I consider leaving. If Liver Brother doesn’t want to see me, why would I want to see him? Stares burn into my back. Smoke scratches at my throat, reminding me of my father. Would he be smoking again if it had been me hit by that car?
The cool shade of the porch beckons. Inside could be another Mothman. Someone else searching for connection.
Suddenly the front door opens. A small middle-aged woman stands there.
“Emmitt?” she asks wearily. She glances at the neighbors on their porches and gives them a nothing-to-see-here smile. They watch. A man takes a slow sip of coffee. A broom resumes sweeping.
She shoulders my bag as if it’s nothing and hustles me indoors. “My brother’s in the back. He’d love to hear about your sister.”
In the living room off the hall, I can see two young boys playing video games. They don’t look up from the couch. The woman disappears into the kitchen. I smell tomatoes and garlic.
“In the back?” I ask.
“In the back,” she says. Something clangs. Water runs.
I slide off my shoes and try to ignore my thirst. “What’s his name?” She sticks her head out of the hole and cups her hand to her ear. “My liver brother,” I say. “What’s his name?”
She swallows. “His name is Joey. I’m Carina.”
Beyond the kitchen are three doors—two are open. One room is a washroom full of gray marble and the other, I assume, is Joey’s room. Even before I knock, the smell of stale sweat and alcohol overwhelms the pasta sauce.
I’m starting to put everything together. Why Joey’s sister wanted me to come. Why someone often needs a new liver in the first place. What I’m here for.
It’s a setup.
Anger lances through me as I rap my knuckles against the door frame. “Joey?”
A groan and then a muffled thump as something hits the floor. The sounds of cooking have stopped, leaving only the muted discharging of video-game lasers. Light struggles through curtains, producing a weak glow that doesn’t reach the bed where some moldering, fetid lump hunkers beneath a black silk duvet.
Why is it that I feel uncomfortable walking up a neighbor’s path to knock on their door, yet here I am at the threshold to some stranger’s room and I feel entitled to be here?
“Joey,” I say, and I switch on the light.
Joey sits up, head coming forward on his neck as he peers blearily at me. “Who the hell are you?”
Now I know why the transplanters don’t want us meeting each other.
“I’m your liver brother, you jerk. And you’re killing my sister.”
SIX
Rage holds my tongue as my eyes adjust to the low light.
Stringy hair hangs over Joey’s eyes. The earlier thump was from a bottle that fell off the bed and rolled out onto the carpet.
I begin quietly. “My name is Emmitt. You received my sister’s liver. Minnie was sixteen years old, in perfect health, and the most amazing person in my world. You’ve been given her liver and you’re wasting it? No, first-degree murdering it!”
My final shout rings out, and the sounds of video games disappear.
“Yeah.” Joey shakes his head and slumps back. “I don’t deserve it. You’re right. So what’re you going to do about it?”
I glance back. In the hall Carina stares. Each of her arms holds one of the boys tight to her hip. Her expression fuels more frustration—she’s using me—and the weight of unwanted responsibility.
“How’d he even get a liver?” I ask her. The kids run back to the living room. “Aren’t there rules?”
“Joey was sober. Six months sober. But addiction’s a disease,” Carina says. “I’ve watched him try. It’s hard.”
“So when he was about to die he could stop drinking long enough to qualify for an organ, but not now that he’s hit the Reset button?”
Carina has no answer, only imploring eyes. My hands tremble, and I head back toward the front door.
“Please,” she says as I pass. “Please!”
I stop next to the washroom. I’m parched, and the thought of climbing to the train station again without water overpowers my desire to flee.
“Yes, yes.” Carina waves me inside.
I run cool water over my hands and then my face. My heart rate slows. I am able to think again. What would Minnie say? What would she do? Rage is what Joey is looking for. He wants people to give up on him so that the shame of drinking won’t hurt as much. There was a big cross on his wall. I step out of the bathroom and return to Joey’s room. Carina follows me.
