The Heart of Memory

by Alison Strobel

  The numbers he’d been so happy to see in their bank account balance had dwindled further than he’d ever seen them dive after paying back the revenue they’d received from ticket sales. They’d been hovering at the low end of financially stable when he’d steeled his nerves and paid out the deposits to the ten locations where Savannah had been scheduled to speak, but now that those monies weren’t being replenished by ticket and merchandise sales, they were about to dip into the red. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this ship afloat.

  He jerked awake again and stretched. Definitely time to go home. He woke his computer to shut it off and saw a new email in his inbox. It was from one of the stock promoters he subscribed to, singing the praises of an investment opportunity the promoter believed was going to skyrocket. Shaun read the email and knew by the end of it that he needed to get in on this ground floor. It had the potential to pay off all their debts and get A&A safely back in the black. He just had to find the money to invest with.

  The problem was that he had no time. This report would make the price rise for sure. If he waited until he’d spoken with their retirement rep about pulling the money from their 403b like he’d planned on doing before, he’d risk not being able to buy a decent amount of shares. He had to do this soon — very soon. More than 24 hours and it wouldn’t be worth it.

  He pulled up their banking software and examined the accounts. He’d drawn a line in the sand for himself months ago, vowing he wouldn’t touch A&A’s meager savings. But if this stock exploded like the promoter thought it would, he’d be able to replace what he borrowed before anyone knew it was gone.

  He logged into their online banking account and withdrew half of A&A’s savings, then deposited it into his personal account, which he’d linked to A&A’s accounts last month to make such shuffling easier to do. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he made the arrangements to move the money into his stock market account and put in a buy order for fifty thousand shares. He could almost taste the financial freedom that was finally within reach — though it wasn’t strong enough to overpower the bitter tang of self-loathing.

  After ensuring his requests had gone through, he resolved to go home before he did any more damage. He was about to close down his computer when the ding of his email announced another new message. He clicked on the program and felt his gut plummet.

  She had written again.

  Not now. I can’t take it.

  He hesitated a moment, planning on just shutting down the computer without looking at the letter, then realized it was the fourth he’d received since Savannah had gotten sick and he hadn’t opened a single one. Could he afford to keep his head in the sand? What if she made good on whatever threats she was undoubtedly making? He couldn’t let her go public, not on top of all the other fires he had to put out.

  He gathered his courage, then keyed her name into the search box and selected all four messages to open.

  $5000 by August 15. Send it to this address. A PO box address in Denver followed.

  You thought I was kidding? This won’t go away. $6000 by September 7th.

  Don’t make me call the Denver Post. $7000 by September 28.

  Last chance, Shaun. I’m tired of waiting. $10,000 by November 10 or I call Paula Zittner at the Denver Post and tell her all the sordid details. Don’t make me do it, Shaun. I just want what I deserve. A link to the investigative reporter’s contact information followed—her way, he assumed, of showing she was serious.

  He slammed his fist on the desk and shouted a curse at the top of his lungs. She may as well have asked for ten million. He simply didn’t have it, and wouldn’t in less than a week.

  Although …

  He shook his head. He couldn’t dip into A&A’s savings a second time. He was nervous enough about what he’d done tonight.

  He thought she’d finally gotten the message, finally realized he wasn’t going to send anything else when he’d stopped responding to her. She’d already milked him for four thousand; how much did she think she deserved? He’d honestly thought she’d understand, once news got out about Savannah’s illness, that he didn’t have any money left to throw at her for her silence. What made her think he was flush with cash?

  Of course: Savannah’s book.

  Apparently she hadn’t heard that the tour had been canceled — with a great financial loss to A&A. Though she apparently had seen that the book had gone straight to the bestseller list. She obviously underestimated how much authors got paid from their sales.

  He banged out I don’t have any money!!! and sent it before he could worry about it any more. He was getting to the point where he almost didn’t care if she went to the press. It was all falling apart anyway, thanks to Savannah.

  But if he could just get this stock, and if the stock performed like it was supposed to … at least he’d be able to untangle one mess before anything was discovered.

  SAVANNAH AWAKENED TO A RAINY day that perfectly matched the foul mood that had followed her from yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that … right back to the day she’d pulled the rug out from under her life.

  It was going to be a cooped-up-tiger day, she could feel it in the way her muscles were twitching to do something else besides keep her upright on the couch. She wished she hadn’t let Shaun sell their treadmill; she definitely could have used it today. Though the inside of the house was beginning to wear on her, too. She wanted to get out just for a bit, stretch her legs and walk a longer track than the upstairs hall where she was getting in what exercise she could to help her body heal from the surgery. But where could she go and not have to worry about being recognized? She’d had nightmares more than once about an angry mob chasing her down in public—which was silly, since they’d all gotten their money back when the tour had been canceled, and no one knew the real reason the plug had been pulled. But she was still nervous, afraid she’d have to lie to cover her tracks if someone were to recognize her and ask what happened.

