A Heartbeat Away (9 page)

13

That afternoon, with the aroma of chili still clinging to her clothes, Tori reluctantly rode along with Charlotte to visit Manny Benson.

Tori had first known Manny as a patron of the soup kitchen. She was a teenager when she first started hanging out there, listening to his stories of survival. As a Vietnam vet, Manny never quite fit in after his return from the jungle. He couldn't seem to keep a job, fighting nightmares and posttraumatic stress. Then, in a blow that would have leveled most men, Manny suffered yet another devastating loss: his wife in an apartment fire. After that, he never seemed to find his footing. But that didn't stop a young Tori Taylor from admiring his grit. Eventually, after living on the street for the best part of a decade, he became a local celebrity of sorts when a
Richmond Times-Dispatch
reporter did a series on Manny's life, digging up several heroic reports where Manny had put himself in harm's way to save a fellow soldier. Here he was, recipient of a Purple Heart and surviving yet again in a jungle of sorts in downtown Richmond. He found part-time work as a maintenance man in a tobacco warehouse and found motivation to stick it out because they let him roll his own cigars. He had finally escaped the streets, but if truth be told, he always felt a little claustrophobic indoors and would favor a park bench to a couch if given the option.

Two years ago, Manny had turned pumpkin orange and started to itch. Charlotte corralled him into Tori's clinic where a CT scan told a predictable story: a mass in the head of the pancreas.

Tori operated, removing the cancer, carefully and meticulously dissecting the offending tissue from the vital vascular structures at the base of the liver. Now the enemy had resurfaced. This time, there was no cure. Like a bad neighbor, the cancer had set up residence in the liver. A tube inserted through his side diverted the flow of obstructed bile and relieved the itching, but survival now was a matter of time. Weeks, not months. “Don't buy green bananas,” his doctor said.

As they entered his small apartment, Tori lifted her face toward an open window, a vain attempt to escape the smell of sweat, bile, and decay.

Manny was sitting in an old recliner with an Atlanta Braves fleece tucked under his chin. He brightened when he saw the two of them. He shook his head. “Leave the door unlocked around this place and you never know what kind of riffraff will find its way in.”

Charlotte huffed. “Just you be glad God made riffraff like me.” She set the Tupperware container on his kitchen table. “Got a pan? I want to heat this up.”

“Chili day at the kitchen,” he said, his voice threadbare.

Tori inched forward. “Hi, Manny.”

“Look at you. You got a new heart.”

She nodded.

“You don't have to stand by the door.”

Tori edged closer and selected a kitchen chair. Somehow a wooden chair seemed a safer bet. Everything else was upholstered, and she could just imagine how the odor of death held the fabric with tiny bony hands. Worse, she found herself wondering if her immune system could handle the smorgasbord of bacteria in this place.

He held up his hand toward her. She approached, suddenly finding herself with the armor of a clinician. She wanted to check his drain, his incision, to ask about his bowel movements. Anything to put it back on a professional plane. Somewhere away from this place where friends needed a handshake or worse, to try to make sense of pain.

Charlotte clanked a pot onto the stove.
Why doesn't she come in here and rescue me?

Manny took Tori's hand and didn't let go. “Here,” he said, pointing to the ottoman where his feet lay. “You can sit.”

She obeyed, sitting next to the sticks that used to be his legs.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I'm good.”

“That's it? You just had a heart transplant.”

She shrugged and concentrated on his hand, now held in both of hers. She felt each finger, cold skin stretched over bone, imagining that warm blood was reluctant to go all the way to the tips for fear of freezing. “It's been tough. I was back in the hospital once since my discharge. Seems my body wanted to reject such a nice gift.” She hesitated, putting away all the clinical questions she would normally use to assess cancer. Instead, with her mind slate swept clean of data, she asked the first thing that came to her mind. “Are you afraid?”

His eyes moistened. “A little.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes, and Tori just listened to the noise of Manny's breathing. He seemed to be grunting his way from breath to breath.

“Soup's on.” Charlotte set a tray with a steaming bowl of chili on Manny's lap.

Manny took a few sips and set the tray on the coffee table. In leaning forward, his blanket pulled off to expose a bucket sitting beside his recliner.

Is that what I smell?

Manny belched, and then lifted the bucket to his chin. Leaning forward, he emptied his stomach.

It looked as if he'd gotten rid of a lot more than he'd taken in. Many more days like this and he'd be so dehydrated his kidneys would shut down.

Charlotte came running with a moistened washcloth. She patted Manny's forehead as he spit into his pail.

“Let me bring over some IV fluids,” Tori said. “Some saline will make you feel better.”

“For what?” Manny whispered. “So I can live a little longer like this?” He shook his head. “No thank you.”

