What Remains

by Helene Dunbar

  He sits there while the sounds of the rehearsal seep under the door. He doesn’t press me to say anything else, which is good because I don’t think I can talk about it. Not even with him.

  But of course he says the only thing that could possibly make it okay for Lizzie’s heart to be beating inside of me: “That sounds like a Lizzie thing, you know,” he says with a forced smile. “She’d like the idea of haunting you.”

  It makes me smile a little too because it’s so true. Lizzie would love the idea of making me squirm for the rest of my life.

  I know I should let him go back to rehearsal. He’s got the lead and I’m not sure how much they can do without him. My anger at him is gone and suddenly I’m just really, really tired.

  Plus there’s another conversation I need to have. And not with him.

  “Will you pick me up for school tomorrow?” I ask.

  He relaxes and smiles with relief, which makes me relax a little too. “Of course. Usual time?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I get up. I’m still a bit shaky and put my hand out to pull him up.

  He takes it and looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if we’re really okay or not.

  “Sorry for interrupting rehearsal,” I say.

  “No, that’s fine. I’m sorry for … you know,” he says as he turns to the door. “Hey, Cal?”

  I just look at him, wondering what he sees now when he looks at me.

  “Don’t be too hard on your parents.”

  I can’t reply, so I just shrug and turn to walk away.

  The thought of going back to class to try to memorize the greatest hits of European History makes me feel like my head is going to explode. Instead I head to Lizzie’s locker and stand in front of the gray metal. I reach out and lay my hand on it and it’s cold under my skin, which, for some reason, brings tears to my eyes. I grab at the lock and spin the dial to open it. She always used Spencer’s birthday as her combination, but then she knew my combo too (6-23-20, the uniform numbers of my favorite Tigers, and Spencer’s 22-2-45, the address of his favorite Broadway theater) and we were always in and out of each other’s lockers. I only want one thing; I want to see her painting. I want to feel close to her. But as I’m dialing, a picture springs into my head of her shivering in a locker-sized box in the cemetery and I can feel my lunch threatening to come back up.

  I drop the lock like it’s a line drive and head to the nurse’s office to tell them I’m feeling tired—a gross understatement—and think I should go home. I let them poke and prod me a bit. The nurse watches as I call a cab to take me to the house. Mom is in court so there’s no chance of reaching her, but they leave my dad’s assistant an urgent message that I’m sure will get his attention.

  Ten

  When I get home I park myself on the couch in the living room, but leave the lights off. For once what I’m afraid of isn’t the stuff I don’t know; it’s the stuff I do know. I can’t say why I didn’t think to ask where my donated heart came from. There’s been so much going on, so much to get used to. It makes me feel selfish to think I didn’t wonder. But that doesn’t absolve my parents for not telling me that I was walking around with Lizzie’s heart inside me.

  The shadows change as the last bits of daylight move across the room. Finally a car pulls up and my dad’s keys jangle in the door. He comes in and flips on the light, looking a little bit relieved, like he thought he was going to come home and find me dead on the floor.

  “Hey champ, the school called. Are you feeling all right?”

  I don’t give him a chance to take his coat off. I move in front of him, realizing that we’re the same height now. Part of me wants to settle this like a man and take a swing at him. But I can’t; he’s still my dad.

  Instead I push a finger into his chest. Surprised, he backs up against the door.

  “Her heart? Of all the people in the world, they gave me Lizzie’s heart and you didn’t even fucking tell me?” I don’t think I’ve ever sworn at my dad and he looks completely shocked. He tenses and I think he’s going to fight back. But then his shoulders slump and he gently moves my arm away.

  “Cal. Look.”

  “No, you look,” I say, pacing around the living room like a caged tiger. “She was my friend. One of my best friends in the world. And you and Mom didn’t think it was important to tell me that it’s her heart that’s keeping me alive?” My blood pressure is going through the roof just like it isn’t supposed to do and I take a deep breath to try to calm myself until I hear his answer.

  “Of course, we know it’s important. We know how close you were.”

  This does it. This pushes me over the edge that I’ve barely been hanging onto. “No. You don’t know. How can you know? Neither of you have really been here enough to know. Did you know that Lizzie’s mom was a drunk and allowed her series of loser boyfriends to hurt her own daughter? Did you know that? Did you know that Spencer and I used to go over there and break up the fights and drag Lizzie out of there? Did you know that we’ve had to take her to the hospital more than once? Did you know that?” The words are pouring out of me like they can’t escape fast enough. Blood rushes in front of my eyes. I’m breaking every rule that the doctor gave me and I don’t really care if I drop dead here in the middle of the living room. It would serve them all right.

  Dad goes pale and looks like he’s going to be sick. He’s afraid of me and right now he should be.

  “We knew her mother drank, but no, Cal. We … ” He fumbles for words, but I don’t care what he has to say.

  I poke him in the chest again to emphasis each word. “Then. Do. Not. Tell. Me. You. Knew. How. Close. We. Were.” I spin around to keep from slamming his head into the wall. I’m shaking and the tears start, but I don’t want him to see them. I don’t want to be the one who backs down. Not this time. “You didn’t know anything.”

