by Homes, A. M.
“What does ‘viable’ mean?”
“Your mother died on the scene after a car accident; Jane died in a hospital, where they could keep giving her body oxygen, making sure her organs stayed healthy, and then they removed them as quickly as possible.”
“Do you have to be dead to give your organs?” Ricardo asks.
“Usually,” I say. “There are certain organs that you have two of, like your kidneys, that you can give even if you’re alive.”
“I want to give an organ,” Ricardo says.
I nod. “That’s a lovely idea,” I say. “But you can’t give any organs away until you’re a grown-up.”
“Fine,” he says, “but as soon as I’m grown-up, I’m giving it all away.”
On Saturday at noon, we meet Avery and her fiancé, at the hamburger pub in town. It’s a place George used to like to go, because they knew him and always seated him so he could see both of the TVs simultaneously. I’ve always hated it, because it seemed to be the place where miserable husbands went when they ran away from home—even if only for an hour—to soak themselves in the comfort of other bastards and beer.
Avery and Mark, her fiancé, are already there; I see them nervously pawing through the crème mints by the register when we walk in.
She is small, with short close-cropped hair, like a Jean Seberg or Mia Farrow.
“You must be Avery,” I say as we approach.
“Wow,” she says. “Look how many of you there are.”
“I’m Ashley,” Ashley says, extending her hand.
“Nate,” Nate says, hanging back, just giving a wave.
“Ricardo,” he says, shaking hands with both Avery and Mark.
I introduce Cy and Madeline and suggest that we take a table.
“This feels good,” she says, “very familiar. It’s almost like I’ve been here before.”
“It’s a hamburger joint,” Mark says. “They’re pretty much all the same.”
“I like this one,” Avery says.
When the waitress takes our order, Avery asks for a burger well done, and Ashley comments that that’s the way her mother used to like them too. Avery smiles.
“So how come you needed the transplant—is that an okay question to ask?” Nate wants to know. “I mean, it’s fine if you don’t want to answer, if it’s too personal.”
“It’s fine,” Avery says. “I have a congenital syndrome. It got worse when I became a teenager. I couldn’t go out in the summer because I wasn’t supposed to sweat; I couldn’t do any sports, no salt, lots of diuretics, Lasix, Digoxin, iron, vitamins. Sudden death was always a threat. I would leave the house in the morning and wonder if I’d be coming back. That’s when I started writing poems,” she says. “I wrote poems to manage the stress. I even wrote one about coming here today.”
Our drinks arrive. Ricardo breaks the ice by shooting the paper wrap from his straw across the table at Mark.
“With the transplant,” Nate continues, “do they give you a choice of who it’s going to come from? Like, you can get it from this woman or that guy, or…?”
She shakes her head. “There’s a very long waiting list for organs. You wait and you wait, and then the doctors have to think it’s a good match, and, funny enough, women don’t do well with men’s hearts.”
“Where did you two meet?” Ashley asks, looking at Mark.
“In a cardiologist’s waiting room,” Mark says. “I was there with my grandmother.”
“Remind me again, how are you related to us?” Madeline wants to know.
“They’re not,” Nate says, firmly.
“So what’s it like in Ohio?” I ask, trying to manage the awkwardness, wondering if I’m the only one noticing.
“Nice,” she says. “Very nice. I just realized, this is the first time I ever left the state with my new heart.”
“Did they tell you anything about her?” Nate asks.
“No,” she says. “It’s all kept confidential—it’s a big deal, some people really don’t want to know. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
The hamburgers arrive.
“My mother would be happy for you. She liked doing things for others. She was a very generous person,” Nate says, his voice cracking with emotion.
When Avery has to go to the bathroom, Ashley goes with her. Later, Ashley tells me that Avery showed her the scar—it goes right down the middle of her, like a zipper.
