Heart Sister

by Michael F Stewart

  Dennis sighs when I pull the laptop away from him, and he switches to his phone. Dark Heart hasn’t posted in a few weeks. Before then she’d posted almost daily. “Try Twitter,” Dennis says. “These are scans of watercolors, but if she posted something from her phone, it might have the geographical data of where it was taken embedded in it.”

  I search for Dark Heart on Twitter and only find some people reposting her art.

  “Uh-oh,” Dennis says, holding up his phone screen. “Facebook.”

  “It’s not my first choice of social media, but I won’t hold it against her,” I say.

  “No, the uh-oh part is one of her posts.”

  I read from his screen. I’m not taking visitors quite yet, okay?

  In the comments “Uncle Kain” asks where he can send care packages, and “Becca” Shih responds, The pediatric intensive care unit of Toronto General Hospital.

  “Posted yesterday,” Dennis says.

  “No way.” I slump. My heart sister is still in the hospital. The same hospital I just hacked. The one to which I can never return.

  “If you want to meet her, you’ll have to go back.” Dennis slips the headset on again and hits reset, shouldering the ax.

  “But I can’t, right? I really can’t.” I’d rather fight zombies for real.

  SIXTEEN

  I long to be alone. Leaving Dennis to play, I push out of the VR Café, grimace at the leaking garbage bags on the street corner and make for the subway. I lean my forehead against the cool window of the subway car, listening to the conductor’s announcements and thinking about how there’s nothing we can do to keep the train from moving. At my station the people disperse, and I stumble home along the quiet of our street.

  In the kitchen my mom spoons frost-burned ice cream into her mouth.

  “I’ll make you something, Mom.” The burrito bobs guiltily in my stomach.

  “Not hungry, really,” she says, holding a pink dripping spoonful.

  Every part of her droops. Stringy hair. Eyelids. Lips. Shoulders. But she’s up, and that has to be a good sign.

  “I can make spaghetti. Maybe a few meatless balls. Or have something delivered?” My mouth falters in its attempts to grin, lips pulling down instead. “We haven’t ordered in for a while.”

  She sighs and then sighs again. She musters the energy to lift her hand enough to knock the now-empty carton into the sink.

  “I may have found the person who received Minnie’s heart,” I say.

  My mom stops and lifts her head.

  I go to the sink and start to rinse the carton. “She’s artistic too. Like Minnie. Maybe even around the same age. I’m trying to meet her.”

  Mom starts shaking. It starts with her head and travels down her arms. I shut off the tap and hurry toward her, but she rushes to her bedroom and closes the door. I retreat to my room.

  I sit at my desk. How to turn my mother’s despair into joy? Even an inch toward joy. I feel like the mouse directing squirrels in Minnie’s diorama. I don’t know how to direct this scene. A good scene takes the character from one emotional pole to the other. I take out a sheet of paper. Rebecca might have answers.

  Dear…

  I know her name now. So why write letters? I should just sneak into the PICU and find her room. Except she doesn’t want to meet me, and if I were caught, I could go to jail. I need a disguise. I can’t dress up as a doctor or a nurse again.

  My phone bleeps a reminder to call Joey. I shut my eyes. It’s too much responsibility. Where is Minnie? My fingers whiten on the phone. At least my last call with Joey went well. My efforts are helping at least one person.

  I dial and reach Joey’s voice mail. I call three more times, and on the third Joey answers, “Yeeeah, heeeey.” There’s an unnatural length to the words.

  “How are you keeping, Joey?” I ask.

  “Oh, you…know…” Again with the drawn-out vowels. He breathes heavily into the receiver.

  “What kept you from drinking today?” It’s a limp question, barely asked.

  “Weeell, I did pretty good.” He chortles.

  “Crap, Joey, are you drunk?”

  “There’s druunk, and theen there’s druunk.”

