Heart Sister
Page 16
THIRTY
Becca must have snuck in a final email before Martha left for the day. In the subject line Martha writes, Smooches!
HB
*smoochie?* *smoochie?* Really? Maybe I need to lower my expectations on this kissing stuff. Besides, you’re my heart BROTHER. *gags*
Sounds like you have a mission though. I gotta wait for my boy to show, but you don’t have to wait to tell people you love them. Maybe it is too late for your sister, but not for anyone else in your family. It’s an awkward feeling, I know. I told my dad I loved him right before I went into surgery. And not an off-the-cuff “love you, big daddy-o.” I held his gaze and I said goodbye, just in case. Don’t wait.
Are we closing in on the climax of Ivan the Vole and the Cat Demon? The epic saga continues! Ivan faces the mice crowd (do they have to be armed with needles? You’re giving me nightmares!) and tries to tell them the truth about the angel-skunk—who, he has determined, will strike at any moment but several blocks away. The crowd won’t listen and begins stabbing Shelagh in the necks, again and again. Ivan urges her to fight back, but she won’t. Can’t. She’s been in the sewers all her life. Ivan struggles in the clutches of half a dozen mice. Finally Shelagh only has one head left, and she starts to retreat to the sewers. What’s Ivan to do?
Okay, so I honestly don’t know. It’s all yours. And I need to send this before Martha checks out. My most embarrassing moment though? That’s a tough question. I don’t have a good enough answer yet. I’ll get back to you.
I’m running out of questions to ask, but here’s another. For one million dollars: Your house is on fire. What one thing do you save? (Other than your family, duh.)
YHS
Becca didn’t mention how the biopsy went. Maybe she hasn’t had it yet. But she has sent me on a mission. She’s right. I have no excuse for not having told my parents I love them. Why haven’t I? Is it too real? Is my movie of Minnie a virtual I love you? A just-in-case goodbye?
I step into the house. The rapid-fire chopping of my father dicing vegetables ricochets down the hall. When I shut the door, the knife stops.
“That you?” he asks.
Don’t wait.
“Yes,” I say, my breath catching in my throat. When no further conversation is forthcoming, I pop off my shoes and slowly walk down the hall, the snap of the blade on the cutting board covering my footfalls.
At the kitchen and living area, I pause. Dad keeps chopping a carrot into ever smaller pieces.
“It’s dead,” I say.
My dad sighs and gives me a don’t-push-me-son look before mincing the carrot more. “I have to go into work. I’m making burgers.”
The stainless-steel bowl before him is filled with minced vegetables. He’ll cook them and form them into patties. With seasoning, it actually tastes pretty good.
“Today I made hippos from potatoes and orcas from cucumbers,” he adds.
He stops as if to gauge my reaction. He’s waiting for me to call them hippotatoes and orcucumbers. Instead I leave silence.
“That makes sense,” I say. “Food tastes better when it looks good, right? Or looks like large mammals.”
He snorts. The knife again rocks dangerously close to fingertips.
He knows I love him. I don’t need to say it. It’s why we don’t say it.
“Maybe we can watch a movie this Friday,” I say.
“Big wedding to prep for on Saturday.”
Chop, choppity chop, chop.
“Dad…” His gaze lingers on the granules of carrot. “I love you.”
He gives tiny nods, like the mincing nods of his blade. He looks away, but the knife hits warp speed.
“No, Dad,” I say. “Can you look at me?”
He cries out, whips away his hand and inspects it. “Hit a nail.” He blows out a sigh.
“Dad. Look at me.” His head slowly lifts. “In the eye.” Our gazes meet and hold. After a moment his eyes begin to shimmer. “I love you, Dad.”
The chopping nods resume.
“Thank you, Emmitt,” he whispers. His chin drops, and a tear spatters on the cutting board. He picks it up with his apron. “I love you too.”
Chop, choppity chop, chop.
