And right now? My amygdala and hippocampus are lighting up like an exploding supernova.
I lean my head back. Close my eyes.
Maybe I can control this.
For so long, I’ve been trying to push these flashes of memory away when they appear. But what if I embraced them instead? Maybe they are trying to tell me something that I need to hear. Maybe there’s a message written in them, if I would only look.
I try to stay calm. Open my mind and my heart. Look.
I know where this house is. And I’m really, really close.
The seaside town of Bolinas sits on the western side of the San Andreas Fault, just a few miles off the Pacific Coast Highway. But you’d pass right by it if you didn’t know where to look. There’s no sign marking its existence. The story is that anytime the state of California posts one on the highway, the locals tear it down. People who live here pride themselves on being off the grid — a feat increasingly impossible in today’s always-Instagrammed, shared, Tweeted, GPS-mapped world. But I find it without much trouble. I’ve been here before, a few times. On a school field trip, where we searched for sea stars, anemones, and deep-purple urchins in the rocky tide pools. And once, my parents and I stopped at a restaurant in town for barbecued oysters on the way home from a hike in Point Reyes. I turn off the highway and onto a road lined by swaying eucalyptus trees. To my left, a line of brown pelicans dives and swoops over a shallow lagoon.
The town at the end of the road consists of one main street and a small collection of buildings, including a bar, the oyster restaurant, a used bookstore, and a corner market with a farm stand in front. Above it, a collection of houses is sprinkled across the top of a windswept mesa. I pause at the only stop sign in town, and a strange, unsettling feeling washes over me. It’s the same feeling that I had weeks ago on the Richmond Bridge, the day that Jane and I went to Berkeley. The feeling that I already know the way.
I continue along the main street and turn onto a steep, curving road that takes me to the top of the mesa. As the road flattens, I slow down, rolling past one house, and then another, and then another, each worn and weathered like old fishermen by salt and wind, until I come to the one with a redwood fence, faded gray.
There’s a gate with a rusted latch.
The air is infused with the scent of lavender.
This is the place.
I park along the fence and get out for a better look. The house is kind of a funky shape, with different types of siding in some places, as if it’s been added on to and modified several times.
The little bedroom on the third floor has a window in the back that looks like the porthole of a ship.
Next to the gate, there are thick hedges and an old-fashioned detached garage that looks too small to fit a regular car.
Old painting canvases are stacked up in the corner inside.
Although the garage and the hedges are blocking my view, I know without looking that there’s a twisted cypress tree in the yard beyond, overlooking the ocean.
Below the yard is a path that switchbacks through thickets of wild lavender down to the beach.
My heart is drumming fast and I’m feeling dizzy, but maybe it’s because I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale.
“Nearby,” he told me. “I live nearby.”
It still could be a coincidence. It could be that I’m mixing it all up in my head. But there’s no way to know unless I unglue myself from this spot.
I lift the latch and walk through the gate, following a series of stepping-stones that lead me beyond the hedges and garage. There’s a small lawn. And, yes, the cypress tree. A breathtaking view of the ocean beyond. From here, the waves look like the folds of an unmade bed on the water’s surface. I inhale lavender, sea salt, and juniper. And then wham, like a punch to the chest, a memory hits me so hard that I’m nearly knocked off my feet:
I’m walking down the switchback trail that ends at the beach. In my hand, I’m holding a . . . tree branch? No, a stick. I fling it ahead of me. A flash of silver streaks by, a curling tail, diving into the lavender, chasing. I pause, look toward the jetty that juts out into the ocean below, and watch as a group of surfers paddle into the incoming swells.
This place is triggering my amygdala so much, I almost feel like it’s going to short-circuit my brain.
I walk up the wooden steps to the front door, take a deep breath, and knock. And wait, half terrified that someone — that Kai — will answer. But no one appears to be home.
Before I can decide what to do next, a car door slams on the other side of the fence, making me jump. I whip around, bracing myself to face him, hoping that just seeing him will ground me, will help me find the right words. I had no idea we were connected in this way. If I did . . . What? What would I have done if I’d known? I can’t really say.
But the person striding toward me is not Kai. He’s much older. A man. And ahead of him, bounding across the yard, is a dog. Not just any dog. The dog. The silver-gray pit bull that keeps appearing in my thoughts and in my dreams. The one disappearing into the lavender after that stick. Scar above her right eye. Bright-orange collar. Huge head. Very happy to see me, although we’ve never actually met. Her curled tail whips back and forth as she weaves in and out of my legs, almost knocking me off my feet.
I lean down to scratch her ears. “Hey, girl.”
