Let It Be Me

by Becky Wade

  He knew the drill. Holmes, a PA, a nurse, and a perfusionist would make the trip to retrieve the heart. The police would escort the team to the airport. They’d take a private jet to Virginia and an ambulance to and from the waiting hospital.

  “When will they be back?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. Ten a.m. at the earliest?”

  “I’ll arrive at the hospital long before that.”

  Shortly after waking, Leah had discovered a text from Sebastian asking her to give him a call. She’d dialed him, and he’d just finished updating her on Isabella.

  So far this morning, she hadn’t even eaten a bowl of cereal. He’d soon reach Beckett Memorial to begin preparations for heart transplant surgery.

  “I’m thrilled to hear that Isabella will be receiving a heart,” she said. “At the same time, I can’t imagine the heartbreak the donor baby’s parents are experiencing. They must be devastated.”

  “Devastated,” he agreed. “This field is often like that. On one hand, terrible grief. On the other, hope.”

  “Isabella has been seriously ill since the day she was born. The donor baby was born perfectly healthy, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And now the sick one, Isabella, is going to live. And the healthy one is gone.”

  “The sick one is going to live because the healthy one is gone and because his parents chose to donate his organs.”

  “How many transplants has the clinic performed this year?”

  “This will be our tenth.”

  Sunlight filtered through leaves to splash shades of orange against her bedroom’s white window shade. Another new day had come for her, but not for the donor baby. The back of her eyes pricked as she thought about what it must have been like for his parents to give permission for doctors to cut open the chest of their beautiful, unscathed infant so that a little girl they did not know could have a second chance at life. The excruciating pain of that. The unselfishness. “I’ll pray that everything goes smoothly.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll be back in Misty River in time for dinner. See you then?”

  “See you then.”

  Sebastian spent forty-five minutes with Megan and Timothy, explaining the surgery. Then he walked them to the family lounge.

  “I’ve been waiting and waiting for this day,” Timothy told him. “I thought I’d feel nothing but relief and excitement. And I do . . . feel that way. But I’m also frightened.”

  “Me too.” Megan secured her grip on her husband’s elbow.

  “That’s normal,” Sebastian said. “You became familiar with the holding pattern Isabella has been in. Today that changes.” Holmes had called him after removing the heart to say that the organ showed a little bruising from CPR, but overall looked to be in great condition.

  “The next several hours are going to be long ones for us,” Timothy said.

  “We’ll keep you updated throughout,” Sebastian said.

  They stopped at the entrance of the lounge. A large number of Ackerman family members of all different ages had already gathered. Their faces communicated eagerness, worry.

  “This is Isabella’s doctor,” Timothy announced to them. “Dr. Grant. He’ll be performing the surgery.”

  A wave of comments washed over him. Mostly greetings, thanks, and assurances that they’d be praying.

  He was praised more than he deserved when a patient’s outcome was good. He disappointed people more than he deserved when a patient’s outcome wasn’t good. Either way, in this line of work, there was never any place to hide.

  He excused himself. Keeping a close eye on the clock, he stopped by the break room for a snack and a drink, then did some stretches in his office.

  The timing of a heart transplant required more precision than the gears of a Swiss watch. After scrubbing in, he entered the OR when the senior fellow was opening Isabella’s chest. The perfusionist stood ready with the heart and lung bypass machine. An anesthesiologist, two nurses, and Markie rounded out the group.

  “Good morning,” Sebastian said.

  “Morning,” they responded.

  “Let’s get to work, people.”

  “Some of us are already working,” Markie replied.

  Sebastian watched Isabella’s numbers and answered friendly questions about his vacation days in Misty River until the new heart arrived. It floated inside sterile solution within a plastic bag, surrounded by a Playmate cooler’s icy water.

  Sebastian set about removing Isabella’s defective heart. It was swollen, dark red in color, too deformed to be functional. Once he’d freed it, he handed it to the scrub nurse, who placed it on a towel on the set-up table. Immediately, it became an inanimate lump of ruined muscle. Useless.