  She thought she’d feel better once she’d admitted to someone how she was feeling, but the weight of the book tour had been replaced by the weight of their future, now that it was certain everything was going to fall apart. Frankly, it was worse now than it had been before her major fail at the book tour kick-off.

  And despite the development of her hermit-like tendencies, she was still the kind of person who needed to verbally hash out her thoughts, to process life through conversation. But who could she talk to now? Marisa was probably halfway out the door now that she knew how Savannah really felt. Jessie wasn’t one of the people she usually talked to about life in the first place; she certainly wasn’t going to start opening up now. Plus, Jessie was in the dark about Savannah’s confession, as were the girlfriends she’d pushed away over the past weeks — not that she wanted to reestablish those lines of communication anyway. And Shaun … well, you couldn’t have a conversation with someone who refused to talk to you.

  Savannah power-walked the hallway, trying to burn off some of the frustration. Fifteen steps and turn, fifteen steps and turn.

  She had to get out of here. She had to talk to someone before she went crazy.

  A name popped into her head. She stopped, hands on her hips as she considered it. She would be perfect, actually — provided she was willing to talk to Savannah. It had, after all, been two decades since the last time they’d spoken, and as their final conversation bobbed to the surface of her memory, she cringed with embarrassment over the things she’d said. She had a new perspective now, that was for sure.

  Savannah began to walk again, mulling as she did. She was entirely to blame for how much time had passed, for the fact that she and her best friend — former, anyway — hadn’t spoken in twenty years. It probably wouldn’t be wise to try to fix things now; why dredge up that pain, for both of them?

  Savannah ditched the hallway and began taking the stairs up and down to give her mind something else to focus on. She pushed herself to do one more flight, th
en one more, and one more again, until her heart was pounding like it had the day she’d taken the stage for the book tour. It took more effort to get it really going than she’d expected it to; this heart was certainly up to what few challenges Savannah had thrown at it.

  She showered and took a nap, then spent the rest of the afternoon in front of the computer, reading the transplant forum and flirting with the idea of trying to track down her friend. Every time she opened Google she froze and shut the browser window before she could type anything.

  She was staring at the search engine page once again that night when Shaun came home. She jumped at the sound of the door, having lost track of time. She settled into her seat again to give him time to get occupied somewhere before she snuck off to bed, but he passed her open office door and their eyes unexpectedly locked.

  His face held a look of disgust. “On the computer, of course. What else would you do with your life while I’m trying to keep our family and ministry from crashing and burning?”

  The attack took her by surprise, but she wasn’t about to let him get away with insulting her. “Don’t you dare judge how I deal with this —”

  “Deal? You’re not dealing with anything, Savannah. That’s the problem. You’re wallowing.”

  “How would you have any idea what I’m doing, Shaun? How much time have you spent in this house over the last month? If anyone is avoiding things, it’s you. I’m dealing the best way I can, and I’m so very sorry if it’s not fixing things the way you’d like them fixed.”

  “Hey, I’d be happy for any kind of fix! But what you’re doing is changing nothing. You just sit on that computer and lose yourself in other people’s problems instead of facing your own.”

  “Those people know what it’s like to be in my shoes. You can’t fathom the toll this has taken on me, Shaun. Not that you’d bother to even try.”

  Shaun ran a hand through his hair and looked about to respond when he waved her off and left from the doorway. Tears began to form as her adrenaline slowed, but then Shaun was back and her defenses rose again.

  “You need therapy. How about spending your day doing that tomorrow. Find someone you can go to, since I know you won’t go to John. I have no idea how we’ll pay for it, but obviously you need help, so …” He left before finishing his thought, though Savannah knew he had nothing left to say.

  She stared at the search engine screen, knowing he was right, and dreading trying to explain to a counselor what she was experiencing. What were the odds of finding a therapist well-versed in the emotional trauma of organ transplant? She hadn’t read many posts on the forum about people going to therapy, at least not long term. She had a feeling her issues would require a lot of time to untangle. The odds of it making a difference were slim, she was sure.

  But what if this was Shaun’s way of throwing her a bone, of giving her a lead on what might make at least their relationship a little better? Therapy couldn’t hurt, right? And even if it didn’t work, the fact that she was trying had to count for something.

  It would probably take forever to find someone who didn’t think she was nuts—but she had plenty of time to spend looking.

  CHAPTER 10

  “THE LAST ITEM OF BUSINESS IS FOR ME TO ANNOUNCE WE’RE going to be moving to a new location in January. It’s not too far, just off West Uintah. I specifically tried to find something that would keep the change in your commute times at a minimum. It’s a great location, nice neighborhood. I’m going to give up my office and join the rest of you in the cubes, and we may need to combine a couple of you in a cube together, but when we make the move we’ll figure that out.”

  Shaun looked around at the blank faces of the staff. He’d expected some kind of a reaction, but they didn’t seem to care. Unfortunately, these were the expressions he saw more often than not these days. “So … when I finalize things with the management company I’ll let you know when our moving date is. Any questions?” He was met again with silence. “Alright then, have a good Monday.”

