May God bless you and your family.
As he wrote the last sentence, Angel felt himself changing. It was as if sunlight, pure and hot and white, were flooding through his body, lighting places that had been cold and dark for years. For the first time in his life, he knew—irrevocably and completely—that he’d done the right thing.
Madelaine reached into her closet for something to change into. Her fingertips brushed soft, well-worn flannel. Very slowly she pushed the silks and cottons aside and came to a blue and gray flannel shirt that had been Francis’s.
She remembered the day he’d left that shirt here—a spring day that had started out cold and rainy and by noon turned almost summer-hot. He’d thrown off the old flannel shirt and put on one of those oversized T-shirts that the drug companies were always giving her.
For a moment the pain was almost unbearable. Blinded by stinging tears, she reached out for the shirt and pulled it from the hanger. She brought it to her nose and breathed deeply.
She could smell him. A trace of aftershave filled her senses, bringing a dozen treasured images to her mind. Francis unwrapping the small red and green plaid box, laughing as he always did when he saw the aftershave. OK thank God, I was almost out.
She realized in a rush that he wouldn’t be here for Christmas this year, or Thanksgiving. She and Lina would have to make it through those days alone. How would they do it? Every one of their traditions had been forged as a threesome. Who would carve the turkey, who would hang the Christmas lights, who would eat the Christmas cookies they laid out for Santa Claus on the good Spode china?
She clutched the shirt to her face and breathed in deeply, as if she could somehow bring him back to life through the sheer force of her will.
God, how she wanted to turn around and find him there, her priest with the blue, blue eyes and the infectious laugh. She wanted to run into his waiting arms and hear him tell her he loved his Maddy-girl. She squeezed her eyes shut. Just one more time, God … one more time.
Solitude stretched taut around her. She heard the quiet ticking of her bedroom clock, the gentle tapping of the wind against the glass.
Standing in her own bedroom, in her own house, she’d never felt more alone.
Suddenly she couldn’t endure it another second. She shoved her arms in Francis’s shirt and buttoned it up, running headlong through the house. She wrenched the door open and felt the cold air hit her in the face.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Angel. He was leaning against the front end of his gray Mercedes—the one she’d bought for him with an American Express Platinum credit card. He was standing there, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world, in his snug blue Levi’s jeans and faded Aerosmith T-shirt.
He pushed away from the car and strode up the walkway. Wind whipped a long strand of brown hair across his face.
Angel came to within a few feet of her and stopped. For once, he didn’t smile. “I want to see Francis’s grave.”
She frowned. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “It’s in Forest Lawn … in Magnolia Heights.”
“I thought maybe you would come with me.” He flashed the smile that had graced a hundred movie magazines, and she noticed for the first time that it was a little sad around the edges, and it didn’t reach his eyes.
“What is it, Angel?”
His false smile faded and he looked up at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. “He’s haunting me, Mad. It’s because there were so many things I never said. I thought maybe … if I said them now, he’d let me get on with my life.” He took a step toward her. “I’m starting to figure some things out, Mad. I can see a life ahead of me for the first time in years, but…”
She was drawn by the words he didn’t say. It felt as if she were falling into the past, but she didn’t care. All she knew was that she was lonely, had been lonely a very long time, and he was holding his hand out for her. She reached down and took it, felt his strong fingers close around hers, and her heartbeat sped up a notch. “I’ll take you,” she said softly, knowing that if she went with him to Francis’s grave, she would tell him the truth about his heart and he might never offer his hand again. She squeezed tightly, clinging to him.
He led her down the path that cut between her faded flower beds, to the sidewalk that guarded her house. The first hint of nightfall tinted the sky a deep, rich lavender blue. Wordlessly she climbed into the soft, sweet-smelling leather seat and directed him toward the freeway.
When they reached the cemetery, it was almost four o’clock. Pink and red fell in silken streaks across the twilight sky.
They walked up the granite path to the grassy knoll she’d chosen for Francis. The church had put up an exquisite white marble marker. Beside it was the wrought-iron bench that Madelaine had chosen.
She led Angel to the bench and sat down beside him. They stared at the marker for a long time, each lost in memories. Finally she drew the flannel shirt more tightly around her and stood up. “I’ll give you a little time alone,” she said, turning to leave.
He grabbed her hand. “Don’t go.”
She gazed down at him, seeing the pain in his eyes, the fear and the frustration and the loneliness, and it threw her back to another time, long ago, when he’d looked at her like that and said the very same words. Slowly, still holding his hand, she sat down.
Quietly he said, “I would change it all if I could.”
She didn’t know if he was speaking to her or Francis, but it didn’t matter. The confession wrapped around her, connected them. “I know what you mean.”
He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “How could you? You’ve never run from anything in your life.”
