by Sarina Bowen
“Sweet! Thanks.”
He waves me out of the tiny office, and I go gratefully back to my seat.
37
Heidi
“I’m so angry at Jason, because I didn’t go looking for a relationship!” Yet now I feel awful anyway. “He started it!” I whine to my sister from the middle of the rug in Bayer’s apartment.
“You sound like a seven-year-old,” she says.
“You shut up,” I reply, proving her point.
“Look—it’s not very Heidi Jo to take this lying down,” she points out. “You always run straight at the things you want and then grab them by the neck.”
“I did,” I wail. “It failed.”
“Bullcrap,” my sister fires back. “Either the two of you have something special, or you don’t. That man is scared. You told me yourself. Why are you letting him off the hook so easily?”
“Because you can’t make somebody love you. He has to want it.”
“But what if he does? He told off Daddy. Nobody does that. And he defended you from a fish. He moved you into his home.”
“That last thing is open to interpretation.” I moved myself in. And that’s the whole problem—I don’t really trust my view of events. I was too busy getting swept off my feet to notice that he’s still in love with someone else.
“You’re not a quitter,” my sister points out. “No matter what Daddy says. Hey—speaking of Daddy—has he called you this week?”
“No. We aren’t speaking much right now. That’s another failed relationship of mine.”
She’s quiet a second. “I don’t think it’s you. Something is up with him. Mom is flying to New York this weekend, too. I got a bad feeling about it.”
I sit up from the rug, nerves racing through my belly. “You think there’s something wrong with Daddy?” My mind is full of horrible ideas now. Cancer? Heart trouble? Our mother hates New York and doesn’t often come up.
“Maybe I’m just being dramatic,” Jana says. “But I’ll call Mom and ask her if everything is okay.”
“You’ll tell me if you hear anything, right?”
“Of course. Now I have to run. Things to do. People to meet.”
“Me too,” I say, because I’m waiting for the hockey game to start. Maybe I’m breaking up with my hockey player, but I’ll never break up with hockey.
I turn on Bayer’s giant TV and find the game broadcast. While I wait for the faceoff, I use my phone for my other hobby—searching Miranda Wager’s byline for new articles. If she writes something invasive about Jason, I may not be responsible for my actions.
I still care about him, even if he doesn’t return the favor. And his stressful meeting with the transplant recipients is the day after tomorrow.
The camera cuts away from the sportscasters and makes a sweep of the bench. I lean forward eagerly. There’s O’Doul talking to Trevi. And the new kid, Drake. Then I see Jason, and my heart seizes. Maybe I’m just projecting, but he looks sad behind his face mask. Those dark eyes have known more unhappiness than I guessed before I got to know him.
I wonder how he’s doing tonight—whether he’s steeped in sad memories. And I can’t help but wonder who made his sandwich. Did they use creamy peanut butter? Was the jam done right, or did it leak out of the sides?
Jason is a big boy, I remind myself. He can make his own freaking sandwich. But I liked doing that small thing for him. Not because he needed the help, but because he appreciated it so much.
There’s a knock on the door, and I startle. Everyone I know is in Arizona at the game.
When I peer through Bayer’s peephole, I see Georgia Trevi. “Hi!” I say, swinging the door open. “I thought you’d be in Phoenix.”
“Tommy has this trip covered,” she says. “Although I’m heading out to Minnesota tomorrow night to take Jason to his meeting.”
“Oh,” I say, waving her in. “The game is about to start.”
“I know!” She glances at the TV to make sure we’re not missing any action. “But I was just packing for my trip, and I wanted to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I’m flying commercial tomorrow. American has an eight p.m. flight to Minneapolis-St. Paul.”
“Oh?” I’m not sure why this is relevant. “Did you need me to do something?”
“Nope!” she says cheerfully. “Just thought you should know.”
My mind whirls. “You think I should go to Minneapolis? Why?”
Georgia sighs. “I’m marching Jason into a meeting he’s dreading. And I don’t think I’m the one he wants there.”
“I’m not, either,” I point out.
“Are you sure?”
No? Yes? “I’m not sure of anything.”
“Hear me out for a second. I was once like Jason—traumatized by my past.”
“You were?” That’s hard to picture. Georgia and Leo are like poster children for a happy couple.
“Yes. And I was too stuck inside my troubles to trust myself. I’m not proud of it. But Leo had to be the bigger person and have patience with me. Even when I pushed him away.”
“But…” I struggle with myself for a moment. “What if I show up and he really doesn’t want me there? I already feel like the third wheel.”
“It’s not a foolproof plan,” she admits with a wince. “But he’s unhappy, and you’re unhappy. That’s where Leo and I were, too. Just saying.”
“I see.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “I’m going to go yell at the TV with my mother-in-law. Come join us if you want. I’ll pour you a glass of wine.”
“Thanks,” I say. “Um, maybe I will. Later.” The minute she walks out that door I’m going to google flights to Minnesota. Damn her.
She smiles like she knows what I’m thinking. “Until then. Have a good game.”
Georgia leaves just as the players on Bayer’s screen line up for the faceoff.
