A Heartbeat Away

by Harry Kraus

  As the water pounded her back, she took inventory.

  No job.

  No boyfriend.

  Do I have any real friends beyond Charlotte? Has my professional distance completely sabotaged my relationships?

  No peace of mind.

  A mystery I can’t seem to solve.

  Threats to my life.

  The water did little to wash her fears away. If anything, she saw with more clarity the foundation of sand upon which she had built her self-confidence. She stayed under the stream until her skin started to wrinkle. She toweled off and slipped into a thick terry-cloth robe.

  Back in the other room, she frowned at the clock. 12:40 a.m. With no sleep in her foreseeable future, she channel surfed the selection of digital drivel. She paced the room and stared out at the Richmond skyline, listening to the warble of an ambulance siren. Up the hill from her hotel, the medical school hospital campus would be in full swing, accepting the night’s offering of trauma. She felt a profound sense of loss. She used to thrill at the challenge of an emergency case, but now, the work went on without her, the towering hospital apparently oblivious to her absence.

  Without my career, who am I?

  In the absence of friends, who would care if I lived or died?

  What is the center of my identity?

  How much have I changed because I have a new heart?

  Tori opened the drawer to a small nightstand. It was empty except for the presence of one book. A Bible.

  She shut the drawer. Stopped. Opened it again, looking at the book. She thought about Phin’s love for the Bible. But that’s so not me.

  Maybe I should see for myself.

  She thought for a moment of the way she was changing, and even as she lifted the Bible from the drawer, she felt incredulous. If Charlotte could see me now.

  She opened the cover and examined the first few pages. In the front was a section for those unfamiliar with the Bible: “Where to Find Help.” She scanned the categories and found a section referring to lack of peace of mind. Bingo. That pretty much describes me.

  She sat on the bed with the book in her lap and was soon absorbed in a search. For years Charlotte had tried to interest Tori in the Bible. For years Tori had resisted, preferring her own science-rules philosophy.

  She talked to herself: “So how’s that life philosophy working out for ya? Not so good, huh?”

  The directory sent her to a particular page where she read from the words of Jesus. “Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

  Somehow, strangely, her heart warmed at the thought.

  A yoke doesn’t sound easy to me.

  She followed a trail from one verse to another, directed by the page numbers provided in the guide. There she read silently. “Casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.”

  She thought about Dakota Jones, and again, almost instinctively, her hand clutched the robe in front of her chest. “God,” she whispered, “did Dakota Jones love you?”

  Dakota must have been a follower of Jesus. Why else would Tori be feeling so drawn by the words of the Bible?

  Could it be that Charlotte and Phin are right after all?

  Does God really care for me?

  Tori thought back to a conversation she’d had with Charlotte about the mysterious number that seemed tattooed into her memory after her transplant: 316. Charlotte had suggested that it might have been a message intended for Tori, a message of the famous verse Tori had been able to recall: For God so loved the world.

  Was I able to quote the verse because Dakota loved it too?

  Or just because I’d heard it from Charlotte so many times?

  Tori looked at the Bible in her hand. She hardly knew what to think. Here I am in distress, and in my old life the last place I would have turned was to this book. But now, I have a compulsion to read these words. Is this crazy?

  She weighed the book, moving it up and down in her hand.

  What has happened to me? Am I Dakota? Or Tori?

  “I’m Tori Taylor,” she whispered. “But I am not the same Tori Taylor, am I?”

  She turned to the back of the Bible and read about the steps to becoming a Christian.

  Am I really separated from God because of sin?

  She’d always considered herself a “good person.” She worked hard in her job to do her best.

  But in my quest for perfection, I managed to alienate my coworkers and ended up jeopardizing the one job I love.

  I am a sinner.

  Really?

  Tori sensed a nervous energy and stood. She paced the room, considering the gravity of the decision in front of her. She’d been a scientist all her adult life. She lived for the power of her position as a surgeon. She loved the control and had rested comfortably in her own competence.

  She touched the front of her robe over her new heart. She’d lost control, and it was obvious that her professional abilities were not the key to unlock faith.

  This new heart has changed me. I want to believe.

  Did my donor love Christ?

  So what do I do? How do I learn to follow the leading of my new heart?

  She slipped her hand under her robe and felt the pulsing of her heart beneath her fingers, amazed that her heart transplant had meant so much more than the physical healing it had brought her. She had opened up emotionally and spiritually as well. She wondered about Dakota Jones, her life experiences, relationships, and loves. She imagined the timelines of her life and the life of Dakota Jones from birth streaking toward an intersection on the day of her transplant. What had her donor experienced, felt, or feared that could be affecting Tori now? Were there significant events of happiness or sorrow? Worship or wonder? Faith or doubt?

  “God,” she whispered, “I’m not doing so well on my own.”

