A Heartbeat Away (12 page)

The heart-rate alarm sounded again, a high-pitched note keeping time with the patient's racing heart. Christian watched the monitor and slowly backed away. Regular narrow blips, sharp and jagged, were replaced more and more often with widened ones. First one, then in twos and threes.

Christian sat in a chair behind a counter in the center of the unit. He felt useless. He'd failed.

Purity came to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder. He looked in her face, a nice face the color of coffee with milk. Her complexion was smooth and her teeth even and white. Her lips were full, the kind that in Hollywood, women pay to emulate. “Perhaps the Lasix will work.”

But the monitor didn't lie. Blip, blip, blip, each one running toward an inevitable free fall from the precipice between life and death.

Christian stayed an hour.

To pray.

But heaven was closed.

He watched the patient, the monitor above the patient's head like a gravestone proclaiming his final moments. A second alarm sounded, this one a register of a critically low oxygen in the blood.

Mr. Wanjiku's right hand lifted to his chest. His mouth twisted in a snarl of fear. With eyes wide, he collapsed against the sheets that were stained with an outline of his sweat. His chest rose and fell in diminishing heights. Two minutes later, an eerie cry parted his lips one last time.

Christian imagined the patient leaning over hungry flames of eternal separation from God.

The rhythmic dancing line of Mr. Wanjiku's heart ceased, ironed flat by the invisible hand of death.

Purity turned off the monitor and looked back at Christian.
“Asante.”

Thank you.

He rose and walked from the unit. He needed escape. Into the African morning with sun on his face and the dust of a rocky path beneath his feet, Christian stumbled forward beneath a silent sky.

17

Just after sunrise on Saturday morning, Tori sat on a bench waiting for the city bus, the first leg of a day trip to Baltimore to find out more about Dakota Jones.

As she sat, she replayed her argument with Charlotte from the night before.

“Don't do this, Tori.”

“I didn't imagine you'd understand.”

“Her family could be hurt.”

“They deserve to know the truth.”

“You've had a heart transplant. You're on multiple drugs. These things affect the mind. Your nightmares could mean anything.”

“Then investigating this won't hurt anyone, will it?”

“You're going to get hurt.” Charlotte put her hands on her hips. “Or you're going to hurt yourself.” She walked toward Tori and placed her hand on her shoulder. “What about finding out about your own childhood? You've seen some tough times. Maybe—”

“I never had these nightmares before! You knew my mother.”

“Tell me about kindergarten.”

Tori scoffed. “What does that have to do with this?”

Charlotte held up her hands. “I'm just asking.”

“This isn't about my past. It's about a debt I owe to a woman who gave me her heart.”

“I wish you'd slow down. You're not ready for this.”

“I'm a big girl.”

A big girl. Tori sighed at the memory. Sitting on the bench, she felt anything but.

She tried to think about kindergarten, but it was a big, empty black box. Why on earth did Charlotte want to know that, anyway?

She let the number 21 bus pass. She needed 19 to take her to a downtown bus terminal. In truth, she hated to take a bus, but she'd been warned not to drive for another week, and she feared that if there was any problem and her surgeon got wind that she wasn't cooperating, it could only come back to sting her. All she needed was Dr. Parrish telling the chairman that Tori couldn't be trusted to follow instructions.

A few minutes later a gray Honda Accord approached and slowed with the passenger window rolled down. “Hey, stranger, where are you headed?”

She looked up to see Phin MacGrath, smiling and motioning her to get in.

A bus was approaching behind him. “My bus is here.”

“Come on, get in. I'll take you.”

She looked once at his smile, glanced back at the approaching bus, and yielded, opening the passenger door.

Inside, there were two cups of Starbucks coffee in a cupholder between the bucket seats. “Phin, what are you doing?”

“I hope I'm taking you to Baltimore.”

She thought back to their last encounter. Phin had been Mr. Professional—distant and direct. “I'm taking the bus, Phin. You don't need to do this.”

“I know. I want to.”

“Let me guess. Charlotte?”

“She asked me to help out.”

“She refused to take me herself. She wants nothing to do with my search. She thinks I'm stirring up trouble, concentrating on distractions when I should be trying to recover.”

“She loves you. She didn't want you to go alone.”

“She wants to keep tabs on me.”

“We should all have friends like Charlotte.”

