by Tiana Laveen
He looked down at his hands as the recent memories played back over and over, like a recurring nightmare. The images took over, crushing him. Would he ever be able to sleep again?
“Cameron!” Eli yelled for him to come to the phone in the club.
Several of Brooke’s bandmates had attempted to reach him earlier, but he hadn’t heard his cell phone going off. When he answered the club phone and heard, “Brooke is at the hospital…On a ventilator…Brain-dead…” everything inside of him poured out. He became weak at the knees and vomited the contents of his stomach, then banged on the car door all the way to the hospital, his boy driving him, trying to keep him relaxed. It didn’t matter what Eli said as he raced him to the hospital. Nothing mattered at all and the only words he wanted to hear were: “You’ve been misinformed. Brooke is fine.”
When he walked in those doors, he rushed to the front desk only to have security try and calm him down. Nothing was making sense.
Soon thereafter, Brooke’s mother approached him, along with her aunt and cousin, all of them looking frantic, gripping cups of coffee, tears in their eyes. The doctor came and explained the situation. Once again he was told that this wasn’t a dream. Brooke was really gone.
“The doctor and her friends that were with her said it happened rather quickly.” Mrs. Coleman placed her coffee down and blew her nose. “The bullet went into her neck and by the time she arrived at the hospital, she barely had a pulse. They said she was brain-dead, no activity, but her heart was so strong, Cameron, that it kept trying to hold on. Kept on beating, pounding, demanding a second chance at life.”
She closed her eyes tight, shook her head and took a deep breath. Clutching the edge of the chair, she tapped her feet, just like the women in church before they caught the Holy Spirit. Then, just like that, Mrs. Coleman opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“She was one of the strongest women I knew, but she came across as so gentle.” He could barely utter the words.
“She was like a robust flower, wasn’t she? Then the alarming second wave of news arrived, right? We all were told at the same time. Brooke had signed up to be not only an organ donor, but a heart donor specifically.” She lifted her finger and waved it about. “Cameron, see? That’s what I am talking about—grace of God. My baby was always thinking about other people. A good soul. She was always a good soul.”
He turned away, not wanting to hear any more. In retrospect, he shouldn’t have been shocked. Brooke’s father had passed away when she was only thirteen from heart failure. He’d never received the surgery he so desperately needed.
“Cameron?” Mrs. Coleman shook him out of his thoughts.
“Huh? Oh.”
“Baby.” The woman got to her feet and came to sit beside him. Wrapping her arm around him, she placed a kiss on his earlobe. “It’s going to be all right. I promise you that Brooke, though young and so full of life, would be happy that at least her heart will keep on beatin’.”
Mrs. Coleman was so strong; he was in awe. He just couldn’t muster that feeling, think positive in any manner. The woman sat with her chin high, her grace and class apparent as tears streamed down her cheeks. She was keeping it together for everyone else in there. Didn’t matter that it was her daughter who lay there, deceased. The woman had lost her husband, her son in a car accident over ten years ago, and now, her only daughter, too.
Who upstairs is punishing Mrs. Coleman? What kind of God took a woman like Brooke away, struck her down in her prime?
His body shook as waves of uncontrollable, unsurmountable grief overcame him. He rocked in his seat and wailed, the pain finally breaking free with no barriers. She held him tighter.
It was just the two of them now. The waiting area had cleared out quite a bit. Loads of Brooke’s friends and family had paraded inside, but Mrs. Coleman urged them to say their goodbyes quickly, right before the surgery. Time was of the essence in these cases. Once it had been made clear that Brooke was never coming back, Mrs. Coleman had signed the necessary paperwork to have her daughter give what she gave to everyone she met—her whole heart.
He took Mrs. Coleman’s hand, squeezed it and leaned forward, doubling over. Blood rushed to his head. She ran her hand along his back as the tears fell.
“We were going to get married.”
“I know. I know, Cameron.” She kept on soothing him. “I think everyone knew that. You loved each other so much.”