Left alone at the table, Mark tells us how grateful Avery is to be meeting us. “She’s had a hard time since the transplant; she’s different in some way and can’t quite put a finger on it—she has bad dreams, dark thoughts.”
“It’s a big surgery,” I say.
“Dying is worse,” he says, and there’s nothing left to say.
“I just really want to thank you,” Avery says when she comes back from the bathroom. She doesn’t sit down again. It’s one of those meals that are over before anyone’s really eaten.
Cy wraps his burger and slips it into his jacket pocket; Ricardo sees him and does the same, adding his waffle fries as well. As we’re leaving, Ashley asks if Avery and Mark would like to come over to the house. Nate looks stricken.
“Sure,” Avery says. “Just a little visit.”
I lead the way, with Mark driving on my tail up the hill towards home. I glance at Nate in the rearview mirror. “You okay, kiddo?” I ask.
“No,” Nate says flatly. “I’m not okay.”
When I pull into the driveway, Nate is the first one out of the car and into the house. The front door hangs open like a hole into the house, an open wound.
Mark and Avery park at the curb as Tessie comes bounding out and stands at the edge of the grass, barking.
“She doesn’t like people?” Avery asks.
“She’s very friendly, but she won’t cross the line,” Madeline offers.
“The line?” Mark asks, coming around to Avery’s side of the car.
“The invisible fence,” I say.
Avery gets out of the car. She stands looking up at the house, but, suddenly unsteady, she wobbles and sits back down in the front seat. “Owww. Owwww.”
“What?” Mark asks.
“Tessie,” I implore, “stop barking.”
“My head,” Avery says.
“Did you bang your head?” I ask.
“No,” she says, “it just suddenly hurts.”
“Do you often have headaches?”
“No,” Avery says, as if annoyed with all my questions. “It’s not like a headache. It’s like something’s banging on my head, hitting me. Oh, I don’t feel good, I don’t feel good at all.”
“Just a second,” Ashley says, running back up to the house to get something.
“Is this the house?” Avery asks.
“This is where they live,” Mark says.
“Yes,” I say, knowing full well what she’s getting at.
“I think my head hurts because this is the place where it happened,” Avery says.
“Seems like a stretch,” Mark says. I hear him struggling with the idea that his fiancée is not who she once was.
“It’s real,” I say, hoping to reassure both of them. “Jane’s heart knows.…” I tell them about cellular memory and repeat the story of the girl who got the heart of a ten-year-old murder victim: “The transplant recipient began having terrible nightmares, and ultimately the police were brought in; the girl’s nightmares were accurate and provided the clues that solved the murder.”
“I think we should go,” Mark says.
Ashley comes running out with a gift she’s wrapped for Avery. “It was something I made for my mom; I want you to have it.”
“Thank you,” Avery says, her headache clearly getting worse.
Mark starts the car and puts it in gear. It lurches forward—we all stand back.
“I’ve got to go, honey,” she says to Ashley. “Stay in touch.…”
“I’m not entirely clear what she wanted,” Madeline says, wat
ching the car drive away.
“I never want to see her again,” Nate says, when we’re all back inside. “It was too weird, like one of those movies you see the trailer for—by M. Night Shyamalan.”
Nate is up in the night. I hear footsteps and intercept him in the living room. “What’s up?” He doesn’t answer. “Are you sleepwalking?”
He shakes his head no, and sits on the living-room sofa. “Why did she come? It’s like she wants us to tell her it’s okay that she has Mom’s heart—that we’re sorry she has feelings about it, like we’re supposed to make her feel better? How about it’s not okay, none of it is okay? How about no one thought for one minute about me or Ashley when all this was happening?” He goes on and on. I don’t interrupt. I look at him. I listen. I pat his back. He rocks back and forth, downloading all of it—erupting. Every feeling he’s ever had is coming out of him—at various points he’s crying, or wild-eyed and screaming. Ashley and Ricardo come to the top of the stairs and ask if everything is all right.
