Cold Hands, Warm Heart

by Jill Wolfson

  “Don’t worry. She can’t see us.”

  That’s not what I cared about. I didn’t want to see her. I didn’t want to know if she had big teeth or a small, narrow mouth, if her eyes were wide-set or bunched in the middle of her face. I didn’t want that face in my memory. If I knew what she looked like, I would always be looking for her, scared of seeing her every time I went into a store or walked down the street.

  With my head on her lap, Mom began narrating the scene, stroking my hair like she was telling me a bedtime story.

  “She’s taking a briefcase out of the trunk. And she just slammed it closed. Now she’s heading up the front walk.”

  I heard the beep of car doors locking.

  “She’s opening the front door and she’s …”

  I waited for Mom to continue, but she didn’t. I didn’t hear the sound, but I could tell by the way her stomach muscles fluttered that she was crying softly.

  I guess I was, too.

  It was almost dark now. We were about to leave when I heard the sounds. The click of a changing gear, the squeal of brakes. A boy on a bike made a wide turn into the driveway and disappeared into the shadowy space between the Toyota and a stand of rosebushes. He must have activated a sensor because two outdoor floodlights snapped on. Before I could look away, he removed his helmet.

  Dark hair, a straight nose in profile. That’s all I saw, but I knew. I knew for sure.

  “The brother?” Mom asked.

  “The brother.”

  “Tyler?”

  “Tyler.”

  He rang the doorbell and said something to whoever answered. A moment later, the garage door opened from the inside. The boy walked in with his bike, both of them swallowed by darkness.

  TWENTY-NINE

  EVERYBODY MEANT WELL. I kept reminding myself of that. Before my transplant, our neighbors, some teachers and people Mom worked with held a fund-raiser to help with my humongous medical bills. Now they were holding a Welcome Home, Dani party, complete with heart-shaped balloons and heart-shaped cookies, and lots of music with a heart theme. Someone actually brought a heart-shaped meatloaf for the potluck. Wendy showed up, too, face bloated and hairy, but not self-conscious at all. She barged right in the front door.

  “Close your eyes and hold out your hands,” she ordered me. “I made it myself. Do you have a present for me, too? You should! You can open your eyes now.”

  My present from her was red and made of cloth. I think it was a pillow. It kind of looked like a pillow. At that moment, I realized there was going to be an endless parade of ugly, useless heart-shaped gifts in my future. I knew I was supposed to be grateful for every single one, plus gracious and totally unselfish to all the guests. I was supposed to answer every single personal question and keep smiling and saying thank you and telling everyone how great I felt and how much I appreciated all their effort and support.

  More or less, that’s what I did. The truth was more complicated and less smiley. The truth I saved for Milo. After a couple of hours of Wendy and hugs by strangers and neighbors pretending they didn’t notice that my face resembled the moon in a children’s book, I started to melt down. I sneaked away from my own party and locked the door to my bedroom. Milo picked up on the second ring.

  I launched in. “There are these two insane sixth-grade girls who live in my courtyard and keep following me around like news reporters. But someone died for your heart. How does that feel? I guess they mean well, but I want to slug them.”

  “Just because people mean well doesn’t mean you owe them your soul. Boy, am I glad there’s not a lot of songs about livers. Are there any?”

  “I Left My Liver in San Francisco.”

  “Good one.”

  There was one of our awkward silences, so I filled it with “Any news about—” I started to say “your transplant,” only I remembered how much I hated it when people kept asking me. I wanted to rewind the conversation and take back the question. “News about, you know?”

  Milo told me to count to ten.

  “In English? I can do it in French, too.”

  “That works.”

  When I got to dix, his voice rose: “Hallelujah!” He sounded like a TV evangelist. “Seven people were just born. Now count to thirteen.”

  I did it – “treize” – and his voice dropped: “Lament. Ten people just died.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Hallelujah!”

  I still didn’t know what to say.

