The Heart of Memory

by Alison Strobel

  “Oh, good Lord.” The woman’s eyebrows shot up, but Savannah was too mad to apologize. “I was not out on the town with anyone. I went out to get some dinner, I was by myself, and I got into a conversation with someone because it was more pleasant than sitting alone. That was it. And you can tell whoever you heard that from that they should be more careful about how they talk about other people.”

  “Next please.”

  Savannah turned her back on the woman and set her clothes on the counter, thoughts spinning. What if Shaun got wind of this? Who else had seen her that night? Colleen wouldn’t have been the one to spread such a rumor — would she? Or was it the work of some busybody who happened to be in the right place at the right time?

  She took her bag and headed for her car, her head not even turning to check out the window when she passed Ann Taylor. Divorce rumors — just what they needed. It looked like, one way or another, she was going to be responsible for the downfall of A&A.

  She got in her car and pounded a fist on the steering wheel. How could she have been so stupid? What had she been thinking, going out alone like that? She hadn’t dined out alone once since getting married, and this was one of the reasons why. She had to be above reproach for her ministry; she had to get back out there and be as normal as possible so people didn’t get any ideas. It didn’t matter if she thought God was a joke; she had a family to support, employees depending on her to bring in their income, and she had to do whatever it took—like the book tour — to make sure she didn’t let them down.

  She heaved a sigh and stashed her bag in the backseat, then headed back to the mall. She was going to need some new pantsuits. And after that she was going home, getting her laptop, and going to a coffee shop to work on her book tour talk. She was going to give her audience what they were expecting, even if it killed her.

  SAVANNAH DROPPED HER LAPTOP BAG to the floor and allowed herself to collapse on the couch. Shopping and writing had drained her—yet another reality she never would have expected to encounter. Even though writing had always been difficult, doing it in public had always made it fun, and the conversations that broke up her time were always energizing. And shopping? Once upon a time it had been like a hobby. Now she felt like she could crawl into bed and not come out for a month.

  After a catnap she brought her bags upstairs, then sat on the floor of the closet and cut the tags off her new clothes, frowning at each one. When was the last time she’d purchased anything larger than a size 8? Or anything that didn’t say “Dry Clean Only” on the care label? Only her new blue pantsuit required that. Shaun would be glad to know her new wardrobe would need less maintenance. He was so edgy about money these days.

  She was craving a piece of strawberry cake. Who would have guessed chocolate would ever be replaced? Yet another little quirk that separated her from her old self. It seemed that every day revealed yet another change that made her stop and wonder, or brought a new thought she never would have come up with before. At this rate she’d be a completely different person by the time her transplant anniversary rolled around. Either that or she’d be committed somewhere as being insane.

  These were the weird little things no one told you about when you got a transplant. She didn’t even see people on the forum talking about it. And because of that, she was afraid to bring it up. What if the surgery had triggered something psychological? What if she really was going crazy?

  Or what if she truly was becoming another person? Could that really happen? What would that mean for her marriage, her relationship with Jessie? She chuckled to herself as she dropped another tag into the trash. That was the one relationship that might actually benefit from her being someone else. She and Jessie had nowhere to go but up.

  But Shaun … he’d married the Old Savannah. He hadn’t banked on that woman waking up one day and being fundamentally different. Could she really expect him to stay with her? Could anyone fault him for wanting out?

  She stood and heaved the mound of clothing into the laundry basket, then pulled on her pajamas and crawled into bed. The stories she’d read and heard about transplant patients always made it sound like their lives started fresh after their surgery. No one ever talked about their life falling apart. But that was what was happening. She couldn’t control the changes she was experiencing, and she couldn’t figure out how to go back to being who she was. And she didn’t want this new self any more than Shaun would. So where did that leave her?