  She wondered about the proper posture for prayer. She knew that Charlotte prayed anytime, often even while driving, so she understood that there wasn’t an exact formula. But for now, it seemed right to bow. Slowly she knelt by her bed and laid the Bible open in front of her.

  Alone, she began to cry. She allowed the burden her life had become, her fears for her life, her failures at her career and relationships to be expressed in a flood of tears. Sobbing, she lowered her head to the bed.

  I’m so lost.

  She rubbed her eyes and read through the steps again. A prayer was written out for her to follow. She shook her head, amazed. Here she was, an educated, intelligent, beautiful woman, and she was contemplating her utter depravity before God.

  “Dear Father,” she whispered. “I know I am a sinner. I believe you died for me.…”

  I love you.

  She looked up. Where had that come from? Another unwanted memory from Dakota Jones?

  Tori read the prayer haltingly, unsure what to expect. She wanted to believe that God loved her and gave his Son to pay a penalty on her behalf.

  Does simply praying a prayer mean that I’m in?

  But what if I doubt? What if I think it sounds too good to be true?

  She closed the book and wiped a tear from her cheek. Something was different. Not only did she want to believe, she did believe.

  A sense of gratitude settled on her soul.

  What had changed?

  Her circumstances were still dreary. No job. No boyfriend. Someone was still threatening her life.

  But I have peace.

  Everything is crazy in my life … but things are okay with God.

  Knowledge of love enveloped her. Little mattered in that moment except the fact that she knew she was loved. Warmth. Pea
ce. Joy. How can I describe what I feel?

  A presence.

  Glory!

  She wanted to speak, to shout, to express her thanks, but her throat tightened. Trembling, she lifted her right hand into the air. There, kneeling on the floor of the Jefferson Hotel, Tori Taylor wept.

  She wept for her own selfishness. She wept for the pride that had kept her running her own life for so long in spite of Charlotte’s urging. And now, she wept for the joy of knowing her sins were forgiven.

  Time disappeared. She felt only the embrace of her Savior, caressing her heart. She sniffed and looked at the clock. 1:45 a.m.

  She took off the robe and dressed for bed. Slipping beneath the sheets, she whispered another prayer to God, something that, regardless of how alien it would have felt to her just a few days ago, now seemed to come as naturally as hunger or thirst. “Thanks, Father. Thanks.”

  27

  The next morning, Tori enjoyed the delicious rarity of sleeping in. She awoke, stretched, and in her first moments of consciousness, thought back over the events of the night before. She looked at the Bible on the bedside table and breathed deeply, collecting her thoughts. Yes, she thought with a smile, peace is here.

  She rose and decided that an extended stay at the Jefferson Hotel would be perfect. She stopped at the desk and requested to keep her room for a week.

  In that time, she would do three things: find out about God, find out as much as she could about Dakota Jones, and try to discover who was threatening her.

  She started her day by walking to a downtown bookshop. The Asian man behind the counter said, “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a Bible,” she said quietly.

  He led her to a section marked “Religion.” She looked through the options and selected something called a parallel Bible, with the New International Version on one side and a contemporary version called The Message on the other. It was real leather and smelled like an expensive handbag. The salesman explained that the NIV was a translation and that The Message was a modern paraphrase that might help her understand a bit easier.

  She hurried back to the hotel, holding her purchase in her hand like a treasure.

  “Okay, God,” she whispered in her room, “show me who you are.”

  She began paging forward, yellow highlighter in hand, anxious to color the verses that meant something special to her. She wanted to personalize her Bible as Phin and Charlotte had theirs.

  She scanned from book to book, trying to understand the big picture. Along the way, she thrilled to read metaphorical language in The Message, particularly when the words used were ones she could relate to as a surgeon. In Romans 8 she read, “God went for the jugular when he sent his own Son.” In Hebrews 12 she read, “When you find yourselves flagging in your faith, go over that story again, item by item, that long litany of hostility he plowed through. That will shoot adrenaline into your souls!”

  After two hours, she took her immunosuppressive meds and lay down for a nap.

  In the afternoon, she called Phin MacGrath. He answered after two rings.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Slight hesitation. “Tori.”

  “You sound surprised to hear from me.”

  “Honestly, I am. I didn’t think I’d be on your list of favorite people just now.”

  “I didn’t say you were on my favorite-people list, Phin.” She paused and weighed her words. “I didn’t call to ask you out. I need a favor.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You mentioned that you had a friend, an ex-cop who had a heart transplant. You had him look into a few things for me. I’d like his contact information.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  She listened to noises of paper shuffling.

  “Say,” Phin said, “did you ever talk to that psychiatrist?”

  “Yeah. Let’s just say I must have spilled some information, but her allegiance is to the Baltimore PD. She says she needs to process the data before she talks to me.” Tori sighed. “So I’d like to do a little more digging on my own. That’s why I need this contact.”

