by Susan Gable
Cherish laughed. “Didn’t you see the way he was looking at her yesterday, just before the race? He likes her, all right.”
“Shh! Here she comes.” Molly smiled as Miss Rachel approached their table.
“How’s it going, girls? I trust no one is getting stuck today?”
“Nope,” Molly responded. “Will you have lunch with us again?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I have to—”
“Miss Rachel! Your purse is ringing!” Sean yelled.
Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you.” She smiled tentatively at James’s daughter. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
Saved by the bell.
She wasn’t nearly as happy about the call several minutes later, after listening to her principal’s nervous small talk. “Okay, Jer. Now, why’d you really call?” She scanned the art room for hot spots, then wagged a finger. “Jamie, get those scissors away from your hair and back on the project where they belong. You’re way too old for that kind of nonsense. This is not beauty school.”
“Sounds like you’re busy, Rachel. I’ll call back later.”
“Oh, no you don’t. If you were looking for a report on how I’m doing, you would have called your friend Trudy. Out with it.”
“I had a meeting with the superintendent this morning. He was very interested in how you’re doing at the camp. Wanted to know if you were making progress, dealing with your—” Jerry cleared his throat “—uh, emotional issues, as he called them.”
Rachel left the art room, leaning against the wall just outside the door for support. Emotional issues! Her son had died, and the superintendent was talking about “emotional issues.” Hell yeah, it was an emotional issue! “And you told him?”
“I told him you were working on it, Rachel.” Jerry’s voice softened. “How is it going, champ?”
“It’s going…great, Jer.” How did he think it was going? She was surrounded by kids whose lives had been saved by transplants. Kids who’d survived. While hers…hadn’t.
“Don’t pull that with me. I’m just worried about you, that’s all.”
Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose. She peered at her students through the square window in the door, making sure they were doing what they should be, that no one was trapped in a chair or cutting their hair. “I know, Jerry. And I appreciate it. I just don’t know that you can order this kind of healing, although I know my dad likes to think he can.”
He chuckled gruffly. “If anybody could order it, it would be the Sarge. But he’s as concerned about you as I am, don’t mistake it.”
“I know.”
“In fact, lots of people are concerned about you. Roman called me this morning.”
The muscles along her neck knotted, and she growled into the phone. “What’s the rule about mentioning that man’s name?” She didn’t care if Roman was Jerry’s only nephew, he knew where she stood on hearing about him.
“Not to. But, Rachel—”
“Don’t you ‘but Rachel’ me. You send me to this camp, call me up to tell me the superintendent is still concerned about my fitness in the classroom, and then you throw Roman at me? What’s next?”
A long sigh floated from the phone receiver. “I hate being caught between the two of you. You know I love you as if you were my own daughter, but Roman is my blood. I hate the hurt he’s put you through, but I can’t turn my back on him any more than I can you, though your father would sure be happy if I washed my hands of Roman.”
“I’m not asking you to. Just don’t talk to me about him. And don’t talk to him about me. He’s out of my life now, and that’s that.” There wasn’t anything left to connect them, not even their child. Though they’d been separated for several months before the accident, she’d only taken back her maiden name when the divorce became final. She wanted no link to the man she held responsible for her baby’s death.
She shook the phone, then blew across the mouthpiece. “I think my battery’s going dead, Jer. I’ll call you later in the week.” Flipping the phone closed, she returned to the room, the chatter of the kids washing over her. The scents of glue and paper, of drying wildflowers picked by the group of five-to-seven-year-olds the previous afternoon, stirred feelings of loss and longing within her.
If she wasn’t a mother anymore, and the superintendent removed her from the classroom so that she was no longer a teacher, then what was she?
Nothing.
“JAMES, I’M GLAD YOU COULD join the group today.” Don stuck out his hand. “But I hope you left your psychologist’s hat in your cabin. Today you’re a transplant parent, like the rest of the folks.”
James shifted the lawn chair to his left hand and clasped Don’s right hand with his own. “I’ll try, but you know, it’s not easy to take that hat off.”
Don chortled. “Tell me about it. There are times when Trudy gets so damn mad at me. ‘Stop counseling me and argue!”’ he mimicked with a smile.
Other parents were unfolding the chairs, arranging them in a circle in the shade of the gently swaying oaks. Nolan trudged across the lawn, chairs in either hand. Michelle followed with Tyler in a front-carrier. She waved to James, and he returned the gesture.
“Well, would you look at that. I didn’t think she’d do it,” Don murmured.
James followed his glance. Rachel stood off to the side of the group, biting her lower lip and scanning the crowd. Her rigid posture spoke volumes on the subject of her discomfort. James had taken a step in her direction before he’d even realized it, only to be stopped by Don’s hand on his arm.
“Don’t. Do me a favor, don’t sit anywhere near her. The impression I’ve gotten of her is she’s not going to open up if anyone gets too close. And believe me, that young woman needs to open up.”
“I know that. In fact, I practically told her so the first night of camp.”
“You did? And how did she respond?”
