Heart to Heart

by Lurlene McDaniel

  Mom intervened. “Maybe we can go for coffee.”

  “I shouldn’t intrude …”

  “No,” I said. “That’s a good idea.”

  We went to Java the Hut, a coffee shop not far from the school. I got a syrupy fruit drink and Mom and Terri drank coffee. Elowyn and I never liked the taste of coffee much.

  “I miss the activity too,” Terri said, stirring her coffee. “You know, all you kids hanging around the house. It’s so quiet now.”

  “I miss your cookies,” I said.

  She smiled, the corner of her mouth quivering. “I’ve put together two scrapbooks. Of our vacations and Ellie’s school stuff. I have lots of time.”

  She sounded so sad. Mom reached over and took her hand. “We should go to the movies. Dinner too.”

  Terri nodded. I hung my head. “Kassey, you should come over and talk sometime. I’ll show you the books.”

  “I will,” I said. “I’d like to see them.”

  We grew quiet. Coffee cups clinked in the background. The espresso machine hissed, and someone’s cell went off. Terri stared out the window next to our table as if she were looking into a black hole. I shivered. She said, “I haven’t touched a thing in her room. I just shut the door and left it the way she had. Whenever I look inside, it’s like she’s coming back to clean up the mess.”

  “It was an organized mess,” I said. “She knew exactly where everything was no matter how messy her room.”

  Mom cleared her throat. “We should be going.”

  “Oh, of course. Kassey must be tired.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, without much conviction.

  We stood. “I’m serious about you coming over for a visit,” Terri said. “I’d love to see you.” She hugged me and Mom and I watched her walk out the door.

  For my sixteenth birthday, Mom gave me her Honda. I’d passed my driver’s test in it the day before, on my actual birthday. “For me? But what are you going to drive to work?”

  “A newer used car. We’ll pick it up this afternoon.” She grinned and hugged me. “It’s stodgy. Besides, this old car is reliable and dependable. New tires, oil, maintenance up to date. I’ve paid the insurance and filled up the tank too. You’ll have to supply all future gas.”

  I grabbed the key. “I’ll get a job.”

  “In the summer,” Mom said. “Right now, your job is school.”

  “And volleyball.” I tossed the key high, batted it, and caught it before it hit the floor. “I’m going for a drive.”

  “Before Saturday pancakes?”

  “Who’s hungry?” I grabbed my wallet and ran out the door.

  “Be careful,” she yelled, looking anxious. The memory of Elowyn’s accident was still fresh in both our minds.

  “I will,” I called, backing out of the driveway carefully. At the end of the street, I pushed the gas pedal and the tires squealed just a little as I picked up speed.

  This was the best present in the world. I had freedom. Taking some babysitting jobs would keep me running until summer came. I got to the stoplight, turned right. Freedom. So what was I going to do with it? I slowed. The one person in the world I wanted to hang with was gone. My heart sank. I drove aimlessly. Minutes later, without even knowing how I got there, I realized I was on Elowyn’s street and in front of her house. I stopped the car across the street, let the motor run, and stared at the brick house where she had lived. Maybe I should go in and say hello. Hadn’t Terri wanted me to come over? But I couldn’t make myself walk to the front door.

  A persistent banging noise broke through my fog of indecision. I craned my neck and could just see over the big bush that partially hid the side driveway leading to the garage. That was where the sound was coming from. I backed up the car for a better view. What I saw chilled my blood. In the driveway was what was left of Elowyn’s car. The front grill was mangled, all smashed and bent from its encounter with a tree. The glass was gone from the windshield and the fender on one side was missing. Matt stood on the car’s roof, a sledgehammer in his hands. He swung it over and over, striking the crushed red metal, as if punishing the steel for not doing its job of saving his daughter. With every swing, I heard him grunt and curse. I watched, mesmerized, wishing the car could scream with pain because it had let us all down. Without even seeing his face, I knew that he was crying. This father wanted his daughter. I pushed thoughts of my own father out of my head. Did he even remember it was my birthday? I could only think of El and the love her father felt for her.