  SHAUN BRACED HIMSELF AS HE eased open the door and poked his head into the kitchen. It was dark, the sink empty, no smells of food. The tension in his shoulders remained as he cased out the lower level. All was silent, and he suspected Savannah may already be asleep. He heaved a deep breath and went back to the kitchen to fix himself a quick dinner before going to bed himself.

  Ever since he’d realized Savannah had added receipts to his doctored reimbursement form, Shaun had lived in perpetual fear, just waiting for the day she’d confront him on it. So far she had not done anything to indicate that she’d noticed, but he wasn’t about to let down his guard. It made him even more reluctant to come home in the evenings, and he’d taken to killing time in the empty office or at the library just to avoid any unnecessary face time.

  After dinner, which he ate with one ear listening for signs of life upstairs, he decided to turn in and get up early so he could be out of the house before Savannah awoke. When he went to the closet to get his pajamas, he saw unfamiliar clothes in the laundry basket. He pulled out a few pieces — a plain dark green long-sleeved T-shirt, a pair of cargo pants. It was the kind of clothing he saw on Jessie, not Savannah. They smelled new. She actually bought this stuff?

  I wonder how much it all cost …

  He tried not to begrudge her the shopping trip. He hadn’t said anything, but she had definitely gained weight thanks to the prednisone, and he knew she wasn’t wearing Jessie’s old clothes these days just for the heck of it. For someone who had always been so careful about her appearance, she was probably really bothered by the weight gain.

  Or maybe she wasn’t. Who could predict Savannah’s reaction to anything these days?

  At least she’d gone out. She’d been staying awfully close to home lately. He’d almost asked her, twice, why she wasn’t at least going for a walk and getting the exercise her doctor recommended, but he’d stopped himself. He didn’t feel like it was his business — didn’t feel like he knew her well enough anymore to ask questions like that.

  It was just one more bit of evidence that Savannah was not who she once was. He’d expected some depression, maybe some anxiety over getting sick. He’d known to watch for exhaustion, for overexertion when she tried to do things she’d been able to do without a problem before. Tammy had prepped them both well for those kinds of changes. But he hadn’t expected her to suddenly turn into some hermit, or to come home from the mall with a wardrobe more suited to camping than to public speaking. He hadn’t expected the loss of grace, both in movement and attitude. The bluntness, the brooding, the lack of focus. Or the anger. Even when she was engaged in a completely neutral activity — eating dinner, brushing her teeth — she had a furrow in her brow and a narrowness in her eyes. People who didn’t know her well probably wouldn’t see it, and he wondered if Marisa had even picked up on it. It was subtle, but clearly evident to him—as was the prickly energy that seemed to emanate from her like radiant heat.

  She wasn’t the woman he’d married. It was eerie, like an alien takeover of her body. She looked basically the same, save for the weight and the clothes. But when she talked, it was like a ventriloquist was throwing her voice and putting words in her mouth. When would it stop? When would she go back to being the sparkly, energetic, happy Savannah he’d always loved?

  And what would happen if she didn’t?

  He didn’t like to think about that, and not just because he’d never imagined being in a place where he’d actually consider a divorce. He didn’t like to think about it because he was scared at ho
w relieved the thought of divorce made him feel.

  JESSIE USED TO BE ABLE to sneak home and back to school without anyone knowing she’d been there. Not that she did it often, or really had any reason to — other than avoiding Savannah. But these days it was impossible to stop in undetected. Savannah was always there. Jessie had a feeling she’d spent more time in their house since her transplant than she had all the years before that put together. She didn’t get it. Savannah usually went stir crazy after a day inside. Two solid weeks was unheard of.

  She eased her key into the locked front door and turned it as quietly as she could. She winced at the thunk of the deadbolt, then at the sound of the weather stripping on the doorjamb giving up its hold on the door as she gently pushed it open. She had the door closed and was halfway up the stairs before her mother’s voice called out, “Is that you, Jessie?”