The corners of my lips drag lower. It’s an uncomfortable, uncontrolled, uncertain emotion. Relief? Grief?
I’m biting my lip as I turn away and walk over to my mom.
She doesn’t look up, eyes transfixed by the flashing pixels of light on the TV. I kneel before her, but her eyes stare through me to the screen.
I turn off the television, and her focus doesn’t change. She wasn’t really watching anything. I crouch lower so that I can at least look her in the eyes. I wonder if I’m being selfish. Having to tell people I love them rather than just showing it. Forcing my love on them. Isn’t the rule the same for love as it is for storytelling? Show, don’t tell?
“Mom.” Her gaze wavers, eyelids drooping. Her green eyes seem gray in the gloom. I hope it’s just the light. “I love you, Mom.”
The flatness of her eyes scares me. No tears. No smile. Her gaze shifts to the slate TV screen in anticipation. We are reflected in it. A muted, fuzzy echo of what we’ve become. I turn it back on, feeling hollow. I drape my arm over her bony shoulders and squeeze, but not hard. She is so fragile.
When I stand, my dad’s gone with the bowl. Off to work to shape veggie burgers. There’s blood on the cutting board. He nicked his finger after all.
Maybe I waited too long to tell my parents I love them. But it’s done.
If I were Ivan the Vole, I’d sit on the ground, curl up and cry. Not a great ending for our story, huh? I wonder if writers’ endings change with their moods. I’m not sure I’m up to writing about a hero. This must be my darkest hour. If there was a fire in my house, I wonder if we’d even save ourselves. Or just let it all burn. To ash. Okay, I’ll try. Here goes.
Ivan slinks back into the underworld with the cat demon and huddles in the dark, listening to Shelagh’s whimpers. All the while, he knows another mouse has been taken. Perhaps he could make a life for himself here in the darkness, he thinks. Shelagh had. But then he arrived, and now Shelagh has only one head, and it’s all his fault. He can’t ask her to help again. He realizes it’s all up to him. It always has been, really. Knowing that, he makes a plan. He must catch angel-skunk.
Clambering back to the surface and his maps, he plugs in the latest locations of the missing mice. He must hide now, as the others believe he is in league with the evil cat demon. Ivan must set a trap. He will be the bait.
I’m scared too. I’m scared for Ivan and for my family and whether we’ll ever be a family again.
The letter is almost too sad to send.
What would I save from the burning house?
I consider the options. My VR gear? Pictures of our family?
“Rat Race.” My favorite diorama of my sister’s. It reminds me to enjoy the journey.
I don’t have a question for you, only some advice. To take your own advice. You may not think you’ve met your boy yet, but are you looking hard enough?
<3
I hit send.
This time I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t stop smiling.
THIRTY–ONE
“Dappy!” Becca cries, and her father waves me into the room.
“There he is.” He takes me by the elbow and pumps my hand.
I stand confused, arm waggling, and then I get it. “It worked? Your biopsy?”
“When you said kittens, I didn’t realize there would be so many!” Becca laughs, and suddenly the fluorescents shine like sunlight, and the machines chirp like birds. “A wriggling mass of cuteness!” She hugs herself.
Her father motions to his chair, as if it’s a place of honor.
“I’m so happy,” I say. Today Becca sounds like she does in her letters.
“At first the doctors were, like, no way. But then I was, like, no way about the whole needle-neck-vein thing. And so they talked abou
t it, and one of the nurses spent, like, an hour disinfecting your plague-bearing apparatus before revving it up, and, well, they covered me, froze the area, cut open my vein and stuck me, and when they were done, they said I was smiling most of the time.”
“That’s a pretty big difference,” her father says.
I lean over the bed and give her a fist bump.
“I’ll do your movie thing,” she says.
“My what?” I ask.
She looks at me, eyes bright. “Your film! I’ll be in it.”
“Oh!” I have the star of my movie. The show will go on!