“Yes,” I say. “Nate is very upset, but he’ll be fine.” In truth, I’m not sure. He’s exploding; everything he tried so hard to keep in for so long is coming out.
Tessie is with us in the living room, helping too. At some point during the night, we start talking about the trip to South Africa—it seems to calm Nate to revisit our adventures. I tell him about the Web page Sofia made for the trip, how she posted pictures and stories about the experience culled from the e-mails and photos I sent, and that strangers had been visiting the site and making donations. I tell him that there’s close to thirty thousand dollars in the account.
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“Nate, it’s one-thirty in the morning. Why would I lie?”
I take him to his father’s computer, show him the page and the comments people have made about being so impressed to see such a young person committed to making social change.
“Is the money real? Do we actually have it?”
“Yes,” I say, “it’s in a bank account in your name.”
“Can I call Sofia tomorrow and thank her? I didn’t know how involved she’s been. I mean, it’s really kind of amazing that someone who had nothing to gain was so supportive.”
“Yes,” I say, “it’s unusual.”
“And we should make a time to talk with Sakhile about what to do with the money,” Nate says. “Can we e-mail him now?”
“Sure,” I say, and we do.
“How about trying to get some sleep?” I suggest. He nods. “Listen, I’m really sorry about today—I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it would be so upsetting.”
“I didn’t know it would be,” Nate says.
I follow him upstairs and down the hall to his room. “Will you read to me?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. He picks a book from when he was younger off his shelf and crawls into bed. I read to him like he’s a little boy, and while I am reading, Ricardo wakes up again and also listens, and when I am done, I kiss Nate good night on the forehead, and then I kiss Ricardo too.
“Do I have to worry about her?” Nate asks as I’m walking out of the room.
“No,” I say.
By morning, Sakhile has e-mailed back several times, wondering when we can talk—anytime is good for him. Wondering how much money is coming their way and when they might get it.
We schedule a village meeting via Skype, and I leave it to Nate to tell them about the Web site and the donations.
“How much?” Sakhile asks excitedly via Skype.
Nate smoothly defers a direct answer. “Quite a bit,” he says. “Enough to make a difference.”
And quickly the conversation becomes about want. From South Africa we hear that the village should have a car or a bus that would run back and forth to the bigger cities.
“A bus is a way out,” Nate says. “Let’s think of ways in—things that make life better in the village.”
“Cable television and a really big TV?” one of the South Africans suggests.
“I’m thinking more along the lines of having a well dug,” Nate says, his voice becoming increasingly tense, sad.
“That would be very expensive,” Sakhile says.
“Exactly,” Nate says, “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
The conversation continues, with the South Africans talking about all the things they might buy, from electric guitars to Vespas and refrigerators.
“Enough,” Nate says. “You are becoming just like us: you aren’t thinking of your village, of your parents, your children, your future; you’re thinking that you want a fancy car and a gigantic TV.”
We are all silent.
“The child is pointing the way,” Londisizwe says.
“We are not going to resolve this tonight,” I say. “Let’s give it some thought and talk again soon.”
“I feel terrible,” Nate says when we are off the computer. “I created a monster.”
“You didn’t create it,” I say.
“Well, then, I fed it,” Nate says, disgusted with himself.
“No one is immune. It is human nature to want, for each generation to aspire to more. People confuse things with achievement, with other kinds of progress. It’s the measure of success.”
“Whoever has the most toys wins?” Ricardo says.
“You don’t have to give them the money,” I suggest.
“It’s their money,” Nate says. “It was given to me for them. Whatever we do with it has to be for the village, for the future—food, housing, ensuring the quality of the water supply.”
“I’m impressed that you don’t just walk away,” I say.
“I can’t walk away,” Nate says. “I started this.”
“And you can’t blame them. They’re from another country, but they live in the same world as we do.”
Labor Day weekend is spent packing and shopping for school supplies.
