Heart Sister

by Michael F Stewart

  “Like your sister.”

  “Yeah, but unlike her, I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Are you?” She laughs.

  “Subject to your consent.”

  Her chin juts. Her eyes close. And her mouth whispers, “Yes.”

  Our lips touch. I shut my eyes and focus on the sensation.

  It’s a bit…dry.

  “So that’s it?” she says, pulling away.

  “Huh.” That was not how I was expecting that to go. I am at a loss for words. But then I start to laugh. “Have you ever seen the movie Back to the Future?” I ask her. “The one where a crazy scientist builds a time machine out of a DeLorean?”

  “Okay, that’s pretty random,” Becca replies. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. Why?”

  “Well, you know the scene where Marty is trapped in a car with his mother, and she’s trying to kiss him?”

  “Wait a minute, are you saying I’m the mother?” Becca jabs me in the ribs.

  “In this case, sister!” Oh god. Have I just ruined everything?

  Becca is silent for a moment. Then she cries, “Marty!” in a perfect impression of Doc Brown.

  Now we are both laughing so hard I’m afraid Becca will slide off the roof ridge. I put my arms around her, like I put them around Minnie, so many times. “Heart sister,” I say.

  “I can live with that,” she whispers.

  “You want to give it another shot?” I ask.

  She fake gags, but she’s smiling. “No, I’m good.”

  She snuggles in to me and we turn and watch the lights flick on below us. For the first time in a long while, I feel like everything is going to be all right.

  EPILOGUE

  One year following the brain death of my sister, I spot a letter from the National Transplant Organization in our mailbox. I pull it out, wave to our neighbor and go back inside, shutting the door on a muggy-for-July morning.

  “Hey, Mom, they want to give Minnie a medal,” I call.

  She barks a laugh from the kitchen. “We can hang it around Lenore.”

  I didn’t choose the name of Minnie’s raven. I thought Poe was too bleak and preferred Memory, the name of one of Odin’s ravens. But my mom’s right. That’s where the medal should go.

  I read from the letter. “There’s a ceremony for donor families. They’re asking for photos.” My mom has created a scrapbook. Apparently that’s what accountants do to piece lives back together.

  “Great,” my dad says. “I’ll bring vegetables shaped to look like—”

  “Don’t say it, Dad, seriously.”

  “What? What did you think I was going to say?” He’s smiling. Not laughing yet, but smiling. We’re doing better. Healing. The waves of sadness don’t crash as frequently, and when they do, they don’t pull us under. But the undercurrent remains near the surface.

  Picking up a medal for Minnie sounds to me like a great idea, but on the night of the ceremony, I’m suddenly hesitant. At my side stands Becca. A year into her transplant, she’s still with us. On too high a dosage of immunosuppressants, but, as she says, it’s better than dead. Each time she visits the hospital, she also takes my VR gear. After her biopsy and kitten rampage, she drops the gear off at Jeannie’s desk. Pediatrics is pretty good at setting it up on their own. Becca once asked after Joy on my behalf, but all the nurse would offer was a cryptic, “Joy escaped before the glass emptied.” I wish I could see her again, but…well…privacy.

  “Come on.” Becca squeezes my fingers and pulls me inside the university auditorium where the presentation is being held.

  The space is crowded with families. Big ones with dozens of people and all generations. Little ones like ours. People hold all manner of photo albums and scrapbooks, sharing photos and stories. Loved ones clutched tight in their grips. Hundreds of people from all walks of life pack the small hall.

  A tall woman with close-cropped hair breaks from the crowd. She grins mischievously at me, as if we’re sharing a moment.

  “I was hoping you would make it,” she says. “Can you guess who I am?”

  “Martha!” Becca exclaims.

  “Rebecca, right?” Martha asks, and Becca nods.

  They hug, and then Martha hugs me, planting a kiss on my cheek. Then we’re in a group hug.

  “It’s wonderful to meet you,” she says. “How are you?”

  It’s a loaded question usually, but today it’s okay. “We’re all right,” I say.

  “And Ivan?”

  “Last spotted him full of chocolate croissants,” I reply.

  “How’s the gang?”

  I laugh at that. I went searching for my sister and found a gang. “Good.” And they are. We meet every month. I am getting used to seeing Eileen joke with Gerry. Joey’s found a new addiction—running. I invited Dennis to attend the event, but he said it wasn’t for him. But we see each other a lot, since he’s my manager at the coffee shop where we both work.

  “Nice. Well, I have a lot more people to meet. I hope you enjoy the speaker.” She winks.

  I catch sight of my mother hugging another woman. Scores of people are in tears. As they cry, others tear up. The place seems on the edge of falling apart. I glance at Becca, and she wipes her eyes.

  “You too?” I laugh, but my eyes fill at the same time.

  On a large screen photos slide in and out, replacing each other. Baby pictures. Family pictures. Old women. Teenage boys. Cultural celebrations. Fishing, water skiing, swimming, sledding and canoeing. Victories. Adventures.