“But you're my counselor. This doesn't seem much like something a counselor would do.”

He nodded. “Agreed.”

“That's it? You agree?”

“So maybe I'm crossing a professional line.” He shrugged. “You want to report me?”

She smiled. “Maybe.”

He handed her one of the cups. “I'm willing to risk it. If it gets too crazy, I'll just refer you to someone else for counseling.”

“Or you could stop crossing the line.”

He glanced at her. His face said he'd rather make the referral.

He sipped his own coffee as they sat at a traffic stop. When the light turned green, he put it back in the holder. “So, Sherlock, what's your game plan? Why are you suddenly so sure you know your donor's identity?”

“I got the information from the resident on the transplant team.” She positioned her cup just below her nose so she could savor the rising smell of the coffee. “A little beer and a few carbohydrates did the trick.”

“I'm still part of the transplant team, remember. Maybe I don't really want to know.” He hesitated, and she could tell he was irritated. “This was a violation of patient confidence. You know that.”

“I also know that if an attending surgeon asks a resident a question, there is too much pressure to stay in the attending's good graces not to answer.”

“You took advantage of your position as an attending.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“I hope not. You shouldn't have told me.”

“Hey, you're a part of this now. If I go down, I'm taking you with me.”

He chuckled. “Well, if it's just the same to you, we have to be very careful not to let the donor's family, or anyone else for that matter, think that the transplant team is giving out confidential information. That could spell huge trouble for us. The program could get suspended.”

Tori tapped her thigh with her fingers and thought about Phin's statement.

She stared out at the passing traffic, trying not to look at the faces.
Wow. If that happened, I won't just be on temporary leave, will I?

They drove on in silence for a few minutes before Tori spoke again. “If I'd known you were going to rescue me, I wouldn't have needed to leave so early.”

“So we'll take our time.” He glanced in her direction. “You could fill the time by telling me about your family.”

She shrugged. “Is this a question from a friend or part of our counseling?”

“I want to know for me.” He hesitated. “But it's both, I guess.”

“I've told you about my family.”

“You told me about your mother. How about your dad?”

Tori felt her gut tighten. “I don't remember that much. He died when I was twelve.”

“Certainly you have memories.”

“He was fun. He took me to the movies. But he was deployed a lot.” She sighed. “I remember thinking I should cry when he died, but I didn't.”

“Your father died and you didn't cry?”

She continued staring through the window. “I guess I wanted to be strong for my mother.”

“When was the last time you cried?”

“I cry all the time now.” She hesitated before adding, “Since my transplant.”

“How about before?”

“I didn't cry.” She looked back at Phin. “You think that's weird?”

He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. He looked as if he was rolling something around in his mouth, perhaps trying it out for taste before responding. “Unusual. Not exactly weird.”

“I used it to my advantage. While others are getting bogged down in their emotions, I've been able to move forward. As a cancer surgeon, it was a plus. I didn't let all that baggage interfere with the decisions I needed to make to cure cancer.”

“Hmm.”

She didn't like the way he responded. It sounded judgmental. “What do you mean, ‘Hmm'?” She imitated him.

“You've been closed down.”

“Maybe losing your parents can do that.” She sipped her coffee. “Don't make a big deal of it.”

“But you were closed before that.”

“Okay, Mr. Counselor, what do you make of that?”

“Not sure,” he said. “But I'd say it's a protective response, usually a defensive mechanism to prevent hurt, caused by exposure to some sort of bad experience. Something traumatic.”

“Well, that's where you're wrong. I had a happy childhood, parents who loved me.”

“Your dad was deployed a lot. Maybe you closed down to prevent yourself from missing him. Maybe you'd been worried so long that he would die that when he did, you were already proficient at protecting your heart.”

“I think you're reaching. I think I was just made tough.”

Phin tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “And I think twelve-year-old girls aren't supposed to be that tough. Did you have lots of disappointments?”

“Disappointments?”

“You know—your father was away in Iraq, missed your birthday, that kind of thing.”

“I don't remember. He was gone a lot, so he probably missed my birthday, but my mother always had a gift that was from him and told me he was such a hero. I think I understood.”

“Did you cry when your mother died?”

“I told you I didn't cry. Not till I got this new heart.”

“What do you make of that?”