I don’t waste a moment. You shoot when your cast is available. My makeshift green screen unfolds, and I struggle to tuck it in behind her. Her father helps. Then I duct-tape a green sheet to the wall—a good director always has a roll of duct tape stowed. When I’m ready, she’s wringing her hands.
“I know it’s just a school project, but…don’t…don’t put it out there, okay?”
Even though I’m worried that I’ll spoil the moment, I ask, “On the internet, you mean? I wasn’t planning to, but—just curious—why not?”
“I don’t think I could handle the comments. People telling me to fight. How I can do it. The congratulations.” She swallows hard.
“Okay,” I say. “I promise.”
EXT. CAMPFIRE - NIGHT
Around the campfire, MINNIE (16) sits with BECCA (17). Minnie has her guitar across her knees and plucks absently at the strings without realizing she’s doing it. She grins at Becca, face aglow, sparks flying into the night.
MINNIE
What’s your name?
BECCA
Becca.
MINNIE
If you were an animal, what would you be?
BECCA
A…dragon.
MINNIE
If I were to put you in a diorama, what would it look like?
BECCA
These are different questions than I was expecting. My diorama…odd. My donor made dioramas.
I didn’t even consider that she might make the connection. I try to look surprised by the unlikely coincidence, and she moves on.
Becca looks down at where the incision is in her chest. Beneath the gauze, heavy black stitches hold her together.
BECCA (CONT’D)
In my diorama, I am in a battle. I protect a magic stone from clawing demons. They’re coming from all sides. One even has a talon digging into the stone.
Becca chokes up a little. This has been a long fight.
MINNIE
Cool. What would other people put in your
diorama?
BECCA
Maybe the dragon is painting? It’s funny, because people always saw my bad heart, because that was on my face, and it was the creative force behind my online persona, Dark Heart. Now? Now I don’t know. What else do I still have to offer? Will my art be as powerful to them when they realize I’ve got a heart just like theirs? I think people will see an artist-warrior on a dragon. Triumphant and standing over her magic stone. That’s what they will see. That’s what I’ve always shown people.
Becca smooths out her hospital gown.
BECCA (CONT’D)
So far.
MINNIE
How can you make the diorama better?
Becca smiles sadly.
BECCA
I’m just starting my quest. I don’t know. I don’t know. I’d hoped by now I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder and see Death or drag wires around. The battle would be won. I would be unchained…unchained. But for now, I still wonder if I’ll have a chance to make anything better.
Tears stream down Becca’s face.
BECCA (CONT’D)
Maybe the heart should have gone to someone else? Maybe…?
Becca’s eyes sparkle with emotion, and Minnie grins.
FADE OUT.
“Shh…shh…” her father murmurs, comforting her. His eyes implore me to leave. “It’s the steroids,” he explains as I pack up the camera as quickly as I can. “They cause big mood swings, anger, sadness.” He hugs her and says to me, “Come back tomorrow.”
I leave Becca lying on green sheets. Green so that I can place her in any environment I want, a paradise or a hell, with Death at her shoulder, a magic stone at her feet or a campfire in June. I see the control over my life that I’ve always had, control that she has never tasted. Trust she has placed in me. I struggle with the whiplash of emotion. Can what I’ve done be justified? Heat flushes through me as I realize it can’t.
I don’t go home. For the rest of the morning I visit the pediatric ward and strive to be Dappy the Clown, trying to shed guilt like a snake sheds skin.
On the subway home, I realize I have everything I need to help my mom. All that’s left for me to do is edit the videos…just right.
THIRTY–TWO
Editing video is finicky but critical work. So much of the story is created at this stage. I have to constantly keep my audience in mind. What do my parents want to see? How much reality can they handle? Editing 360-degree video requires specialized software that I’m still learning. I can’t keep all of the content. Some I don’t want to keep. Some I can’t bear to part with.
