by Donna Fasano
For just a fraction of time, Sara’s stress was forgotten; his concern for her mother and for herself had her mouth curling into the tiniest of smiles.
“Mom’s good,” she assured him. Then tension came flooding back. “I have the list.”
“Oh.” He’d been bent over at the waist, but he straightened his spine and the reusable grocery sack he carried made a little whooshing sound when the fabric brushed against his trousers.
Sara could see the rectangular boxes of several frozen dinners and one end of a roll of aluminum foil. His other purchases were hidden by the bag. The thought of lecturing him about eating too many processed foods wafted through her mind, but she ignored it. Now wasn’t the time.
“So what are you going to do?” he asked, deadpan.
She had to lean to the left to see his face. “Open it?”
“You haven’t opened it?” His surprise was evident. “You want to come inside?”
Flattening her mouth, she shook her head. Quietly, she asked, “You want to come sit in here? I’ll turn the heater on.”
“I don’t need to see.” His tone was firm. “My gut is telling me my name is on that list. My gut, my dreams, my heart—”
“Landon, please. Just get in the car. It’s too chilly to leave the window down.” Then she murmured, “I could use the support.”
He hesitated, and then he took two steps away from the car and set his bag down on the sidewalk that led to his apartment. Sara watched him round the nose of her car, open the passenger-side door, and get inside.
“How have you been?” she asked him.
Swiveling his head, he narrowed his eyes at her in the gloom. Her question sounded forced, almost fake, with that elephant of a white envelope taking up such a huge amount of the space between them. But the question had been all too real. She wanted to know, had been wondering about him since they last saw each other, and once they read that list, who knew if she’d have another chance to ask about him?
“I’m good.”
He licked his lips, and she remembered the soft touch of his kiss on her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, and other, more secret places on her body. Her heart thudded against her ribs.
“I volunteered to deliver meals to shut-ins,” he said. “This past Tuesday was my first day.” He glanced out the windshield ahead. “I enjoyed myself. Made me feel like I did something good.”
Sara nodded, but she couldn’t have offered him a smile even if she’d wanted to. She was too busy trying to figure out why this information gave her such a sense of relief. And then realization struck; his volunteering efforts seemed more an act of someone setting down roots than they were of someone preparing to leave town.
Suddenly, she was acutely aware of the quiet that surrounded them in the interior of the car. Her fingers and toes were chilled, and she remembered that she’d promised to turn on the car’s heater, but she hadn’t. However, instead of reaching for the ignition to fire up the engine, she gave the overhead light a one-finger punch and plucked the envelope from the dashboard.
UNOS was printed clearly in the upper left corner, her address typed out in the center. She stuck her finger beneath the glued flap and ripped, leaving behind ragged edges that mirrored her nerves.
The papers felt brittle between her cold fingers, the small bulb in the car’s ceiling throwing a pale yellow light across the interior of the car. She scanned the cover page and quickly let it fall to her lap. Looking over at Landon, she saw that he was motionless, barely breathing as he stared straight forward, waiting.
The list was long, and Sara’s lips parted in silent surprise as she read. Bones, marrow, blood and platelets, kidneys, liver, intestines, veins, tendons, inner ear tissue, corneas. Heart. There it was. Greg’s heart…
…was flown by air transport to Kansas. Received by Landon Richards.
Emotions eddied inside Sara. First and foremost was fear. To think that Landon had somehow been altered by the operation, and that something had led him here. To her. It was just too freaky to be believed.
Tears welled, burning her eye sockets and blurring her vision.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”
A fist-sized lump swelled in her throat, cutting off anything else she might have wanted to say.
Landon chose that moment to look at her, and Sara knew she hadn’t yet gotten a handle on the terror that churned and rose and threatened to drown her.
“You knew, didn’t you?” Her accusation was as sharp and rusty and dangerous as oxidized nails. “How did you know?”
