A Heartbeat Away (10 page)

Tori hoisted a frosty mug of Belgian White and tapped the mugs of the two residents. “Here's to you, boys. Thanks for your great work.”

“To your speedy recovery,” Paul said. He had the hungry look of a runner. He had his eye on a career in academic surgery and had the drive to succeed. His shirt was wrinkled. He probably hadn't slept the night before.

Dan, on the other hand, was an obsessive neatnik. He was still in a white shirt and tie although he'd left the hospital two hours before. He looked well rested and sported a red goatee over a generous chin. He never missed a meal, a feat worthy of praise at a busy university hospital. Many times Tori had seen him gather his interns in the cafeteria to make “card rounds,” so named because the interns kept data cards for each patient. Dan's card rounds were legendary, and he grilled the students and interns while each patient was discussed over a load of carbs.

She caught the eye of their waitress. “Could you bring us another order of these wings? And how about a plate of those loaded fries?” She looked at the duo at her wooden table. “You boys good with that?”

There were smiles all around.

The waitress nodded. “I'll get that order right in. Could I bring you another round?”

“I'm still nursing this,” Tori said.

Dan looked up. “Absolutely. Could you bring me a pale ale this time?”

“Porter for me,” Paul said.

The waitress disappeared.

Dan chuckled. “I've been at VCU Med Center seven years and never once has a patient said thank you in such a nice way.”

Tori smiled and sipped slowly. She didn't even bring up the subject of her transplant until the boys were on their third round of brews and a platter of bratwurst, warm pretzels, and mustard sat on the table in front of them.

“Have you guys ever heard of cellular memory?”

Blank stares.

Dan belched quietly into his hand. Paul yawned.

“We don't really understand all the intricacies of stored memory,” she began. “But it's much more complicated than we previously thought. There is a complex neural network surrounding the heart, and there are some interesting reports in the literature about heart recipients receiving transplanted memories from their donors.”

Dan conquered the last of a bratwurst. “Hmm.”

“In some cases, it's merely a transplanted like or dislike—a new taste for a certain food, for instance. In other cases, it's much crazier, a transplantation of a complete or partial memory from the donor.”

Paul looked sleepy. He drained his beer. “That is freaky.”

Dan shrugged. “Do you believe it?”

She leaned forward. “It's happening to me.” She watched as the boys exchanged glances.

“What do you remember?” Paul asked.

“A fire. Falling.” She didn't elaborate.

Dan straightened his tie. “When did you first notice this?”

“As I was waking from my operation. I thought it was a nightmare at first, but it wasn't like a normal dream. The images persisted beyond the night.”

“Wow.”

She sipped her beer and slid the mug across the table. “Maybe I'm just going crazy, huh, boys? The big surgeon has finally lost it.”

“No way,” Dan said. “We wouldn't think that.”

“I don't know. I'm having a hard time with it. It's really making it difficult to sleep.” She watched for a reaction.

Well lubricated by this time, the boys seemed reluctant to offend the one picking up their bar tab. “No, no,” Paul said. “You're not crazy.” He pushed back from their table. “Heck, you're practically a hero among the residents.”

“I don't know,” she said, sighing. “Maybe I should just hang it up. I can't be trying to conquer cancer if I'm troubled with these images of fire.”

Dan seemed to be studying the golden ale in his mug. “Don't say that.”

“You know, you guys could help convince me I'm not crazy.”

Dan finished his beer.

“Want another?”

“Not me.”

Paul shrugged. “What can we do, Dr. Taylor?”

Tori forced herself to breathe. This was it, the whole point of this little thank-you celebration. She was all in, no turning back. She reached into her purse and pulled out a copy of the
Baltimore Sun
story of the jumpers. She laid it on the table in front of the boys. “Look, I know you can't tell me the name of my donor, so I'll make this easy for you. I know the helicopter took the harvest team to Baltimore.” She pushed the paper closer to Paul, the resident who had been on the harvest team. She tapped the paper. “Just tell me if I'm wrong. This is where my heart came from, isn't it?”

She watched as Paul looked at Dan. Finally he looked back and shrugged. “You didn't hear it from us.”

“You didn't tell me a name,” she said. “Just tell me if I'm wrong. Am I crazy here?”

Paul shook his head. “No, Dr. Taylor, you're not crazy. And you're not wrong.”

15

Tori sat in her favorite chair stroking the front of her shirt with her finger, nervously tracing her sternal scar. Her eyes were wide open, her gaze jumping from object to object as if searching for a lost item. But she did not seek car keys, a wallet, a comb, or any material object so easily lost. She sought the unseen, the meaning of her current life's craziness, the inevitable but illusive deduction she loathed to consider. A minute later, she was on her feet, restless, and unable to curl her fingers around a conclusion she'd been avoiding since her horrible nightmares began. She paced the floor, facing for the first time the sure knowledge of her heart donor's identity:
Dakota Jones
.