“Are you in Alcoholics Anonymous, Joey?” I ask.
“Tried AA,” Carina answers.
“Did you have a sponsor?”
“He hasn’t gone since—”
“Well, you have a new sponsor.” I’m letting Minnie do the talking. “Yeah, she’s one you can’t avoid because she’s inside of you. Here’s the deal. Do you want to stop drinking?”
There’s a protracted pause. But then Joey finally speaks.
“Yes. Not for me. For them.”
Joey looks down the hall at the two boys on the couch. That’s when I realize he’s not their uncle but their father.
“Okay, then. Let’s get going.”
Slowly Joey nods.
“Climb out of bed.”
I don’t know how to treat alcoholism. All I know is my sister is here with us. I sense her fingers on my shoulder, light as a butterfly, guiding me. Joey swings his legs over and plants his feet on the plush carpet.
He shuffles toward me and stops before he reaches the door. His breath billows rank and sour.
“You can drink, Joey,” I say. “You can drink as much as you want.” He glances at me with a tiny furrow in his brow. “No one can stop you. But on behalf of my sister, I’m going to call you every day. Every day. And I’ll ask you three questions.” I think fast.
“Why do you want to live? Why were you worth saving? And how will a drink help you? That’s the deal, understand?”
Joey doesn’t look like he understands, but he nods.
But I’m not done yet. I grab the bottle of vodka from the floor and shake it, the small amount left sloshing. “Drink!”
Joey’s hands clench.
“No? Why not?” I ask. “Why do you want to live?” This is no longer Minnie guiding me. This is full-on, raging Emmitt.
His shoulders give a hitch, and his cheeks blow out in a suppressed sob. He stares past me down the hall.
“You want to live for your boys,” I say. “Okay, so why are you worth saving? Why you over some other guy who’s been sober for years or who didn’t trash his own liver? He might have kids too.”
“Hey, that’s enough!” Carina’s shout echoes.
I can tell by the pain in Carina’s face that she thinks I’ve pushed too far, that she’s having second thoughts about having brought me here, but I don’t care. I hadn’t realized Minnie still requires saving, even if it is only a piece of her. We’re gonna bond, Joey and me.
Finally Joey shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers.
As my rage subsides again, I remember my film. Minnie at the campfire. Minnie asking her questions. “Joey, you don’t have to answer to me,” I say. “But you do have to answer to her.”
His expression twists, and his face flushes. “I don’t have to—”
“I’m working on a project, something I hope will provide comfort for a lot of people, including you. Will you help me?”
His eyes flash down the hall again. He nods.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m going to set up my equipment, and then I want you to answer some questions.”
He nods and pushes past us. Carina stares at me. Her gaze travels to my hands, which are shaking, but not from rage anymore. Excitement. This is my job now. Making sure Minnie lives on.
I unzip my backpack and begin setting up my camera rig. I dig out the VR headset.
A few minutes later Joey returns. He has run a brush through his hair and splashed w
ater on his face.
“Joey,” I say. “Meet my sister, Minnie.”
He stiffens as I slip the headset over his scalp.
EXT. CAMPFIRE - NIGHT
Around the campfire, MINNIE (16) sits with JOEY (mid-30s). She has her guitar across her knees and plucks absently at the strings without realizing she’s doing it. She grins at him, face aglow, sparks flying into the night.
MINNIE
What’s your name?
I pause the playback after each question, so he can remove the headset and answer to the camera. He’s pale against the green sheet and subdued, now having met Minnie. “Yeah, that’s her,” I say.
JOEY
Joey.
MINNIE
If you were an animal, what would you be?
After Gerry, I half expect Joey to stumble here, but he seems to buy into this line of questioning, answering quickly.
JOEY
A ferret.
(beat)
Yeah. They’re like little weasels. Thieves.
MINNIE
If I were to put you in a diorama, what would it look like?
With the headset off, Joey’s eyes dart toward the bottles of liquor.
