A Heartbeat Away (6 page)

“I have no idea.”

“That's why I need to figure this out. I left a message with Barb, the nurse who coordinates the transplant program. I need to find out who my donor was so I can make sense of these memories.”

Charlotte looked out across her backyard as she spoke. “I brought lemonade. Dr. Parrish told me to be sure you were drinking plenty of fluids. He doesn't want you getting dehydrated.”

Tori took the hint. Charlotte wasn't comfortable with Tori's theory.

Charlotte went back inside just as Tori's cell phone sounded.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Taylor, it's Barb, the transplant coordinator. I was told you called.”

Tori took a deep breath and launched into the story of her new memories. After relating everything, she heard Barb's breath blow into the receiver.

“You know I can't tell you the identity of the donor.”

“Look, Barb, I'm not sure I can get you to understand, but these feelings, these memories are very, very real to me. They frighten me.” She sighed. “I need to make sense of this.”

“You should talk to someone. A counselor. Finding out weird or dark things about your donor's life is not going to help. You need to trust me on this. There are things you may not want to know.”

“Make an exception. I'm a surgeon. I know how these things work.”

“Dr. Taylor, the system is set up this way for a reason. The donor family may not desire this kind of contact. News like you're suggesting may be very upsetting to the family.”

“This is a special situation. There may be criminal and legal issues here.”

Another sigh from Barb's end. “I'll ask a few questions. If the family wants to contact you, I'll let you know.”

Tori looked up at the waxy leaves of the magnolia tree and felt her throat tighten with emotion. Fighting back tears, she coughed. “Okay. Let me know.”

She set the phone on the table.
I can't expect anyone to understand. They don't feel what I'm feeling.

She touched the front of her shirt, letting her hand settle over her new heart.
If our experiences define us, make us who we are, who does that make me?

Am I the same person that I used to be?

8

Christian Mitchell looked up at the ceiling of his little bedroom, thinking about the question his father had posed at dinner that evening.
Who am I?

His father had made the point that too often people pick the most obvious answer to that question. A person says “I'm a doctor” or “I'm a teacher” without thinking about the deeper spiritual issues. “God,” his father said, “wants us to find our identity in him. Wrap yourself up in the idea that you are loved by God, created in his image, and made for the purpose of bringing him glory. Find your identity there.”

Christian sighed. The truth was, he'd had a hard enough time trying to answer the question without getting spiritual. He thought about the typical ways he could define himself.
I have an American passport. But I don't feel American. I've spent most of my life living somewhere else.
When other kids talked about American TV shows, American football, or even the restaurants they enjoyed, Christian couldn't find a point of reference to understand. He didn't fit here, but when in Africa, thanks to his skin color and language, he didn't exactly fit there either. He was afloat between cultures without an anchor to fix his identity.

Emily was the first person to try to push past his awkwardness, the feelings of not fitting. She seemed to like the fact that he brought a unique perspective to problems. His answers weren't knee-jerk American. With Christian, it wasn't always about money or getting more stuff. He'd seen poverty. He'd never really had the “stuff” people seemed to spend all their energy wanting. For Christian, relationships took priority. For that, he could thank the influences of his African village and parents who were just crazy enough to think raising a family there might be a good thing.

Perhaps for that reason, his relationship with Emily was something he treasured. He suspected she'd have a hard time defining herself without all the stuff her parents had provided for her. He doubted that she could imagine life without the house, clothes, money, and car. But Christian looked past all of it to see the gem of who she was inside. And maybe her insane plan to begin their lives together wasn't so insane after all. They wouldn't be rich, but wasn't it all the material stuff in the world that caused most of the problems?

Christian looked at the illuminated dial on his Timex watch. 12:30 a.m. He peered through the kitchen window. All was quiet. Overhead, clouds obscured the moon. Inside, with his anxieties pushed aside, he attempted to focus on one thought.
I love her. Why shouldn't we begin our lives together now?

He pulled the screen door, wincing at the squeak, an eerie report that seemed to echo even more loudly against the silence of the night. He waited until he'd crossed the backyard before clicking on the flashlight, pointing it ahead on the now well-worn path toward the Greene homestead.