Tori brushed a tear from her cheek. She hated seeing him this way.

“That's the only saline I need,” he said. “To see your tears means more to me than your doctoring.” He reached for her again.

She thought once about the vomit he had wiped away from his lips with his hand. Her head told her to be careful.

Her heart told her something different.

They stayed two hours until a hospice nurse arrived. For most of that time, Tori just held his hand and listened to him breathe.

When they got outside, Charlotte pointed across the street to a park bench on the edge of a little playground. “Why don't you rest a few minutes? I need to pick up a few things at Checker's Grocery.”

Tori sat but soon felt compelled to explore the playground.
Why do I remember this place?

She listened to the children playing, their voices mingling with memories of a playground.

Just like this one.

She walked around an old set of swings and looked at three molded animals mounted on thick springs. A little girl with red hair bobbed back and forth on the back of a turtle, her voice rising and falling with the swaying beast.

At the edge of an enclosed twisty metal slide, Tori paused. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd been there before. As an adult, she could look over the top of the slide. In her memory, the tunnel slide was much higher. She knelt in the sand at the exit of the slide and peered in.

Fire.

A bad man.

She gasped and pulled her head away.

A double tap on a car horn caught her attention. She looked up to see Charlotte wave through the open window of her VW Beetle.

She opened the door slowly, trying not to strain her chest.

“What's with you? Seeing old ghosts?”

Tori looked at her friend.
I'm that transparent?
“Just take me home. I need a bed.” She lifted a small brown bag and inspected the contents. One bottle of Paul Newman's Caesar salad dressing. “You know you have a full bottle of this in your refrigerator?”

Charlotte didn't answer. She glanced in Tori's direction and turned her attention to the road.

This wasn't like Charlotte. Her kitchen was organized to the point of obsession. She knew what she had and what she needed, right down to every spice. Evidently, she felt Tori's eyes boring in on her, because when she spoke, she'd taken on a rare defensive tone. “You can never have too much Caesar dressing.”

Tori stared through the window, letting the conversation drop. As they approached the end of the block, she turned to see the tubular slide one last time. A knot formed in the top of her stomach.
Why does that thing scare me so much?

Social worker Stephanie Allen handed Emily a tissue. “You're safe. I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”

Emily sniffed. “I need pain medicine.”

“Why don't you just tell me what happened? Then I'll get the nurse.”

Emily looked around the ER cubicle. The unit was quiet. Since Christian had left, only one other patient remained, a disheveled man sleeping off a drunk in the first stretcher. Across the nurse's station, she could see the closed door to the waiting room. The room where certainly her father would be pacing. “I snuck out to be with my boyfriend. My dad caught me sneaking back in. We had a fight at the top of the stairs. When I pulled away from him, I fell. That's all.”

“Did your father hit you?”

She shook her head.

“Why did you lie to your father and tell him that your boyfriend assaulted you?”

“I was afraid my father would think it was my idea.”

“What about the story about how you twisted your ankle?”

“I told you, I fell down the stairs. That's the truth. My dad told me to lie about it so that no one would think he pushed me.”

“Why would they think that?”

“Because we were arguing when I fell.”

“And now I'm supposed to believe you when you've just admitted making up two lies.”

Emily nodded.

The social worker made a note and muttered something about being out at two in the morning to talk to a lying teen.

Emily looked up to see her father through a crack in the curtains. “My daddy wouldn't hurt me,” she said. “Daddy loves me.”

The social worker looked at her watch. She nodded. “Okay, I'll ask the nurse to get you some pain medication.” She opened the curtain and nodded at Mr. Greene. “You may as well come in.”

“Oh, Daddy, I'm so sorry. Don't take it out on Christian.”

Mr. Greene eyed the social worker. “That's okay, baby, as long as you're going to be all right.”

Stephanie stepped away from the cubicle just as Dr. Stanfield, the orthopedist on call, entered. After an introduction, he lifted an X-ray toward a fluorescent light in the ceiling. As he leaned closer, Emily caught the scent of a heavy aftershave.

The surgeon pointed to the black-and-white image. “See how these bone fragments are separated here? A few screws should do the trick.”

Emily hugged her chest and looked at her father.

The surgeon smiled. “Since your daughter is a minor, I'll need you to sign the consent, Mr. Greene.”

Carolyn Greene entered and took her place at her daughter's side, between Emily and her husband.

Emily shook her head. “Mom, I'm afraid.”

“Don't worry, baby. I'll be waiting for you after you wake up.”

14

Tori knocked softly on the open door. Phin MacGrath looked up from behind his cluttered desk. “Hey, you're out on the town.”

She smiled. “Can't stay away from this place, you know?” She looked at the stack of papers in front of him. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” He lifted his hand toward a chair across from his desk.