My hands confirm that she is real. Her fur is warm. Her ears are soft. She rubs her head against me. Like she knows me. Like she loves me more than anyone else on earth.
“Can I help you?” the man asks. There are a bunch of things I notice all at once. He’s Asian. Handsome. Fit. And also: he has a buzzed scalp and a tattoo snaking up the side of his neck.
It’s him. The man from the hospital the night of my transplant. The man I’d chased down Divisadero Street with Jane. Standing here, in front of me, also undeniably real. Undeniably alive. Although I’d never gotten a good look at his face until now, i
t’s familiar in the same way that everything else here is.
But what is he doing here?
I think of what Kai told me, that night on the beach: that he used to live with his mom, but not anymore.
Is this . . . Kai’s dad? He told me his dad was Japanese American, as this man appears to be. It’s all coming together, like some implausible, impossible puzzle. The dog, this man, Sarah Harris, Kai.
“I hope so,” I manage to say, and then my throat freezes up and I’m unable to speak another word.
The man’s eyes travel to the dog, who is still nuzzling me and licking my hand. “Ruby, off.” He shakes his head. “Obviously she’s a terrible watchdog. So who are you? What do you want?”
His stare is flustering me, making me question why I ever thought it would be a good idea to just show up here. But it’s too late to turn around now. “I’m Chloe,” I blurt. “My name is Chloe Russell.”
And as soon as I say my name, all the color drains from his face. He studies me for a long minute, as unreadable as a statue.
“Chloe Russell,” he says finally. “I know who you are.”
My pulse is racing. He knows who I am?
I watch the muscle in his jaw clench in a very specific way that triggers something in me — a feeling? a memory?— but I can’t quite put my finger on why. There’s a long, uncomfortable silence. Then his stone face morphs into a grimace and he runs his hand across the top of his scalp.
“I’m the one who filled out the paperwork,” he begins. “I’m the one who gave the okay for the transplant to proceed. I’m the one who got the request from you, through your doctor, about your interest in making contact.” He shakes his head. “Chloe Russell. Your name has been seared in my brain since I got that letter. I wasn’t expecting to meet you.”
It seems like a million years ago that I talked to Dr. Ahmadi about reaching out to my donor’s next of kin. And he’s the one. The one who didn’t want to be found.
Dr. Ahmadi’s words echo in my head: Your donor’s family has made it clear that they do not wish to be contacted.
Is he angry that I’ve come here? Is he Kai’s dad? If he is, Kai could come walking through that gate at any minute. What would he think if he saw me talking to his dad?
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,” I say, suddenly having the urge to flee. “I shouldn’t have barged in on you like this.”
I take a step forward, toward the front gate, toward the refuge of my parked car, but he holds up a hand.
“It’s okay. Stay. Please.” Then he motions me to the set of chairs near the edge of the yard that faces the ocean. We both sit, and Ruby settles at my feet. I can’t stop staring at her, and at him, as I try to process the absolute strangeness of this moment. The feeling of knowing them in some way and yet not knowing them. Of recognizing them but not understanding exactly why or how. It’s like trying to recall a name or a word that you sense is right there, on the tip of your tongue, but not being able to grasp it. For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of waves crashing on the beach below, seabirds calling, wind sweeping up the bluffs. I wait until he’s ready.
And then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he tells me, “He was my son. Your donor was my son.”
His son?
What is he saying? Not Sarah Harris? Not the person who lived at that address in my records, who died in December, who I feel so strongly is somehow, in some way, connected to my heart? Am I wrong, then? Maybe I haven’t heard him correctly . . .
“It’s not Sarah? Sarah Harris?”
“Sarah? No.” Tears well in his eyes. He looks out at the Pacific, shakes his head, then turns to face me. “Sarah is . . . was . . . his mom. You didn’t know . . . ? How, exactly, did you find me?”
My thoughts are flying in a million different directions at once. My head spins. My chest aches.
I can’t explain how I found him. He’ll never believe me if I tell him about the memories. About how I remember him, Ruby, the way to this house. He’ll think I’m crazy. But I can tell him part of the truth: “Her address was in my medical record. I tracked down her landlord in Berkeley. He told me that she’d died in December, but maybe I misunderstood? My transplant was on December eighteenth, so I thought . . . But I must have gotten everything all mixed up. I’m sorry.” It all comes out in a rush.
He leans forward, puts his head in his hands. It is so exactly the pose from my memory of him in my hospital room that I have to swallow a gasp.
I hear him mutter a curse, and then he starts to talk. “No. I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have responded to you when your doctor reached out. But I wasn’t ready to meet you. Not then. Sarah did die on December eighteenth. But she wasn’t your heart donor. She was sick. She’d been sick for a long time. And later that night, my son, our son, was in a motorcycle accident. In the Broadway Tunnel. A tree . . . a Christmas tree fell from a car into his lane, and when he swerved to miss it, he skidded out and was hit by another car. He was thrown from the bike and . . .”