He walked softly and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he anticipated the secret rendezvous. In the past week Emily had deftly countered his objections.
“We love each other, Chris. Why is that so wrong?”

“We aren't married.”

“Think about it. I'll bet some of those people you saw in Africa didn't have a piece of paper saying they were married, did they? Are you saying they aren't married? It's all just differences in culture.”

“But—”

She silenced him with a kiss. “We can ask God to marry us.” She pulled away. “You said you loved me.”

In the end, he crossed a line that a mere month before he'd have sworn he'd never even approach. One by one his defenses fell like dominos, each one only enough to trip the next.

But what will my parents say?

His objections burned away in the fire of one thought that captivated his testosterone-driven frontal lobes:
Emily will let me touch her. See her. She wants it.

After all, it is my life. I'm an adult. Why should I let others determine my destiny?

She'd whispered an invitation into the phone that afternoon. “I've been taking my temperature. I need to see you tonight.”

His heart galloped at the memory. Hooves stamping against his chest.

At the fence bordering Emily's family farm, Christian flipped off the flashlight and hoisted himself chest first over the top board. As his right leg swung forward, he snagged his jeans, slowing his progress—not enough to stop him altogether, but just enough to send him sprawling onto the dirt. He uttered a rare curse and gripped his knee. His fingers explored the torn fabric and met moisture.
Dew?
He gasped.
Blood!

He fumbled with the flashlight and peered through the cut edges of his favorite Levi's jeans. He frowned. The skin over his kneecap was folded back exposing a palate of red, yellow, and white. Christian moaned and pulled off his black T-shirt, one he'd selected to help him blend with the night. He pushed the shirt down over the wound as the pain proclaimed its presence, first with a whisper like a hint of smoke and then building until it seemed that his whole leg was on fire.

He contemplated his options. Dealing with the wound at home would certainly wake his mother. He looked toward the barn at the south edge of the Greene farm where Emily would be waiting in the loft.

He opted to continue. He limped onward, his mind temporarily diverted from an adolescent fantasy image of Emily leaning back on a blanket of hay. Naked. And asking for him.

Walking bent over, applying pressure to his knee with one hand, gave him an exaggerated limp. He paused and tied the shirt around his leg. Then, wiping the sweat from his forehead, he began again.

At the back door of the barn, he turned off the flashlight and slipped through the sliding doors, which were parted just enough. His knee brushed the door. “Ow!”

He knelt again, gripping his leg, his breath heavy.

A tiny voice came from the loft. “Chris?”

“I cut my leg on the fence.”

“Come up.”

“I'm bleeding.”

He heard her sigh and the creak of the wooden ladder. A moment later, she knelt over him. She wore only a flannel shirt and a pair of very short shorts. “Let me see,” she said, placing her hands on his.

He unwrapped the shirt and pointed the flashlight.

“Oooh. I think you need stitches.”

“Emily, I can't. My parents—”

“You may need a tetanus shot.”

“I'm up to date. Can you just get some bandages? I'll be okay.”

“Come with me to the loft. We'll bandage it later.”

He eyed the ladder. “I'm not even sure I can climb that with one leg. When I bend my knee, it starts bleeding.”

“I'll bring down a blanket.”

Christian sighed. His lustful anticipation had melted.

She started for the ladder.

“Emily, I'm not so sure.” He gripped his knee. “I need to cover this.”

“You can lie on your back. I'll do the work.”

Christian watched her climb the ladder. His thoughts were the
Titanic
. Sinking fast.
How does she know so much?

She came back a moment later with a blanket and a little candle in a simple black metal holder. “Turn that off,” she whispered, lighting the candle and setting it on the floor.

Christian flipped off the flashlight.

“Come here,” she coaxed. She spread out the blanket.

He took a deep breath. The smell of musty hay and diesel fuel provided the ambience. “Maybe we should wait.”

“Lie down,” she said softly. “You scared?”

“A little. This isn't how I imagined it.”

“The time is right now.” She pouted. “We've talked all about this. I thought we agreed.”

“We did. It's just—”

She leaned forward, kissing him softly and interrupting his words. “I'll help you.”

