A Heartbeat Away

by Harry Kraus

  “Maybe I should just find another counselor.”

  “Don’t do that.” He cleared his throat.

  “So all of our time together, it was just counseling? What about looking into finding my donor?”

  “I thought your memories could be important to explore. Looking into it might be helpful.”

  She felt a lump growing in her throat. Of course, he’s just being a nice guy. He knows my ice-princess reputation around this place. I’m stupid to think he thought of me as something other than a patient. She didn’t want to cry. This was crazy, way out of bounds for her. She didn’t let down. Dr. Taylor didn’t cry. “I’ll give you a call.”

  “Sure. We’ll set something up.”

  Her composure was back. “Fine.”

  She walked away, juggling her hurt. What did I expect?

  Tori’s next stop was in the surgical department on the hallway that contained the offices of the cardiothoracic surgeons, a place the residents just called the mauve hallway because of the hideous color of the carpet. At the end of the hall, the wing widened into an open area in front of the chairman’s corner office. Here, office cubicles divided the space. Casually, she sauntered past the CT secretaries and paused at the cubicle of the transplant coordinator, Barb Stiles.

  She cleared her throat. Barb looked up from her desk. Tori scanned the cubicle. “Hi.”

  “Dr. Taylor. Good to see you’re up and about.”

  Tori smiled, seeing what she wanted pinned to the far wall. The master schedule for the transplant residents. Who was on call the night before my transplant? Trying not to stare, she nodded. “Were you able to contact my donor family about my request?”

  She nodded. “About that,” she began. “The family has not yet decided to allow any contact.”

  Tori took a small step toward the calendar. “Did you tell them about the memories?”

  “Of course not!” Barb shook her head. “I’m not about to tell them something unsubstantiated that might upset them. Donating organs is an intensely personal decision.” She pushed back from her desk. “You’ll just have to wait on this. If they want any contact with you, I’ll let you know.” Barb looked down at the paperwork on her desk, but not before Tori detected a subtle shaking of her head and a little grunt.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “My only concern is this program and the protection of the rights of the donor family.”

  “What if I agree not to contact the family? I could just talk to the police. It was the jumper, wasn’t it, Dakota Jones?”

  Tori watched for a reaction.

  Barb’s right eye twitched. “Look, I don’t know how you’re getting your information, but I’ve got to caution you to stop.” She raised a finger in the air. “If it gets out that this department is leaking confidential information about donors, we could lose our accreditation.”

  “But—”

  “Stop!” Barb’s eyes locked on Tori’s.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Look, the chairman is a friend of mine. We all know you’re under evaluation here. Don’t do something stupid to jeopardize your future.”

  Tori offered a plastic smile. “Wouldn’t think of it.” She began a turn, but her small black handbag slipped from her shoulder to the floor. “Clumsy me,” she said as she leaned forward slowly to gather it up again. As she did, she steadied herself against the desktop in front of the calendar. Hesitating, she slowed her breathing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Getting stronger every day.” Her eyes fell on the name of the resident on call the night before her transplant. Bingo.

  Tori turned to leave. “I’m just not quite as fast as I used to be.”

  She smiled to herself as she went back down the mauve hallway. But I’m fast enough for you.

  Phin MacGrath pushed the stack of papers to the side when his cell phone vibrated. The phone’s screen revealed the source of the call: “Randy.”

  He smiled. Randy was the pastor at Hope Community Chapel. He and Phin had been casual friends until two years ago when Randy assisted Phin through a personal tragedy. Since then, the two had been like brothers. They held each other’s feet to the fire. This was an expected call, an accountability check-in.

  Phin picked up the phone. “Hey, bro. What’s up? You all ready for Sunday?”

  “Getting there. I still have some work to do.” A moment of silence followed. “Listen, I know August 10 is coming up. You okay?”

  Phin touched the corner of the small picture frame and cleared his throat and paused before answering. He knew better than to try and bluff a “fine” in response to Randy’s question. “Home has been tough. Memories everywhere, you know? I’ve been working a lot.”

  “Sally said she’d seen you at the cemetery.”

  He felt his throat thicken. “Yeah.”

  He let the silence hang between them for a few moments. Randy was like that. Skilled as a listener, he didn’t feel the need to fill every silent moment with advice.

  Randy spoke next. “You want to run the list?”

  “Sure,” he responded, glad to think of anything else.

  “You keeping up with daily quiet times?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’s the thought life? Temptations? Any problems with porn? Internet? Movies?”

  The questions were a routine part of their interaction, touching on the main areas where Christian men struggle. “No, I’m good. You?”

  “I’m okay as well. Remember, Phin, temptation often hits when we’re wallowing in sorrow. It’s almost like we feel we deserve to indulge ourselves in some secret delight because we’ve seen hard times.”

  “I’ve been there. I’ll stay aware.”

  “I know you will. And I’ll be praying for your heart. We all loved Missy. She was a very special woman.”

  Phin stayed quiet. Understatement of the year.