  I hang up. I’m shaking. I’ve failed. I bury my face in the crook of my arm. It’s going to be a process, I tell myself—but that only makes sense if I know what to do next. On the sheet of paper I write:

  Dear Heart Sister,

  Tell me more about what you’ll do with your new heart. Please? You asked whether I want to be famous. Well, I want to be a movie director, so in some ways I have to be famous to be successful, and I want to be a success. Why a director? Directors shape stories. And a good story makes you think.

  What’s it like to lose a sister? I can tell you that losing a sister is like living without a heart. I have these stabbing pains where it once was—I didn’t know sadness would be so physical. My mom has it the worst, crippling spasms of pain. Mine is more of a hollowness that I sometimes forget about, but when I’m about to look at my sister and find her gone, I remember all over again.

  She’s my twin. We always had each other. I had never gone more than a day without seeing her, and she knew me better than anyone else in the world. I’m so scared of having to do it alone. I don’t want to be alone.

  What helps you through everything?

  I drop my pen and work to splice the different greenscreen videos into the one of Minnie by the campfire. On that summer night when I filmed her, I answered Minnie’s questions too. Maybe my pre-death answers hold some solutions. When I could think. Before everything changed.

  EXT. CAMPFIRE - NIGHT

  Around the campfire, MINNIE (16) sits with EMMITT (16). 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?

  EMMITT

  Emmitt.

  MINNIE

  If you were an animal, what would you be?

  Emmitt laughs. Minnie always makes him laugh. The answer comes so easy.

  EMMITT

  Mouse wins, right?

  MINNIE

  If I were to put you in a diorama, what would it look like?

  EMMITT

  My diorama? I’m the one who brings people stories. I bring people into stories. Okay, okay, so it’s a film set.

  Emmitt holds his hands so that his fingers frame the shot.

  EMMITT (CONT’D)

  No, we’re at the Academy Awards. You’re there for sure. But you’d be a seven-headed cat. I’m receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. This is possible, you know it is...

  Emmitt is right. Anything is possible. He is lucky, but he doesn’t realize how short-lived and shallow that dream will be.

  MINNIE

  Cool. What would other people put in your diorama?

  EMMITT

  I have a lot to prove. Unlike you, certain other people don’t think I can do this. They think I should be an accountant or a bean butcher.

  (beat)

  I have to believe in myself. I have a twist though. I want to be like Quentin Tarantino in the virtual-reality world. I guess I haven’t answered the question though, have I? People would see me in a coffee shop, with my paws pulling my hair out. Alone.

  MINNIE

  How can you make the diorama better?

  EMMITT

  Virtual reality, see.

  (leaning forward)

  Imagine I’m in the diorama, onstage at the Academy Awards, but I have a headset on and am in VR at the same time. It’s so meta. I’m at the pinnacle of my career and yet existing somewhere terrifying at the same time. Like a refugee camp. Or in a bombed-out city.

  (laughing)

  See, if we can always be aware of our luck, share the viewpoints of others, we can save the world. We’ll create empathy, right? When someone is shot on the other side of the world, we shrug. When it’s our
neighbor, we drop everything to help. That’s what VR can do. It’ll make everyone a neighbor.

  Emmitt’s eyes sparkle. He believes this. Minnie grins back.

  FADE OUT.

  I barely recognize myself in the video. My hair is clean-cut and parted to one side. My skin shines. I have my mother’s broad forehead, and it’s smooth and clear of acne. My smile seems so ready, so careless.

  I take off the headset, and a disheveled, zitted, worried Emmitt stares back from the mirror. I pat down a cowlick.

  I kneel beside Minnie on the butcher paper. I’ll never forget her answers when I asked the same questions of her.

  I pick up a red marker. Instead of coloring in Minnie’s heart, I draw bigger and bigger outlines of hearts in different colors. The heart I’d drawn before is far too small. Soon a rainbow of hearts fills her chest.

  I told my heart sister that Minnie’s dioramas made her different from me, but that’s not really true. Minnie’s dioramas try to capture human truths. Doesn’t film do the same?

  I bring people into stories. I hold on to that. That’s my job, and through it I will bring my family together. But first I need a disguise that will allow unfettered access to the PICU. I snap the caps back on the markers.