He surrendered to the pressure of her hand on the top of his shoulder and dropped down to the blanket. But something about her confidence made him hesitate. “You know what you're doing.”

The candle cast large shadows against the tall ceiling of the barn. She only smiled and started to unbutton her shirt. “Here,” she said, reaching for his hand, guiding him toward her skin.

He resisted. “I've got blood on my hands.”

“We'll be sharing more than blood.”

She added force. “Lie back. Relax.”

He shook his head. “Emily, have you—I mean—before—”

“Shh.” She put her finger on his lips and moved to straddle him.

He took her fingers in his hand and studied her face in the flickering light of the candle. “You've done this before.”

She stayed quiet for a moment. “Christian, I love you.”

He shook his head. “Get off me.”

“Christian!”

“No.” He stood up. “I need to go home.”

That evening, Tori sat on the couch next to Jarrod Baker. He'd stopped by Charlotte's place bearing Chinese takeout, a flower arrangement, and a chick flick,
The Proposal
. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.

Jarrod looked over. “You okay?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “I don't know what's the matter with me. It's just that these two are just perfect for each other and neither one can see it.”

“It's a comedy. You're not supposed to cry.”

Tori ignored him and picked up another bite of General Tso's chicken.

Jarrod put his arm around Tori and stretched to look at Charlotte, who was banging around the kitchen. “Let's go back to my place.”

Tori lay her head against his shoulder. “This is just fine.”

He cleared his throat. “But there it could be just us and—”

Tori lifted her head. “Let's not go there.”

“But you said you wanted a fresh start, right? I thought we could—”

“Listen,” she said, pushing away and looking into Jarrod's eyes. “I just had major surgery. I'm not ready.” She paused. “And even if I was strong enough, we're not at the same place anymore. I think we need to try friendship first.”

“Friends with benefits.”

“No. Friends. Period.”

“But before—”

“This isn't before.” She could sense his frustration. “Look, you can't just separate the physical from your heart. Sex comes with a lot of emotional content.”

He frowned. “Emotional content?”

She nodded. “Commitment. Love.”

Jarrod pressed the pause button on the remote. “What's with you? You cry at a stupid movie. And now you talk of love. We never cared about that before. In fact, we thought a relationship without complicated attachments was preferable.” He pointed at her. “You said you didn't believe in love.”

She sighed. “So maybe I've changed.” She sat up straighter and watched Jarrod pace. “It just doesn't feel like it used to. I want you to care about getting to know me as a woman first.” She hesitated. “What's my favorite color? What is my biggest fear?”

He held up his hands. “Blue.”

She shook her head.

“I don't know. This isn't fair. I thought we could pick up where we left off.”

She didn't respond.

Jarrod continued to pace for a minute, then quietly sat in a recliner opposite the couch. “Okay, I'll play. What's your biggest fear?”

She smiled. “You really want to know?”

He seemed annoyed. “I asked the question, didn't I?”

“This isn't a game,” she said. “A woman wants to feel pursued. Worth your time.”

He shifted in his seat. “Okay. I really want to know. What is the infamous Dr. Victoria Taylor afraid of?”

“A month ago, I was afraid of dying. But not anymore.”

“And your favorite color?”

“I'm not finished with the first one.”

He sighed.

“I'm afraid you're going to think I'm crazy. You won't believe me.”

“I don't think you're crazy. You're one of the most grounded scientists I know.” He leaned forward, squinting. “Just what am I not going to believe?”

She launched forward. “Ever since my heart transplant, I'm having vivid memories of terror.”

“Memories?”

She nodded. “Fire. Screaming. Someone in trouble.”

He tilted his head as if to ask for clarification.

“Look, Jarrod, I'm just telling you what I'm experiencing. But at the same time, I know nothing like that ever happened to me.”

“Maybe it's your immunosuppressive drugs playing with your brain.”

She shook her head. “I had the first nightmare just as I woke up in the ICU before starting the drugs.”

“So what do you make of this, Doctor?”

“The memories are real. They're just not mine.”

She could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't following.

“The memories are a part of the transplant. I've gotten my donor's memories.”