  She sighed. “Yeah, Mom,” she called back. “Just grabbing a couple things.” Stealth no longer necessary, she jogged up the stairs to her room and began rummaging through her closet, looking for the fall shirts she hadn’t needed until this past week. She found two, but two were missing—her two favorites, in fact. Are they back in the dorm and I just didn’t see them?

  She went down to find her mom. Maybe she’d seen them.

  Savannah was on the couch, legs crossed as a table for her laptop. She was wearing one of the shirts Jessie had been looking for. “Oh my gosh. You’re wearing my clothes?”

  Savannah jumped. “I, um—well, yes. They’re comfortable.”

  “I know. That’s why I wear them. But you always said they were unfeminine.”

  Was her mother actually blushing? “Well, I just … changed my mind. Besides, nothing of mine fits anymore. I had to buy new clothes but I didn’t want to get too many, in case I figured out how to lose this weight. Your things fit me better.”

  “Glad my wardrobe comes in handy for you now, but I was hoping to bring all my long-sleeve stuff back to school with me. I don’t suppose the plum one is in the wash somewhere, is it?”

  “Um, yes—wore that yesterday.”

  “Alrighty then. Guess I’ll just do some laundry tonight or something. I’ll come back for that one some other time.”

  “No, no, that’s alright. I’ll go change and you can take it.” She set the pillow and laptop on the couch and got up, leaving Jessie alone in the living room.

  I cannot believe she’s wearing my clothes. Jessie flopped on the sofa to wait for Savannah, and glanced at the computer screen to see what her mother had been working on. She expected to see email, or the text of a talk or book, but instead it was the message board her mother had been on the last time she was home. She turned the computer so she could see it better and checked the title of the page. Transplant Connections ~ Support, Encouragement, and Resources for Transplant Recipients and Their Loved Ones. Jessie’s interest was piqued. The title of the current thread was, “What else changed after your transplant?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Savannah’s sharp tone made Jessie jump. “Just looking at—”

  “Do you have no concept of privacy?” Savannah slapped the laptop shut, nearly catching Jessie’s fingertips in the process. “Since when is it appropriate to look through someone’s computer?”

  “I wasn’t looking through it, you left it open. I was just curious!”

  Savannah thrust the shirts at Jessie. “Here they are. Now get out of here and go find some manners.”

  Jessie’s jaw hung slack. She’d never heard that type of tone from her mother before. She took the shirts, waiting for her brain to kick in with some kind of comeback, but nothing came to mind. Nonplussed, she turned and left for her car.

  What was that? Jessie had chalked up her mother’s less-than-diplomatic tone during their last conversation to being tired or distracted. But the way she spoke to her just now had been downright antagonistic and offensive. She shook her head, eyes glued to the road. “And she’s wearing my clothes?!” It used to be her mother wouldn’t be caught dead in anything that wasn’t fashionable. Jessie had never cared about fashion—yet another bone of contention between the two of them. At least her mother had given up trying to influence her wardrobe choices after she left for college. But to actually start wearing Jessie’s clothes was more than just a concession for comfort. It was … well, she wasn’t sure what it was. But she was sure it wasn’t like her mother. At all.

  And to get all secretive about those forums … What is she hiding? Jessie’s incredulousness morphed into a mix of curiosity and anger. What would make her act like that?

  One thing was certain. She had a new forum to join — and some sleuthing to do.

  IT WAS DAY TWO OF Operation Old Savannah. She thought she’d done pretty well yesterday. She’d brought homemade cookies to A&A and managed to stay and chat amiably with everyone for nearly an hour. After that she’d gone to the coffee shop to work some more on her book tour talk. She found it much easier to write if she didn’t envision herself actually giving the talk. She pretended she was just a speechwriter, so it didn’t matter if she believed the words or not. She just had to make them sound good for the person actually saying them. As long as she didn’t think about that person being her, she was okay.