She sighed. “That only shows how little you know me, Angel. I’ve made a lot of mistakes with our daughter, and I think I took Francis for granted. I thought he’d always be there for me.” She tilted her chin and stared out at the endless acres of grass, watching tiny knife blades of night steal across the headstones. “I was afraid of Francis and Lina. They both loved so easily and so well. Unlike me. I could never seem to get it right, especially with Lina. I was always afraid I’d do the wrong thing, or say the wrong thing, and she’d leave me … just disappear one day and never come back.”
He was silent for a minute, then he touched her chin, forced her to look at him. “Like I did.”
She couldn’t pretend his betrayal had meant nothing. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”
“It wasn’t you, Mad.”
She tried to laugh. “I didn’t see anyone else standing outside my bedroom window.”
The smile he offered was sad. “It was me. I was scared of you and me and the baby. Scared of what I felt for you. How could I know…” His gaze held hers. She waited, breathless and a little afraid of what he would say next. He turned, stared out at the night sky, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “How could I know I’d never feel that way again?”
The words were magical. She felt them wrap around her, squeeze her heart. Answers came to her, spiraling one after another, weaving themselves into a whole that terrified her. He was talking about the past, she knew that, and yet it felt like the future.
In the end she said nothing, and the quiet slipped between them.
“Say something, Mad.”
She turned to him, knowing that her eyes were full of the emotion she was afraid to release. “What can I say, Angel? You want to know if I’ve ever felt that way again? The answer is no.”
“Do you think you could?”
She knew that the answer, once given, could never be taken back. She’d be throwing her vulnerability at him again, giving him the power to break her heart. She thought about saying nothing, or lying, but she knew it was useless. Somehow, she’d already given him that power. “Yes,” she whispered.
A quick smile tugged at one corner of his mouth and he turned quickly away, staring once again at the headstone. “I’ve got a long way to go, Mad. I’m not the man I was
before … but I’m not anyone else yet. I can’t make any promises.”
Surprisingly, the words that should have hurt gave her hope. The old Angel would never have been so honest. “We’re not kids anymore, Angel.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that everything doesn’t have to happen overnight. It means that trust isn’t given as easily or taken as casually. There’s a lot of water under our bridge.”
“Yeah.” Angel fell silent again. Finally he pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket. “I want you to read this,” he said, handing it to her.
She frowned in confusion at the sudden turnaround. “What is it?”
“Just read it,” he said.
She took the piece of paper and unfolded it, smoothing the wrinkles against her thighs. The first three words hit her hard. Dear donor family.
She looked up at him.
“It’s a letter to my donor family. I worked on it for six hours, but it still isn’t quite right. I thought you might want to help me….”
Madelaine saw the uncertainty in his eyes, the need, and it touched her deeply. Forcing her gaze away, she read the letter, and when she was finished, she was crying. Very carefully she folded it back up and looked at him. She started to say that it was perfect, but she couldn’t speak.
She knew that the time had come.
“They say the truth will set you free,” she said quietly.
“The letter … is my way of trying to change, set my life right. I want to be a good father to Lina, but I don’t know how. Sometimes I look at her and I wonder where all those years went and what my life would have been like if I’d walked her to kindergarten and seen her in the school Christmas pageants. I know I have a long way to go, but I’ve got to start somewhere—and the heart feels like the beginning.”
Madelaine carefully set the letter on the bench and turned to look him full in the face. She realized in that instant that she’d never stopped loving him, and the knowledge made it difficult to breathe. “When I was talking about the truth setting you free, I didn’t mean you. I was talking about me.”
He flashed her a grin. “Another deep, dark secret you’re keeping from me?” He saw her seriousness, and his smile faded. “Lina is my daughter?”
“Of course she is.” Madelaine leaned closer. Almost against her will, she touched his chest, felt the heart beating, fluttering in perfect rhythm. She searched for the words, just the right ones.
“You’re scaring me, Mad.”
“I’m afraid you won’t forgive me,” she whispered. She wanted to heap explanations and apologies on him, to make him understand the miracle she’d given him, but he was watching her so closely, she couldn’t think straight. “It made a miracle out of a tragedy, remember that. There was no time to decide, no time to talk to anyone. You were in a coma. You were dying and I had to save you.”
“Madelaine.” He touched her chin, tilted her face and forced her to meet his gaze. “I know that. Why—”
“It was Francis’s heart,” she said, feeling her tears rise and fall in burning streaks down her face. “We gave you Francis’s heart.”
He froze, drew his hand back. He went so still, it was frightening.
“Say something,” she pleaded.
He stared at her, his face pale. “You let them cut Franco’s heart out?”
She flinched. “He was brain-dead, Angel. He wasn’t going to get better. You have to understand—”
“Jesus Christ. You let them cut his heart out?”
“Angel—”
“You lied to me.”
She shook her head. “Not a lie … I just let you believe …” She looked away from him, ashamed. “I lied,” she admitted quietly. “I lied.”
He lurched to his feet and strode away from her, stumbling and running across the dark cemetery.
She ran after him. “Angel, please—”
He spun around, slapping her with the coldness of his gaze. “Please what? Please understand that it was right to put Francis’s heart in my body?”
She was crying so hard, she could barely see him. “It’s what he would have wanted….”