Memories carried her back to a moment just before her transplant, the few seconds of her life chiseled into the stone of her mind when she saw the donor heart as they carried it into the operating room for her transplant. She relived the moment and her vision of two intersecting lifelines, colliding in the controlled violence of surgery. The sounds of conversations on fast-forward accompanied the lines as they raced toward the inevitable union. One line was Tori's; the other belonged to her donor, an unfortunate soul kind enough to sign the back of her driver's license to indicate her willingness to give life to a stranger. But now, for the first time, the other line had an identity, and the whispers of pain, fire, and threat screamed to reveal the experience of Dakota Jones.

Tori looked down at her chest where her hand still rested over her heart. She whispered into the stillness of the room. “Dakota, what have you given me? What happened to you?”

She thought of the mysterious number, the feeling of threat and dread, of fire and pain.

And at that moment, she just knew. The floating dread, the nightmares and images of fire and pain settled into place, each puzzle piece now locking with the other, each providing a letter that spelled out one conclusion: MURDER.

The thought crept upon her, settling over her soul with a sense of finality.
Yes
, she thought.
Dakota Jones was murdered.

The conclusion locked into place. Tori shook her head.
Am I crazy?

But her own feelings told her she was finally embracing the truth.

In the next moment, in the dim light of the den, she accepted a new responsibility. In her mind, she spoke to her heart.
Dakota, I owe you my life.

I will find the person responsible for your death.

Christian didn't want to say good-bye. He didn't really want to have to explain his feelings. The truth was, he was conflicted, and he didn't want the adorable and beautiful Emily Greene talking him into another crazy adventure.

The evening was heavy with moisture. The cicadas started their symphony as Mr. Greene's BMW disappeared down the long lane.

Christian glanced over at Emily as she sat on the porch swing with her cast propped on a frilly pillow set up on the wicker coffee table. She looked at him. “So this is how it ends, huh? I thought you didn't want to return to Africa.”

He shifted in his chair. “I wasn't sure for a while. You gonna be okay?”

“I guess.”

He nodded. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I should've been a better, you know, leader.”

“I'm a big girl, Chris.”

He looked down the lane toward the setting sun. “Sure.”

“What happened to all the talk about us? You said you wanted to be with me.”

“Yeah, well, I thought you were a, you know—”

“Say the word, Christian. The word is virgin.”

“I can say it.”

Emily adjusted the pillow under her foot. “I was fourteen, all right? The guy was a senior, a real jerk. He used me.”

“I don't need to hear this.”

“I felt so contaminated. Down on myself. I didn't feel worthy of saving myself anymore. I started giving it away 'cause I wanted someone to love me.”

Christian dropped his head between his hands. He didn't want to know.

“Christian, that was before you, don't you get it? You showed me real love.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don't know anymore.”

“Come on, I remember how you talked. How you wanted our relationship to be a picture of something bigger, of Christ's love for the church.”

Christian shook his head. “Sounds pretty silly now. You used to tease me, saying it was cute, all my God talk.”

“But I listened, didn't I? You didn't think I got it, but I did.”

“You just wanted me to help you get away from your dad.”

“Okay, that was a stupid idea. But that doesn't change the way I feel about you.”

Christian looked up. He felt his heart softening.
God, she's so beautiful.

He didn't know what to say. He just listened to the sounds of dusk and breathed in the smell of honeysuckle.

“Say something.”

He felt his throat tighten. What was it about this girl? “I'm leaving tomorrow.” He shrugged. “Everything is packed. Dulles. London. Nairobi.”

She pressed her fist to her upper lip. “If I could change my past, I would.”

“It is what it is.”

“What about forgiveness?”

“I'm not Jesus. Ask him.”

“I have. A thousand times.” She crossed her arms.

“You need me to say it?” He shook his head. “I can say it, but it won't be enough. It doesn't change things.”

“Say it.”

“Come on, Emily. You don't need my forgiveness.”

She started to cry. “I want you to love me.”

Christian felt the ice around his heart begin to melt, beads of sweat on a surface of rock. He closed his fist, trying to find the resolve he'd mustered to walk away. He shook his head and stood. If he kissed her, he'd stay for an hour. Kisses would linger as he tasted her tears. He'd lose himself in her emerald eyes. He'd say things he'd regret. Sweet things that would make little sense in the light of morning.

He looked at her only for a moment and spoke as he started down the porch steps. “I'll never forget you, Emily Greene.”

Tori awoke at four a.m.
What's that noise?

For a moment, she was the surgeon on call and the phone nudged her from sleep. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. The fog began to clear, but the sound of the phone continued. She began plodding toward the kitchen.
Can't Charlotte hear the phone? And who is calling at this hour?

She lifted the phone from its base. “Hello.”