  I stand there, facing the window, on the verge of sobbing, trying to catch my breath. Dad comes up behind me, but wisely doesn’t touch me. I feel coiled as tight as a spring. The slightest thing will make all of this anger explode.

  “We weren’t keeping this from you. We just wanted to wait until you were stronger.”

  I turn around and clasp my hands together like I used to when I was a little kid and Mom would take me to stores filled with glass things. She taught me to keep my hands away from anything fragile. Anything that can break. Anything I can smash.

  Dad stares, pleading with me to understand, to forgive. But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve spent a month wondering if I was losing my mind, not able to tell anyone about the dreams and the voices. Figuring that I deserved them after what I’d done to Lizzie. But now I know differently. This is all her. And as much as I try, I’m not a little kid any more. And it’s too late to keep me from breaking anything. Lizzie is proof of that.

  I do my homework and go to bed before Mom even comes home. I turn on the nightstand light and then turn it off, and then turn it on again. It’s like an SOS signal, only there’s no one out there to see it. For once the light isn’t helping. I don’t know what to do to keep the shadows at bay when they’re already inside me, beating like a badly timed drum.

  Stars and planets glow on my ceiling. I put them up there sometime in middle school and never took them down. I spent weeks getting the configurations right and to be honest, I’ve sometimes wondered what it would be like to make out with a girl, Ally really, under these stars. I wonder if wishes on plastic stars can still come true.

  But the only girl who has ever been in my room is Lizzie and she doesn’t really count. She thought the stars were just some sort of bullshit nightlight.

  I must fall asleep at some point because the next thing I know, I bolt straight up in bed and hear noise down the hall. Mom and Dad aren’t exactly arguing but their voices are tense and loud in the way they get when they’re upset, but self-aware enough to know it and tryin
g to be quiet.

  My shirt is damp with sweat, so I pull it off. The L-shaped scar that runs around my chest is so ugly I can’t stand to look at it. The edges are puckered and red. The doctors say it will fade with time but for now I look like the monster I am.

  It’s weird to think that somewhere under my skin is Lizzie’s heart beating away inside me. Even thinking about it gives me chills so I put my shirt back on and reach my hand under the bed for my baseball mitt.

  The leather is warm and smells like summer, freshly mowed grass, and sweat. It’s the one I was going to keep for … it doesn’t matter anymore. Still, it feels good to have it on. If I close my eyes and run my hands over the worn laces, I can pretend for a minute that none of this has happened. That the season will start soon and that my biggest decision is going to be whether to play college ball or pray for a minor league contract.

  I fall asleep that way. Holding onto the glove like a security blanket. I’m still wearing it when my mom comes in and wakes me up in the middle of the night. I don’t think she means to because she’s just sitting there, but it’s like her thoughts are loud enough to pull me out of whatever thankfully dreamless sleep I’ve taken refuge in.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she says when I open my eyes. “I’m sorry that we didn’t know what was going on with Lizzie, and I’m sorry that we didn’t tell you what happened.”

  My mouth opens and then closes. I’m more tired and sad than I am angry at this point. I know she really is sorry, but there’s nothing I can say.

  “When they brought you all into the hospital, everything happened very quickly. Lizzie was a registered organ donor, but because she was a minor they needed her mother’s approval,” Mom says.

  “That nutcase actually agreed to do something nice for someone?” I can’t imagine Lizzie’s mom approving of anything like that.

  Mom gives me a look like she’s going to tell me to watch my mouth, but she holds back.

  “I think her mother’s specific words were that she didn’t care one way or the other.” Mom’s mouth tightens when she admits this and I’m sure that bit of honesty cost her something. I want to ask if Lizzie’s mom was drunk at the time, but as she’s pretty much drunk all the time, it’s a fair bet she was and it doesn’t really matter. Ultimately, it was Lizzie’s choice, which is the only thing out of all this craziness that makes me feel a little bit better.

  “Spencer knew because he was the one who brought Lizzie’s mom to the hospital after he was checked out. There wasn’t a lot of time and we didn’t want to leave you. Don’t be mad at him, honey. He’s a good friend.”

  I smile a little because it’s a silly thing for her to be telling me. “No, Mom, it’s okay. Spencer and I are fine.”

  She nods. “Good. And we would have told you, too. It’s just that you’ve been through so much and I can only imagine … ” She stops and puts her hand on my wrist, the one that still has the mitt on it, and looks at me like she’s really seeing me for the first time in forever. “No … sorry. I can’t really imagine what you’re feeling. It’s hard sometimes for parents to understand that their kids aren’t really kids anymore. But I hope you know that we love you. And that we’re here for you.”

  I choke up a little. This is the most I’ve heard my mom say in a while that didn’t involve notes about keeping my grades up, reminders about changing the oil in the car, or apologies for not making it to my games.

  “Thanks,” I manage to squeak out.

  She gets up to leave and then turns back and takes a card out of her pocket. She looks at it, and then at me, and then back at the card. There’s a long pause and then she places it on the nightstand. “Cal, do me one favor. Think about calling Dr. Reynolds. It can’t hurt to talk to someone.” And then she leaves without waiting for an answer.

