Change of Heart (11 page)

Brian's fear catapulted him up Third Avenue as if he were a wad of paper shot out of a giant rubber band. Despite the almost wintry chill of the April afternoon, he arrived at Saint Joseph's with body steaming. He eyed the crowd waiting for the elevator as it descended haltingly to the ground floor. Certain that the crammed cubicle couldn't contain the anxiety exploding from his chest, he vaulted up the eleven flights to the Intensive Care Unit and raced down the hall to the waiting room.

The sight of Walter and Margaret sitting across the room from each other stopped him at the doorway as if the atmosphere on the other side of the threshold were a solid block of ice, impenetrable. The two gazed at him, white faces marooned on separate frozen islands of animosity and bitterness. Silently Brian's eyes absorbed Walter's sagging shoulders, the pale-blue shirt grimy and wrinkled, and Margaret's stiff posture, arms held tightly to her midsection, legs pressed together in a straight line. Their misery, unmitigated by sharing, seemed instead exaggerated by the other's presence.

Their fault. Whatever happened to Sharlie. Martha's voice on the telephone half an hour ago had replied noncommittally to Brian's urgent questions, but he had responded to the careful words with a violent and visceral hatred for Sharlie's parents, a hatred that distracted him from his fear for her. But the angry speeches that boiled inside him all the way uptown cooled into silence now as he looked at the two guilty ones, staring from their ice block. Rather than melt that barrier with his hot rage, he turned, wordless, and walked away from their frightened eyes.

Walter's and Margaret's images dissolved like puffs of cold winter breath as Brian stood gazing down at their daughter. It was Sharlie all right, but he imagined this was how she looked as a young girl, perhaps about twelve years old. Her eyelids had the translucent fragility of the very young, and her figure appeared diminished in the midst of all the wires and machinery. Her face was so still that the lines of her mouth seemed carved. There was no movement, even along the delicate curves of her nostrils. He glanced at the machines ticking steadily, marveling that somewhere in her body life continued.

Sharlie! Open your eyes and smile at me and say something ridiculous about this place you're in—what did you call it? The Incredibly Complicated Udder? Tell me about the mail-order heart you sent for from L. L. Bean—the down-filled one to make you extra warm-hearted. As if you needed that.

Someone touched his shoulder, and he swung around ferociously. The startled nurse motioned that it was time to leave. He walked out through the double swinging doors into the empty corridor, and when he couldn't think of anything else to do, he pulled back his right fist and slammed it into the wall.

Later, in Diller's office, he stared down at his hand, wrapped in a light plaster cast. A hairline fracture, they'd said down in X ray. Amazingly, the release of frustration seemed worth the pain and embarrassment, but he knew the relief was momentary. Every day another plaster cast, perhaps? Left hand tomorrow, feet next, then head—which took him to the weekend. He'd have to content himself with the walls in his own apartment so as not to find himself expelled from the hospital for malicious mischief.

He knew that Walter and Margaret would not have included him in the conference, so he had just barged in and sat down with them. But now he found it difficult to pay attention. Diller's voice droned on, something about Jason Lewis—the Santa Bel heart surgeon—tests, flight arrangements. Brian watched Walter's hands, moving in a restless, helpless rhythm, one on top of the other in his lap.

Then Diller was standing, so Brian rose with Margaret and Walter, and they filed out of the office in silence. Brian didn't feel like asking, but he got the impression that Sharlie was about to leave for California.

Sharlie swam through the pale-blue sea, only she knew it wasn't water, it was sky. She floated easily, turning with the slightest movement of her arms. She took a quick look over her shoulder, just to make absolutely sure there were no wings. It was peaceful up here, quiet except for the faint ticking sound above her—God's wristwatch, no doubt, she thought, and felt herself begin to giggle.

But then the light dimmed, and suddenly she began to shiver. So cold. She tried to work her arms faster, but they were pinioned to her sides, and she started to fall, hurtling through the cold darkness toward the ticking that, below her now, grew louder and louder. She fought against the restraints, trying to free her arms so that she could perhaps cling to something to break her fall, and in her struggle she roused herself and stared straight up into Brian's face. She gazed expressionlessly at him for a long moment, and finally, as if they were in midconversation and had been briefly interrupted by a cough or a sneeze, said in a clear voice, “Bastards won't let me out of here.”

