The Heart Does Not Grow Back

by Fred Venturini

  “You’re in the hospital, just thinking about everyone who’s not in the hospital, wanting to be with them,” he told me.

  He made me feel silly and humbled and I almost called Hollie, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  When they discharged me from that last surgery, I’d have months to go before my next one, and that was only if season two became a reality. We needed ratings. Everyone was left to prepare for and get nervous about the premiere, but I was me again, free to do whatever I wanted, so after that last checkup and surgery, I sat outside the hospital on the bench and cried. Even though most of my body was different, I was still the same goddamned Dale.

  NINETEEN

  We watched the season premiere of The Samaritan at Tracy’s house, our first opportunity to relax after months of taping.

  Two projection screens were set up in her living room—a cold space, the furniture white and hard, the walls mostly glass. Her entire house looked carefully staged, torn straight from a trendy catalog, an uninviting place with furniture that could be traded in for a car and curious decor with no functionality: glitter-spackled balls in a basket, wiry-looking tree things, candleholders that held candles with black wicks but no melted wax, so she must have lit the wicks to make them look like they were used often even though they weren’t. Everything in there was either fragile or attracted fingerprints, giving the entire place a repellant, don’t-touch vibe.

  Mack drank a lot of beer at the party and when people asked him about his involvement with the show, he happily told them “associate producer.” Everyone seemed appropriately impressed. I figured Mack Tucker wasn’t the first guy in L.A. getting by on a useless job title. He was nervous—the next step was to have a hit on our hands. After enduring multiple surgeries over the past few months, I really didn’t care if the first episode was a train wreck. I was almost hoping for a ratings stink bomb that would land me on the safe padding of the Hollywood blacklist. At least then, the decision would be made for me. If it was a hit, if they asked me for more, I couldn’t say no. The show employed people. Mack was happy. Rae was out there, watching.

  People I didn’t know were getting introduced to me by Tracy. I would shake their hands and smile in all the right places and thank them for the congratulations and forget them the minute they walked away.

  “Nervous?” Mack asked.

  “I wish this thing would start already. I’m sick of these smiling pricks.”

  “Hey, I’m smiling.”

  “Yeah, but that’s because you’re the one who’s nervous.”

  “Touché,” he said, and finished his beer.

  The show began with a voiceover, the Big Voice Guy opening the show with the words “In a cruel world, where being on a donor list means hoping to live while waiting to die…” Which was punctuated by images of crying families. Hugging families. Sick-looking people. To viewers, they were just montage images meant to set the mood. But they would meet these people. I had met them. I knew their names. I had saved them. Big Voice Guy continued, “These families are praying for a miracle. Dale Sampson is that miracle—blessed with an incredible and unexplained ability to regenerate his organs and limbs, his mission is to use his gifts to save as many lives as he can.”

  Then me, walking the streets of Los Angeles, looking nobly at random things in the distance. In every shot, the streets were wet because dry streets don’t photograph well. Our crew had guys with hoses spraying them down. I can’t watch a movie anymore without spotting the wet streets, even if it’s a night scene in a film set in a dry climate.

  It took me ten takes to look noble in that shot. I kept asking what I was looking at. Turns out it didn’t matter.

  Then the montage flashed to me off the streets and in a hospital gown, getting toted away. Hugging families in slow motion. Mack pushing me in a wheelchair, smiling down at me. Dr. Reynolds casually putting his arm around me. You see, he’s more than just a doctor, he’s my friend. The magic of television. I hated him. I wanted Venhaus instead, but Hayes shot that down. He assured me the good doctor was living his normal life in Grayson with no repercussions, and I believed him—they wouldn’t want to piss me off. Not when I was cooperating so splendidly.

  I was smiling directly at the camera to close the montage, and this shot had taken nineteen takes to get right.

  All the while, Big Voice Guy summed up the hook of the show for our viewers at home. “The stories are real. The surgeries are daunting. But Dale will risk it all in order to be … The Samaritan.”

  At this point everyone at the party cheered. Corks popped, Champagne frothing onto the floor from multiple bottles. Tracy handed me a glass.

  “They’re ruining your carpet,” I said.

  “If my hunch is right, I can afford new carpet.” She winked. “And you’ll be hosting the next party.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Mack said, and took the Champagne flute, knocking it back with one flick of the wrist.

  “I can’t drink,” I said, smiling. “I’m on a pretty strong cocktail of meds, and a little short of breath.”

  “Still recovering from the last one?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “What was that one, the—”

  “Double lung transplant,” I finished. Two recipients, one Dale Sampson, one surgery. Two lungs would mean certain death, right? The ventilator kept me alive. They planned on showing the time-lapse footage of my new, pink lungs blossoming into existence. Oh, the intrigue.

  “Just relax, then,” Tracy said. “Make yourself at home.”

  I trudged through all the congratulations and found a comfy place on her sofa next to Dr. Reynolds. He was definitely not a “doc” type. Smooth and good-looking, his ambition was never hidden. For him, this series was about becoming the expert on my condition, getting the assist for saving lives, building his legacy, not as a doctor but as a television personality. A guy who could stamp his approval on foods and diets and sell trendy health books. I could feel the memoir notes collecting in his little head. His contract even stated that at least one episode had to portray him saving me and the recipient from certain death. A few legal things had to be hashed out, but I was on board with it.