  Meticulously, Sebastian worked to secure the new heart—light pink, shiny, smooth—inside Isabella’s small chest.

  After thirty minutes of stitching, he asked the perfusionist to begin warming the blood. Soon he’d be able to remove the cross clamp and allow her blood to flow.

  Sebastian found Megan and Timothy waiting for him in the hallway outside the restricted area of the operating wing. The staff had sent them frequent messages regarding the stages of the surgery and their daughter’s stability. Even so, they both looked wrung out.

  “Everything went as smoothly as it could possibly have gone,” Sebastian said.

  Some of Megan’s tension appeared to ease. “Praise the Lord.”

  “As you know, she has a long road ahead of her.” The first of many obstacles—the possibility that Isabella’s body would reject the heart. “But for now, she’s doing very well.”

  “And the new heart,” Timothy said. “It just . . . started beating?”

  “The new heart is flawless and strong. Sometimes, when we start blood flow, hearts are reluctant to start up again. But not this time. The second we started blood flow, the new heart began to beat in perfect sinus rhythm.”

  Sebastian understood the science and medicine behind heart transplant. Even so, he regarded the fact that a donor’s heart could beat in a recipient’s body as a miracle. Every time he’d witnessed a heart transplant, he’d watched a miracle just as legitimate as the one God had performed when He’d defended Sebastian from death in El Salvador.

  Megan started to cry.

  In the past he’d removed his emotions as much as he could from his patients and their parents. But now, because of Leah, his own feelings were much closer to the surface.

  Timothy turned Megan to him and hugged her.

  “It’s a good day,” Sebastian assured them. “Your daughter has received a brand-new start.”

  Leah treated herself to a dessert break at Polka Dot Apron Pies that afternoon. She’d stopped at the post office, and the pie truck was too conveniently close to pass up.

  She sat at one of the round tables on the sidewalk near the food trucks delighting in a slice of pumpkin pie and contemplating how to further her investigation into Bonnie and Ian O’Reilly.

  It wouldn’t hurt to reach out to Joyce Caffarella, Bonnie’s fellow nurse, one more time. Joyce remembered Bonnie. And Leah was fairly certain that Joyce had invited Leah to contact her again, if needed.

  She consulted her text message conversation with Joyce. Sure enough, the older woman had said, Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.

  Leah crafted a text.

  Hi! This is Leah Montgomery. Thanks again for talking with me and sending me Bonnie and Tracy’s contact information. I’ve made some headway in my search for information on Bonnie O’Reilly, but now I’m stuck again. If, by chance, you remember anything else, please let me know.

  Leah sectioned off another bite of pie. Crisp, buttery pastry crust supported rich filling and a dollop of whipped cream.

  In addition to researching death certificates, Genevieve had mentioned that yearbooks and newspapers had proven helpful. Leah didn’t see how yearbooks could be relevant to her search, but a newspaper article might divulge facts she could use a
s a springboard to get in touch with friends, relatives, and employers of Bonnie’s—any of whom may have a phone number for her.

  A return text from Joyce arrived.

  I’ll think on it, hon! If anything occurs to me, or if I can find any Bonnie memorabilia in one of my closets, you’ll be the first to know.

  I appreciate your help.

  Bonnie had been living in Atlanta by the time Ian had been born. Atlanta was a city of half a million people. Trying to find Bonnie in an Atlanta newspaper brought to mind the proverbial needle in the haystack. She’d likely have better results searching for Bonnie in her hometown paper.

  On her phone, Leah pulled up information about the town that had been listed as Bonnie’s birthplace on Ian’s death record. Oxford, Alabama. Its population had enjoyed a forty-six percent increase in the past twenty years and now boasted twenty-one thousand residents. It made sense that Bonnie might have migrated to Atlanta from Oxford, because even though the Alabama/Georgia line separated the two cities, they were located only eighty-eight miles apart.