Brian began to laugh, and he grasped her hand. She smiled vaguely at him, wondering why he seemed so ecstatic when she was lying around with all these wretched wires sticking out of her.

“Where are my parents?” she asked.

“Down the hall. Want to see them now?”

She shook her head. “No. I'm going to sleep. Hold my hand until I go, all right?”

He nodded, and she fell asleep almost instantly.

The same nurse who had been on duty when Brian made his first visit to ICU stood behind him now, well out of reach of his remaining unbroken fist. “Time to go,” she said warily, eyes focused on the plaster cast.

Brian moved reluctantly from the bedside, and the nurse backed off a bit, giving him a wide berth as he passed through the doors.

Two days later they performed an angiogram. Sharlie lay on the table while Dr. Parkiss threaded the catheter up through an artery in her arm and down into her heart. He kept a close watch on the fluoroscopy screen as the procedure was videotaped. After a few minutes of conferring with the technicians, Parkiss, a short, swarthy man with so much hair that Sharlie thought he looked like an exotic tropical fern, said, “All right, Sharlie. You set?”

Sharlie said, “Can hardly wait.” Then she closed her eyes.

“Okay, boys,” Parkiss said. “This one's a pro, so you'd better do it right. You'll have the big guys on your ass if you screw up.”

The heat, pleasantly soothing at first, flooded her shoulder, but soon the pressure became a throbbing, aching bulge. Parkiss stood with his hip pressed to her side, and she found his body warmth comforting.

The assistant with the iodine looked at the monitor and whistled under his breath. Sharlie felt Parkiss stiffen next to her.

“What is it?” she asked, and Parkiss, voice carefully neutral, murmured. “Don't pay any attention to Iodine Ike over there. He's just never seen a heart of gold before.”

“I'm only listening to your hip, Doctor. You have a very eloquent hip.”

Parkiss smiled down at her and shifted his weight slightly so that his body no longer came in contact with hers.

“I must teach my hip to maintain itself in a professional manner.”

“Tell me about the left ventricle,” she said.

Another dose of hot liquid flooded her shoulder. Parkiss watched the monitor. His voice was distracted.

“You let me worry about your left ventricle.”

Sharlie waited until the team relaxed to make notations and said quietly, “Look, it's my heart you're gawking at. Can't I know what's happening?” Her dark eyes pleaded for honesty.

“There's enlargement.”

Sharlie's eyes flickered briefly, then faced his steadily. “Scar tissue?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Dr. Parkiss's helplessness showed in the deep lines around his mouth. Everyone was silent as they carefully removed the catheter and turned off the machines.

That afternoon Sharlie lay sleeping in her room. Number 1101 this time, with the sun brushing the right side of her face. She heard small clinking noises and awoke to find Ramón Rodriguez changing her IV tube. He smiled at her and winked.

“Pretty exciting news about you,” he said, fiddling with the bottle so that it sat just right.

“What?” asked Sharlie sleepily.

“The transplant.”

Sharlie didn't answer, and Rodriguez suddenly looked down at her in horror.

“Holy Jesus.”

“Transplant …” Sharlie said, still only half awake, but Rodriguez watched the panic spread across her face.

“They should take my mouth and fill it with shit and dump me back in the garbage on Avenue D,” Rodriguez said fervently, his face contorted with dismay.

“It's all right, Ramón,” she said softly.

He seemed unable to move. His face was stricken. Sharlie tried to reassure him. “It's okay, honestly. I should know what's going on.”

His body sagged a little with relief, and he said, “They called Santa Bel, and Diller said …”

Sharlie put her hands over her ears and shook her head vehemently. Rodriguez turned and almost ran out of the room.

“Nice flowers,” Walter said. He picked the card from its perch on a twig of baby's breath and read it aloud: “‘Some people have too-big mouths. Love from a friend.' What the hell is that?”

Sharlie said, “I have a secret admirer.”

Walter looked at his daughter. She lay there as if they were telling her she ought to have her temperature taken.

“You don't seem surprised,” Brian was saying, and Sharlie replied, “I watched the monitor during the catheterization this morning.”

There was silence as they all stared at her. Sharlie's face pleaded with Brian, and he said quietly, “Walter … Margaret … leave us a minute, all right?”