  “Sure. Here it is. Gus Peterson.” He read off the phone number. “He’ll remember.”

  “Okay. Got it. Thanks, Phin. Bye.”

  She had deliberately avoided letting things get too personal in the call. It was so much easier to retreat to a professional level, rather than deal with how hurt she’d been by the way they’d left things after their dinner.

  She imagined Phin’s confusion. Let him stew. I’ve got little patience for a man willing to send me such mixed-up signals.

  She dialed Gus Peterson.

  “Hello.” His voice was baritone and cheerful.

  “Mr. Peterson, my name is Tori Taylor.”

  “Yes, Dr. Taylor, I know of you.”

  “I’m calling to see if I can get you to do a little snooping for me.”

  “Well, well. I understand you’re looking for your heart donor.”

  “Not exactly. But I should thank you for the work you did for Phin MacGrath. I’ve identified my donor, but I think she died under suspicious circumstances.”

  “Phin told me about that.”

  “He told me you had a heart transplant. Did you experience any changes afterward?”

  He laughed. Tori smiled—he sounded like Santa Claus. “My wife and I joke about it. Didn’t even know anyone else was experiencing stuff like this. Two things. Ever since my transplant, I’ve become a hugger. I never used to be like that.”

  “And the other?”

  “I never liked beer before. Turns out my donor was Irish. When I mentioned a new taste for Guinness, my donor’s wife just burst out crying. She said her husband never missed an evening without a pint.”

  “Wow.”

  “So what’s on your mind?”

  “My donor’s name was Dakota Jones. Probably about thirty years old. Lived in a project downtown. The newspaper says she jumped from the fifth floor to avoid a fire. She was with a man, Christian Mitchell, a doctor I think she met at a free clinic downtown. He jumped with her.”

  “And you think there’s something fishy about the way she died?”

  “Exactly. It started with vivid new memories. Fire. A man screaming. Falling.”

  “But you said your donor jumped to escape a fire. You might expect that sort of thing.”

  “But there’s more. Most of what I remember is images. The face of a man who has bad teeth. I remember pain in my ankle, my foot facing in the wrong direction. I distinctly remember a woman with green eyes and a little tattoo of hearts, and the number three one six. In the memory, the woman gave me the number and told me to remember because she wanted to make—” she held up her fingers and made quotation marks in the air—“that bastard pay.”

  “Okay, that’s pretty weird. This is beyond anything I’ve read on transplanted memories.”

  “I researched and found one other case of memory transplantation that resulted in solving a murder. I think mine will be number two.”

  “Wow.” Gus Peterson had stopped laughing.

  “There’s more, something that makes this a bit more tense. Since I’ve been looking into this, I’ve been getting threatening phone calls warning me to back off. Someone’s unhappy about this.”

  “I’ll poke around, see what I can find.” Then Gus cleared his throat and paused, but seemed on the verge of saying something.

  Silence hung between them for a moment before Tori asked, “What is it?”

  “I’m not well off, Doc. I can barely pay my monthly prescription costs.”

  “I can pay for your services.”

  “Did you call me from the phone that received the threats?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to see what number the c
aller used?”

  “No. It was some sort of unrecognized caller.”

  “Let me do some snooping. I’ll find out something.”

  “Thanks, Gus. Call me soon.”

  Her phone rang just as she ended the call. “Hello.”

  “Ms. Taylor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m calling from Home Security Systems. Are you at home?”

  “No, I’m out.”

  “We’ve just received input from your alarm system. There is a possible break-in in progress. The police have been called.”

  “Break-in?”

  “Someone just unlocked your front door.”

  Mary Jaworski spent the morning in her office sipping spiced African chai and studying Tori Taylor’s interview tape.

  The more she watched, the more concerned she became. Something was amiss about the death of Dakota Jones. But extracting information across transplanted memories was new territory for her. Several things were clear, yet several other things remained cloudy.

  In the early afternoon, she managed to get Captain Ellis on his private line. His greeting was gruff and straightforward, spoken with a voice that betrayed years of cigarette abuse. “Ellis.”

  “Captain, this is Dr. Jaworski.”

  “Yes, yes, glad you called. Have you been in touch with our little witness in the Dakota Jones case?”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “What can you tell me?”

  “This is a very complicated case. Not only are Tori Taylor’s memories vivid and revealing, but the way she relays them may be mixed up with her own personal life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mary sipped tea and formulated a careful response. “Tori is a remarkable woman. Very smart. But in some ways, she’s just so closed emotionally. At least she used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  “Before her transplant.” Mary looked at her unpolished nails. Cut short and without glamour, they reflected Mary’s personal approach to hygiene and life in general: less is better, practical rules over beauty. “Tori is or was a scientist. Even as a child, she was very calculating and detached.”