Tori sat. “I wanted to know if you've found out anything about our little investigation.”

He leaned forward, squinting. “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“You were rubbing your chest.”

“I'm trying not to scratch.” She forced a chuckle. “My incision itches.”

“My grandmother says that's a sign of healing.”

“Smart woman.” She purposefully took her hands away from her blouse and gripped the arms of the wooden chair. “So what do you know?”

“Not much. My buddy, the one that used to be a cop, remember? He talked to the police in Baltimore. The stab victim was basically dead when EMS picked her up, never even had surgery.”

“Okay, so no time for a transplant. That leaves the car accident and the jumpers.”

“No obituary for the car-accident victim. He found a phone number and confirmed that she lived.”

“That means my heart came from Dakota Jones.”

“Not necessarily. There could have been others that were flown in from somewhere other than the city who wouldn't be in the Baltimore paper.”

Tori sighed. She studied the top of his desk. Her eyes paused on a small framed photograph. A slightly younger Phin and a smiling young woman bundled up in winter jackets and gripping a set of skis. She looked up to see Phin watching her.
Busted.
She cleared her throat. “She's pretty.”

He didn't bite.

Tell me she's your sister.

“How's Dr. Baker?”

“Jarrod?” She made a dismissive wave. “I wouldn't know.” She smiled.
If you aren't telling me about little miss snow skier, I'm not telling you about Jarrod.

“We should set up another appointment to talk.”

“Can't you just write the report? Say I'm okay?” She stared at him. “You know I'm okay, right?”

“That's cheating.” He opened a file drawer in his desk. Moments later, he retrieved a folder.

“My file, huh?” Tori shifted in her chair. Somehow in her conversations with Phin, it hadn't felt like a professional counseling session. It felt more like talking with a truly concerned friend. This reminder caught her cold.
He talks to me because he has to.

He opened the folder. “We're making progress.” He appeared to be reading his report. “We still haven't gotten to the root of your anger.”

“I thought I told you, I'm not angry. I'm just demanding.”

He smiled. “Not very tolerant of imperfection.”

“Not in myself or others.”

“Fair enough. But when that driven behavior affects the way you interact with others, it becomes an issue. If we understand what has caused it, then we can help you control it.”

Tori sighed. “Look, I watched my mother's cancer being mismanaged. I think that would be enough to understand my resolve not to err.”

He just looked at her with that same annoying smile.

“What? You think there's more?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.” He closed the folder. “You haven't shared with me about your childhood before your mother became ill.”

“Not much to know,” she said, shrugging. “Typical childhood.” She stood. “Well, I'll let you get back to work. I just really wanted to see if you'd found out anything else.”

His voice stopped her at the door. “About that appointment?”

She didn't want to look at him. Why it even bothered her that he seemed to want to keep this professional was so not her. “When are you free?”

“I could come by Charlotte's place tomorrow evening.”

She shook her head. “You're confusing me.”

He stood. “What?”

Clueless male.
“I don't know. It's stupid.”

“Help me out here.”

“I've liked talking to you.” She looked at the floor. “But it didn't seem like a counseling session. It seemed like I was talking to a friend. Then you started helping me with a search for my donor and I just thought—” She stopped talking and looked at his expression.

“I shouldn't have come by the house, is that it?” he said. “It wasn't professional.”

“No, I liked it, but—”

“We could meet here.”

“Maybe I should just find another counselor.”

“Don't do that.” He cleared his throat.

“So all of our time together, it was just counseling? What about looking into finding my donor?”

“I thought your memories could be important to explore. Looking into it might be helpful.”

She felt a lump growing in her throat.
Of course, he's just being a nice guy. He knows my ice-princess reputation around this place. I'm stupid to think he thought of me as something other than a patient.
She didn't want to cry. This was crazy, way out of bounds for her. She didn't let down. Dr. Taylor didn't cry. “I'll give you a call.”

“Sure. We'll set something up.”

Her composure was back. “Fine.”

She walked away, juggling her hurt.
What did I expect?

Tori's next stop was in the surgical department on the hallway that contained the offices of the cardiothoracic surgeons, a place the residents just called the mauve hallway because of the hideous color of the carpet. At the end of the hall, the wing widened into an open area in front of the chairman's corner office. Here, office cubicles divided the space. Casually, she sauntered past the CT secretaries and paused at the cubicle of the transplant coordinator, Barb Stiles.

She cleared her throat. Barb looked up from her desk. Tori scanned the cubicle. “Hi.”

“Dr. Taylor. Good to see you're up and about.”

Tori smiled, seeing what she wanted pinned to the far wall. The master schedule for the transplant residents.
Who was on call the night before my transplant?
Trying not to stare, she nodded. “Were you able to contact my donor family about my request?”

