by Lexie Ray
“The tricky part is finding a good match,” a doctor said. “If the donor didn’t have a compatible blood type, that would be the first red flag. There are so many variables going into a transplant—particularly a heart transplant—that even if a candidate is at the top of the list, it might be a while before the right heart becomes available.”
From looking at her charts, I gleaned Jules’ blood type. Through the blessed Internet, I researched more about what was required for a successful transplant. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. I loved that girl fiercely enough to go gun someone down in the street, cut his heart out, and carry it, dripping, to the hospital for her. But I knew that wouldn’t go over very well for anyone involved. Instead, I did what I could do—cleaned the house, visited Jules in the hospital, cooked for Marshall, and tried to keep busy.
In the spirit of donation, I went to a blood bank to donate what I could for the cause. Out of everyone I’d talked to, there was one similar consensus—there weren’t enough people donating organs. I could at least donate my blood to help someone who needed it. Plus, it gave me something to do in between AA meetings and worrying about Marshall and Jules. Marshall became more desperate every day that they didn’t get the call for a donor. His work had put him on a leave of absence. I suspected that he was getting drunk at bars between the hospital and home, but I didn’t confront him about it. The woman he couldn’t consider as his mother breathing down his neck would only drive him away.
He needed all the support he could get.
I tried to relax, tried to meditate on the situation while my blood drained into a bag. There had to be a solution to this problem. I had to be able to change Jules’ fortune somehow. They deserved that. She and my son were so happy before I came along. I needed to find some way to make this specter of disease go away.
An attendant stopped by to pull the needle from my arm and slap a Band-Aid on the puncture.
“All set,” she said cheerfully, placing the bag of blood in her cart and checking off boxes on my form. “Hey! You’re blood type O.”
“Is that a good thing?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” she chirped. “That’s our favorite blood type here.”
“I didn’t know there were such things as favorite blood types,” I said, sitting up slowly and taking the juice box she offered me.
“We like blood type O because that means your blood can go to anyone,” the attendant said. “You’re a universal donor!”
A universal donor. I marveled at that while sipping on the juice box. I could give my blood to anyone.
The solution to the problem hit me like a slap to the face.
I was the solution. The heart beating inside of me, the blood that it pumped through my body—I could very well be the donor that Marshall and Jules were hoping for.
I couldn’t live without a heart, though. Was I willing to die to make sure that my son and daughter-in-law lived a long, happy life together?
In a heartbeat.
Everything started falling into place. I’d been an awful mother to my son, but now I had a chance to make up for it. He’d never be able to accept me as his mother—he said so himself. And I would never be able to accept that, even if I couldn’t change it.
This was the solution to the problem. This was the reason I was here. This was the right thing to do.
The reality of the situation, though, was that I had a lot more to do than just cut my heart out and show up at the hospital. The attendant at the blood bank had said I was a universal donor, but I had to be sure.
I’d buddied up to many of the hospital personnel since Jules had been admitted. I just pleaded honest curiosity and motherly concern when I wanted to see the results of crossmatching her blood and mine.
“She needs a heart transplant,” the technician said, taking my blood. “That’s not something you can give to her, I’m afraid. Not while you’re alive.”
“Once she gets her heart, who knows what might happen down the road,” I said. “I want to know that I’m a good match for her should she ever need a kidney or something else I could give.”
“It’s a natural feeling, to want to do all that you can,” the technician said. “I’ll call you with the results. It might take a few days. No longer than a week.”
I trusted my instincts and had already met with a lawyer to draw up a living will by the time the technician got back to me.
“You’re a match,” he said. “Rest easy knowing that you’ll be able to provide her with whatever she might need in the future. I’m praying that we find that heart soon.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I have a good feeling about that heart.”
What other arrangements needed to be made? Now that I knew that I would be a good match for Jules, I entered into an end game. The will was complete, directing what little assets I had to Marshall and Jules. The lawyer had raised his eyebrows at me when I told him the part about the heart, and what I planned to do, but we had a lawyer-client confidentiality agreement. All he could do was offer me advice to make my plans airtight. Jules was going to get my heart. There was no legal way out of it. Plus, I doubted that any medical professional would let a heart go to waste, no matter what the circumstances in obtaining it were.
“Do no harm,” the orderly had told me. The doctors wouldn’t be doing any harm to anyone. They’d be saving Jules’ life with my heart. It was that simple.
When I got home from the lawyer, the house was empty. Drawers in the master bedroom gaped open, and I could only assume that Marshall left in a hurry. My phone buzzed, and I looked at it. A text message from him.
“Can’t talk,” it read. “Jules took a turn for the worse. Come if you can.”
It was time, then. I was glad that I’d gotten everything prepared as quickly as I had. Once I’d made up my mind, everything had really fallen into place. This was the right thing to do. This was meant to be.
I went through Marshall’s drawers and found what I knew he’d have—a gun. He’d experienced bad things as a child, and it was only natural that he had a gun on hand to protect himself and his family. I checked the clip. It had probably never even been fired.
It was going to save a life tonight.