  “Lament… So that’s what I’ve been doing all day.”

  “Counting?” I asked.

  “Weird, huh? The nurse even double-checked my meds, but there’s nothing wrong. I could have told him that. I can’t stop thinking about these statistics I read. Every ten seconds, someone is born and there’s all this happiness for some people. Every thirteen seconds, a death and sadness for others. I mean, what do you do with information like that?”

  “Unless one or the other is happening to you, I guess you don’t even notice.”

  “Yeah, most of the time we just eat and sleep and basically sleepwalk through life. I can’t get over that. All these missed opportunities.”

  “To feel really good. Or really bad.”

  I thought the next silence meant that Milo was counting, but I didn’t hear the hallelujah I expected: “I might have some news,” he said.

  “News?”

  “I can try to transmit it to you. Like before, mind to mind through the phone line.”

  “Really? A liver?”

  “They can’t ever be sure until the last minute. You know that. But they say it might be a good match.”

  There was a knock at my bedroom door. A knock is putting it mildly. If door knocking was an Olympic sport, this person was going for the gold, bringing one home for the USA.

  “Go away!” I yelled.

  “Huh?” Milo asked.

  “Not you.”

  From the other side of the door: “Dani, Dani, who you talking to?”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  It was the two sixth-graders in the crazy clothes, followed by the dreaded Wendy voice: “Her boyfriend is Milo.” Smooching sounds. “I know everything. Dani and me are organ sisters.”

  “Beat it!” I shouted.

  Wendy must have told them her insane theory about us now being related, because there was a shout of overlapping “ewwwww” and “gross” and more banging on the door.

  “Who’s there?” Milo asked. “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Yes, it’s Wendy!” To the door: “Stop it! Now!” Back to the phone: “They are such jerks!”

  And then Mom’s voice: “Have you girls seen Dani?”

  “She’s in there! She won’t answer! The door’s locked.”

  Mom’s voice in panic mode. “Dani! Honey! Are you okay?”

  From the receiver: “Better go back to your party.”

  “They’ll break down the door if I don’t.” Before I hung up, I counted and said “lament” and waited until Milo counted and said “hallelujah!” I wanted to end the phone call on a good note.

  One by one, the guests left, leaving behind deflated balloons, dirty paper plates and cookies that were no longer heart-shaped but smashed and ground into the carpet. Mom, in her role as Superwoman, insisted she didn’t need help cleaning up. A couple of neighbors insisted that she did. The cleanup crew got to work tackling the mess while I went outside to get some air.

  It was late afternoon, with the sun making long, yellow slants across the courtyard. I was tired. I sat in our old lawn chair and watched some girls jumping rope and listened to the vacuum going full-blast inside. I folded in half the pillow Wendy made and tucked it under my head. It was pretty comfortable after all.

  Relax. That’s what I needed to do. Dr Alexander insisted relaxation was crucial for my recovery. The social worker had shown me his favorite meditation technique, which involved sitting back, lowering my eyelids, following my inhales and exhales, and letting any
thoughts, emotions and problems just drift into oblivion.

  That sounds a lot easier than it is. You wouldn’t think doing nothing could be so hard. The problem was that my mind is like a pinball machine with lights flashing and numbers twirling and my thoughts pinging around like a metal ball, bouncing from one thing to another, or sometimes getting stuck in the same spot again and again and again.

  So while I was trying to follow my inhales and exhales, I kept imagining all those people being born and all those people dying. At ten breaths, I raised my arms overhead and shook them in a hallelujah-jazz-hands kind of way. I counted thirteen breaths and covered my face in grief, imagining an exhale that never rounded the corner to become the next inhale.

  What do you do with information like that?

  Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. I got lost in the repetition, in the roller coaster ride of sadness and happiness. I hallelujah-ed and lamented until it got dark and the volunteer crew left and Mom yelled, “Dani! Time to come in.”

  I covered my face for the unknown people who just died. Then I threw my arms in the air. Please, let Milo get a liver! Please!