I sit down on the couch and pick up my phone. There are, in fact, several flights to Minnesota tomorrow. But the one that Georgia is taking costs $1255 for a last-minute ticket.
There’s no way I can afford that. Problem solved.
I lie down on the couch and watch the game. Jason is on second shift. He skates with grace and power, staring down the defenseman, stealing the puck and passing it with finesse. He doesn’t look like a man who needs me.
But then I get a look at him on the bench. He’s wearing his closed-off game face. Every player has one—a face that threatens to tear down anything in his path.
We all have that face, actually. But it’s an act. I wear mine when I’m feeling particularly friendless.
I ponder that for a moment. And then I pick up my phone again and search flights for the following morning. Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. Jason might not be ready to love me. But he could really use a friend in Minneapolis.
Maybe Georgia has a point. Loving someone means supporting him without expecting anything in return. It’s making him a sandwich, or standing beside him when he’s facing the worst part of his past.
I can be that friend. Even if it hurts.
To make a grand gesture, you need a few things: courage, airfare, and cooperation from the universe.
That last thing proves to be a problem.
My cheap flight has a layover in Detroit. That costs me an hour and a half. And then my connecting flight to Minnesota is forty minutes late.
But I can still make it, I tell myself as I run toward the taxi line outside the airport. It takes me ten minutes to make my way to the front of the line. When I finally throw myself into the back of a cab and blurt out the address, I only have twenty-seven minutes until the meeting will start.
Cue the traffic. It’s pretty bad once we get off the highway. I see signs for the hospital and think I’m in luck. So I sit back and fix my face as the taxi inches through various intersections. I manage not to stab myself in the eye with the mascara wand as the driver steps heavily on the brakes. “Accident,” he
says. “Sorry, miss, they’re gonna make me turn here.”
I look out the window and spot a policeman setting up a detour, and my heart sinks. A glance at the time tells me that the meeting starts in four minutes. And I can see the hospital from here!
Damn it! How can I be a great and selfless friend when I’m stuck in the back of a cab?
I could walk the rest of the way. That’s how.
This idea energizes me. “I’ll get out here,” I say, passing cash to the front seat.
“You’re kidding me,” he grumbles, and I pass over another twenty. I’m getting there if it kills me.
It doesn’t kill me. I’m just very winded by the time I roll my carry-on through the hospital doors and present myself at the information desk. “Organ. Transplant. Center,” I wheeze at the man behind the desk.
His eyes widen. “Are you okay, miss?”
“Fine! I’m late for a meeting…”
“Go through those double doors. Take the second elevator to the B wing. Then follow the signs toward surgical.”
“Got it!” I take off again.
But, Lordy, I didn’t know a hospital could be so big! It’s another ten minutes before I see the transplant unit. There’s a Meeting Room sign over one door, so I sprint over to it. I skid to a stop outside, breathing hard, peering through the glass pane, looking for Jason.
And there he is, looking gracious in a gray suit and blue shirt. He stands tall beside… Well, everyone. His mother and father are there. And both his sisters. Georgia, too. She’s holding a bag of Bruisers gear. And there’s a gray-haired woman I don’t recognize. They’re standing in a semicircle with two young women, one of them in a hockey team jacket, the other one in a dress.
As I watch, the hockey-playing girl steps forward. She looks up at Jason with pure joy, and then gives him a big hug. The look on Jason’s face is impossible to describe. It’s full of pain, but also love. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip.
And now my eyes are fountains. I brush away my tears and take a series of steadying breaths. When I look more closely at the meeting room, it doesn’t make things easier. The walls are covered with photographs of smiling people, in sets of two. Donor and recipient. Loss and life. Loser and winner.
The other girl steps forward now. Jason meets her gaze and makes himself smile. Then he pulls her into a hug.
Now I’m a mess. The tears come again, and even though I can’t seem to stop them, it feels gratuitous. I’m blissfully uninvolved in everything that’s happening here. I’ve never lost anyone so violently, nor have I ever bargained with God for the chance to live a healthy life.
My wish list is mostly luxury cosmetics. Never once did I have to put kidney on there.
I turn away, chastened. There’s a box of tissues on the reception desk, and I take one.
“Can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asks.
“N-no,” I stammer. “No, thank you.” I retreat down the hallway again. Jason didn’t need me after all. But at least now I understand what it means to truly be spoiled.
Daddy had it all wrong. It’s not the jobs you work or the brand of your shoes.
Spoiled is not having to look into the darkness.
38
Jason
Carrie is adorable. The fact that she plays college hockey makes this a little easier somehow, like we have one thing in common that’s not tragedy. And Georgia is standing ready to give her a jersey and some other Bruisers’ swag.
“You know I’m a Brooklyn fan now,” she says. “It’s really amazing to meet you.”
And meeting Anita—the other recipient—isn’t so horrible, either. It helps that she looks nothing like Lissa did. “I have 20/20 vision,” she whispers after hugging me and Lissa’s mother. “I’m sorry for your loss. I can’t even imagine it. But I wanted you to know that Lissa changed my life. I’m pregnant.” She puts a hand over her tummy. “When my baby is born, I’ll be able to see her. Just like any mom.”
