In a Heartbeat

by Tina Wainscott

  “Jenna-“

  She didn’t let him try to talk her out of this. “There was another guy who couldn’t dance anymore after getting a transplant. And I found an article about a woman who, after getting a new heart, suddenly hated country music. She’d loved it before. When she was able to track down her donor’s family, she discovered that he and his wife had been arguing about what station to listen to. She wanted country, he wanted rock and roll. They were fighting over the dial when he lost control of the car. He was killed in the accident. Even knowing all that, even wanting to love country music again, her heart wouldn’t let her. You can’t attribute all that to fantasizing.”

  He turned to her, removing his glasses in a slow, deliberate way, his patience reminding her of Paul. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “I need to hear that this isn’t my imagination. I know it isn’t, but I need to hear it from you. From someone that counts.”

  Several seconds ticked by before Dr. Sharidon spoke. He leaned against the counter, clipboard tucked against his chest. “There are many things in life that I can’t explain. What I can explain is that the heart is a pump. It doesn’t contain a soul, like romantic literature likes to imply. There are some who proclaim a thing called cellular memory, doctors even. I categorize them with the UFO and ghost believers.” He actually smiled then. “Not that I tell them that. But there is someone —”

  “Who?”

  “I’m sure he’d be interested in speaking with you. Wait here for a moment and let me see if he’s available.”

  He returned fifteen minutes later. “He’s seeing a patient right now, but he has a few minutes if you don’t mind waiting.”

  “I don’t,” she said so quickly, the words ran together.

  “I didn’t think so.” His wry expression faded. “You listen to him, but I want you to keep one thing in mind: it’s time for you to let the past go.”

  Those were words for Mitch, not her. “There’s nothing wrong with holding onto memories.” Especially if they were all you had. “I still love my husband.”

  “But you’re angry with him, too.”

  “I … I’m what?”

  “You’re angry. I see it whenever you talk about Paul dying. First for leaving you, and now for hiding his past from you. It’s perfectly natural, Jenna, but it’s not healthy. You’ve healed physically, but not emotionally. These … visions you’re having are only manifestations of that anger. I’m pleased with your progress, but I have to tell you, if it weren’t for the fact that Paul made arrangements, you probably wouldn’t have been accepted as a recipient.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “But you said I was dying, that when you sent my old heart to pathology they said I would have only lived another two months, three tops.”

  He raised a hand. “Before Paul’s death, you were the perfect recipient. But quite frankly, a woman whose husband has just died suddenly, and who has no one else to help her through the traumatic recovery process of both, isn’t the best candidate. At the time I had reservations about giving you his heart. But you’re a strong woman, and you’ve come through it. Now it’s time to let go of the negative emotions you’re harboring and get on with your life.”

  She wasn’t taking advantage of her second chance. Didn’t she always feel guilty about that? Whenever she saw people laughing together, playing, she longed to be like them. But she’d never been able to do that, even when Paul was alive.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll try my best.” If only she could learn to lie better.

  He nodded. “That’s all I can ask of you. Dr. Wallen should be here shortly. Take care of yourself, Jenna.” He dipped his head and walked out.

  All right, maybe she’d offended Dr. Sharidon by not gobbling up his words like a hungry dog. Before her transplant, she might have. But she was tired of being at the mercy of doctors who decided how much she should know, tired of feeling helpless where her own body was concerned. She followed all the orders, but now it was time to take some control over her life.

  Dr. Wallen took longer than shortly, but he eventually walked in after a short tap on the door. She realized she’d expected a guru perhaps, or at least some throwback to the hippie days who could talk about organs retaining parts of people’s souls and little green men in the same conversation.

  He had a small ponytail, but that’s where his hippie similarities ended. He was well over six feet tall, with freckles on his face; he wore a deep purple shirt beneath his lab coat. He was carrying her chart, immersed in whatever he read there as he batted the door closed with his behind. He dropped the chart down against his thighs and gave her a warm smile.