  The first segment of episode one followed that winning formula, the time-tested showbiz axiom of “Give me the same, but different.”

  The first act of the show introduced the recipient, their family, their situation. The longer the odds, the better. The more tragic the story, the bigger the impact. Seeing Hollie on television, so long after I had first met her at home in Van Nuys, made me realize that I was a total fucking moron. Part of it was my longing and regret, but she looked beautiful, even at her sickest, which she was at the time of the taping.

  In a tearful testimonial, on camera, Hollie described getting that phone call, the one where the Samaritan was going to ride to her rescue. Pictures of Hollie and Melissa, a mother struggling to raise her girl alone. A mother who struggled with diabetes that had turned into full-fledged end-stage renal disease, landing her on the transplant list. The average wait time? Ranging from a year or until death. In America, death usually comes first.

  Commercial break. Silence in Tracy’s living room. A sniffle or two. “Holy shit,” Mack whispered. “This is fucking gold.”

  In the second act of the episode, I meet Hollie. I watched myself on television, a surreal feeling, the incisions flanking my rib cage still hot with pain days after my final surgeries of the season. Lots of silence in the room. Most of the people there, even the crew, hadn’t seen the full episode yet. Maybe they snuck a peek at the sizzle reel—the six-minute teaser of this pilot episode that had kept the funding coming and the execs buzzing—but never this. Never my lack of charisma, my stone-cold and unemotional looks and tone, my inability to shed a tear, the awkwardness of my hugs when Hollie hugged me, sobbing, thanking me for a miracle. She said I was sent from God.

  I believed that assessment to be wrong, and I was the only one in the room who realized she was putting everyone on by
acting relieved. Only I knew that she’d wanted to die. I should have told her about the gun, about how much I wanted to do the same thing, but for no noble cause. Not for a daughter, but for pure cowardice, for pure exhaustion with a world that had no place for a freak like me.

  The third act covered the surgery. Enter Dr. Reynolds, who clearly explains the procedure, and the drama heightens, thanks to the craftsmanship of the story editors.

  The story editors, edit producers, and post-producers were by far the most important elements of the show, the overlords of manufactured tension, logging hours of interviews with the surgical team to mine the best quotes to splice into the broadcast. Their descriptions of dangers and complications could be sprinkled into the action, creating drama where there really wasn’t any to begin with. If I gave you a picture of a focused doctor working steadily on his patient, and a voiceover doctor said, “This surgery has never been done like this. We’re treading new ground. And it’s not a matter of if something will go wrong, it’s when”—cue dramatic music and cut to commercial, and you’re done. Simple.

  We glazed over the surgery, since kidney transplants are basic and frequent. The last ten minutes chronicled Hollie’s recovery. She smiled during this part of the show. She spoke with relief and better skin color during the episode’s final moments, Melissa playing at her feet. Melissa, whom I had yet to meet, but could have met. If I’d just made a phone call or two. If I could just move on from the twins.

  Then, a strong focus on my recovery. As Tracy put it, showing me in healing mode drove home the fact that I could regrow these organs, and highlighted the extent of my sacrifice.

  When the episode ended, the party remained silent. These were folks who had been in the trenches with us. Maybe it was the emotion of seeing how lives had changed, or the relief of seeing a glossy final product, the fruits of many hours of work. Who the fuck knows?

  I just know that I didn’t cry, I didn’t know what the big deal was. What exactly had I given up other than a few days of pain? Days I would be well paid for?

  “We have a hit on our hands,” Tracy said, finally, breaking up the tension. Silence turned to cheers and applause. “I feel it in my bones. This just … lands inside of you.”

  The party regained momentum. Music fired up. People drank. They danced. Mack danced with Tracy, who looked to be drunk. She was in trouble, I knew that much. Both of them were drunk with fantasies of overnight ratings. And also, Champagne.

  Nothing for me. I half expected Hollie to be at the party. Tracy told me she was invited, but she didn’t show up. Too much of my life involved waiting for girls to show up at parties. She had her piece of me, but over the last few months, I basically told her through an uninterrupted, awkward silence that I wanted no piece of her. That wasn’t the real truth, but I just wasn’t strong enough to be that guy yet.

  With the show over, I picked up the remote control and turned on one of the projector screens and found some of my favorite reruns on an obscure cable channel. Nobody objected. Nobody even seemed to notice.

  * * *

  The overnights for the first episode were strong, encouraging, but by no means explosive. Eight million or so viewers.

  I could walk the streets of Los Angeles without much notice. I would walk with my eyes down, directly in front of me, avoiding cracks when I could, slicing through the throngs of people with a quick turn of the shoulders.

  I had no agent, but I had Mack, who I think had an agent, but Mack worked directly with Tracy. He wouldn’t say as much, but she would filter her advice to me through him, and he would regurgitate it to me as if it were something he discovered on his own, as if the credentials and clout and knowledge and legal acumen were gifted upon him in a dream.