That’s it. I’m done. Fat tears roll down my face. I’m the last to break; my family is quietly crying, and Jolene Skinner is wailing like a wounded animal.
“My baby girl,” she howls. “If she had to go, I’m glad she could do this for you.”
I blow my nose and pull myself together. Somehow Jolene’s theatrics make it easier for me to keep it together. Somebody has to. I feel wrung out. That’s what nobody ever tells you about grief—it’s exhausting, and you’re never really done with it.
Georgia must sense that I’ve had enough. “Ladies, I have some gifts from our team, and I have tickets for tomorrow night’s game for everyone here. But we need to get Jason back to the hotel for a team meal.”
“I want to help you with your participation drive,” I tell Carrie. “Send Georgia the information, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“That would be amazing,” she says, wiping her eyes.
We take a couple of photos together, then Georgia does a great job of wrapping things up. Carrie and Anita leave first, and Georgia puts a blubbering Jolene into a taxi. I walk my family to their cars in the parking garage.
“See you tomorrow night, honey,” my mother says, squeezing me tightly. “You were a rock in there. I don’t know how you do it.”
Praise doesn’t help. My recent behavior hasn’t made me feel like anyone’s rock.
“Where’s Heidi, by the way?” my dad asks.
“Ah, about that,” I say with a sigh. “I don’t know if that’s going to work out.”
“Oh no,” my mother says. “Why?”
“It’s all me,” I admit. “I have been difficult, and she got fed up.”
“You, difficult?” My sister Jackie snorts.
Mom’s eyes grow sorrowful. “Maybe it’s not too late? I really liked her.”
“You never know,” I say. I feel so much relief at having survived the meeting that anything seems possible. “See you tomorrow!”
“Go Brooklyn!” my dad says as he starts the car.
After they pull out and drive away, I walk back over the pedestrian walkway toward the hospital. Georgia has texted me. Making a quick call. Be with you in five minutes. Find the taxi stand? It’s out in front somewhere.
Will do, I reply.
I head to hospital’s main entrance. Outside, there’s a bus shelter that might also serve as a taxi stand, so I wander towards the busy spot.
My subconscious snags on a young woman who’s facing away from me. And I immediately get this indescribable lift inside—like there’s suddenly more space in my chest. I take a second glance, and notice that her honeyed curls look a lot like Heidi’s.
That’s ridiculous, of course. There’s no reason why Heidi should be sitting on a bench waiting for the bus in Minneapolis. But just the suggestion of Heidi makes me so happy. That’s something I’m going to have to think about later.
Then she turns her head, and I’m astonished to see that it is actually Heidi Jo Pepper sitting on that bench in the brisk November wind. She dabs her eyes with a tissue.
She’s here. It’s really her. And she’s upset.
I’m running to her before I even realize it. When I reach the bench, I pluck her into my arms and wrap both arms tightly around her. She gasps but then quickly settles against my chest.
And somehow everything clicks into place.
Heidi
“What are you doing here?” Jason asks.
The question lacks finesse, but his hug is perfection. My poor little heart starts tap dancing to the tune of hope. A girl can be meticulous at prioritizing her wish list, but sometimes her heart scribbles out all the attainable things and scrawls JUST THIS FOREVER at the top of it.
And how do I even explain why I’m here?
“I had this idea that you needed a friend today, even if we can’t be together. But then I got here late and you had your family around you and didn’t need me.” I’m starting to babble, but I can’t stop. “But I also see now that I’m way out of my depth. And it’s oka
y because I get it now. I finally understand. I brought your sandwich, though, so you might want to eat it anyway.”
His lips are coasting over my cheekbone, causing goosebumps to break out all over my body. “You brought me a sandwich.”
“I thought you might need it.” And right then, I have a flash of insight. “Jason, did Lissa make the first sandwich for you?”
“She did. I should have told you that. I should have told you a lot of things. We need to talk,” he says.
“Okay.” I hate those words. But he’s still hugging me tightly. So at least I have that.
“I’m sorry I’ve been awful.”
“It’s all right. We can be friends. I meant that.”
“No, see, we can’t.”
My heart drops. “We can’t? Is it because we already had filthy, dirty, sex?”
“No.” He chuckles in my ear. “We can’t be just friends because you’re much more to me than that. Even if I’ve been too big of a punk to admit it. I’m still struggling, Heidi. November is always a rough month for me. But if you can give me another chance, I swear I’ll do a better job.”
“Of what, though?” I lean back and look him in the eye. “If you’re still in love with someone else, I’m not going to try to compete with that.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “See…” He sits down on the bench and takes my hand. I let him tug me down to sit beside him. “It’s like this—the part of me that’s still eighteen will always love an eighteen-year-old girl I once knew. And—this is the greater problem for me—I’ll always feel bad about not being there for her. But I’m not a teenager anymore.”
“You still carry her picture around in your gym bag,” I point out.
He winces. “Yeah, I think it’s time I put that in a drawer.”
“Not for my sake, though.”
“No,” he agrees quickly. “For mine. You proved to me that it’s time to move on. And I want to. With you. Because I love you.”
I take a deep breath and try to take that in. “You didn’t plan on loving me.”