  “Jenna, I’m Dr. Andy Wallen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His hand was soft as he gave hers a squeeze. “Sit down, please. I see that you had a successful heart transplant nine months ago and that you are experiencing some rather interesting phenomena. Dr. Sharidon referred you to me because I’m conducting a special study on just this sort of thing. And I’m a heart-lung recipient myself.”

  Jenna felt her body relax. “You are?”

  “Six years ago. Every year on my new birthday I celebrate with one beer.” His smile disappeared. “But you don’t exactly have every reason to celebrate your new chance. I’m sorry about your husband. It must have been hard going through recovery without him.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t want pity, not from this man, and especially not after what Dr. Sharidon had said. “I had help.” She cleared the knot out of her throat. “You’ve had these strange cravings too, then?”

  “Nothing dramatic, not like what you’ve had. Cravings for Italian food when I never cared for it before. I used to be a morning person, and now I’m a night owl. It was enough to get me asking around, and I found out that many recipients had some kind of change since the transplant. Tell me about your experience.”

  Jenna told her story again, and this time it didn’t sound as loony. All Dr. Wallen could say afterward was, “Wow.” She let it all sink in as he digested it, thankful that he didn’t have that awful patronizing look Dr. Sharidon had.

  “Some of what you’ve experienced is consistent with what I’ve found in others, even the sleepwalking. I had a case once where a patient, after his transplant, had a deep desire to go to the ocean. He lived in Michigan, had never left the state, and had no plans to. The desire became so overwhelming that he made reservations and took a trip to San Diego.”

  Jenna leaned forward. “And what happened once he got to the ocean?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. The plane crashed and he died. But my point is, maybe a person’s desires can remain in the cellular memory of the organ, and therefore transfer to the recipient. The woman who wrote the book you mentioned took on some of the traits of the young man whose heart and lungs she received.

  “We don’t know how much of a donor’s memories stay in the organ or what might trigger them to manifest in the recipient. Some people report no changes at all. But perhaps because your heart belonged to your husband, and he knew you would get that heart, he held onto his wishes, his desires.” Dr. Wallen fisted his hand at his chest. “Maybe he wanted you to carry out those wishes. Like the man who felt he had to see the ocean.”

  Jenna swallowed. “But he died because of those wishes.”

  “He did. But that’s not the point. His death wasn’t a direct correlation of carrying out the donor’s wish. It was just a fluke of fate. You have to decide if carrying out Paul’s wishes is worth the price you may have to pay.”

  He understood. She wanted to hug him, but she was sure that wasn’t appropriate. Instead she clasped his hand. “I can’t tell you what it means to have someone understand what I’m going through.”

  His expression, however, remained troubled. “I understand some of what you’re going through. I have to admit, though, that your case is somewhat extraordinary. I’d like to talk to you some more about it, record it for my project.”

  “Sure.” She took the card he
proffered. “Will this … these feelings … will they go away someday?” Particularly the ones about Mitch, she wanted to ask, but she hadn’t told him about that part.

  “Some of them, like the food cravings, become a part of who you are now. I still like Italian. And that man from Michigan, he might have still wanted to see the ocean even after he visited it once.”

  “But that’s not the point,” Jenna inserted with a smile.

  He pointed his finger at her. “Exactly. Other things, like these memories of Paul’s, they might fade over time. Or they might not, not until you act on his desires. But the point is, do you want them to go away?”

  She started to say of course she did, but the words didn’t come out that way. She let out a sigh instead. “I don’t know.”

  Jenna pulled into her driveway after her appointment, pausing as she always did to take in the house. It was stark white against the blue sky, windows flanked with blue shutters, wrap-around porch edged in decorative wooden railings. Just as clearly she could see the way it had looked when she and Paul had bought it: peeling paint, railing posts falling away. But through the house’s age and neglect, she saw something else: home. She and Paul had stood at the edge of the yard, talking about what they would do to the outside.