  I watched until the sound of the hammer bruised my ears, until Matt could hardly lift the heavy iron tool. With tears running down my face, I slid the Honda into drive and slowly inched away, the joy of my birthday sliding down into despair.

  · 11 ·

  Arabeth

  My new heart was becoming part of me. In three months, the side effects of my meds began to subside and my face looked more normal. The doctor had laid out my regime—antirejection medications for the rest of my life; eight, perhaps ten biopsies during the first year to detect the possibility of rejection; blood work every two months. I hated the idea of being a medical guinea pig, of going to the hospital for seemingly endless labs, but it was what I had to do.

  “Things will change,” he told me and Mom. “Once you make it past the first year safely, you’ll come in for an echocardiogram twice a year and an annual angiogram. Blood work will be an ongoing event, but you’re young and this is a strong heart. Never take a medication without medical approval, okay? You could trigger a rejection episode.”

  Of course, I understood and I agreed, but I sure didn’t have to like it.

  I was getting stronger every day and was able to help Mom at our bed-and-breakfast. Summer is our busiest time and our guest rooms are usually booked solid, especially on weekends. I helped her change linens, vacuum, clean bathrooms, cook big breakfasts—all the things she’d had to do by herself while my heart was collapsing.

  She was anxious at first. “Are you sure you’re not overdoing it, honey?”

  “I feel great,” I told her. And I did. Who ever thought dusting and vacuuming could be liberating? But it was for me.

  One afternoon when I was helping Mom change bedsheets, I said, “I wish I knew more about my donor.”

  “You know as much as I know—she was sixteen and in a car accident.”

  “I wish I could tell her family thank you.”

  “Me too,” Mom said, tucking in a corner of the top sheet. “It couldn’t have been easy agreeing to donate your child’s organs to strangers.”

  “Would you do it? I mean, if I were healthy and my organs were in good condition?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so at one time.”

  “But now?”

  “I’ve seen firsthand how it’s changed our lives. I see my girl all glowing and taking deep breaths and jogging up stairs and being normal. It’s changed the way I think about all of life.”

  I smoothed the quilt Mom threw on the bed as she talked. “I wish Daddy could see me now.”

  “Me too,” Mom said. “He’d be so happy.”

  I felt the sharp edge of loss. I thought it had dulled over the years, but I was wrong. It seemed as if my new heart was just as capable of breaking as my sick old one had been.

  “But I want to go to Roswell High.”

  “Out of the question,” Mom said over the dinner table a month before school was to start.

  I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. I’d been planning my classes and my wardrobe for days, excited to be going to the big public high school. But now Mom was telling me that I had to attend a small private school not far from where we lived. I’d been thinking about the kids I would meet, the boys I’d flirt with, and now my plans were going up in smoke. “You know that’s not what I want. I’ve been looking forward all summer—”

  “It’s what I want,” Mom said firmly. “You were fortunate to even get into the Athena Academy. If your grades hadn’t been so good—”
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  “Then remind me to turn stupid! I’m not going there.” I shoved my chair back from the table. How would I ever get a boyfriend if I was trapped with a bunch of girls all day long?

  “Sit down,” Mom ordered.

  Years of a structured military upbringing kicked in and I sat.

  Mom leaned forward. “I want you safe. I want you in a smaller school so that if anything happens—”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. I’m fine. My doctor said so.”

  “You’re doing well, but you’re not completely over your transplant. It’s too soon for you to throw yourself into the fray of the real world.”

  “No way!” I yelled.

  She grabbed my hand. “Stop it! What’s gotten into you, Arabeth? This isn’t like you to argue and fight. But just so you know, I’m not changing my mind. You’re going to Athena and that’s that.”

  I crossed my arms defiantly.

  Her face softened. “I promise you, if you have a good year, if you do well physically, I’ll let you go to Roswell next year if you still want to.”