“She ignored it. Changed the subject.” James reviewed her behavior during their conversations, and then realized that she was about to join a group for transplant parents. He groaned softly. “Oh, don’t tell me.” He stared hard at Don. “Did she lose a transplant child?”
“That’s for her to tell, if she chooses. You should know better than to ask me.”
“It’s not as if she’s your patient or anything.”
“You’re all my patients in one way or another. This camp is a place for healing, a place for everybody to deal with their transplant experiences. Why do you think we include the whole family?”
James watched Rachel hesitantly open her chair and position it slightly back from the others. “I don’t know, I figured it made it easier for the kids.”
“No, it’s because everyone in the family is affected by having a sick child, including the brothers and sisters. And because we wanted to give parents a place where they can just be people again.”
A place where they could just be people again? James wasn’t sure he knew how to be just a man anymore. He’d been the single father of a medically needy kid for so long now that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to deal with his own needs, his own desires.
Don clapped his hands. “Okay, folks, let’s get settled so we can start.”
James positioned himself beside Don so he could watch Rachel on the far side of the circle. This afternoon she wore a white shirt with patriotic red, white and blue stars across the neckline.
The camp director opened the session by saying they could discuss anything, whether it related to transplants, child-rearing, whatever they wanted. An awkward stillness fell over the group before someone began to talk. Topics ranged from dealing with sibling rivalry to medications. Nolan brought up the unique trials—and joys—of step-parenting a transplant child. His love for Cherish shone clearly in his face as he spoke, and James found himself happy for Michelle, glad that someone had found a mate who could handle the demands of a sick child.
And Nolan had been there, as much as possible, through the who
le thing. He and Michelle had started dating about six months before Cherish’s heart transplant. They’d married soon afterward. James and Molly hadn’t made it to the wedding because Molly had still been in the hospital—waiting. He figured if a relationship could handle that kind of stress, then it should last a lifetime.
Rachel sat still and quiet, slumped in her chair as though trying to make herself invisible. Was she here as an observer, as she’d mentioned the first day? She wasn’t reacting to any of the transplant-parent topics as if she’d had a transplant kid herself. Although she’d flinched empathetically when one woman spoke of nearly losing her son.
“You know something I’m curious about,” Don said during a lull in the conversation. “How many of you have had contact of any kind with your donor families?”
Rachel straightened in her chair so fast she almost fell out of it.
“I am the donor,” one mom said, “and I’ve got the scars to prove it.” She rubbed her stomach while others chuckled knowingly.
Part of James envied her. How wonderful it would have been to be able to give Molly what she needed himself. Unfortunately, people didn’t come with spare hearts. Kidneys, livers, even lung transplants were being done with living donors, but hearts…they were beyond living donor capabilities.
“That’s fantastic, Mia, and I’m sure it was a great relief for you to be able to donate your kidney to Sean. But I wasn’t talking about living donors, whom you often know before the surgery.” Don scanned the circle of parents. “Anybody here have an experience with an unrelated, unknown living donor?”
Heads shook all around the group.
“So what about the rest of you? Any contact with the cadaveric donor families?”
Rachel gasped, then pressed her hand over her mouth, eyes going wide.
“Rachel? Was there something you wanted to say?” Don asked.
She shook her head slowly, lowering her hand back down into her lap. “No.”
“Cadaveric is kind of a harsh word, isn’t it?” James asked Don softly. He struggled with the image. Molly’s heart had been a gift from another child, and James couldn’t—wouldn’t—picture that child as a cadaver. An angel, yes, a cold cadaver, no way in hell.
“I was counseling people before you got out of grade school. I know what I’m doing,” Don said from the corner of his mouth. “Trust me.”
“We met our donor family,” a man to James’s right volunteered. “It was a great chance to thank them in person. I mean, it sounds kinda lame, how do you actually thank someone for saving your child’s life? But I think they were really pleased to see how well Paul’s doing. I think it made them feel like something good had happened from the horrible accident that took their seventeen-year-old daughter’s life.”
“Did they ask you to stay in touch?” Don asked.
“We send them holiday cards, and usually an update on the anniversary of the transplant.”
“That’s nice that they wanted to meet you and be in touch,” said the woman next to Rachel. “I sent a letter through the Organ Procurement Organization, thanking our donor family, telling how much I appreciated their gift of life, and how well Olivia is doing now. I sent a picture of her, and told them I’d really love to meet them.”
James shifted in his chair. He’d written his own letter to the family of Molly’s donor—ended up crumpling up at least a dozen copies before he was satisfied with it. But he agreed with the other father. It just seemed so lame. “Thank you” didn’t begin to cover the deep gratitude he felt toward the family of the little girl who’d given Molly a second chance. How did you thank someone for giving your child life when theirs had died?
“And?” Don asked.
“And nothing. I didn’t even get an anonymous note back through the OPO.”
Neither had James. But he’d just chalked it up to the fact that the donor family wasn’t interested in knowing more about them, or having contact with them. He knew everyone dealt with their grief in their own way and he certainly didn’t want to intrude.