  It’s time to find my inner clown.

  SEVENTEEN

  Surprise. There’s a shortage of volunteer clowns.

  When I ask the hospital volunteer coordinator if I can be a clown, she claps her hands together and cries, “Why, yes you can!”

  Inside her office, away from security guards, I relax and tug the hoodie from my head. The small room has a side entry into the gift shop, which the volunteers appear to run as well. At a desk a sewing machine is piled with fabric and spools of thread. Several mobile carts line a wall, one cart full of craft supplies, another of books and one of posters of music bands.

  The woman comes around her desk and looks ready to hug me, her smile wide. I keep my arms tight to my sides, and she seems to think better of it.

  “I’m Fatima. Welcome. Do you have any clowning experience?” I start to shake my head, and she waves off her question and tucks a stray hair back into her violet hijab. “No matter. No experience is necessary. We have everything you need.”

  “That’s good,” I say. “Because if you left it to me, I’d probably end up looking like the clown from Stephen King’s It.”

  “Oh, we really don’t want that, do we? Now, we start all new volunteers at the beginning of the month. You’ll have to wait a couple of weeks.”

  “What?” I say. “I mean, I was really hoping to start sooner.”

  “Why?”

  “School will begin, and I won’t be able to come in as often.”

  Fatima continues, as if second-guessing her initial enthusiasm. “Well, perhaps we can make an exception for the right person. How about juggling? Can you do that? Or magic tricks? The kids love magic tricks. Adults too.”

  “I can make cookies disappear,” I say.

  She smiles, grips my shoulders and studies my face. Hers radiates warmth like an open fire. I offer her the best smile I can manage.

  “Well, the tricks are easy. Squirting flowers, never-ending handkerchiefs, honking nose—we have them all. But, you know, people really only need some company. Do you like talking to people?”

  I nod, painfully aware of how she is doing all the talking. Her face falls. “What brought you here?”

  “Oh, uh, I…” I stammer. “Helping people is good?” And I realize I’m about to lose a job I never had that I wouldn’t have been paid for and that they desperately need someone to do. “Look, I’ll be honest. I need the volunteer hours to graduate.”

  “We always have a few desperate kids this time of year.” She compresses her lips. “So that’s what this is all about?”

  “Well, yeah, but I want to do this too. I’m not graduating this year. I’m into movies. And I do impressions.”

  She raises an eyebrow. Maybe she’s picking up on my ulterior motive.

  “Pick a movie,” I say.

  “Casablanca.”

  “One that isn’t ancient.”

  She squints at me. “Fine. Die Hard.”

  “Still ancient, but I can work with that.” I give her my best Bruce Willis impression. “‘Welcome to the party, pal.’”

  “Not bad,” she says. “Now try Terminator.”

  “Easy. ‘I need your boots, your clothes and your motorcycle,’” I say in Arnold’s signature monotone.

  I can tell it’s working because her eyes light up again.

  “Breaking Bad.”

  “That’s TV,” I say in a perfect imitation of Walter White. “My name is Emmitt Highland. I live at 422 Riverdale Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, M4W 2T2. This is my confession. If you’re watching this tape, I’m probably dead. Murdered by Fatima for failing to make people laugh.”

  “Ha! And you’re right. I’ll kill ya.” Her expression hardens for a moment, and then she laughs. “Okay, well, let’s try this out. Clown suit is in that cupboard there, and shoes are in the closet.”

  I grab the massive red shoes. They’re designed to slide on over my sneakers. “Big shoes to fill,” I say.

  “Start with the pediatric ward. Ask the nurses which rooms to hit.”

  “Oh, I was hoping I could start with the PICU.”

  She squints at me. “And the reason being…?”

  I think fast. “Because they’re really sick.”

  “Trust me—most of them wouldn’t even know you were there. The kids in the general ward are sick enough.”

  I’m caught. “You sure? I had a friend in the PICU. She said it was soooo boring.”