Sharlie's eyes widened as her parents got up.

“We'll have some coffee,” Margaret said, and they left the room.

“‘Walter,'” Sharlie said in an awed voice. “‘Walter'?”

“Well, what do you want from me? Mister-Master-Sir-Your-Majesty?”

“I must have been dead a long time. You're all so congenial.”

“Unity in battle.”

“Who's the enemy?”

“I hope you're not,” he said, watching her face closely.

She turned her eyes from him.

“You going to fight it?” he asked.

“I told you I wouldn't.”

Brian's voice was gentle. “It's different now that it's for real,” he said, remembering the look on her face as she sat on his bed, the paper-napkin heart pinned to her chest and her chin smudged with ink. She nodded. “I know it's scary,” he went on. “But, honey, if you're not with us, you're against us.”

She was quiet for a long time. Then said softly, “Everybody's holding out this carrot, and it's going to turn into a big fat turnip.”

He smiled. “What've you got against turnips? A sturdy, humble American plant, and don't they give them to you at Thanksgiving? Very apt.”

“I
hate
turnips.” She reached out for his right hand. He had kept it on his lap out of sight. Now she contemplated the cast and looked at him questioningly.

“A brief moment of irritation,” he said.

“Did you take a swipe at my father?”

“Ah
ha,”
he said, attempting a Viennese accent. “Classic fantasy, my dear.”

“Maybe that's why he's so docile.”

“The next time you take a stroll past ICU, there's this picture hanging in a rather peculiar spot—kind of rib level. An ocean sunset, very phosphorescent.”

“You put your hand through the wall.”

He nodded.

She said thoughtfully, “What a waste.”

“Of energy?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “You should have aimed at Walter.”

“You know,” he said, tracing her fingers where they lay on his cast. “You're a lot more fun when you're conscious. You'd be dynamite with a new heart.”

“Will they let you come?”

He grinned. “I am now considered essential to your health. They'll pack me onto the plane along with your Valium.”

“When do you think we'll have to go?” Her voice quavered a little.

“Depends on beds. Soon, though.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “You going to marry me?” he asked.

“You're insane. Get off my back, Morgan.”

“I'd rather be on your front”

“Brian, they'll cut me all up and stick somebody else's heart inside me, and you won't love me anymore, and goddammit, I'm going to cry, oh, damn, damn …”

Brian leaned over the bed and held her, stroking her hair with his one good hand.

Walter told Sharlie that Diller was like a pig in shit, rushing around making arrangements and throwing his weight all over the place. He'd managed to get himself a leave of absence from Saint Joe's for “research” so that he could “supervise” the procedures in Santa Bel. Of course, Walter realized Diller was eager to check out the transplant center so that when he wormed the millions out of the Converse Trust, he could establish himself at the head of his own renowned medical warehouse in New York.

Sharlie lay back and gave herself over to the excitement and flurry of arrangements. Brian and her parents seemed relieved to be doing something finally, and they competed for every errand.

“I'll do it.”

“No,
I'll
do it.”

“No, I'll be in the area, it's simple for me.
I'll
do it.”

Finally Sharlie would say, “Oh, for God's sake, I don't have anything better to do.
I'll
do it.” And she'd make as if she were about to spring from her bed.

They all laughed a lot, though Sharlie felt her own giggles rising perilously close to hysteria. Breathing had now become difficult for her, but the pain had all but disappeared. Diller couldn't understand exactly why this should be, and theorized about it with alternately hopeful and ominous speculations. Sharlie just closed her eyes and blessed the departure of Agony Jones even as she panted and gasped through the days, fighting for air with her slightest movement.

Today she had dozed away the morning because each time she tried to reach for her magazine, she began to feel like a fish expiring on a creek bank. She finally managed to dial Brian at his office and informed him she was attempting to make an obscene call.

“Are you
(gasp)
that lawyer
(gasp)
I read about in the
Times
who's
(gasp)
defending the fornication case
(gasp, gasp)
?”

Brian replied, “Why, yes, madam.”

“Well I just
(gasp)
want to tell you that I'd
(gasp)
like to …
(gasp)”

“Like to what, lady?”