Rachel murmured something that had the neighboring woman glaring at her.
James leaned forward in his chair. “What was that, Rachel? I didn’t hear you.”
She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I said, maybe they weren’t ready. Nobody seems to understand that sometimes people just aren’t ready.”
“Aren’t ready for what, Rachel?” Don asked gently.
“To face it, to deal with it…” She lifted both shoulders and let them fall again.
The woman next to her shifted to face her head-on. “Look, no offense…Rachel, is it?”
Rachel nodded.
“I’m just not sure what your credentials are to be part of this discussion. I mean, I know you’re teaching arts and crafts to two of the kids’ groups, but other than that, why are you here?”
Rachel looked stricken by the woman’s words, and as much as he wanted to know the answer to that particular question, too, James couldn’t help but want to throttle the tactless lady.
“Come on, girl, tell them,” Don murmured under his breath. “Lay your cards on the table.”
James shot him a sharp glance, then returned his attention back to Rachel. She had her thumb at her mouth and was chewing on the nail, eyes cast downward at the grass in front of her chair.
“Well?” The busybody in the next chair folded her arms imperiously across her chest, the queen waiting for a response.
His stomach constricted when Rachel briefly looked at him. Not close enough to see for certain, he could guess that there were unshed tears in her eyes. He started to rise, but Don’s beefy hand clamped over his forearm.
“Don’t. Sit still and hope she pops,” Don said softly.
“Credentials?” Rachel asked in a tremulous voice. “You want my credentials?” She turned and glared at the other woman. “A pair of lungs, two kidneys, a liver and a heart. How’s that for credentials?”
“I—I don’t understand,” said Her Majesty.
Rachel jumped to her feet, knocking over her lawn chair. “Dammit, why doesn’t anyone care that I’m not ready for this?” she yelled. Visible tremors shook her entire body as she let her gaze slip from person to person around the circle. “My only child, Daniel, my baby, was a donor.”
James slid to the edge of his seat, heart in his throat at her revelation. Oh, Rachel.
Stunned silence descended upon the group until the only sounds were the chirping birds in the shade-providing trees.
She slapped a hand over her mouth as though realizing what she’d just said, and turned her back on the circle. The woman on the other side of her rose to drape an arm around Rachel’s shoulder. Rachel whirled, nearly tripping on the overturned chair, and stumbled into the center of the group. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
“Tell us about Daniel, Rachel,” Don encouraged. “Tell us about your son. We want to hear about him.” He looked to the parents for support. “Right?”
Murmurs of agreement floated up from all around the circle.
She shook her head. “No. I can’t…”
“You can.”
A solitary tear tracked slowly down her right cheek.
James’s heart shattered into a thousand tiny pieces for her. It was one thing to live with the fear of losing your child, quite another to deal with the reality of it.
“I have to go,” she announced, pinching the top of her nose briefly. “I have to go.” She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, striding quickly toward an opening in the circle. Once she passed the ring of chairs, the facade of decorum vanished. She broke into a trot, then a flat-out run in the direction of the cabins.
James jumped to his feet, only to be stopped once more by Don’s grip on his arm. “Let go of me,” he said firmly. “This time I’m going to her. She needs someone.”
“She does. See if you can get her to talk. Make her tell you about him.” The older psychologist released him.
James raced after her, catchi
ng a fleeting glimpse of denim and long legs as she dashed around the corner of the main building as though pursued by the devil himself.
Rachel’s feet pounded the dirt road as she hurtled toward her cabin, desperately controlled tears blurring her vision. Her stomach churned, and her heart, her heart ached with an intensity she hadn’t thought possible anymore.
The screen door to the porch slammed shut behind her as she burst through the cabin entry. Just inside, she crumpled into a heap, the harsh green carpeting burning her bare skin. She rolled onto her side, knees drawn up, and gave the tears free rein. “Oh, Daniel,” she sobbed.
Coherent words gave way to animal howls as the carefully constructed walls she’d hidden behind since the loss of her baby gave way. She breathed in jerking gasps, exhaling on a sob. Her nose ran, and tears trickled down into her open mouth, carrying the faint taste of salt.
On the edge of her consciousness she heard the screen door slam, but was too deep into her grief to worry about who was going to find her in this pathetic condition. Her marriage was over, her son was gone, her career threatened. What did it matter anymore?
“Rachel,” a deep voice murmured. Warm hands circled her back. “That’s it, you let it go.”
Strong arms gathered and lifted her, carried her to another place. Soothing words washed over the edges of her brain. She buried her face into James’s firm chest and sobbed as though her world had ended.
Time ceased to have meaning.
She’d never known such pain.
Or paradoxically, such comfort.
James held her close and rocked her, his warmth and motion a soothing balm on her raw soul. He stroked her hair, crooned words of encouragement as she continued to flood his shirt with her tears.
When at last she had the strength to lift her head from his chest and look at him, the compassion and empathy in his eyes nearly broke her composure again.
He cupped her cheek in his palm, brushing her final tears away with his thumb. “Better?”
She nodded, but then lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Tired.”