I’m feeling sick, because I already know the rest. Pavement rushing up. Blood.
He lets out a long breath. “He was pronounced brain-dead as soon as he was brought in to the ER. But his heart . . . his heart was perfect, untouched. I could still feel it beating.”
I’m speechless. Stunned. They died on the same day? How unbelievably awful. No wonder he hadn’t wanted me to contact him.
And then he keeps talking, almost as much to himself as to me. “I hadn’t seen him in a while before that night. He lived with his mom.” He looks at me. “I wasn’t a good father. Wasn’t around when he needed me. But that night, I was the only one who could give permission for the transplant.”
He bows his head, and his shoulders start to shake. He cries without making a sound. Just like he did the night of my transplant. The night he had to give the okay for a surgeon to cut out his son’s still beating heart. And give it to me.
The night of my transplant . . . That memory of him crying in my room — was he in my room? The nurses seemed so sure that no one other than my parents and hospital staff had been in or out. I think about all the memories that led me here in the first place. About what Jane said the night we saw this man on the street in San Francisco. Could his son’s last living moments in this world have been, in some elemental way, transferred to me? Through our heart? It all seems so impossible, but here we are.
I want to ask him. I want to be sure, but all I can say is, “I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry.”
His son.
His son . . . I’m still trying to make sense of what I learned earlier, at the surf shop. Kai’s last name is Harris. I was assuming, believing, that Sarah Harris was his mother. But is Kai related to any of this? Could my donor be . . . a cousin? Or — it has to be that the name has simply given me the wrong idea. He has no connection to any of this at all. Yet he led me here all the same. I wouldn’t have found this man, I wouldn’t have found out about my heart, if I hadn’t gone looking for Kai.
The man stands, interrupting my thoughts. I almost expect him to ask me to leave, my presence here a horrible reminder of everything he’s lost.
“Wait here,” he says.
He crosses the yard and goes into the house, the screen door banging behind him.
I have so many questions. How old was my donor? What was his name? What had he wanted to do with his life? Who did he want to be? Suddenly I am ashamed at how ambivalent I’ve been about the future. What would this grief-stricken man think if he knew that I had almost crashed a motorcycle in the same tunnel where his son had died? That I had been skipping doses of my anti-rejection medication? That I had been smoking? I’ve been unforgivably careless with his son’s precious heart. The weight of carrying his hopes and dreams, in addition to my own, is almost too much to bear.
But do I wish I hadn’t come here? Do I wish I hadn’t told him who I am? No, I think, no. It’s still a relief. Knowing is better than not knowing.
After a few minutes, he comes out with a laptop. He boots it up and types something into the search bar.
“Here.” He turns the laptop toward me. “These are the most recent photos his mother sent me. From last fall, around his seventeenth birthday.”
For a long, bewildering moment I stare at the screen, the images refusing to sink in.
And then I nearly drop the laptop onto the ground.
My ears start to ring. The horizon beyond the edge of the yard tips on its axis and turns upside down. My heart, his heart, beats so hard that I feel as though it’s going to explode from my chest and land in a bloody heap in front of me on the ground.
The photos of the boy who gave me his heart are not possible.
These photos don’t make any sense.
These photos are of Kai.
Wake up! I tell myself. Because I know I must be dreaming. I must have dreamed I was sitting in a yard overlooking the ocean. At the house that has the gate with the rusted latch. I must have dreamed of a visit to Bolinas. Dreamed up an encounter with the man who claims he is Kai’s dad. Dreamed the dog. Because what just happened can’t be real. What just happened can’t have actually happened.
Wake up! I tell myself. Wake up!
I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have. Never will.
Dead is dead is dead is dead.
I open my eyes, not sure where I am, not sure who I am, not sure if the ground beneath my feet is going to hold steady, not sure of anything.
I am lying on a cracked leather sofa, a throw pillow behind my head. I look around and try to find something to anchor me to reality. The inside of this house is stuck in another decade, not modern and uncluttered like my own. Yet there is so much that is familiar: the ancient television with a VHS player on top; the oil painting of the twisted cypress tree outside; and the ’70s swag lamp hanging from a golden chain over the dining room table. Across from me, a huge window looks out at the yard and at the sea beyond, where waves endlessly sweep, crest, and crash on the shore. I’m definitely not home in my bed. I’m definitely not just waking up from a dream. I’m still in Bolinas. And I must have passed out.
Everything I Thought I Knew Page 18