  Exhale. Amanda.

  Inhale. My own second chance.

  I felt a chill as the night breeze played on the hairs of my arms.

  THIRTY

  THE PARTY WAS ENDING. Tyler spotted the two giggling sixth-grade girls walking across the courtyard. He probably should leave too before someone saw him in the hiding place among the trees. He had seen what he had come to see. At least, he thought he had seen her. It must have been her. A girl had come to the door every once in a while and was hugged by a new guest. Every glimpse went through him like an electric shock.

  But now the front door opened again. It was late afternoon with a harsh slant of sunlight. He had to squint against the brightness to get a good look as she settled into a lawn chair.

  Medium height, kind of skinny. A really round face. Thick eyebrows. What else? Dark hair pulled back in a clip. She was so ordinary. It was disappointing. She shifted in the chair, and he thought he could see the top of a scar peeking out from the collar of her shirt. It surprised him how relieved that made him feel. She wasn’t just a girl. She had a mark that everyone could see, something that set her apart. But the light shifted, and now he wasn’t sure he saw anything. It could have been only a shadow.

  That was when she started doing something strange. It was so random. She threw her hands in the air and waved them around. Just as suddenly, she collapsed, face into her hands, and looked so sad that Tyler wondered if she was crying. A few more beats and her hands shot happily into the air again.

  Bizarre. Weird. Tyler felt vaguely embarrassed, like he was spying on something really private. Warmth moved into his cheeks. Yet he couldn’t move his eyes away from her mysterious, goofy dance.

  When the front door opened again, a group of women piled out, talking, laughing, calling “’bye, Dani.” Next he heard a voice from inside the apartment. The girl glanced up, did her dance one more time. Face down, hands up. She stood.

  She shivered then and wrapped her arms around her own shoulders. It was the most ordinary movement by an ordinary girl on an ordinary afternoon. But it did something to Tyler, touched him in a way he couldn’t really describe. This was why he had come. This was what he needed to see. This ordinary girl. As she was. Simple, complex, alive.

  Dear Organ Recipient,

  Tell me what you did today. Don’t spare any details. Doesn’t have to be earthshaking. I’m a teenager, so you don’t have to be formal or have perfect grammar.

  From,

  Tyler, brother of your donor

  Dear Tyler,

  You have to guess the earthshaking thing I did today. A, B, C or D? Hold this letter upside down for the secret answer at the bottom. But don’t cheat and look first.

  A. Got in trouble in school cause me, Rachel and Rachel passed notes in class. The teacher called me the gang leader. Tee-hee-hee. I was.

  B. Threw up after this gross boy dared me to eat five servings of tapioca pudding.

  C. Gave my new kidney a name. It’s Seraphina. She’s a girl/ballerina/good witch/kidney.

  D. Took my old kidney to school for show-and-tell. It’s in a plastic bag, and the hospital says I have to give it back.

  Guess now! That’s an order.

  Love, Wendy

  Answer: whatever you guess is wrong! I did all four! I win!

  Dear Tyler,

  Today I blew out fourteen candles (the extra one for good luck). I know this isn’t a big deal for most people‚ but for the first time in my life, I got to eat a big piece of my own birthday cake. Vanilla with almond buttercream frosting. I got some good presents‚ too. But your gift‚ my pancreas, was the best gift I’ve ever gotten.

  Love, Jaya

  To Tyler –

  Jermaine here with an answer to your question. I went to school and aced a history test. Then after school, I kinda had a fight with my new girlfriend (name: Charlotte) because she thought I said I’d meet her somewhere, only I said I’d meet her somewhere else. So then Charlotte and I made up and I got a haircut and watched some TV and worked on my chem lab report. I’d been putting that off forever, so it was now or never. Is this the kind of stuff you want to hear about?