It takes a week’s worth of swearing and hair pulling before I’m remotely happy with it. And my laptop doesn’t appreciate having to manipulate multiple high-definition camera feeds. It hangs up four times. I save regularly, but not regularly enough.
Finally I hit render, allowing the video to process overnight, fingers crossed that the laptop can keep up with it. Then I crash out face down on my bed and don’t have a single dream.
I wake to dull light seeping around the curtain edges. I look at the clock. Just before nine. I’ve had five hours of sleep, but I leap up like I’m four years old and headed for a stocking on Christmas morning. I wake the computer, pump my fist at the Render successful notification and slam the headset over my eyes and ears to enter the scene starring my heart sister.
EXT. CAMPFIRE - NIGHT
Around the campfire, MINNIE (16) sits with GERRY (late 50s), DENNIS (early 20s), EILEEN (early 70s), JOEY (mid-30s), BECCA (17) and EMMITT (16). Minnie has her guitar across her knees and plucks absently at the strings without realizing she’s doing it.
EMMITT
(voice-over)
This summer Minnie sat me down at the campfire and asked some questions. Then she shared her answers to the same questions. I made this so that you would know Minnie lives. Not as the person we knew. But not only as a memory either. Rather, she lives on in the people who received her lifesaving organs. Our extended family.
(beat)
Our first character needs no introduction. Here’s Minnie with her first question.
MINNIE
If you were an animal, what would you be?
EMMITT
Every family member has a different answer. Let’s go meet everyone. Like Gerry, her corneas.
GERRY
Calm in battle. Sharp in sight. A mongoose.
EMMITT
Eileen, her left kidney.
EILEEN
I am a difficult woman. A mule.
Minnie laughs.
EMMITT
Joey, her liver.
JOEY
A ferret. With two little ferrets.
EMMITT
Dennis, her other kidney. The one on the right. And her pancreas.
DENNIS
I am a spotlight whipping across the landscape, highlighting the amazing. I am a barista extraordinaire! An orangutan.
EMMITT
Minnie’s lungs went to a woman who doesn’t want to talk, but we know that she’ll be racing in this year’s Transplant Games. Running. And now able to keep up in the rat race.
(beat)
Becca received Minnie’s heart. She’s your heart daughter.
BECCA
A…dragon.
Minnie grins, face aglow, sparks flying into the night.
MINNIE
I
f I were to put you in a diorama, what would it look like?
GERRY
My coat, a big trench coat, would be on the ground for a lady mongoose to step on, and I’d be tipping my hat in appreciation, watching all the other mon—what’s the plural? Mongeese?
JOEY
Easy. Face down in the dirt. Tiny bottles all around. One still in my hand. Two little ferrets staring on.
DENNIS
I can finally define myself without being defined by illness. Maybe there’s just this spotlight on me and a director person just said, “Action!”
EILEEN
I’d be braying at a bunch of sad piglets, cringing in a pigsty as I tell them to clean up.
BECCA
I am in a battle. I protect a magic stone from clawing demons. They’re coming from all sides.
EMMITT
Everyone here has faced challenges to be a recipient. Challenges that would have buried many people. Blindness. Addiction. Isolation. Long, long illness. A piece of them has died with Minnie too. And now they’re figuring out how to live again. In a strange way, Minnie stuffed them, and now they’re figuring out their own new arrangements.
MINNIE
Cool. What would other people put in your diorama?
GERRY
Geez. How do they see me…
Gerry’s mouth tightens, and he glances down at his hands, hands that have pulled triggers.
GERRY (CONT’D)
They’d put me on a rooftop with a clear line of sight for my scope.
(beat)
I’ve got a lot of brothers, sisters, moms and dads to answer to in the next life. I did my job—saved and protected many more people than I shot, but some people will only ever see a killer.
Gerry’s shoulders slump, defeated.
JOEY
There would be more ferrets. Other animals. Cats, dogs—they’d be protecting me, even though I’d eat them if I could stand.