He said nothing, his jaw muscles tensing to cords, and then he shoved his way out of the car. Landon didn’t cross in front of the car to the sidewalk where his grocery bag sat. He walked down the center of the deserted, dead-end street toward the bay.
Glancing down, Sara saw that her hands were trembling so badly that the paper was steadily tap-tap-tapping against the steering wheel, and then she caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror. She saw a reflection of what Landon had just witnessed—her absolute horror. Naked and garish.
A fat tear seeped from one of her wide-open, red-rimmed eyes and ran the length of her face. All at once, she realized what she’d done.
“Oh, God,” she groaned. She tossed the list onto the passenger seat and flew out of the car. “Landon, wait.” But he didn’t stop, he didn’t even slow down, and she wondered if he’d heard her. She called his name again, hurrying to catch up with him.
By the time she was close enough to grasp his forearm and bring him to a halt, they’d nearly reached the end of the road, the wooden barrier meant to block cars from driving into the marshland barely visible through the thick, brittle overgrowth of reeds.
“I didn’t mean that,” she cried. “I wasn’t calling you a liar.”
“Sure sounded like that was exactly what you were saying.”
He was right, and she couldn’t refute it.
“I’m sorry. It was the shock, I guess. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it. I thought I was ready. I guess I wasn’t.”
There was a sharp edge to the chill in the air that stung her eyes, making them water. The tangle of her emotions didn’t help. She reached up and dashed the tears from her cheeks, the pads of her fingers as cold as tiny cubes of ice.
“Landon, I didn’t mean it,” she repeated for the third time.
He didn’t look convinced in the least.
“How can you be so damned calm?” Her question gushed forth like carbonated bubbles rising toward the surface of a fountain drink, in a mad rush and completely unstoppable.
She watched both his shoulders lift in a small shrug.
“I’ve had more time to live with the idea.”
Sara couldn’t tell if his response was a question or a statement. Her brow furrowed. “But it’s so unbelievable. How could this happen?”
He stuffed his fists into his trouser pockets. “You have to find a way to deal with this, Sara. It’s like the weather. Back in Kansas, we had to learn to live with whatever the sky gave us. There were always surprises. Always too much of something and not enough of something else. Too many clouds, not enough sunshine. Or too much sun and not enough rain. Or, surprise! Here comes a tornado. You deal with it. Asking a bunch of unanswerable questions is a waste of everyone’s time.”
His little spiel rubbed her the wrong way. “That would be fine if we were talking about when to plow the back forty, or how best to rotate the crops—” she jutted her chin forward, her tone intensifying “—or the price of corn, Landon. But we’re not, are we?”
It didn’t take a fancy college degree to understand that her question was purely rhetorical, so she wasn’t surprised when he just stood there, silent and as still as if he were made of stone.
“We’re talking about… Greg’s heart…” Speaking those last two words made her voice break. “Beating in your chest.”
The small flame of anger that had flared inside her just a m
oment before fizzled, and disquiet seeped through her veins like icy winter seawater, causing her to shiver.
“It’s… it’s…” She shook her head, holding her hands out in front of her. “Bizarre doesn’t even begin to describe this. It’s scary. It’s unnatural.” She shoved her bangs off her forehead. “And it makes me want to run as fast and as far away as I can.”
His dark eyes simmered as he narrowed his gaze. His jaw was clenched tight and his nostrils flared.
“Then run, Sara,” he told her. “Run fast and run far. Get as much distance as you can from the bizarreness of it all. But me?” He poked his index finger to his chest, hard. “I don’t have the luxury, now do I? I’m forced to deal with reality. I have to come to terms with what is. Strange or not, I don’t have a choice. Because I can’t live without the heart that’s pumping blood through my body.”
He turned away from her then, marched off along the street, stepped up onto the curb, and walked along the sidewalk. She stood in the street, watching him. He picked up his bag and disappeared behind a thatch of pale ornamental sea grass planted at the corner of the neighboring property.