For what I was about to do, I was remarkably calm. I set the loaded gun on the table and picked up the cell phone. Three little numbers. I’d called 9-1-1 for Jules once before. This, too, was for Jules. For Jules and my son.
For their future.
I took a deep breath and dialed.
“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”
“I’m going to shoot myself in the head,” I said.
“You don’t want to do that,” the dispatcher said immediately. There was probably some sort of training for this, dealing with kooky or depressed callers, looking for a way out of what they had resigned themselves to do.
“No, I do want to do this,” I corrected. “This needs to happen. I understand now.”
“There’s so much to live for,” the dispatcher said. “What’s your name?”
“My name is Wanda Dupree, and there is so much to die for,” I said, making sure I was speaking loud and clear. My voice didn’t shake for a second. “My name is Wanda Dupree, and I’m going to shoot myself in the head. When I’m dead, I want to make sure that my heart goes to my daughter-in-law, Jules Dupree. She’s on the transplant list, but she needs a heart sooner than that. She needs a heart now.”
“Mrs. Dupree, this is highly irregular,” the dispatcher said. It was her voice that was shaking, not mine. I was calm as I could possibly be. This was what I was meant to do. It was why I’d been through everything. It all seemed so clear now.
“This needs to happen,” I said. “I’m going to give you my address. When the EMTs get here, I’ll have the front door open. They’re to come right in, and I’ll be in the bathroom. Do you understand?”
“Mrs. Dupree, you’re going to be fine,” the dispatcher said. “We’re sending people over to help you right away.
Why don’t you just stay on the phone with me for a few minutes, until they get there?”
“The EMTs are on their way?” I asked, looking at the clock. How long would it take for them to get there?
“Yes, Mrs. Dupree,” the dispatcher said. “Now, talk to me about your daughter-in-law, Jules. I don’t think she’d want you to shoot yourself. Do you?”
Probably not. If anyone wanted me to shoot myself, it would be my son. Marshall just couldn’t find it in his heart to forgive me for my transgressions. In time, perhaps he could’ve moved past the nightclub and everything I’d done there. But he’d never forgive me for leaving him to begin with—no matter what the reasons had been. I was sure I didn’t even remember what they’d been anymore.
“Mrs. Dupree?”
“This is the right thing to do,” I said firmly. “I’m ending the call now. I have some things to do.”
“Mrs. Dupree, don’t—”
I mashed the button to disconnect and dialed Marshall’s number, picking up the gun and walking to the bathroom. I needed him to understand what I was doing and why I was doing it. I needed him to know that I could do things right sometimes.
“Mom, now’s not a good time,” he said, his voice hurried, not a trace of the sweet child I’d raised. Marshall was a man. I’d missed his entire childhood chasing some fool dream. God, how stupid could I have been?
“How’s Jules doing?” I asked.
“They’re not optimistic,” he said, his voice breaking. My heart broke for my baby boy. My only child. My man. He would be fine, I knew. He’d done so well for himself without a lick of help from me. He would continue to be strong. He had his Jules to support him. And after I did what needed to be done, he’d have her around for a lot longer—and the opportunity to finally start a family.
“It’s going to be all right,” I said, flipping on the lights to the bathroom. This was going to be messy, but maybe it wouldn’t be such a chore to clean it up in here. The walls were all tile. They could probably just snake the hose in through the window and spray everything down.
“You’re not listening to me,” Marshall said, his voice raw with grief and desperation. “They’re saying she’s not going to make it, Mom. This is what we were afraid of. It would take a miracle now, that she would somehow have to shoot right to the top of the transplant list. It’s not happening for us. It’s not.”
“I’m working on your miracle right now, Marshall,” I said. “Don’t you worry, baby. Mama’s gonna come through for you. I know I haven’t been a good mother for you. I know I’ve failed. But this is one thing I can do right. This is one miracle I can make happen.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the call, and I could hear the faint background sounds of the hospital. Beeps from a monitor. A nurse’s murmur. The hiss of oxygen. I imagined my son sitting by his beloved wife’s bedside, praying for some kind of reprieve from the sentence that had been handed down.
Relief was coming. It would be there in minutes, with luck.
“What are you talking about, Mom?” he asked, his voice wary. “If you’ve been drinking again, I swear to God that if you’re not out of the house by the time I get home, I will throw you out of there. I don’t care if you’re my mother. I don’t care if you gave me life. I will throw you out.”
“I haven’t been drunk since prison,” I said patiently. “The steps worked for me, Marshall. I thought you knew that.”
“I thought I did, too,” he said. “But now you’re calling me, talking all this crazy talk, and I don’t know what to think. My wife—my Jules—they say she’s going to die.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “She will get a new heart tonight.”
“How can you be so sure?” Marshall whispered. There was my little boy. The one who hoped for things. Who asked his Mama to solve his problems. Whose hurts could be solved with a Band-Aid and a kiss. I ached for that Marshall. I ached for there to be some way to turn time back, to go back to when I could scoop my little boy into my ears and kiss him until he screamed with laughter.