  She typed Newspaper for Oxford, AL into her Google app, then dialed the number provided.

  “Calhoun County Post,” a young, sweet-voiced woman answered.

  Leah explained that she was looking for newspaper mentions of a woman who’d been born in Oxford named Bonnie Byrne or Bonnie O’Reilly.

  “I’d be glad to help,” the woman said. “But, just so you know, this isn’t something I can pull up quickly. I’ll have to work on it in my downtime. It might take me a bit.”

  “No problem at all.” A thought occurred. “Would it be too much trouble to also keep an eye out for mentions of Ian O’Reilly?”

  “That’s absolutely fine. I’ll add him to the list.”

  Almost as soon as Leah ended the call, her phone dinged. She checked her texts, anticipating another follow-up from Joyce. It wasn’t from Joyce. It was from Claire.

  My dad’s really, really angry. Can you come get my sisters and brother and me?

  Panic flashed in Leah’s chest. She placed a call to Claire. No answer. Leah texted instead.

  Claire, call the police. If you can get out of the house, do. If you can’t, try to lock yourself into a room.

  No answer. No scrolling dots to indicate Claire had seen the message.

  Tossing what was left of her pie in the trash, she rushed to her car. Once she’d shut herself inside, she dialed Misty River’s police headquarters.

  A female voice answered.

  Leah identified herself and rapidly relayed the text she’d received from Claire.

  “Leah, this is Marilyn.” They knew each other slightly from church. “I’m so sorry to hear about your student.”

  “I’m concerned.”

  “I understand. Listen, the officers we have on duty are currently at the scene of a collision on Summit Road. I’ll ask if one of them can drive over to Claire’s residence as soon as possible.”

  Leah supplied Claire’s address, thanked Marilyn, and disconnected.

  Summit Road was on the outskirts of town. Depending on how severe the crash was, that emergency might take precedence over Claire’s emergency.

  She dialed Sebastian. It was 4:40. He was likely on the road back to Misty River since he’d anticipated that he’d be home for dinner.

  He didn’t pick up. She tried again.

  No answer.

  She called Ben. His line rang and rang. She left a brief message, but halfway through remembered his baseball team practiced on Thursday afternoons.

  Anxiety scratched the inside of her lungs. She was burning time sitting here, time that might be precious to Claire. She should have done more for Claire before now. Why hadn’t she done more?

  She called Connor. No answer.

  Sebastian had suggested she reach out to Ben’s dad if she needed reinforcements for a visit to Claire’s house. But she’d only met Hersh on a handful of occasions. She didn’t have his number in her phone.

  She started her car. Read Claire’s message again. Tried calling the girl. Sent another text.

  Are you all right?

  No scrolling dots.

  She’d told Sebastian she would not go alone to Claire’s house. But what choice did she have?

  Worry fused with the responsibility of this, sickening her. How was she supposed to justify doing nothing when she might be the only one Claire had contacted? The only one who knew Claire and her siblings were in trouble?

  She drove toward Claire’s, arguing with herself, trying to formulate a strategy.

  When she came to a stop in front of Claire’s house, the structure looked cold and still. It could be that fury was snarling off its leash indoors, scaring children, hurting children. But from her vantage point, there was no sign of that. The last time she’d come here, she’d glimpsed the interior of the house through the downstairs windows. This time, drawn curtains guarded the family’s secrets.

  A potentially expired canister of pepper spray languished in the bottom of her purse. She dug it out, stuck it in her back pocket, and let herself from her car. Her outfit—skinny jeans, white top, emerald cardigan—had felt entirely right this morning but felt entirely wrong now. Too frivolous. The soles of her ballet flats slipped against slick concrete as she made her way to the front door.

  Sebastian had spent most of the drive back to Misty River on the phone. First, he’d spoken to the intensivist on shift about Isabella’s care. Then Dr. Nelson, who’d oversee her progress. Then Megan and Timothy, who’d contacted him with questions.