  This morning she’d pulled on her new jeans and one of the blouses she’d gotten, then dressed it up with a blazer that still fit as long as she didn’t try to close it. The jacket toned down the outdoorsy feel and brought the ensemble a little closer to the styles she used to wear. Her goal was to get the talk finished today, even if it meant staying all day at the corner table in the back of the shop. As an incentive, she’d promised herself a slice of strawberry pie from Village Inn when she was finished.

  Savannah unpacked her laptop and set it on the table beside her steaming mocha. After powering it up, she launched her word processor and then, stalling, her email. Her inbox filled as the messages were downloaded, and one of them caught her eye. She chewed her lip, finger twitching as it hovered above the trackpad.

  The book edits from her publisher had arrived.

  Hi Savannah —just finished these last night, and must say you pulled together a great book given how little time you had to write it. Speaking of time, we’re hoping to get this to the typesetter by the end of next week, so if you could get the edits back to me by the 7th that would be ideal. I know that’s incredibly short notice, but it will keep us on track for having typeset pages available by the end of the month. I understand from Marisa that your tour dates are tentatively set— we don’t want to botch up the release date and mess that up for you. Let me know if you have any questions.

  Her relief at knowing the editor liked the book was overshadowed by the fact that she had only three days to get the edits completed. So much for working on her tour talk. She opened the attached manuscript with her editor’s notes and began to read.

  I will do a good job. I will not let my reputation be tarnished with a poorly written book. I will protect the jobs of my employees and myself by not screwing this up. She chanted these thoughts to herself whenever she felt her focus and attention waning, and managed to make it through the first chapter in just a couple hours. The editor’s notes made sense, and though many of them required that she rewrite large sections of the manuscript, they at least gave her some direction so she knew which way to go and roughly what needed to be said.

  The success of the first chapter gave her the energy she needed to continue after a brief lunch. Unfortunately, the notes in the second chapter indicated even larger rewrites, as well as asking her to rethink and redo an entire six-page section. You can do this. You can! She fought to maintain a positive attitude, but as the hours wore on her mind began to wander to the what if’s she’d been trying to avoid. What if the book doesn’t sell? What if my editor is just being nice and this is really just a huge piece of junk? What if people can tell I don’t mean what I say anymore?

  She forced herself to stay until four, then packed up as thoug
h being timed and made a beeline for Village Inn. Once there she changed her mind and bought an entire pie instead of just a slice. She deserved it—and needed it.

  She got home at 4:30 and, after one glance toward the dishes left in the sink from breakfast, decided to forgo dinner in favor of the pie. It was a given now that Shaun would be working late, and she just didn’t have the energy today to prep an entire meal for only one person.

  She was on her second slice when the door opened. “Shaun?” Why was he home so early?

  He came into the kitchen and she could tell from the anger in his eyes that something was wrong. “What is it?”

  He dropped his keys on the counter, then speared her with his stare. “I talked to Kurt today. He told me he and Colleen saw you at the steakhouse with some guy.”

  Oh no. “Shaun, it’s not what it sounded like.”

  “No?” He looked unconvinced. “What was it then?”

  “I had just sent off the book. I’d been in the house for three solid days trying to get that thing done. I just wanted to get out and celebrate a little. But you were gone, so I … I just went. I was just going to get a drink, maybe some food, and enjoy not having that stupid book hanging over my head. But then this guy asked me a question, and we started talking, and he was by himself, and he got an appetizer because I told him it was good so when it came he offered me some.” Shaun’s expression hadn’t changed. “Hand to God, Shaun, that was it. Nothing happened other than a nice conversation with someone. Whatever Colleen and Kurt saw could not have possibly been untoward, because nothing like that was going on. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t call you to ask you to come home, or wait to see when you’d get back, or at least tell you about it in case something like this happened. I am truly, truly sorry.”

  She braced herself for the inevitable we-need-to-talk-to-Pastor-John speech. If he pulled that card, she would confront him about the mysterious receipts; she’d been holding onto that tidbit for when she needed to divert a probing conversation away from her and her behavior, though honestly she was afraid to hear his response.