  “These are heroes,” says a nervous woman at the podium. “Each one.” She motions at the slideshow. The room quiets.

  “Each of you lost someone about a year ago. I didn’t. Last year was one of the worst moments in your life, but for me it was one of the best.” Her hands grip the front of the podium. “About a year ago I gained one of your friend’s, lover’s or family member’s organs.”

  At a break in her voice, she stops. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous. You lost, so I could live. It’s a terrible gift to have to give. But you didn’t have to give it. You chose to without knowing me, and that makes it even more special.

  “When I was in hospital and couldn’t breathe, I almost gave up. Each day of the 342 days I was on the transplant list, I almost gave up. One thing kept me going. Each morning I asked the team for the numbers. They’d tell me, ‘We had twenty new registrations yesterday.’ Sometimes it would be as many as a hundred. All I needed was one. See, the numbers were the number of new registrations to the organ-donation registry. When each person registered, it was like the group that cared about me grew. It was one more person cheering for me—that’s what it felt like. You saying, ‘Come on! You can do it! One more day.’ And the next day there would be more. So I kept on, for 342 days. And I lived. And I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  She begins to cry, then composes herself.

  “This past fall,” she continues, “I had even more people cheering me. I participated in the World Transplant Games.”

  That’s when Becca pokes me. “You’re squeezing my hand really hard,” she says, and then she sees my face. “Are you okay?”

  My mom too has seen, and she shifts between people to reach me.

  “She has Minnie’s lungs,” I reply. “My lung sister.”

  My mom gasps, and she leans in to whisper in my dad’s ear, and we all press together.

  “I participated in four events. I ran. I ran for me, but I also ran to honor my donor. And I ran to honor you. The medals I won are yours, and we’re here to give each of you one today.”

  “She did it,” I say.

  Way to go, Minnie.

  The woman steps away from the microphone, and Martha takes her place, holding a medal and a long list.

  “You want to say hello?” Becca asks.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I reply, and I sink to a chair, hemmed in by my loved ones, as Martha begins calling up representatives from donor families. “I’m going to be okay.”

&nb
sp; From my wallet I pull out the photos of Minnie. There are five now. Her four class pictures and a cropped photo of us cliff jumping, hand in hand, leaping into the blue waters, delirious grins on our faces. In the picture my shoulder is bare of tattoos. It isn’t anymore. I’ve had my tattoo changed though. The skin’s a bit scarred and discolored, a bit like life post Minnie, but the Do Not Recycle is gone. I had it changed to Reuse. I’ve registered to be an organ donor. I’m proud of this choice. I hope my name will never need to be looked up, but if it is, it’s there and ready to help eight people beat their demons, find the courage to change, keep up to their dreams and have more good days.

  Like this one.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It was an honor to write this novel. When a book’s subject matter includes another person’s pain, it increases the responsibility of the writer. It was a challenge to balance storytelling with the knowledge that I drew story from the pain of others. I hope I did it justice. My deepest apologies if you feel I did not.

  This book only moved forward due to the support of a lot of good people. Thank you, David Hartell and the Canadian National Transplant Research Program, Dr. Greg Knoll and Dr. Matthew-John Weiss for your technical expertise, support and many introductions. All errors are mine. Thank you, Larry McCloskey, Alma Fullerton, Nate Estabrooks, the Sunnyside Writers Group, the InkBots and the Odyssey Workshop 2016 alum—every book requires a supporting cast of authors. Caroline Pignat, thank you for such a spectacular blurb.

  Thank you, Diane Craig, for sharing your story. Thank you to Ronnie Gavsie, Rabbi Bulka and all the people at Trillium Gift of Life Network, who showed me how much you do to improve the lives of others. And to Dr. Edward Hickey and the team at Toronto General Hospital that cared for my brother. You are lifesavers. High fives, fist bumps and eternal hugs.

  Martin Stiff, Glendon Haddix, Catherine Adams, Jessica Holland and Deborah Dove, thank you, thank you, thank you! To my family, to Andrea and to my daughters for being first readers and always there for me.

  My gratitude to the Orca pod: Tanya Trafford for your leveling up of, well, everything; Andrew Wooldridge for taking a chance; and the production and marketing team, without whom all our invested time means very little indeed, my gratitude.

  I gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the City of Ottawa’s Arts Funding Program. Money means time, and time allows for writing.

  To my brother, Mark, who is in every word of this book, you’ve shown us all how to live well with a bum heart. You’re even more amazing with a great heart.

  Finally, to my brother’s heart sister and her family, what can I possibly say? Thank you for your gift. It means life for a brother, a son, a husband and a father.

  Your heart found a good home. I love you.

  Michael F. Stewart is an award-winning author of many books for young people in various genres, including Ray vs. the Meaning of Life. He lives in Ottawa.