  I stayed in the apartment and did not watch the second episode, which drew ten million viewers. According to Mack, this upward tick in viewership was a huge sign, and we were one step closer to a fat contract for the second season, which would guarantee us houses “so fucking hot there’s a basket near the door for chicks to leave their panties in.”

  Viewership climbed in week three and week four. Buzz built up like plaque. We were the number-two show on television. A second season lurked on the horizon. My likeness was featured on magazine covers. The legitimacy of my ability was debated on talk shows. Interview requests piled up, none of them granted.

  I waited for them to ask me about season two, and it didn’t take long before they wanted more from me.

  * * *

  Mack invited me to a steak dinner he insisted on paying for. This wasn’t our typical McSteakhouse. The waiters were better dressed than we were. Crumbs and half-empty water glasses were not allowed. The lighting was low, or as he put it, “If I were gay this would be romantic as fuck.”

  Tracy was supposed to meet us, but later. We ordered some beers.

  “That’s okay, right? You feeling nice and recovered? One hundred percent?”

  “Good to go,” I said.

  He kicked back the first one faster than usual. Something was up.

  “You having marital problems or something?” I asked.

  “What marriage?” he said, still wearing his ring. “I imagine her hanging out somewhere, just waiting for me to make enough money to bother with divorce papers. I’m not too worried about it. No worries, man. No regrets.” He said that like a man with regrets.

  We asked if they had one of those big fried-onion things. They didn’t. So Mack told the waiter to bring more bread.

  “Tracy isn’t going to be here for another hour,” he announced. “She’s got the framework for a season-two contract.”

  “And?”

  “And I want to know if you’re on board.”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “I’m asking, you socially backwards prick. If Tracy asked, you couldn’t tell her no. You’d just nod and off we would go into the wild blue yonder. You ever wonder why you’re not allowed to do interviews? You depress the fuck out of me sometimes.”

  He flashed two fingers at the waiter, who had fresh glasses of beer at the table before Mack mustered the words to continue.

  “I think I’m sort of famous. And Rae still hasn’t called.”

  “Fuck her and fuck Hollie. Look, bro, you fucked up the Hollie thing on your own, and I call that progress. But I’m glad that shit’s all over. I told you, that Hollie thing had ‘busted’ written all over it. I’m not sure if you can handle real heartbreak, kid. It sucks. Having your sort-of-true-love blown away is a great goddamn tragedy, but let me ask you something—what if the thing Regina wanted to tell you at that party was to leave her alone? That she wanted no part of you? No puppy-dog looks, no more bullshit. How would that have fit? You dodged heartbreak by dodging Hollie. Trust me.”

  “Maybe heartbreak is exactly what I need,” I said.

  “Well, if you knew what was good for you, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

  “I thought this is what you wanted?”

  “Yeah, for me. Not for you.”

  “I never thought there would need to be a season two,” I said.

  “Right. You become famous, Rae shows up at your doorstep and you live happily ever after. But in the real world, where this is about business, I gotta tell you—season one only writes the check, motherfucker. Season two cashes it. But I’m not here to convince you to do it. I’m just here to ask you about it.”

  I ate bread instead of answering.

  “And what would you have me do, best friend?” I asked.

  “Honestly, Dale? We don’t have to do this,” Mack said. “I thought about it. I mean, really did, and there’s money and bright lights out there for us, but I wonder if you’ll wear down like a battery one day. My agent says we can get work off the steam of season one. Make bank in other ways, ways that aren’t cutting you open. I even offered up another angle for the show, a way to transition you out but keep the concept. I wanted to try a different kind of episode, but we don’t have the
capital for my episode request. So no season two. I can’t believe I’m saying it, there’s some real money here and we have all the leverage, but I’m saying no.”

  This hit me, a cold jolt of wind blasting into the nerve of a sensitive tooth, the ice of the truth seeping into me. This was the grade-school Mack on that playground who’d spurned the girls to pick me up off the blacktop.

  “I’m not saying no,” I said. “Not yet.”

  “Do it only if it’s what you want. Not for Raeanna. Please, sweet Jesus, not because of her. You haven’t talked in a year for God’s sakes. Fuck, man, you make me sick. Do you realize I could have your virginity cashed in tonight? With hot chicks, too. Not skanks. You have to ride this wave, brother. Let her live her little self-destructive existence and go about your fucking business.”

  “I’m still me,” I said. “I went through all of this for nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Mack said. “Those people you helped would be dead by now, and you can’t even let yourself feel good about it?”

  “We could do whatever we wanted in season two,” I said. “I don’t need to find Raeanna to talk to her, and if I talk to her, maybe that loop closes. Then maybe there’s something with Hollie, or someone else, even. Maybe I’ll be who I have to be for once—strong enough to find what I need to find.”

  “It’s your decision, brother. I don’t think it’s the right one, but I got your back.” He raised his glass. “To season two.”

  Our glasses clinked and we guzzled our beers until our eyes watered, the waiters hovering over us, ready to refill them instantly. We let them.

  * * *

  We were half-drunk when Tracy got there, dressed a little too sexy for a business dinner. She sat down next to Mack. She had a briefcase stuffed with notes and paperwork and parameters for a season-two agreement.