She nodded. “About that,” she began. “The family has not yet decided to allow any contact.”

Tori took a small step toward the calendar. “Did you tell them about the memories?”

“Of course not!” Barb shook her head. “I'm not about to tell them something unsubstantiated that might upset them. Donating organs is an intensely personal decision.” She pushed back from her desk. “You'll just have to wait on this. If they want any contact with you, I'll let you know.” Barb looked down at the paperwork on her desk, but not before Tori detected a subtle shaking of her head and a little grunt.

“You don't believe me.”

“It doesn't matter.” She sighed. “My only concern is this program and the protection of the rights of the donor family.”

“What if I agree not to contact the family? I could just talk to the police. It was the jumper, wasn't it, Dakota Jones?”

Tori watched for a reaction.

Barb's right eye twitched. “Look, I don't know how you're getting your information, but I've got to caution you to stop.” She raised a finger in the air. “If it gets out that this department is leaking confidential information about donors, we could lose our accreditation.”

“But—”

“Stop!” Barb's eyes locked on Tori's.

“Is that a threat?”

“Look, the chairman is a friend of mine. We all know you're under evaluation here. Don't do something stupid to jeopardize your future.”

Tori offered a plastic smile. “Wouldn't think of it.” She began a turn, but her small black handbag slipped from her shoulder to the floor. “Clumsy me,” she said as she leaned forward slowly to gather it up again. As she did, she steadied herself against the desktop in front of the calendar. Hesitating, she slowed her breathing.

“Are you okay?”

“Getting stronger every day.” Her eyes fell on the name of the resident on call the night before her transplant.
Bingo.

Tori turned to leave. “I'm just not quite as fast as I used to be.”

She smiled to herself as she went back down the mauve hallway.
But I'm fast enough for you.

Phin MacGrath pushed the stack of papers to the side when his cell phone vibrated. The phone's screen revealed the source of the call: “Randy.”

He smiled. Randy was the pastor at Hope Community Chapel. He and Phin had been casual friends until two years ago when Randy assisted Phin through a personal tragedy. Since then, the two had been like brothers. They held each other's feet to the fire. This was an expected call, an accountability check-in.

Phin picked up the phone. “Hey, bro. What's up? You all ready for Sunday?”

“Getting there. I still have some work to do.” A moment of silence followed. “Listen, I know August 10 is coming up. You okay?”

Phin touched the corner of the small picture frame and cleared his throat and paused before answering. He knew better than to try and bluff a “fine” in response to Randy's question. “Home has been tough. Memories everywhere, you know? I've been working a lot.”

“Sally said she'd seen you at the cemetery.”

He felt his throat thicken. “Yeah.”

He let the silence hang between them for a few moments. Randy was like that. Skilled as a listener, he didn't feel the need to fill every silent moment with advice.

Randy spoke next. “You want to run the list?”

“Sure,” he responded, glad to think of anything else.

“You keeping up with daily quiet times?”

“Yep.”

“How's the thought life? Temptations? Any problems with porn? Internet? Movies?”

The questions were a routine part of their interaction, touching on the main areas where Christian men struggle. “No, I'm good. You?”

“I'm okay as well. Remember, Phin, temptation often hits when we're wallowing in sorrow. It's almost like we feel we deserve to indulge ourselves in some secret delight because we've seen hard times.”

“I've been there. I'll stay aware.”

“I know you will. And I'll be praying for your heart. We all loved Missy. She was a very special woman.”

Phin stayed quiet.
Understatement of the year.

“You finding any chances to date? What about that lady you mentioned? You know, the surgeon.”

Phin sighed. “I've been tempted for sure, but there are land mines with that one. Turns out that Dr. Parrish gave me an assignment to do some counseling with her to help her work through some personal issues.”

“Oh wow, so now you can't cross the line because she's your patient.”

“Right. I can't exactly ask her out. Taboo, you know?” Phin looked away from the photograph on his desk. “Besides, she's pretty much off-limits anyway.”

“Come on, a surgeon isn't out of your league.”

“It's not the job, Randy. After I talked to her more, I realized she's not a believer.”

“Oh.”

“So I really can't go down that road.”

“Something will come up. God's got a plan.”

Phin nodded as if Randy could see. He held back a verbal response.
But God sure does take his time, doesn't he?

That evening Tori took the number 7 bus downtown to Legend Brewing Company, a local Richmond microbrewery, home to an award-winning brown ale. There, she met two thirsty chief residents, Paul Griffin and Daniel Freeman, the two surgery residents who had participated in her operation. Paul had gone out with the harvest team and operated on her donor. Dan had stayed and operated with Dr. Parrish on the transplant.

The atmosphere was perfect. A little noisy. Casual. Friends enjoying a variety of local brews and comfort food.