JOEY
Easy. Face down in the dirt. Tiny bottles all around. Maybe those airplane-sized bottles. One still in my hand.
Two little ferrets staring on.
(swallows)
When I wake up, I think about my first drink. How I will get it. How I can find my second. Where to hide the empties. It’s my world. I tell myself that I can stop tomorrow. But, even drunk, I already know I’m lying.
Joey fidgets with his hands. There’s more he wants to say.
JOEY (CONT’D)
But it wasn’t like that...not always. My Leah. My Leah. She was my wife. I’m a widower. She’d be a lynx. So much stronger than me. She should have lived. She danced with the boys. She sang. She worked so hard. Ferret me would just have been watching her.
MINNIE
Cool. What would other people put in your diorama?
JOEY
There would be more ferrets. Other animals. Mice, rabbits—they’d be protecting me even though I’d eat them if I could stand.
Joey looks up, surprised.
JOEY (CONT’D)
They’re lifting me. One might be putting another bottle in my hand. She knows my brand of vodka. I’m grieving still. They think I drink because I’m sad. It makes it okay. They’d be hugging me. Carina, you’re there too...
MINNIE
How can you make the diorama better?
JOEY
I need to dump the bottles, right? I need to push myself up onto my knees. Brush myself off. Stand. Show the two little ferrets I can be strong myself. That they don’t need drugs.
Joey’s eyes search for something far, far away. Minnie grins back. There’s doubt in the slump of Joey’s shoulders. This isn’t his first intervention. These are steps.
FADE OUT.
“And cut,” I say.
After Joey finishes, he stares at me. “She didn’t ask why I should live.”
“You answered that question,” I say.
With a final glance at Carina and the boys, he tears the edge from a sheet of paper. “We can try.” He writes on the scrap and hands it to me. “My phone number. Call around four. That’s when it’s toughest.”
Tears flow freely down Carina’s face. “I’m sorry, Joey. I’m still here though. Still here.”
My anger at her using me is spent. I realize now that Minnie’s gift isn’t only for the recipient. Maybe it isn’t fair that this guy collected my sister’s liver, and maybe it is. But every recipient has a family too. Joey’s sister and his boys needed Minnie’s liver as much as he did. That’s what’s keeping him alive.
SEVEN
On the train back home, I write a note to my heart sister. In it I add a series of spelling errors and omissions. If she catches the code, I hope she’ll contact me.
Dear Heart Sistr,
What’s it like to have sommeone else’s heart? An I right to feel that you owe my sester somehing? I don’ mean that in a bad way, only that sould the donor or the donor famely have any rihts? I met someone today tat wasn’t treating their gift very well.
Enough about that though. I want to telll you about my sister, but I can’t. I caann only tell you that your heart is loving and caring and so so strong. How are you doing? Heart surgery can’t have been easy!?
<3<3<3<3d
Heart Bro
So it’s a bit obvious, but I imagine the censors as little old men and women who think teenagers can’t spell without software correcting them.
The sizzling of quasi-bacon and a salty soy smell greets me as I arrive. Dad must have brought home some of his work for dinner. Before Minnie died, this would have been only marginally tastier than pulling something random from the freezer, but definitely more entertaining. I’ve been doing most of the cooking lately, though, and it bothers me now that he didn’t check with me first.
Seasoned ground soy is really the closest he can come to real meat, and he has turned that into sorta-burgers, not-meatballs, meatless tacos and somewhat-sausage. But he’s most creative when someone asks him to make food for vegetarians that looks like what everyone else is having. Like they’re worried the vegetarians at the wedding will feel left out when everyone else is having roast beef.
“I was planning on pizzas.”
“But I’m home,” my dad replies.
“I would have skipped the cheese on your pizza.”
On a plate in the kitchen are bits and pieces from a number of customer orders—crab, steak and lamb chops. He adds bacon, sliding it off the pan. All are made from processed vegetables, carefully textured and dyed. Beside the bacon he spoons a side of peas. How weird is it that vegetables pretending to be meat need to be balanced with real vegetables?