There was no magic time machine I could slip into or spell I could say to make it happen. But I could be there for him now. I could be the mother he needed—the solution to his problem.
“I’m so sure because it’s going to be my heart,” I said. “I’m going to give my heart to Jules.”
I heard sirens and bit my lip. So soon. The EMTs were nearly here.
Time had been such a funny thing for me—an ally and an enemy. When I had pissed my life away drinking so much, I’d blown through time without so much as a backward glance. And when I was in prison, the seconds crept by like long minutes if I wasn’t occupied with something. But now, when I was trying to tell my son the most important thing I’d ever told anyone, time was flying by. Time was flying by, and I needed it to slow down. I needed to make my son understand.
“I don’t get it, Mom,” Marshall said. “You can’t just give your heart to someone. That’s not how it works. There’s paperwork. Lists. Bureaucracy. Laws. It’s a pretty idea, what you’re trying to do. But don’t be ridiculous. Don’t do something stupid.”
My son, the problem solver. It made me proud of him, proud that he was my son. He was going to be just fine. I’d see to that.
“I am leaving very clear instructions,” I said. I picked up a gallon-sized plastic bag from the bathroom countertop and checked the seal again. It was probably the third or fourth time I’d checked it, but I wanted to be sure. There wasn’t any need to get the documents soaked with blood. Inside I’d placed my will that I’d had drawn up. It stipulated all of my wishes. Maybe I hadn’t had much money to give Marshall—at least not the money I’d wanted to have for him. But maybe this would be better than a wad of money—knowing that he’d be able to spend more time with the woman he loved.
“Mom, this is ludicrous,” Marshall said. I could practically see him running a hand through his hair, pacing around in Jules’s hospital room. “We both know you’ve had some problems. But this isn’t the way. Hurting yourself is cowardly.”
“I’m doing this for you and Jules, Marshall,” I said. The sirens were screaming now, and I could see blue and red lights reflecting off the walls in the hallway. It was time. The EMTs were here.
“We’ve had our differences,” Marshall said raggedly. “But killing yourself won’t solve anything. We—we can work harder. I can work harder.”
“That’s not what this is about, baby,” I said, stepping into the empty bathtub and settling myself down in it, making sure my plastic bag of papers was positioned in my lap. I needed to hurry. I didn’t want to mess this up by someone trying to wrestle the gun away from me. I needed to make sure this was perfect.
“Then what’s it about, Mom?”
“I screwed up your past, sugar. I know that. But I can help make sure that you have a happy future. I can make Julesbetter, make it so you get to spend more time with her. So you can make a family.”
The front door banged open. “Mrs. Dupree? Mrs. Dupree?”
“In here,” I called. “I’m back here, in the bathroom.” I took the safety off the gun and took a deep breath. My hand was steady. My heart felt light.
“Don’t, Mom,” Marshall begged. He was crying. I was sorry for that. It likely wasn’t the first time I’d been the cause of his tears. But it was time to make up for all of that.
It was time to prove to my son just what I was willing to do to ensure that he had the life that I knew he deserved.
“I love you, baby,” I said, and put the gun against my temple.
“I—I love you, Mama.”
I ended the call. I didn’t want my son to hear the sound of my life ending. He didn’t need to think about it like that. I wanted him to think about it as a beginning.
A squeeze of the trigger as the first EMT popped his head into the bathroom. Time slowed down into a bright white flow of images, random moments without any reason or order.
Marshall as a little
boy, grinning toothlessly.
The inside of the nightclub in the daytime, shafts of sunlight illuminating certain tables, certain spots on the dance floor.
The look of the crowd from the stage in the nightclub, my hands wrapped around a microphone, singing.
The lawyer who wouldn’t look at me but ended up saving my life.
Marlee smiling at me, encouraging me to pursue self-improvement.
My girls surrounding me, laughing, happier times at the nightclub.
Hugging Marshall as a grown man, Jules smiling at me from behind his back.
Then, nothing.
Epilogue
Jules opened her eyes slowly, the bright lights of the room making her vision swim. She blinked again, and again, until she could see clearly. Marshall was there, his face in his hands, his shoulders slumped. Worried—he had been worried. And Jules had been the culprit. Oh. She needed to reassure him, tell him she was all right. She was awake, now. He could stop worrying.
She reached over and ran her hand down his forearm, making him jerk upright.
“You’re awake!” he exclaimed, and she could see the tired trails of tears down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” Jules said, smiling at her husband. “It must have been bad.”
“It was bad,” he said. “It was real bad, Jules.”
“It’s over now,” she said, taking his hand and squeezing it. “For however long, it’s over.”
“It’s over for good,” Marshall said, turning her hand in his and kissing her palm.
“For now,” she said again. There was no use getting their hopes up. It had happened before, and it would most likely happen again. Jules knew what this was.
“No, honey,” Marshall said gently. “You have a new heart.”
Jules blinked a couple of times before looking down at herself to try to ascertain whether it was true. Thick bandages covered her chest, but she felt relatively all right for the apparent procedure she’d just gone through. In fact, she felt better than she had in a long, long time.