  Paul had looked over at the smile encompassing her face. “What are you thinking about?”

  “There’s something about this house, Paul. I felt it the first time we saw it.” She’d turned to him. “Don’t you feel it?”

  He shrugged. “I just see a good bargain and a lot of work. This is the biggest investment we’ve made yet, but I think it’ll pay off.”

  She sighed, turning back to the house. “Forget the investment for a minute. Imagine it painted white, fixed up pretty, even a white picket fence around the front. Maybe it reminds me of the house my family lived in before they sold everything to save souls. It says home to me.” She watched for his reaction.

  “Jenna, you’re not getting sentimental on me, are you?”

  “No, of course not. Well, I don’t think I am anyway. I just like this place. We talked about settling down somewhat when we have a baby.”

  “Maybe. But we have a good thing going. Sometimes the best buy isn’t where you want it to be. What does it matter where we live, when we have each other?”

  She gave him a hug, squeezing him tight. “That’s true. What would I do without you?”

  It usually took him a moment to return her affection, but he always did. He wrapped his arms around her. “You’d be snapped up by another guy.”

  “What a horrible thought.” As her tired spells increased, she wondered if Paul would soon be the one left alone. The latest round of medication wasn’t working. “You’re the only one I want snapping me up.”

  He chuckled. “Good.”

  She wanted to give his bum a little squeeze, but Paul had been embarrassed the one time she’d tried it, so she turned to the house again. It looked neglected, like most of the houses they bought did. But this one reminded her of all those children she’d seen in the poverty-stricken villages. Desperate for restoration, for comfort and love. As a young girl, she’d delighted in making a sad, hopeless face smile, even if for a moment.

  “It’s only a house,” Paul’s voice echoed in her mind.

  Jenna blinked, realizing she was still sitting in the car with the engine running. She got out, grabbing the bag of groceries from the front seat.

  On the fireplace mantel sat a picture of her and Paul taken during a whale-watching cruise last June. Jenna had been mesmerized by the beauty of the whales, and in the picture she fairly glowed. Paul was smiling, too, but the shadow in his eyes was so obvious now. She looked into their brown depths searching for the reason. Was it guilt that tainted his smiles, guilt over an affair with Becky, or perhaps from his past? In those blue moods, was he thinking of the family he’d left behind?

  She wouldn’t let her thoughts go further than that. On the trip back to New Hampshire, she tried to convince herself that none of the last two days had happened. No Mitch, no Ponee, nothing.

  It wasn’t working. Even though she wouldn’t let herself think of any of it, she could feel the sweet memories of the past fading. She’d started questioning everything.

  She was going to have to fight to keep those precious memories dear, despite what Dr. Sharidon had said about letting the past go. What new memories could possibly take their place? And dreams certainly weren’t worth the imagination they were printed on.

  After lunch, Jenna went to work. She pulled on her old jean shorts and T-shirt, already marred with dashes of paint. The mayor’s wife had picked up her dresser the day before, raving and taking a handful of Jenna’s business cards to hand out to her friends. The woman’s check meant another few payments on the mortgage. Paul’s insurance policy hadn’t covered much more than his burial.

  Next up were the finishing touches on a children’s bedroom set. The furniture was already painted cream. Jenna had sketched a design of roses and tulips, which her client had loved so much, she’d commissioned Jenna to paint a border in the girl’s room as well.

  Being in the workshop with the windows thrown open to the ocean breeze and working on a paying project usually made Jenna happiest. Not today, not even when she forced a smile. Uneasiness rustled through her the way the breeze rustled through the leaves. She sat on her little stool in front of the dresser. The brush sailed over the faint pencil lines, but seemed to have a mind of its own as it added additional swirls and flourishes.