“She was so happy to be performing in the park tonight. It was my idea. I had been beggin’ her to do it. I harassed her manager, went online to see about it. I knew that if she got in that park, her fanbase would explode. I was promoting it, flyers everywhere. I even bought some ads. And now look? She’s dead. This is all my damn fault.”
“Nuh uh,” the woman stated calmly. “We’re not doing that today, Cameron. All right? We’re not doing that at all, ever. We’re not chasing something or someone to blame—definitely not ourselves.”
“But it’s true.”
“It’s not true. Brooke was doing what she loved best—singing. People perform in parks all spring and summer in the city. That’s what artists do. They sing. Perform. My daughter was an entertainer. You can’t keep a songbird cooped up in a cage all day. Brooke loved being with her fans. She loved performing, you know that.”
He could feel the woman’s gaze on him, but he kept his eyes on the glossy white hospital floor, his hands clasped, his rage and distress flowing freely, dripping everywhere.
“She wanted it as badly as you wanted it for her,” she continued. “The people to blame are the ones who chose to take out a gun and shoot at one another in a space full of innocent people. I won’t have you sitting here doing this to yourself.”
He looked at the woman for a brief spell, then turned away, the pain too much. Mrs. Coleman was pretty much an older version of Brooke. He couldn’t handle it.
“I want them to find who killed her. I need justice.” He gritted his teeth.
“I want him found too, especially before he hurts someone else. I believe they will; too many people saw him. Right now, I want you to think about the good times you two shared together. Your love for my daughter knew no bounds.”
She placed a kiss against his cheek. He smiled, but the anger and resentment kept growing. She got to her feet, grabbed her purse, and made her way over to the nurses’ station. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but within moments, a doctor approached and they began to talk. She looked over her shoulder at him and waved him over.
“The surgery went well,” the doctor explained, his dark brows slightly furrowed. “Your daughter was in excellent health and—I’m sorry about this, I really am. I know it’s difficult. I’ve been performing heart surgeries for over sixteen years, including heart transplants, and it never gets any easier when I have to speak to the donor’s family. What your daughter did was incredibly selfless and allowed another young woman to live, one who would’ve been dead in a matter of months if she hadn’t received Brooke’s gift of love.”
“Gift of love?” Cameron questioned.
“Yes, that’s what some of us call it since the heart represents love,” the doctor explained.
“It’s the gift of life, man. My girlfriend is dead because some bastard shot her dead, and now, her life is saving someone else’s. Love doesn’t have shit to do with this.”
“Cameron.” Mrs. Coleman’s eyes widened as she stared at him.
“It’s okay,” the doctor stated calmly. “Anger is part of the grieving process. Brooke’s death was not natural. I understand. Only time seems to make these things a little easier.”
“Time doesn’t do shit, either. Time didn’t care that she was only thirty years old. Who is she?” Cameron barked.
“Who is who?”
“Who is the woman who has my girlfriend’s heart now?”
“We’re not at liberty to discuss that unless the patient has signed consent forms to allow disclosure to the donor’s family. I will check her
paperwork and follow up with you about that, okay?”
Cameron hesitated for a spell, then nodded before turning away.
“Cameron, honey, where are you going?”
“Just to step outside for a second. I need some fresh air.”
Mrs. Coleman smiled sadly at him, then turned back toward the doctor. In a few minutes, he was standing outside the hospital, looking up into the night sky. He slid out his phone and looked at his missed call log—it was well over fifty. On a sigh, he sat down on a nearby bench and began to compose a generic mass text message:
Thank you to everyone for reaching out to me. I can’t really talk right now and don’t want to chat at this time. Please understand that I need some space, but no, it’s not a rumor. My Brookie, as I often called her, passed away. She’s gone. To those asking who did this, the police are searching for her killer. Wrong place, wrong time. Bullet not meant for her—he was shooting at someone else. The police have several street camera photos of the guy and there were witnesses, so they hope to find him soon. Please just keep Brooke’s family in your prayers. When I have final details about the funeral service, I’ll let you know. Thanks. Cameron
He slipped his phone back into his pants pocket and huffed. Just then, his phone rang. He had no intentions of answering it until he noticed it was his mother.