  He followed them as they shuffled out, noting how conversation didn’t begin between anyone until he was about to close his office door. He was losing them, he could tell. This did not bode well.

  He set aside the notes from the meeting and woke his computer. He checked for new email, then clicked the icon on his desktop that opened his account with his online stock broker. It had been almost a week since he’d purchased that stock, and he just knew one of these mornings he’d open his account and see the little green line shooting up.

  When it loaded, he almost had a heart attack. The little green line had plummeted. The amount listed as the worth of his purchase was a fraction of what it had been. He scrambled to open a web browser and look up the company’s website, and once he was there he wanted to cry.

  A lawsuit over patent infringement. This can’t be happening.

  He read the article listed on the website, which assured stockholders that the plaintiff in the case didn’t have a leg to stand on, and once the case got to court it would certainly be thrown out.

  But that did him no good if it took months to get that far. He needed to get that money back now.

  He put a sell alert on his stock, hoping to recover at least part of what he’d spent. Something would be better than nothing—though not by much.

  He grabbed his keys to leave, then sat back down. He couldn’t afford to waste gas on aimless driving, even if it did help him think. He was stuck here.

  He was stuck, period.

  SAVANNAH’S KNEE BOUNCED AS SHE flipped through a six-month-old magazine without reading its contents. She’d gotten to Dr. Boxer’s office with ten minutes to spare and was now wishing she’d spent them in the car. Knowing she was about to be analyzed made her nervous, and she began to wonder if choosing a non-Christian therapist had been a good idea. She’d wanted to avoid people who would likely tell her to just pray harder, and people who would likely know who she was, but at least their approach would be somewhat familiar. She had no idea what to expect here.

  Dr. Boxer’s office door opened and a young couple came out holding hands. That gave Savannah some hope. A few minutes later a woman about her own age popped her head out of the door and smiled at her. “Savannah Trover? Come on in.”

  Savannah smoothed her pantsuit as she stood. She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to dress up, but it seemed like a good idea. She was kicking herself now for not dressing in something more comfortable. The suit just added to her sense of unfamiliarity with her own self.

  Dr. Boxer nodded to a couch set under the window. “Feel free to take a seat. I just need to switch my files around here.” Savannah sat and looked around the office while the doctor fiddled with some papers on her desk. After a minute she sat across from Savannah with a notepad and pen. “So, Savannah, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me what brought you in today?”

  Savannah took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Well, I had a heart transplant about two and a half months ago.” She explained the circumstances leading up to it, even though the details weren’t pertinent; she needed time to acclimate to telling a complete stranger about her most intimate thoughts. “And I feel like every day when I wake up I discover something else that has changed about me, or my personality, or the things I liked or didn’t like. And it’s not just in my head; my family and coworkers have noticed it too. But the worst part is that I have this anger that I just can’t shake. I don’t know why I’m so mad, but I am, all the time, and it doesn’t take a lot for me to really show it.”

  Dr. Boxer pulled a form from a desk drawer and handed it to Savannah. Depression Inventory. “Do any of these apply to you?”

  Savannah scanned the list. Are you often sad or irritable? Have you noticed changes in your sleep patterns? Have you lost interest in activities you once enjoyed? Her frustration mounted as she saw where this would likely lead. “Well, yes,” she said aft
er reading all ten items. “They all apply, actually. But not because I’m depressed, because I’m not.”

  Dr. Boxer nodded as she wrote on the notepad. “It’s quite common for transplant recipients to experience a wide swing in moods after their operation. Depression is very common—”

  “But this isn’t depression; it’s anger. I’ve counseled people with depression before. I know what it looks like. This is anger.”

  “Anger is very common as well.”

  “For people who lost out on a lot of their life waiting for a heart—yes, I’ve read about that. But that’s not true in my case. I went from healthy to transplant in less than a month.”

  “Anger can also be a symptom of depression.”

  “But I’m not depressed!” She took a deep breath, trying not to let her anger get the best of her. “Depression and anger are obviously two different things, otherwise we wouldn’t have two separate words for them. I’m angry. And more importantly, I’m angry at God, around whom my entire pre-transplant life revolved. A little anger would make sense, but not this much—and not at someone that I wouldn’t have even considered blaming before. Now I don’t think he’s even there to be blamed. And that makes no sense. It scares me. I’m not me anymore. And I want to get back to who I was.”

  Dr. Boxer’s even expression made Savannah want to slap her. “I understand that, Savannah. But until you’re willing to work with me and with what I believe is your diagnosis, you’re not going to get any better.”

  Savannah tried not to roll her eyes. “Alright, what is my diagnosis?”

  “I believe you’re suffering from clinical depression, and I propose that you see your doctor about starting an antidepressant. We can continue to meet, if you want to, to work through the underlying issues that are manifesting themselves as anger toward God.”