Come Tuesday, we all make the pilgrimage with Nate back to the academy. Nate seems to enjoy giving Cy and Ricardo a tour, and Ricardo asks if one day he might get to go to a school like this. “Yes,” I say. “If you want to.”
We get Nate set in his dorm room, Cy gives him twenty bucks “mad money,” and we head home. The next day, Ashley and Ricardo start at the public school down the road, and by the end of the week Madeline and Cy are signed up for three days a week at a program for seniors.
Even my mother places herself in the autumn mix, informing me that she and her husband are going back to school. They’ve signed up with OLLI, an organization devoted to Lifelong Learning, and are taking classes in political science and radio theater.
Nobody seems to notice that I am the only one who has not gone back to school. I am now officially unemployed; the feeling is disconcerting—I manage the stress by organizing everyone else.
The house is filled with life. There are people coming and going constantly. Ricardo gets a pet frog and a turtle and begins taking drum lessons. Ashley resumes her piano lessons. On weekends there are activities such as leaf raking; Cy and Ricardo enjoy creating enormous piles and then either jumping in them or simply walking straight through, and having to do it all over again. We borrow the Gaos’ minivan and go on group excursions to see the foliage, or go pick apples and pumpkins. It is all good and mostly uncomplicated—except for the twenty minutes during which Cy goes missing in a corn maze.
I meet with Hiram P. Moody, to discuss the cash flow—he seems to think it’s not a problem. “Families are like little countries,” he says. “It’s an ecosystem, an ebb and flow. Between the money coming in for rent for Cy and Madeline’s house, their Social Security checks, and income from investments—they’re fine. With regard to Ashley and Ricardo, you function like a human cash machine, but between Jane’s life-insurance coverage, George’s severance from the network, their previous investments, and the settlement from Ashley’s school—you’re more than fortunate.”
I try to live within my means; they’re l
imited, but I have the benefit of George’s full wardrobe, and when my insurance runs out, I pick up a freelancers’ health policy, and beyond that my wants and needs are few.
I keep track of all the money in dedicated notebooks—one for each child, one for Cy and Madeline, and another for the household and one for myself—carefully noting each expense and from what source it was paid. Not only does it give me something to do, it protects me from a nagging fear of being accused of mismanagement.
Cy is increasingly frail, more forgetful, and having trouble “containing” himself. All this prompts a visit to the doctor, who basically says, “You get what you get and you can’t expect more. None of us last forever.”
I ask the doctor to step out of the examining room for a word in private. We leave Cy on the table, his pale, hairless long legs nearly blue, and veined like a plucked chicken.
“What does that mean—‘none of us last forever’?” I say just outside the door. The doctor shrugs. “How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-seven,” he says.
“You got a fuck of a lot of nerve,” I say to him.
“What do you want?” he asks. “You want painkillers, you want Valium? You tell me,” he blithers on.
“What I want is compassion, some understanding of what it’s like to be sitting there in that gown that is one step away from a funeral shroud and worrying what it’s all about.”
“Right,” he says. We go back into the room, and the young doctor hops up onto the exam table next to Cy and says, “Can you hear me okay?”
“No need to yell,” Cy says. “I’m old but I’m not blind. I can see your lips moving.”
“You’re doing very well,” the doctor says. “The more you can get out and exercise, go for walks, the better; just keep moving, and enjoy yourself.” And he hops down off the table, hands me a couple of prescriptions: a statin for Cy’s cholesterol, Flomax for the prostate, Valium as needed for anxiety. He winks at me and is gone.
Ashley, continuing her embrace of Judaica, asks me to please get tickets for the High Holy Days. Having declined to renew the membership at the temple George and Jane belonged to, I find myself online buying tickets from a “liquidator.” The idea that one “buys” tickets to an annual religious event bothers me; I’m aware that for many Jews the High Holies mark their annual visit to temple, and it’s also when synagogues raise their funds for the year—but it doesn’t feel right.