The street looked as empty and as barren as she felt inside. Slowly, she became cognizant of the sound of the tiny waves lapping against the marshy shoreline and she turned to stare at the bay. But the wide expanse of cold, inky water offered no comfort.
Chapter Eighteen
“Don’t be surprised if she’s pissed,” Cathy told Heather. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Sara and her mother entered the bright and airy kitchen of the Lonely Loon, their hands filled with contributions to the gathering of family and friends for the annual pot-luck Thanksgiving dinner. Savory fragrances filled the air. Geneva hobbled into the room on her own, and a relieved Sara smiled but couldn’t help herself from sticking close to her mom’s side for support should she be needed. Thank goodness, her mom was having a good day.
“Who’s going to be angry?” Sara asked. “And why? What hot gossip have we missed?”
Heather had whirled around to face them at the sound of Sara’s voice, the soap bubbles clinging to her hands proof that she was in the middle of doing some washing up. She immediately reached for a tea towel and rushed at them, delight brightening her face.
Several moments were spent in greeting. Cathy and Heather both had hugs and cheek kisses for Geneva, and a glass of deep red merlot was thrust into Sara’s hand once she was able to unload the yeast rolls and boxes of desserts she’d baked.
“This needs to go into the fridge.” Geneva handed the bowl to Cathy.
Sara had been so self-focused for the past few days that the holiday had sneaked up on her. She wouldn’t have given Thanksgiving a thought had her mom not asked earlier in the week if the pot-luck dinner was still on their calendar. Sara hadn’t really felt in the party mood, and she’d considered staying home, but her mom had awakened feeling so upbeat and pain free this morning that she’d been able to shower and dress herself for the special occasion. She’d even put together a bowl of ambrosia to bring along.
Knowing how infrequently her mom felt this good, Sara just couldn’t dash Geneva’s happy anticipation by canceling out on the get-together. Besides that, she knew that being with Heather and Cath would lift her spirits and help her to forget her miseries, at least for a few hours.
She savored the wine’s fruity richness and smiled at the smooth finish. “Wow, that’s good.”
“Could I have a little?” her mom asked Cathy.
“Of course.” Cathy turned to pull a glass down from the cabinet.
Sara was surprised by the request. “Mom, are you sure?”
“I didn’t need a pain pill today,” Geneva told her as she settled onto one of the Windsor chairs. “So I’m sure I’ll be just fine.” Then she instructed Cathy, “I just want a little, hon. To celebrate.”
Heather reached for her wine glass that was sitting on the rectangular table among the bowls, measuring cups, spoons, a couple of onions, nuts, spices, a bag of fresh cranberries, and other ingredients.
“To friends and family.” Heather lifted the glass, and everyone followed suit.
After swallowing another sip of wine, Sara asked, “So who were you talking about when we came in?” She reached across the table and pulled a walnut half from the bag. “Sounds like we interrupted a juicy tale.”
“Not as juicy as that ambrosia salad.” Cathy bent at the waist and gave Sara’s mom another hug. “Geneva, you are going to give me your recipe this year, right?”
“Oh, honey, it’s nothing special.” But the request had the older woman beaming.
“The turkey, stuffing, and sweet potato casserole are all in the oven on warm.” Heather glanced around the kitchen as she focused on ticking off the dishes on her fingers. “Mashed potatoes and succotash are on the stove. The cranberry sauce is in the refrigerator.”
Cathy caught Sara’s eye and they shared a grin, proclaiming in unison, “We love your cranberry sauce.”
And they did. Heather’s recipe included mandarin orange slices and walnuts, and it was delicious.
“Sara, you brought the rolls?” Heather asked.
“Of course,” she assured her, “and dessert. As requested. But what about the juicy gossip?”
“Cathy, if you’ll get me a pen and paper,” Geneva said, clearing a small space in front of her on the table, “I’ll write down that recipe for you.”