  My lips trembled from anger and disappointment. I didn’t want to spend my sophomore year in classes with a bunch of girls. But I knew my mother. Once she made up her mind, the topic was closed. I choked down a few more bites of supper before leaving the table and going to my room.

  I paced the floor of my bedroom, fuming. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I stopped cold. The girl in the glass hardly looked like me. I turned to stare at my reflection. Why had I gotten so angry? Weeks before, I’d been terrified of attending Roswell—and of boys. I had never even had a real conversation with a guy my age; I didn’t know any. And now I was fighting with my mother about a world that existed only inside my imagination.

  Maybe it was the thought of all those girls, strangers, catty girls who might wreck my life with mean remarks and cold shoulders like Monica and her circle of friends had done. “Fifth grade is over,” I reminded myself. Atlanta was a new city. I had a new heart. I was a new person. For another second, I wondered about the life of the sixteen-year-old girl whose heart beat inside me. I believed she’d never been a mean girl. I just knew it.

  I had to go to the Academy—I called it AA, like the rehab places where alcoholics went—to take placement tests. “It’s an entrance requirement,” Mrs. Hawkins, the headmistress, told me the day I went. “Based on your transcripts, I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

  She walked with me, showing off the school and grounds. Mom had already done this when she chose the school so she decided to wait in Mrs. Hawkins’s office. The school was stately and beautiful, with canopies of magnolia trees, red brick buildings, and modern, well-equipped classrooms. Although I tried to stay prejudiced against it, I couldn’t.

  Eventually Mrs. Hawkins took me into a room and laid out several packets of paper. She said, “These are standardized tests—fill in the circles for the right answers. The last page of number four is for a brief essay. We like to get an idea of your writing skills. It’s just asking for your thoughts and plans for your future. You’ll have an hour.” She smiled and left the room.

  My plans. Did I have any? I’d spent years just surviving. Now I had a future. What did I want?

  The tests were easy. The essay, not so much. I was still writing furiously when Mrs. Hawkins came back into the room. Startled, I looked up.

  “Time’s up,” she said, walking over.

  I was still clutching the pencil midsentence. “I—I haven’t finished.”

  “Not a problem. Your mother’s told me about your health issues.”

  Her comment went right through me. “I don’t need special treatment,” I said defiantly.

  “And you won’t be getting any.” She looked down at my paper, only half written. Her face broke into a smile. “You’re a southpaw. So am I.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “You’re left-handed.”

  I glanced at my hand holding the pencil, then dropped the pencil as if it had turned fiery hot. “No,” I said. “I—I mean, I’m right-handed.”

  She looked puzzled. “But you’re writing with your left hand.”

  I went cold all over, then warmth spread up my neck. “Um—not really.”

  “Then you’re ambidextrous. Even better.” She took the pencil, folded the tests, and reminded me my mother was waiting.

  I stood up shakily and followed her out of the room. She was talking every step of the way, but I wasn’t listening. All I could think about were the words on the paper I’d written, every one with a strange backward slant that wasn’t exactly my handwriting.

  · 12 ·

  Kassey

  Mom sent me to stay with my grandparents the summer before I became a junior. It was really hard to find a summer job so I was willing to go. “Better than moping around the house,” she told me.

  Not by much. I missed home. I missed Elowyn. As it turned out, my grandparents comforted me because Grandma taught me how to bake all kinds of pastries and Grandpa taught me how to use a table saw. Together we built a new deck in their backyard. They didn’t ask me to talk about Elowyn, respecting my desire to keep my feelings to myself. Only once did Grandma mention something I didn’t want to talk about, and it wasn’t about Elowyn. We were rolling out dough for pie crusts one morning when she said, “Your mom told me that your father has begun making back support payments.”

  I stiffened. “Yes, she told me too.”

  “She says he wants to get reacquainted with you.”

  I shrugged. Sunlight streamed across the table, puddling on the flour and the cream-colored dough, turning them ghostly pale.