  For dinner, Mom made chicken tacos and my sister decided suddenly to be vegan and I got caught in the middle of a fight between Mom and her. Not really a fight, more of a loud philosophical argument about animal torture, which made the chicken tacos a little less appetizing. I scarfed them down anyway. I’m a big guy; I need my protein.

  So that was the day. Pretty regular. Nothing earthshaking to report, but it’s all good. Mostly I want you to know I’m taking my pills. Every day. I’m eating healthy stuff and not letting myself get too tired out. The doc says I need to listen to my body. Not exactly sure what that means, but I do know who I’m not listening to – anyone who tells me to loosen up and have a beer.

  I hope this information helps you. Maybe it will make you feel a little less sad. Know this: I’m taking super good care of the liver, like it’s not just my own.

  Yours truly,

  Jermaine

  Dear Tyler and other family who gave my daddy his lungs–

  Daddy still has to rest a lot. He can’t be a firefighter yet. Today he turned the jump rope for me. I did eight without missing.

  Love, Emily

  My Dear Tyler,

  Six weeks and counting. That’s when my first great-grandchild will come into the world. Which brings me to your question about my day. I spent it shopping for the baby. I found the smallest booties you’ve ever seen, some darling onesies and a stuffed animal I couldn’t resist.

  I also bought some yarn. I know what’s expected of a great-grandmother, and I plan on living up to the cliché. The yarn is bulky, the hook thick. Thanks to your family, I have my one good eye. This baby will get the hand-crocheted blanket by Great-grandma that she deserves.

  So Tyler, brother of my donor, such was my day. Is this the kind of thing you’re looking for? You said it doesn’t have to be earthshaking, but it was an earthshaking day to me. Thanks to you, they all are.

  With so much appreciation,

  Miriam P.

  THIRTY-ONE

  THE LATEST CALL FOR Gus Sanchez’s services came at the beginning of the school day when he was dropping off his son Miguel. His cell phone rang; he pressed his index finger to his lips, a reminder to Miguel to not talk while Daddy conducted urgent business.

  “Sanchez,” he announced into the phone.

  At the entrance to Children’s Hospital, he was met by a familiar face. As Gus unbuckled the cooler holding the liver, he said what Miguel had urged him to ask: “And this is for—?”

  “Milo,” said the nurse.

  Gus repeated the name with a sense of deep satisfaction.

  THIRTY-TWO

  WHEN YOU ALMOST DIE and some combination of luck and timing and blood type gives you a second chance
, you see things differently than most people. You’ve experienced parts of life that usually stay hidden beneath the surface of normal good health. The horrors of life; the amazing wonders of it.

  I had been exactly where Milo was, so I knew all the things not to say to him. Like how great he looked. Let his other visitors pretend that he wasn’t as pale as oatmeal, with drool congealing in the corners of his mouth. I also knew not to blather on about how perfect his life was going to be from now on. He’d be getting plenty of that from the optimistic well-wishers. We both knew all about the infections, mouth sores and unsightly hairiness, along with the lifetime of pills.

  There was also this other fact nobody liked to mention. Secondhand organs don’t last as long. Infection and rejection are always right around the corner. Chances are, neither of us would live to a ripe old age, and whenever I started thinking about that … well, that’s why I’d never talk about life being perfect to Milo.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “You’re here,” he whispered back.

  “So, what do you remember?”

  “I remember the operating room was cold. Maybe it was the happy juice, but I wasn’t nervous. I just felt numb. It was like I had lost even the fear of losing everything. Nothing left to hold on to. I remember thinking, this is where they fix me, or kill me.”

  “Did you do what you promised me?”

  Isn’t that the most Milo question you ever heard? It was only a few days after his transplant, and his eyes were finally staying open for more than ten minutes at a time, and that’s the first thing he asked. He had a brand-new liver, but he still had his same old one-track mind.

  “I did,” I said.

  “You found out more about her, about your donor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And … this came from the transplant network. It’s from her brother.”

  I showed him the large manila envelope with my name written in black marker on the outside.

  “What’s in it?”