“Hello, this is Mary Fiorino. I'm the hospice nurse. Is this Dr. Taylor? I think we met the other day at Manny's place.”

“Yes, this is Tori. Let me get Charlotte for you.”

“Actually, I'm calling for you.”

“Me?”

“Look, Manny doesn't have long. He's asking for you.”

Tori sighed. “Okay.” She looked through the window above the kitchen sink, seeing only her reflection. “Give me a few minutes. I'll call a cab.”

“You'd better hurry.”

The line went dead. Evidently, Nurse Fiorino was all business at this time of the morning.

Tori prepared the drip coffeemaker and trudged back to her bedroom to change. She found jeans and a colorful top that she could button up above her sternal scar. She washed her face, called a cab, poured coffee, and waited.

Let me be in time.

Tori straightened. The words that had just formed in her mind had been more than a thought—they had been a prayer. And the impulse to mentally express that prayer had felt very natural, even though it was far from her normal routine.

Maybe it just comes with facing the death of a patient … something I always avoided before.

A yellow cab pulled up on the street in front. She scribbled a note to Charlotte and entered the darkness of the Richmond morning.

She gave the address to the cabbie, who turned and shook his head. “Not the safest part of town for a young lady at night.”

She hesitated.
I should have brought my mace.
She cleared her throat. “I have to go.”

The cabbie appeared to be Middle Eastern, possibly Arabic, possibly Somali. She wasn't sure. She didn't take him for the type to turn down a fare, even into a war zone. He shrugged and hit the meter. “Have it your way.”

“Where are you from? You don't have an accent.”

“Ethiopia,” he said. “But I've lived here since I was five.”

She settled into the backseat and stared out at the vacant streets. The statues on tree-lined Monument Avenue kept a silent vigil. Robert E. Lee sat proudly on his horse. Motionless. Offering neither comfort nor warning. Jefferson Davis, however, looked eerie, his hand extended into the air palm up in a gesture that seemed to suggest surrender. Or a plea for help. Tori doubted the artist responsible had anticipated how creepy Davis would look standing alone in the darkness.

Soon, they turned away from the trees, skirting Virginia Commonwealth University and up Broad Street. A man in a worn jacket leaned against a building. A woman with too much lipstick and a short skirt bent forward to talk to the driver of a luxury car. It was the nightlife that Tori rarely thought about. Seeing it now brought an ache to her soul.
The poor. The homeless. Sex for hire.
The woman looked up and her eyes followed the cab as they passed. In spite of an application of rouge and eye shadow, her cheeks were pale, eyes hollow. “I'm lost.”

The message startled her. She looked at the cabbie to see his reaction, but if he'd heard her cry, he didn't react. “Did you hear that woman?”

She watched as the cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror. “Didn't hear nothing. The windows are up.” He squinted. “Was she talking to us?”

“To me—” Tori halted, realizing that perhaps it had only been in her mind.
Okay, so now I'm officially hearing voices.

They passed an adult theater. A liquor store still open in spite of the hour. A man was exiting with his prize in a brown bag, promising a momentary reprieve from a hard life. He smiled at the cab as they crept past, his snaggletoothed dentition framed by unshaven cheeks. His soul whispered to her.
I'm lost.

Tori closed a fist over her heart.
We're all lost, aren't we?

She found herself on the verge of tears.

This is crazy. I've lived around this stuff all my life.

But she'd insulated herself, building up a fortress of armor, warding off
feeling
.

She opened her purse and felt for her stethoscope. Why had she brought it? Certainly a doctor should have a stethoscope at the bedside of the dying. In the darkness of the cab, she clutched the plastic tubing as if to hold onto the science she relied on to explain everything. Science framed her world, offering an explanation for human suffering. Pain was only a neurologic message, right? A transmission of information about pathology that needed to be changed. Medicine and surgery offered a cure.

But Manny is dying.

In spite of my surgery.

What's on the other side?

Is there an other side?

The cabbie drove up a long hill away from the VCU hospital complex and into a neighborhood of government project housing where Manny lived. He pulled up to a curb opposite the small playground, the one with the swaying turtle and the scary tubular slide. The cabbie turned around. “Twenty,” he said.

“But the meter says twelve fifty.”

“It's a risky neighborhood. Some cabbies won't come here at all. I risked my life and my cab.” He stared at her, unblinking, with a yarn hat pulled down over his ears and repeated his demand. “Twenty.”

Tori looked through the window toward Manny's apartment building. It was a little scary out there. She tossed a twenty over the seat. “Thanks.”

She passed a sleeping drunk outside the elevator on Manny's floor. An exposed fluorescent tube buzzed and blinked, measuring her progress in jerky images. Her mind floated as if caught in déjà vu. She hurried to escape the feeling that she'd been there before, not just a few days ago, but years ago.