  It wasn’t until he stopped at a light several miles outside of town that he realized he’d missed two calls from Leah. He dialed her. No response, so he texted her.

  She didn’t text back, even though the school day had ended a while ago.

  He turned on the Siriously Sinatra station and listened to a few songs, but his brain refused to focus on the music.

  He called Leah again. No answer. Obviously, she was busy. She’d call back when she was free. No reason to overreact.

  Except terrible images started to filter into his head, images that explained why she couldn’t answer her phone. Car accident. Injury.

  That’s ridiculous, Sebastian. She’s fine.

  His instincts, though, were telling him otherwise.

  It wouldn’t hurt to check with Dylan. He could do so without sounding like a nervous psycho.

  He silenced the music and woke his phone using voice controls. “Call Dylan Montgomery.”

  The call connected through Bluetooth, his car’s speakers amplifying the sound of the ringing phone.

  “Hey, Dr. Grant,” Dylan said.

  “Hey, I’m having a little trouble reaching your sister. Do you know what she’s up to this afternoon?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any guesses?”

  “No, but I can check the app that shows me where she is, if you want.”

  “That would be great, thanks.”

  “’Kay, hang on.”

  Sebastian dug the tip of his thumb into his steering wheel.

  “It looks like she’s on the north side of town. Um. On . . . Serene Court. I don’t know what’s over there.”

  Fear—cold and raw—pierced Sebastian. He knew exactly what was over there. He’d driven Leah to that street on Saturday to pick up Claire.

  It felt as if his lungs were folding in on themselves as he ordered his phone to supply directions to Serene Court.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Leah pressed Claire’s doorbell and listened to its chimes reverberate within. Anxiously, she waited next to the two metal lawn chairs standing guard on the front landing.

  No one answered, so she tried the doorbell a second time. After a minute or so, she heard movement on the other side.

  She took several steps back.

  A forty-something man, big and broad with dark red hair, answered the door. Color flushed his pale skin, and his eyes glittered with adrenaline.

  Alarm bolted down her spi
ne. “I’m Leah Montgomery, Claire’s math teacher. I don’t believe we’ve had the opportunity to meet.”

  “Wes Dobney.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m here to pick up Claire and her siblings for the outing to the library.”

  “What outing to the library?”

  “Oh! Well . . . the library recently completed an excellent math exhibit.” Not true. She’d invented this scenario on the drive over. “Very interactive. I told Claire about it, and she seemed interested, so I volunteered to take her and her sisters and brother through the exhibit this evening.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  She feigned surprise and contrition. “My apologies. I set this up with your wife, but I should have emailed you both to confirm. Are . . . the kids available for an hour?”

  “Just a minute.” The door shut.

  Leah wrapped her arms around herself. Painful seconds dragged by, then the door slid open again, this time revealing a girl no older than five or six, with a round face and orange curls.

  “I’m Ms. Montgomery,” Leah told her.

  “I’m Annie. Are you . . . here for us?”

  Leah nodded.

  “Daddy locked Mason in his room. We need to get him out so he can go, too.”

  “I don’t have a key to Mason’s room.”

  Annie glanced over her shoulder, then focused on Leah. “You don’t need one. The lock’s on the outside but it’s too high for me to reach.”

  “I don’t think I should come in.”

  “Please? Just real quick?” she begged. “His room’s right there.” Low-pitched angry tones were coming from the left. She pointed to the right.

  Protect us, Leah prayed. Easing inside, she followed Annie as silently as possible. The smell of burned toast clogged the air.

  Annie stopped at the first door they came to and gestured to the lock she’d mentioned earlier. A slide lock.

  Breath shallow, Leah’s mind screamed, Get out! Get out! as she freed it.

  Within the room, Mason, his face splotchy from crying, pushed to his feet. He looked a few years older than Annie.

  “Get on some shoes,” Leah whispered to them, “and meet me in the front yard.”