  “You finding any chances to date? What about that lady you mentioned? You know, the surgeon.”

  Phin sighed. “I’ve been tempted for sure, but there are land mines with that one. Turns out that Dr. Parrish gave me an assignment to do some counseling with her to help her work through some personal issues.”

  “Oh wow, so now you can’t cross the line because she’s your patient.”

  “Right. I can’t exactly ask her out. Taboo, you know?” Phin looked away from the photograph on his desk. “Besides, she’s pretty much off-limits anyway.”

  “Come on, a surgeon isn’t out of your league.”

  “It’s not the job, Randy. After I talked to her more, I realized she’s not a believer.”

  “Oh.”

  “So I really can’t go down that road.”

  “Something will come up. God’s got a plan.”

  Phin nodded as if Randy could see. He held back a verbal response. But God sure does take his time, doesn’t he?

  That evening Tori took the number 7 bus downtown to Legend Brewing Company, a local Richmond microbrewery, home to an award-winning brown ale. There, she met two thirsty chief residents, Paul Griffin and Daniel Freeman, the two surgery residents who had participated in her operation. Paul had gone out with the harvest team and operated on her donor. Dan had stayed and operated with Dr. Parrish on the transplant.

  The atmosphere was perfect. A little noisy. Casual. Friends enjoying a variety of local brews and comfort food.

  Tori hoisted a frosty mug of Belgian White and tapped the mugs of the two residents. “Here’s to you, boys. Thanks for your great work.”

  “To your speedy recovery,” Paul said. He had the hungry look of a runner. He had his eye on a career in academic surgery and had the drive to succeed. His shirt was wrinkled. He probably hadn’t slept the night befor
e.

  Dan, on the other hand, was an obsessive neatnik. He was still in a white shirt and tie although he’d left the hospital two hours before. He looked well rested and sported a red goatee over a generous chin. He never missed a meal, a feat worthy of praise at a busy university hospital. Many times Tori had seen him gather his interns in the cafeteria to make “card rounds,” so named because the interns kept data cards for each patient. Dan’s card rounds were legendary, and he grilled the students and interns while each patient was discussed over a load of carbs.

  She caught the eye of their waitress. “Could you bring us another order of these wings? And how about a plate of those loaded fries?” She looked at the duo at her wooden table. “You boys good with that?”

  There were smiles all around.

  The waitress nodded. “I’ll get that order right in. Could I bring you another round?”

  “I’m still nursing this,” Tori said.

  Dan looked up. “Absolutely. Could you bring me a pale ale this time?”

  “Porter for me,” Paul said.

  The waitress disappeared.

  Dan chuckled. “I’ve been at VCU Med Center seven years and never once has a patient said thank you in such a nice way.”

  Tori smiled and sipped slowly. She didn’t even bring up the subject of her transplant until the boys were on their third round of brews and a platter of bratwurst, warm pretzels, and mustard sat on the table in front of them.

  “Have you guys ever heard of cellular memory?”

  Blank stares.

  Dan belched quietly into his hand. Paul yawned.

  “We don’t really understand all the intricacies of stored memory,” she began. “But it’s much more complicated than we previously thought. There is a complex neural network surrounding the heart, and there are some interesting reports in the literature about heart recipients receiving transplanted memories from their donors.”

  Dan conquered the last of a bratwurst. “Hmm.”

  “In some cases, it’s merely a transplanted like or dislike—a new taste for a certain food, for instance. In other cases, it’s much crazier, a transplantation of a complete or partial memory from the donor.”

  Paul looked sleepy. He drained his beer. “That is freaky.”

  Dan shrugged. “Do you believe it?”

  She leaned forward. “It’s happening to me.” She watched as the boys exchanged glances.

  “What do you remember?” Paul asked.

  “A fire. Falling.” She didn’t elaborate.

  Dan straightened his tie. “When did you first notice this?”

  “As I was waking from my operation. I thought it was a nightmare at first, but it wasn’t like a normal dream. The images persisted beyond the night.”

  “Wow.”

  She sipped her beer and slid the mug across the table. “Maybe I’m just going crazy, huh, boys? The big surgeon has finally lost it.”

  “No way,” Dan said. “We wouldn’t think that.”

  “I don’t know. I’m having a hard time with it. It’s really making it difficult to sleep.” She watched for a reaction.

  Well lubricated by this time, the boys seemed reluctant to offend the one picking up their bar tab. “No, no,” Paul said. “You’re not crazy.” He pushed back from their table. “Heck, you’re practically a hero among the residents.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “Maybe I should just hang it up. I can’t be trying to conquer cancer if I’m troubled with these images of fire.”

  Dan seemed to be studying the golden ale in his mug. “Don’t say that.”

  “You know, you guys could help convince me I’m not crazy.”

  Dan finished his beer.

  “Want another?”

  “Not me.”

  Paul shrugged. “What can we do, Dr. Taylor?”