“And you think that helps?”
He ran from her, disappearing into the shadows.
She stood there forever, breathing hard. Then, woodenly, she turned and went back to the bench, collapsing on its metal seat. Curling forward, she buried her face in her hands and cried for all of them.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, but when she looked up, it was dark. A few lights had come on around the cemetery, creating pockets of shimmery light.
Footsteps moved toward her slowly.
She straightened, tried to make out his shape among the shadows. “Angel?”
He stepped into a puddle of light about ten feet away. He was standing tall and straight, his hands plunged into his pants pockets. She couldn’t see his face. “That’s why I’ve been dreaming about him,” he said in a dull, soft voice.
She didn’t know how to answer. The physician in her wanted to deny it, wanted to tell him that the heart was just another organ, no different from the kidney or liver. But the woman in her, the woman who’d loved Francis and his brother, couldn’t be so sure. “Maybe,” she said. Then she realized it was a half answer, the kind of safety that had ruined her life, and she said, “Yes. I believe that’s why you dream of him.”
He moved toward her, his boots crunching on the cold grass. When he got closer, she could see the tear tracks on his cheeks, and it hurt to know how much she’d hurt him. She’d never wanted to do that, not even years ago. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, but the words were little and useless. So she sat there, staring at him, waiting.
He got to the bench and sat down beside her. “I want to hate you for this,” he said at last.
“I know.”
“But you’re the person I wrote that letter to.”
“Yes.”
He wouldn’t look at her. “It must have killed you.”
She wanted to take his face in her hands and force him to look at her, but she didn’t have the courage to touch him. “You know what got me through it?”
“Tell me.”
She could hear the rawness in his voice, the need to understand. “It was Francis. He was a gentle, loving soul who would have given his life to save a stranger, let alone his own brother. He loved you, Angel, and there was no question about what he would have wanted.”
“He was so damned good,” he whispered. “Even when we were kids and I was such an asshole—he always believed the best of me.”
“He didn’t give up his life for you. It’s important that you understand that. He died. Period. And what came afterwards was a gift from the God he loved. Something good came out of his death, but it didn’t cause it. You didn’t cause his death.”
“You don’t understand, Mad…”
This time she couldn’t help touching him. The pain in his voice was like a knife. She leaned forward, touched his cheek in a gentle, fleeting caress. “Make me understand.”
He stiffened, and she could tell that he was grasping for self-control. “I don’t deserve his heart. I can’t… be like him.”
“Oh, Angel,” she breathed. “It would hurt him to hear you say that. You know it would.”
He drew back. “I can’t live for him. I don’t have it in me to be that noble.”
She touched his chest, felt his heartbeat, and in that fluttering rhythm she found a dawning sense of hope. “You have Francis’s heart and your soul, Angel. You have it in you to be anything.”
Tears filled his eyes as he looked at her. She curled her arms around him and drew him to her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. She stroked his hair and rocked him gently, telling him over and over again that it was okay.
Finally he drew back. “I’m scared, Maddy…”
“I know.”
“I don’t know where to go from here, where Francis would want me to go.”
; “Just take it one day at a time.”
He laughed. “You sound like my counselor at Betty Ford.”
She smiled. “Where do you want to go from here, Angel? Why don’t you start with that?”
He looked down at her, and she could have sworn there was love in his eyes. “Home,” he said simply. “I want to go home.”
Chapter Twenty-three
He knows the night is growing colder. He can see evidence of the chill, even though he can’t feel it. The sky has turned a dense black, the way it often does in the waning days of November. Trees huddle together alongside the roadway, and if he listens very carefully, he can hear them whispering among themselves, shivering at the cold. He wonders why he’s never heard them talking before.
But now he hears so many different things—the percussive patter of raindrops when they hit the spiked top of the picket fence, the gentle thud of a fallen leaf. Even the starlight makes a sound, a low buzzing drone that reminds him of the bees that gather in her rose garden in the first full days of summer. Everything makes a sound, it seems, but the porch swing, which hangs heavy and still beneath him. And him. He is the quietest thing of all.
The neighborhood animals know he is here. On nights like this, when it is cold and dark, they creep past the house, their golden eyes trained on him, their hackles up. When he sees them, he thinks he feels something, a tingling in his fingertips that feels like memory, as if he could recall how soft they’d been, how comforting it had once been to pet a household cat. But the tingling is imaginary. He knows he has no real sense of touch anymore. He just remembers because it feels good to remember, and he has nothing else to do.
In the distance, a car turns toward the house, its headlights scouting ahead in shafts of yellow-bright light. When the light touches them, the trees go still. The car whips around and parks along the curb. The lights cut off.
He hears the sound of a door opening, then the easy rhythm of In the weak interior light, he sees Madelaine sitting in the passenger seat.
She climbs out of the car. The streetlamp casts a net of golden light around her, and the image reminds him of icons he has seen. She is smiling for the first time in days. He knows instinctively it is Angel who has given her back her smile.
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