  The breeze picked up, whispering at her ear. She found herself looking around, though she had no idea what she expected to find. Her fingers worked faster and faster, expanding on her sketches with more flowers and swirls. Adrenaline coursed through her, stepping up her heartbeat and making her mouth dry. The sound of a motorcycle coincided with a burst of wind, making her think of flying down a country road surrounded by the roar of the engine. She felt injected with the rush of the experience. Where was she getting these thoughts? She’d never even been on a motorcycle before.

  She looked up, scanned the yard. Everything around her was peaceful. Her garden was dappled with late afternoon sunlight, the air alternately filled with the sound of a lawnmower, of children playing on the beach beyond, and the wind washing it all away from time to time. Yet adrenaline screamed through her.

  Jenna watched her hand dipping the brush into the paint, creating more flowers, back into the paint again. Her whole body tingled with anticipation. Painting was supposed to relax, not create uncomfortable energy. She shifted the stool over to the side and continued her painting frenzy. Every few minutes she felt compelled to look up, scan, then return to her work.

  Had she taken the wrong pill this morning? Or too many of the right one? Her heart was palpitating, and she pressed her palm against it. Was she rejecting? The last time she felt like this was … when she’d been in Mitch’s arms.

  She jerked her head up and sucked in a breath. Blinked. No, this could not be. She blinked again, hoping the image would disappear.

  He had paused by the corner of the house when she’d looked up, but now advanced on her. Steadily. With confidence. As though he had every right to be there. Her hand was still pressed over her heart, but it wasn’t helping. Mitch. She tried to conjure up the anger and humiliation she’d felt because of him, but nothing overrode the jolt of desire that shot through her.

  He wore baggy blue jeans, a brown leather vest that opened to his bare chest, and in his hand he carried a helmet and a black jacket. She swallowed. The motorcycle she’d heard. She felt shaky, but realized that the sense of anticipation had eased away the moment she’d seen him. She brushed a strand of hair from her cheek as she stood.

  He walked through patches of sunlight down the stone pathway that led right to her. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, though a lock of it hung over his forehead. He was clean-shaven, but there was still a dangerous quality to him, a sense of rough and tumble and adventure all w
rapped up in a delicious package that sent torrents of those forbidden feelings through her.

  She felt an irresistible urge to run and throw herself at him like she had that first day she’d seen him. Just the thought of those arms wrapped around her sent her tipping forward before she realized what she was doing.

  What his presence means is trouble, she told herself as he drew up in front of her. T-R-O-U-B-L-E. He smelled of fresh air, leather and male. As his gaze swept over her, she became acutely aware of her shabby appearance. Her first thought was whether her scar showed, but she remembered that the T-shirt she wore covered it. And then, how long had it been since she’d last shaved her legs?

  “You drove all the way here from Texas on a motorcycle?” she asked, forgetting all manner of politeness.

  “I wanted time to think. Riding’s great for thinking.”

  She waited, looking into eyes so like Paul’s, yet so different. Mitch’s eyes were full of spark and life. Finally she couldn’t handle looking at him without saying something. “We don’t have anything else to talk about.”

  He set down the helmet and jacket, then stepped closer to her. “Yes, we do.”

  “And that is?” Her voice had gone soft on her.

  “I think we can give each other what we want.”

  Her body reacted to those words before she could think better of it. She forced herself to look away for a moment. “I told you I didn’t want anything.”

  “I’m not talking about money. I’m talking about the baby you want.” He seemed to push out the words, “Paul’s baby.”

  Her eyes widened as they met his. “You’ll donate …” She couldn’t even speak the words now.

  “Yes, I’ll donate. But I want you to help me find the truth. That’s the deal.”

  Those words shattered the joy that was building inside her. The truth again. That horrible truth that could threaten to destroy her memories. She turned back to the workshop, staring at the little girl’s dresser. Little girls, babies, all the tears she’d shed in her nursery. The images crashed into one another, pulling and twisting Jenna’s insides like taffy.