  I put my glove back under the bed and pick up the card. It’s totally official-looking and kind of imposing. Even though I can’t imagine why I’d need to talk to anyone other than Spencer about what’s going on, I slip it into my mitt so that I’ll know where it is. If I need it.

  Eleven

  There’s an old maple near the middle school that Spencer, Lizzie, and I carved our names into when we were in seventh grade. Spencer worried that we might damage the tree, but Lizzie was insistent that we do it and, for once, I sided with her against Spencer. I liked the idea of permanence.

  We stand in front of it now, me and Spencer, marveling at how much that tree has grown. Even I have to reach up to touch the names we carved with the pocket knife I’d swiped from my dad.

  “I never thought we’d end up like this,” Spencer says. “I mean, just the two of us.”

  A breeze picks up and rustles the leaves of the tree, allowing the light to bounce off Spencer’s hair. As I watch, the sunshine turns to snow—big, golfball-sized flakes that seem too large to be real.

  Spencer leans into me and I can feel his warmth. It’s like a fire when you’ve been freezing, a steak when you’ve been starving. It fills me until I’m no longer empty.

  We stand there, silent, snow falling around our feet until I’m not sure we’ll be able to move. Maybe we’ll be stuck here next to this old tree for all eternity. I link my arm through Spencer’s and the snow starts to fall faster, obscuring my view of everything except the tree and the boy next to me.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be here,” I say.

  Spencer turns to me. He lifts my collar up but leaves his hand, hot, on my neck.

  “It doesn’t matter where we are, so long as we’re together.” He leans in, lips parted. His breath is warm enough to melt the snow as it falls, but I shiver anyhow. Shiver hard enough to wake up.

  Fucking Lizzie and her dreams.

  I try to get back to sleep, but can’t get comfortable and just toss and turn. I can’t sleep on my stomach or my side like I usually do because of the incision and I’ve never really liked sleeping on my back. Plus, there’s this train that keeps running through my head and the wheels are making that clack, clack sound over and over. Lizzie’s heart is beating so loudly that it’s filling my ears. It gets like this sometimes. Like she wants something, only she’s asking for it in a language I can’t understand.

  Finally I haul myself out of bed and boot up my computer. I’m not sure what to search for. I just feel like there has to be an explanation out there somewhere.

  A quick search tells me that the average heart of a

  seventeen-year-old girl weighs less than a pound.

  I type in “organ donation” but get all sorts of legal stuff. Then “Who can donate organs?” but it basically tells me what I already knew, that Lizzie’s mom had to agree because Lizzie was under eighteen. I read through all the pages about how normally donated organs would go onto the national registry that Jessica was talking about, so that the organs go to the people who need them most. I guess I understand now why she seemed so pissed at me. Sometimes people have to wait years on the list. Some even die before an organ match is found.

  I don’t know who would have gotten Lizzie’s heart had it not gone to me. And it’s strange to think that there might be other bits of her scattered around in other people. Are they feeling her as strongly inside them as I am, or am I the only one hearing her voice because I knew her so well? Or because she knew me?

  I click on “directed donation” and find out that it means you give an organ to someone specifically and bypass the registry. Usually this happens when someone gives their sister a kidney or something like that. It doesn’t really come into play when someone dies out of the blue. But I guess, in a way, that’s what happened to me.

  I skip all the parts about survival rates and problems with donated organs being rejected. Somehow I know that my body isn’t going to reject Lizzie’s heart and not just because I’m being pumped full of drugs to make sure that doesn’t happen.

  But reading through the information, I’
m amazed at all of the ways that things could have gone wrong. Really, the odds of my getting Lizzie’s heart were less than the odds of my being hit by lightning. I mean, first of all she had to be there, and be in the correct condition to donate. Then someone had to get her drunken mother there in time and talk her into signing the papers.

  And then there are the really hard things. The fact that Lizzie was a tiny bird girl compared to me and that the doctors like the recipient to be the same general size as the donor. And our blood types needed to be the same, which they were. I didn’t even know that before.

  Next I come across posts about something called cellular memory. It’s only a theory really, and I hate theories. But I have to pay attention to this one. It basically says that memories aren’t only stored in your brain; they’re stored in the cells of your other organs as well.

  Like your heart.

  So the theory is that when you get someone else’s organ, you get their memories. Or at least their likes and dislikes.

  Some of the stories I read are funny. There’s a guy in Ohio who got a kidney from a girl in Kansas. The girl was some sort of mushroom expert and this guy, who had always hated mushrooms, suddenly wanted them at every meal.

  But some of the stories aren’t so funny. One is about a guy who got the heart of someone who’d been murdered. And now he was having nightmares about being chased through the woods by a masked killer with a knife.

  The articles start to creep me out, so I turn on the rest of the lights in the room, but it really doesn’t help. I should shut my computer, but can’t look away. Even more, I know Spencer was right. Lizzie would be eating all of this up—she’d totally love it. The freak-out factor would have her researching donated organs for weeks and tormenting me about my loaner heart endlessly.