“… to …
(gasp)
to get a look at your …
(gasp).
… fornicator.”

He laughed and said, “That's supposed to be obscene?”

“Well, I've got this heart condition, see, mister
(puff, puff),
and I can't let the fantasies get
(gasp)
out of hand. If you know what I mean.”

“Tell you what I'll stop by your place this afternoon and give you a quick glimpse.”

“Okay,” she said. They hung up. She couldn't seem to tell him how frightened she felt.

Finally he was sitting on her bed, and she was telling him about the obscene caller she'd had when she was eighteen.

“He was foreign or illiterate or both, and he said things like, ‘Your teeths is good to eat, and I wan' it' or ‘I see you lower part up to the window, and I get you wit' my things.'”

Brian laughed incredulously, and she said, “No, really. I couldn't bear to give him up, so I never reported it to the phone company.”

“Does he still call?”

She shook her head. “He did it once when Daddy was home.…”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Brian.

“Daddy picked up the downstairs extension and outobscened the poor man.”

“I'll bet.”

“Sad. I looked forward to it.”

“Listen, honey,” Brian said gruffly. “I'll give you some stuff to melt your ear right off your head. Matter of fact, I'm gonna give you a little treat right now and show you my fornicator.”

He stood up and started to undo his belt. Sharlie whispered to him to stop, delighted.

“How you gonna know what I got to offer, doll? Gotta see da moichandize, right?”

Ramón Rodriguez poked his head through the door. “Need anything, Sharlie?”

Brian made a show of zipping up his pants, very cool and casual. Sharlie groaned, and the nurse nodded, gave them a conspiratorial grin, and backed quickly out of the room.

“Oh, Lord,” Sharlie wailed. “He thinks we've been messing around on my
deathbed.”

Brian looked at her as if his eyes could never get enough, then grabbed her and held her as hard as he dared.

They left the hospital amid great fanfare. Everyone on the eleventh floor gathered at the elevator to send Sharlie off in style. Someone had attached half a dozen balloons to her wheelchair and a sign that said, Send This Kid a Sexy Donor, crayoned across the back.

As they drove away from the front entrance in Walter' s sleek silver car, they passed the open plaza where many of the hospital staff took coffee breaks or enjoyed a picnic lunch. Today was a shining May morning, and Sharlie looked out at the white-clad groups of nurses and interns and thought they looked like crocuses standing in the warm spring sun. She grabbed for Margaret's hand and squeezed it happily.

The flights to California were heavily booked, but Walter finally managed to reserve three first-class seats. The OPEC representatives were meeting in New York for two weeks, which meant Walter couldn't go to California. Brian and Margaret let him vent his frustration by making all their travel arrangements. They watched the man tackle obstacles as if the trip were a religious crusade and each impediment the devil's foot, set in his path to trip up the forces of justice and truth.

For Sharlie, the flight was enchanting. She had always loved excursions; even a ride in a taxi from her house to the opera was delicious—something about the sensation of moving, or surrendering herself to the driver's skill, of not knowing what view would speed past next outside the window. It gave her a sense of adventure.

“Have you ever been across the country?” she asked Brian, holding his hand tightly as the pilot announced that they were cleared for takeoff.

“Not when I could see anything,” he said.

Margaret intoned sepulchrally, “I have.” She sat across from Brian in the aisle seat, gripping her armrests to brace herself for their inevitable crash.

Sharlie smiled and told her mother to relax. Margaret nodded stiffly, as though each slight movement were a possible threat to the precarious balance of the wings.

After a moment the plane braked at the end of the runway and began to roar and shudder. Finally, just as Sharlie whispered, “Come on, go,” the pilot released something, and the plane surged forward, howling and gathering speed. It lifted into the air, and all the rumbling, ferocious power turned to gentle grace, soft, purring sounds, arching of wings. Sharlie's face shone, and Brian watched her, smiling.

“It's so sexy,” she said. Margaret stared with fixed eyes at a financial magazine, and Sharlie said to Brian, “Ask Mother if she thinks it's sexy.”

Margaret glared across Brian at Sharlie's mischievous smile, and Sharlie felt sudden remorse. As she looked into her mother's sad, strained face, she imagined that she had experienced more physical joy in her aborted hours with Brian than her mother had known in a lifetime with her father.