I pull back my anger, wondering if it followed me from Joey’s. I’m tired.
“The lamb isn’t vegan,” my dad says. “I had to use some egg as a binder.”
“Makes sense,” I reply.
“As much as anything does.”
“Mom,” I call, “you coming to eat?” There’s no plate set for her.
On the television, the game-show host asks, “What percentage of the world lives in poverty?”
Mom doesn’t answer me or the television. But she does start sobbing.
I go to her and shift Sirius down so that I can sit beside her.
Tears pour down her cheeks. “I don’t even know why I’m crying,” she says. “It’s all so pointless. You know?” She sobs again. “People are starving, and everyone’s rushing around with cell phones in cars, hitting people so they can hit send on a text…” My mom suspects the car that hit my sister was traveling too fast, the driver distracted by his phone. But the driver says otherwise, that Minnie was the distracted one. I imagine her fearful that the raven’s feathers, iridescent in the dying light, would be traumatized by car tires.
“I know, I know.” I lean down and wrap one arm around her rigid shoulders. “It’ll get better, Mom.”
She spasms, clenching her stomach, hands balled into fists. “It hurts so much. I wish…I wish I’d never had her.”
I strangle the cry that erupts from my throat.
“Really, Emmitt, the pain of loss is greater than the misery of love. Isn’t it?” She wants a real answer to that. Something that isn’t hopeless. “How can I cook when everything I make she used to eat? How can I shop when she used to sit in those same shopping carts? How can I turn on music when all I hear is your sister strumming her guitar? Everything is gone.”
“I’m working on something, Mom. I’ll prove to you it’s not all gone.” I want to show them that Minnie’s legacy is so much greater than they think. But I need to do better than Joey.
She sniffles and shuts her eyes. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says. “Do you even feel?”
I hold her quavering gaze. Unable to sp
eak. Do I feel? Sometimes I feel like a sailboat in a roiling but windless ocean. Everything I do, I do so I won’t need to feel so much. I won’t be like my mom. Useless. Abandoning.
“How can you not see?” I ask. Maybe if I wasn’t doing the cooking, the laundry, the carrying on, I’d have enough will to show my heartbreak.
I kiss her on the forehead. Her clawed hands shake. For the first time, I wonder how much time I have before my mother loses herself entirely.
My dad has taken his plate and left the kitchen. A wave of loneliness folds over me, causing me to sway. Is there any difference between my mom, who, in the weight of her depression, has left an imprint of herself on the couch, and my father, who is almost as ghostly a presence in the house as my sister? I stagger, listing one way and then the next, to my plate. Beside it is another letter. I grasp it and hold on.
Dearest Heart Family,
Wow, these one-way letters are tricky. You’re like a crappy boyfriend. Give me something here!
It’s hard to talk about the past without giving you too much information about myself, so let’s talk about the future, all right?
I want to travel. When you have a bad heart, travel is tough. There are medications that need to be kept up and blood levels that need to be measured. I was on thinners—not anymore!—and health insurance is expensive, even if you can qualify. So, travel. Did your daughter have a heart’s desire? A place she desperately wanted to go? Maybe a place where she was at peace? If so, I’ll go there. I promise.
What sort of music do you like? I figure if I can listen to the same music you are, we’ll be connected by it.
At nine o’clock for the next couple of nights, listen to “Nothing Else Matters.” I will too. And I’ll be there. Bonus points if you have a copy of Dune somewhere. I’ll be reading from the beginning. But I read fast.
I love you,
Heart Daughter/Sis
Dune. I shake my head at that. We can do so much better than Dune. How about The Godfather, American Psycho, No Country for Old Men, Fight Club? I’d even take Pride and Prejudice. Maybe it’s because these are all books that were made into movies, but so was Dune—just a bad movie.
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