“Yeah, Mom.”
“What’s going on?” the woman cried. “Cameron, your father and I have been trying to reach you for hours.”
“Mama, please. Not right now. I already told you that I was going to the hospital.”
His mom was silent for a spell.
“She’s really dead, isn’t she?” she whimpered, sounding somewhat like a child.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and blinked back tears. The next few moments felt like an eternity. Mama sobbed on the other end of the phone. He could hear his father in the background, saying, “Oh, no.”
“Cameron, your father is trying to find us a flight back home.” They were in Puerto Rico on vacation.
Pops was taking control, as usual.
A tall, dark-complexioned Black man, his dad played the saxophone for pleasure, but worked as a journalist for a small paper and blog that dealt with the healthcare needs of the elderly. Mama was a pharmacist and active in her church. They’d both taken a liking to Brooke, undoubtedly believing that somehow, she’d tame him, make him a bit less wild.
“Mama…”
“Yes?” she said between gasps for air.
“I never loved anyone like I loved Brooke. That connection…I can’t even explain it. Mama, I’m dyin’. I can’t breathe, Mama.” His heart began to pound painfully. He gripped his chest and swallowed his voice, a scream trying to force itself from between his lips. He looked around, wanting to beat something to death, and wanting to die, too.
“Dad and I will be home as soon as possible. He’s looking into airlines right now,” Mom repeated, as if that somehow would help. He knew she was trying her best. “Oh, God.” Mom’s voice faded and suddenly, he heard his father speaking.
“Cameron.” Pops must’ve taken the phone from his mother. “Cameron, I’m sorry, son. I know you’re upset right now. We’ll be back home as soon as possible.” Stop telling me that. Both of you stop saying that to me. “Where are you right now?”
“The hospital. With Brooke’s mother.” He sucked his teeth and kicked a pebble across the way.
“Can I speak with her? Is Mrs. Coleman close to you?”
“I’m outside. She’s talkin’ to the doctor who did the surgery.”
“Surgery? I take it they tried to do surgery and it failed.”
“No, that’s not what happened. She was dead on arrival, brain-dead that is. Brooke was a heart donor, Pops. I never knew that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, they just did the transplant operation. Some woman got Brooke’s heart now.”
He swallowed his resentment as he looked around, watching people and cars go by. He felt as if he wasn’t supposed to be indignant, to feel so ugly inside, but he couldn’t help it.
“Okay,” his father said after a brief silence. “We’ll see you soon. When we get to the airport, I’ll text you.”
“All right, but Pops, there’s nothin’ you or Mama can do.” Cameron shook his head. “You can’t bring her back. I keep thinkin’ every few minutes that I’m going to wake up. But then, I look at my phone and see messages I missed. People asking me, ‘Is Brooke dead?’ Or I look behind me and see the hospital, smell that place all over me. I went to her social media pages and uh…” He hung his head. “Hundreds upon hundreds of people are posting on her page, Dad. I imagine it will be thousands within the next twenty-four hours. She touched so many people, so many people.”
“She did. She was a wonderful young lady, son, and I’m so, so, so sorry about this. We’re hurting with you. She was like a daughter to us.”
“I was gonna ask her to marry me next month, Dad.” A tear streamed down his face. “I had the ring and everything. I mean, we’ve been together almost four years, ya know?” He shrugged. “I settled down because of her. No more messin’ around. I wanted her just that bad. She made me a one-woman man. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. I can’t breathe, Pops, I can’t fuckin’ breathe.”