  “You don’t want to?”

  “He left when I was really young. I barely remember him.”

  “Steve was a nice man. An engineering major. Got a good job right out of college too. Your mother was happy at first. But the drugs—well, they got a stranglehold on him and he couldn’t break free.”

  “I don’t do drugs, Grandma.” I balled up the dough and restarted my roll-out.

  “I never thought you did. This isn’t about drugs, Kassey. It’s about your father. He’s the only one you’ll ever have. He’s reaching out finally.”

  “Mom could get married again,” I said stubbornly.

  “That’s true. But Steve will always be your real father. Don’t be so tough on him. He’s trying to get his life back.… Consider giving him a chance to get to know you. It’s never too late.”

  Irked, I pounded the dough ball to stretch it, and it split. I mashed the two pieces together with attitude. “I’m not interested in getting to know him. He left us. I just lost my best friend. I’ve got a hard year of school ahead. I’m not ready for a hugfest with a father who left us.”

  The refrigerator hummed in the quiet room. Grandma rolled her circle of dough expertly until it was paper thin, tossed it gingerly from hand to hand, and spread it gently across a pie plate filled with fresh blueberries. Without looking at me, she said, “Be careful with that dough, honey. Handle it too rough and it turns tough as nails.”

  On the first day of school, I walked in the front doors, and my heart took a nosedive. In the “Noteworthy Student” glass case on the wall beside the front office was an eight-by-ten photo of Elowyn bordered in black. Below the picture were her obituary and a tribute written by one of the faculty. My vision went teary and I couldn’t read it.

  “Didn’t expect this,” a voice said next to me.

  I turned to face Wyatt and for a second I lost my composure. “I miss her.”

  “Me too.”

  He’d grown taller, and looked tan and fit. “You still mad at me?” he asked.

  I turned toward the glass case. “Guess not.” I heaved a sigh. “Sorry I beat up on you. I was just really angry. I know what happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “No problem.” He gave me a sideways glance. “I’ve taken worse on the basketball court. Besides, you hit like a girl.”

  I snapped, “I drew blood.
” He grinned and I backpedaled. “Good thing for you I’m a girl. Otherwise I could have destroyed you.”

  “I carry the scars.” He touched his forehead.

  The tide of incoming students had thinned and except for a few stragglers, we were alone in the front vestibule. “It isn’t fair,” I said. “Her dying.”

  “Not one bit.” His voice sounded thick.

  The thread of Elowyn’s memory held us together for a moment longer. We blinked in unison and the thread broke. We turned and hurried off down separate hallways and away from the smiling photo under the cold hard glass.

  The memories turned out to be our glue. She linked us. Other kids remembered Elowyn, but Wyatt and I were the most affected by the loss of her. We sort of fell in with each other, at first just saying hi in the halls, then occasionally eating lunch together in the cafeteria. Then we began showing up at each other’s games and going off afterward when the mood struck. We talked and texted and hung out. No big deal. We were like two spheres who intersected whenever we needed to exorcize Elowyn’s ghost. It comforted me in a way that sessions with the grief counselor never had. The shared memories, the inside jokes between us, the stories we told about our times with her bound us together. We laughed and sometimes we cried, but the time I spent with Wyatt talking about Elowyn soothed me like cuddling with my baby blanket had when I was a little girl.

  One night after Alpha had won a blowout volleyball game, I was freshly showered and dressing in the gym when Patti Aymon strolled over to me. “Wyatt’s outside waiting,” she said.

  “I know. I’m hurrying.”

  She didn’t go away.

  “You need something?” I said.

  She cocked her head. “You and him got a thing going?”

  I whirled to face her. “What?”

  “You and Wyatt. You’re together a lot. People are talking.”

  “People should mind their own business.”

  She threw up her hands. “Hey, don’t kill the messenger. It’s just a question. I mean, everyone would get it. He’s cute. He was your best friend’s guy.”