“Sure thing.” Cathy spun toward the far corner of the kitchen where she knew Heather had a junk drawer loaded with Post-it notes, pens, pencils, paper clips, duct tape, a flashlight or two, and myriad other paraphernalia.
“Why do I get the feeling that no one’s listening to me?” Sara’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, were you talking about me?”
“Heather,” Cathy said breezily as she plunked a stubby pencil and a piece of paper in front of Geneva, “it’s okay if I put some music on, right? And the table still needs to be set.”
The sound of the old brass knocker being tapped against the front door made all of them pause.
“I’ll get that,” Cathy rushed to offer.
“Wait.” Sara snagged the sleeve of Cathy’s sweater, bringing her friend to a halt. “How come you didn’t tell me you invited your special friend?” Sara teased.
Cathy’s spine seemed to arch in offense and she raised her brows. “That’s because I don’t have a special friend. And, besides, Brad is spending the holidays with his mom in Florida.” She tugged her sleeve from between Sara’s fingers. “I need to answer the door.”
After she disappeared, Sara called after her, “If you don’t have a special friend, then how’d you know who I was talking about?” She was still grinning when she swiveled her gaze to Heather. “So who’s joining us?”
Heather had piled her long dark hair onto the top of her head in a loose bun. A few curling tendrils framed her face and she’d accentuated her brown eyes with a little mascara and liner. But no amount of makeup could disguise her expression; she looked like a kid who’d gotten caught swiping her finger through the cupcake icing.
“You were talking about me.” Dread swirled in Sara’s belly as she whispered the accusation. “Please don’t tell me you invited Landon.”
Heather swiped the back of her wrist across her damp forehead and slid into the chair, leaning forward in supplication. “It’s one Thanksgiving dinner, Sara. He doesn’t know anyone in town. He’d have spent the whole day all alone.”
Sara just gave her a narrow-eyed stare.
“He helped us so much,” Heather tried again. “I realize that you two—”
“How could you?” Her mouth had gone so dry, she had difficulty saying those three little words.
“She didn’t,” her mother said. “I did.”
“What?”
“Sara, you’re going to have to get over yourself sooner or later.” Her mother met her gaze, head on and unflinching.
She couldn’t have been more shocked had her mother
smacked her cheek.
“Get over myself?” Sara said when she finally found her tongue. “How can you say that when you know what happened? We talked about it and talked about it.”
“Ad nauseum.”
The comment stung like a second slap and Sara actually gasped.
“I’m sorry, honey,” her mom said. “I went too far there. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m happy to listen whenever you need me to.”
The apology didn’t do much to heal her wounded feelings. “I told you how the whole situation creeps me out. It’s scary.”
“And I’ll tell you what’s truly scary.” Geneva scooted her chair a little so she could look her daughter directly in the eye. “Facing an uncertain future of taking care of your physically disabled mother when your father has packed his clothes and walked out. Now, that’s scary. And you, my strong and brave girl, never faltered. Not once.”
The woman reached out and grasped Sara’s hand in hers. “And I’ll tell you what else is scary. Going head to head with two stubborn, selfish people who wanted to bury their son, whole and intact, when you knew in your heart that’s not what your husband wanted. That is scary. You were fearless. You held your ground and you did what you knew was right.”
The mention of Greg, and knowing Landon would be sitting at the dinner table, made Sara’s stomach go queasy. She swallowed and murmured, “It’s just not… natural. The way he was led halfway across the country.”
“It’s perfectly natural,” her mother snapped. “You stick a white chrysanthemum into a vase of blue water, and what happens? The flower petals turn blue. It’s an easy concept to grasp. Everything has its effects. Everything.”
“But he dreams about the ocean.” Sara had already explained all this to Heather and her mother and Cathy, ad nauseum as her mother has described. But she couldn’t stop herself from repeating, yet again, “He admitted that, the day we first met, he’d known he’d already met me.”
Calmly, her mother said, “A part of him had.”