“Cameron, you’re still in shock. Look, go back inside with Mrs. Coleman. You shouldn’t be alone right now. I bet—”
“Did you hear me, Dad? You don’t understand.” He jumped to his feet. “I DON’T WANT TO GO BACK INSIDE. She’s in there, dead.” He pointed to the hospital. “I want to stay out here, where she’s free. Where she’s still alive. I can’t do this.” He spun around, the tears falling faster and harder. “Everybody expects me to be strong, but I’m anything but that right now. I am nothin’ like my real self, or maybe this is the real me after all.”
“What do you think is the real you, Cameron? You have got—”
“I’m nothin’ without Brooke. I ain’t shit without her.” He sobbed, coming undone. He didn’t care about the people now staring at him as they walked past. “She was with me when I didn’t have anything, nothin’ to give her. I ain’t have any money, could barely pay my damn bills when we first met. She encouraged me, taught me shit I didn’t even know. I ended up opening my own club with her help and support. She was my ride or die. It was her that was the backbone. Nobody ever had my back like Brooke, Pops. NOBODY. Now my baby is gone, I’m dead inside. You hear me? They may as well have shot me, too, ’cause I’m good as gone.”
Chapter Three
I Lost Myself and My Best Friend
The stark white hospital walls seemed blurry, then returned to normal. Emily hissed as the distortions kept coming and going like some cruel joke on repeat. She rested her eyes on a partition to her right. This wall was adorned with a cheap-looking discount-store-type painting, the rustic frame worn and weathered. It drew her eye still, hoping she could soon make it out and her vision would come back, allowing her to see crisp, defined lines once more. The painting only got worse though, seeming to melt like a stick of butter.
Shit.
She ran her fingers through her hair, blinked several times, and strained her eyes, opening them as wide as possible, as if that would somehow make the indistinct world around her typical once again. Suddenly, she felt a dull pain in her chest and aches in several joints. The medicine made her brain spin like a record. Like a bad case of vertigo. She gripped a fistful of her sheets, lulled her head back and sighed.
How many hours have passed? Days? Weeks?
She leaned forward, pushing through it all, refusing to not try again and again. She’d already been briefed on what recovery would feel like, although she hadn’t expected the pain would be this damn debilitating. Her body throbbed all over and now the chest pain was getting worse by the minute.
“Shit.” Falling back onto the flattened pillows, she searched for a call button, a bell, hell, a wooden spoon to lop the metal frames of the bed with—anything to get someone’s att
ention, to make that horrible feeling stop. After taking a deep breath and getting her bearings, she found the little red help button and pushed it frantically while screaming, “Nurse. Nurse. Somebody, please.”
She waited a few moments. Nothing.
“Jesus Christ. Doesn’t anyone work here, or does everyone keep bankers’ hours?”
After what seemed like an eternity, a slender Black woman donning nurse scrubs approached. Her knotted, long black hair in skinny braids was pulled back with a bright pink scrunchie, and she sported a pleasant smile.
“Hi, Ms. Windsor. What seems to be the problem?” The woman rocked back on her thick-soled taupe shoes. Her scrubs had little rainbow-colored hearts and blue stars printed on the fabric.
“I’m in pain, that’s the problem.” Emily rolled her eyes. “I just had surgery.”
“Yes, I know. I hope you’ve been taking it easy.”
“Taking it easy? What else would I be doing? Running a marathon? I’m stuck in this awful hospital, for God’s sake. It’s not exactly the Hamptons. Look.” She took a deep breath. “My fucking heart was ripped out and replaced with a new one and now my chest feels like it is on fire. Like this is Hell. And of course it is. I fucking need something. Give me something for the pain.” Just then, her vision seemed to improve to near perfection. However, the chest pain remained, refusing to let up.
The nurse kept standing there with that goofy, sweet smile, then turned her attention to a board in the room. She made her way over to it and took her sweet time studying it. When she was done, she shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Windsor. You aren’t due for another dose quite yet, and due to the infection you had, the doctors are being careful not to—”
“Infection? What infection?”
“Don’t worry, it’s common, Ms. Windsor. You developed an infection after the surgery, but you’re recovering well.”