  Tori forced herself to breathe. This was it, the whole point of this little thank-you celebration. She was all in, no turning back. She reached into her purse and pulled out a copy of the Baltimore Sun story of the jumpers. She laid it on the table in front of the boys. “Look, I know you can’t tell me the name of my donor, so I’ll make this easy for you. I know the helicopter took the harvest team to Baltimore.” She pushed the paper closer to Paul, the resident who had been on the harvest team. She tapped the paper. “Just tell me if I’m wrong. This is where my heart came from, isn’t it?”

  She watched as Paul looked at Dan. Finally he looked back and shrugged. “You didn’t hear it from us.”

  “You didn’t tell me a name,” she said. “Just tell me if I’m wrong. Am I crazy here?”

  Paul shook his head. “No, Dr. Taylor, you’re not crazy. And you’re not wrong.”

  15

  Tori sat in her favorite chair stroking the front of her shirt with her finger, nervously tracing her sternal scar. Her eyes were wide open, her gaze jumping from object to object as if searching for a lost item. But she did not seek car keys, a wallet, a comb, or any material object so easily lost. She sought the unseen, the meaning of her current life’s craziness, the inevitable but illusive deduction she loathed to consider. A minute later, she was on her feet, restless, and unable to curl her fingers around a conclusion she’d been avoiding since her horrible nightmares began. She paced the floor, facing for the first time the sure knowledge of her heart donor’s identity: Dakota Jones.

  Memories carried her back to a moment just before her transplant, the few seconds of her life chiseled into the stone of her mind when she saw the donor heart as they carried it into the operating room for her transplant. She relived the moment and her vision of two intersecting lifelines, colliding in the controlled violence of surgery. The sounds of conversations on fast-forward accompanied the lines as they raced toward the inevitable union. One line was Tori’s; the other belonged to her donor, an unfortunate soul kind enough to sign the back of her driver’s license to indicate her willingness to give life to a stranger. But now, for the first time, the other line had an identity, and the whispers of pain, fire, and threat screamed to reveal the experience of Dakota Jones.

  Tori looked down at her chest where her hand still rested over her heart. She whispered into the stillness of the room. “Dakota, what have you given me? What happened to you?”

  She thought of the mysterious number, the feeling of threat and dread, of fire and pain.

  And at that moment, she just knew. The floating dread, the nightmares and images of fire and pain settled into place, each puzzle piece now locking with the other, each providing a letter that spelled out one conclusion: MURDER.

  The thought crept upon her, settling over her soul with a sense of finality. Yes, she thought. Dakota Jones was murdered.

  The conclusion locked into place. Tori shook her head. Am I crazy?

  But her own feelings told her she was finally embracing the truth.

  In the next moment, in the dim light of the den, she accepted a new responsibility. In her mind, she spoke to her heart. Dakota, I owe you my life.

  I will find the person responsible for your death.

  Christian didn’t want to say good-bye. He didn’t really want to have to explain his feelings. The truth was, he was conflicted, and he didn’t want the adorable and beautiful Emily Greene talking him into another crazy adventure.

  The evening was heavy with moisture. The cicadas started their symphony as Mr. Greene’s BMW disappeared down the long lane.

  Christian glanced over at Emily as she sat on the porch swing with her cast propped on a frilly pillow set up on the wicker coffee table. She looked at him. “So this is how it ends, huh? I thought you didn’t want to return to Africa.”

  He shifted in his chair. “I wasn’t sure for a while. You gonna be okay?”

  “I guess.”

  He nodded. “I�
��m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I should’ve been a better, you know, leader.”

  “I’m a big girl, Chris.”

  He looked down the lane toward the setting sun. “Sure.”

  “What happened to all the talk about us? You said you wanted to be with me.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought you were a, you know—”

  “Say the word, Christian. The word is virgin.”

  “I can say it.”

  Emily adjusted the pillow under her foot. “I was fourteen, all right? The guy was a senior, a real jerk. He used me.”

  “I don’t need to hear this.”

  “I felt so contaminated. Down on myself. I didn’t feel worthy of saving myself anymore. I started giving it away ’cause I wanted someone to love me.”

  Christian dropped his head between his hands. He didn’t want to know.

  “Christian, that was before you, don’t you get it? You showed me real love.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I don’t know anymore.”

  “Come on, I remember how you talked. How you wanted our relationship to be a picture of something bigger, of Christ’s love for the church.”

  Christian shook his head. “Sounds pretty silly now. You used to tease me, saying it was cute, all my God talk.”

  “But I listened, didn’t I? You didn’t think I got it, but I did.”

  “You just wanted me to help you get away from your dad.”

  “Okay, that was a stupid idea. But that doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”

  Christian looked up. He felt his heart softening. God, she’s so beautiful.

  He didn’t know what to say. He just listened to the sounds of dusk and breathed in the smell of honeysuckle.

  “Say something.”

  He felt his throat tighten. What was it about this girl? “I’m leaving tomorrow.” He shrugged. “Everything is packed. Dulles. London. Nairobi.”

  She pressed her fist to her upper lip. “If I could change my past, I would.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “What about forgiveness?”