She sighed. “Only that I got a lot more than I imagined when I got this heart.” She let her hand rest on his as it gripped the gearshift. “I think Dakota Jones was a crier.” She squeezed his hand. “And a toucher. That wasn't me before, but now it just seems … natural.”

“Seriously. Don't you think there could be another explanation for all this?” He picked up his hand and gestured in the air. “You're in a serious brush with death. It could make you think seriously about what's really important, help you get in touch with your emotions.”

“Good try. But you seem to remember, we're on this trip because this same heart not only made me a bit more emo, I've been the recipient of some pretty scary memories.”

He tapped the steering wheel. “Right.” He glanced at Tori. “So it was the jumper after all.”

“I'm not sure she jumped. I remember falling. I remember fire.”

“Hmm.”

“I wish you'd stop doing that. It sounds judgmental.”

He put his fist to his lips and chuckled. “I almost did it again.”

She smiled. “Okay, this should go both ways. I want to know something about you.”

“Fair enough.”

“You get to know all about my life. I want to know about yours. What about Phin MacGrath? Happy life?”

“I'm an only child. My mother is a hairdresser, the stereotypical small-town stylist who knows everyone's business. My father is a civil engineer. He works with a construction firm designing concrete walls.”

She decided to give him his own medicine. “Hmm,” she said, trying her best imitation.

She watched as the corner of his mouth turned up before he turned sober again a few moments later. A reflection of pain flashed behind his dark eyes. “I married my college sweetheart. She was killed by a drunk driver three years ago next Sunday.”

“Oh, Phin, I'm so sorry.”
The ski picture on your desk.

He stared straight ahead and stayed quiet. Eventually, he coughed and spoke again. “That's pretty much the high and low points.”

Tori didn't know what to say. In spite of her occupation, she'd always found herself uncomfortable when dealing with her patients' emotional pain. In fact, she'd always avoided it, said it was something she left for the hand-holding nursing staff.

But just then, as she found no words adequate to comfort him, she naturally let her hand rest on his again. Skin on skin, a practical encouragement without words.

And for Tori, it just felt like the right thing to do.

That afternoon, Tori and Phin walked into the Baltimore Central District Police Station. A female uniformed officer looked up from behind a counter. “Can I help you with something?”

Tori cleared her throat. “I need to talk to someone about a crime.”

“What sort of crime?”

“Murder.”

The officer, no older than thirty, stood.

Phin put his hand on her arm. “Maybe you should explain.”

“There was a fire in this district a few weeks back. Two people were reported to jump from the fifth floor to escape being burned.”

The officer nodded. “I remember that. A break in some old wiring or something caused it.”

“I don't think it happened like that. I think someone started the fire in order to kill one or both of the jumpers. The woman may have been pushed.”

“And you know this how?”

Tori hesitated. “I remember it like I was there.”

The officer squinted.

“Could I just talk to the on-scene officer who responded to the fire?”

“Why don't you just try explaining to me what you're talking about?”

Tori took a deep breath. As much as she didn't want to, she knew she'd have to convince this officer in order to get further. “Look, this may sound weird, but the woman who jumped—well, she was a heart donor. And I'm the one who received her heart.” Tori smiled meekly. “And along with her heart, I have received some memories. These memories tell me that my donor was in trouble and was likely murdered.”

The officer sighed.

Tori could see she didn't believe. Or understand.

“So you don't really have evidence of foul play?”

“Other than my memories, no.”

“Look, our homicide division is really busy. Why don't I take your name—”

“Can I just talk to the officer who was on scene?” Tori retrieved a copy of the news article from her purse and traced her finger down the print. “Officer Bundrick.”

“Officer Bundrick is on patrol.” The officer turned away for a moment and snapped open the drawer of a tall filing cabinet. Tori watched her as she slowly walked her fingers across the top of several files before depositing a paper into one of them. Even if the policewoman didn't roll her eyes, Tori felt her negative attitude. The officer glanced over her shoulder. “If you insist on staying, have a seat. I'll have dispatch see if Officer Bundrick is available.”

Tori sat next to Phin in a row of wooden chairs. “She thinks I'm crazy.”

Phin shrugged. “We knew this was going to be a hard sell.”

“She made me feel stupid.”

“You've got to admit, when you try to explain it, it sounds pretty crazy.”