  “They try to limit people on the floor because of infections, with everyone being so immunocompromised. Besides, the last time we sent in a clown, some kid threatened him with a tracheotomy. Our best clown, and he quit.”

  Oops. I flush. That was me. “Okay, I’ll go where you think I’m of best use.” I’ll figure something out later.

  Fatima motions to the open cupboard. I pull on red pantaloons, a bright blue blouse with yellow polka dots, and a black hat. “Very traditional,” I say.

  Fatima gives me the thumbs-up. “Let me help with your makeup.”

  She sits me down and first spreads on a white base, then the giant red lips and the black diamond eyes. There’s something relaxing about having someone paint my face, despite the waxy taste of the makeup. When she’s done, she takes the red nose, pinches it so it looks like red Pac-Man and slides it over mine. She honks it and laughs. She’d be an amazing clown.

  “Almost ready,” she says.

  My face feels tight from the drying face paint. I spot the puffy rainbow wig she’s headed for and sigh. In the mirror a classic clown grins back at me. At least no one will recognize me. Not that there’s much risk of that if I’m on the wrong ward.

  “When you’re done in pediatrics, come on back, and we’ll see how the day is going. But first you have to fill out some forms. And I’ll be needing your ID.”

  “My ID?”

  “Yes, a driver’s license, if you’ve got it, but I’ll take your student card.”

  I hesitate but have no choice. I dig underneath the costume to my pocket and smile as I hand it to her. I feel like I’m lighting a fuse.

  As Fatima studies my school ID, I sign my name on a privacy statement and code of conduct. When I’m done, she hands me a volunteer badge to hang around my neck.

  “And, Emmitt, thanks for doing this. Not many kids your age want to spend the day in a clown suit.”

  Big surprise.

  EIGHTEEN

  As I leave Fatima’s office, I nearly get taken out by a man being whisked past on a gurney. Once it’s safe again, I flex my feet, trying to keep the toes of the two-foot-long shoes up so I don’t trip. I waddle toward a wall map of the hospital.

  “Can I have a sword?” a little girl asks me as I inspect the map. “A balloon sword?” I give her an exaggerated frown and a help
less shrug. She scowls at me and runs away. As I make my way to pediatrics, on the far side of the hospital, I wave at wide-eyed kids and huffing, grumpy old men. The costume—its anonymity—is freeing. It gives me permission to be silly, a little like how Minnie’s really loud singing gave me permission to join her at karaoke. By the time I reach the doors to the ward, my entire body moves with each wave, and I’m working on a goofy laugh that annoys even me. I honk my nose at a nurse, who regards me with a hard, humorless stare. I honk again and goofy-laugh.

  “And you are?” she asks.

  I need a name. “Dr. Happy,” I say.

  “You can’t be doctor anything. It confuses the children.” She stares at me hard again.

  “Dappy?” I try.

  “Dappy the Clown. Great. You can start in the common area,” she says. “Where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Thank you…” I search for her name tag. “Jeannie.” Meanie is more like it.

  I push through the doors. Jeannie follows, highfiving another nurse and telling her that I’m the new entertainment.

  Inside the doors I spot a giant penguin painted on the wall. It has a big carrot in its flipper. I pretend to pat it, and a little girl giggles. She is towing an IV pole.

  “I think this penguin wants to be a rabbit,” I say. Then I waddle like a penguin toward the sounds of a television playing. I assume it’s the common room. I’ll spend a few minutes there and then see if I can figure out a way to penetrate the PICU.

  When I enter the room, a kid nearly my age spots me. “You gotta be fuh—”

  “Language,” Jeannie cautions. I notice that the girl is wrapping a bandanna around her hairless head. She returns to watching the television. A boy of about six or seven scrambles on a kid-friendly sculpture of a penguin surfing across some ice. Not sure what the penguin theme is all about. The walls are painted with happy snow scenes. On the couch slumps a second, younger girl whose expressionless face reminds me of my mom. She shivers under quilts.

  “Positive distraction,” Jeannie says to me. “I’m watching to be sure you don’t terrorize the kids.”