Change of Heart (12 page)

Walter looked out the window of his office and listened to Sharlie's clock chime six bells. The sound pleased him, although at first its brilliant ringing had disconcerted everyone on the thirty-ninth floor. But if he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself at the wheel of a mighty ship, pushing through the gray ocean swells, alone in command against the sea.

He'd always been attracted to the ocean and was mortified and disappointed when the navy rejected him for sea duty during the war. Instead, they'd dumped him in Washington at one of those agencies where everybody pushed little flags around on maps and boozed it up in the officers' lounge. Every time Walter spotted a sailor home on leave, he'd felt ashamed.

He looked down over the concrete shadows of Manhattan. Why was he so enamored of the water? He'd never lived near it except for those couple of summers up in Maine when he was, what, about six or seven. When Father was still alive. He imagined that tall, dim figure, towering above him in the bright afternoon, his back to the sun so that the light outlined his body and his features were a hazy blur. He remembered still his sense of awe gazing up at the man—the rough shirt against Walter's bare legs as he was lifted up and set on the broad shoulders—smooth tree branches under his hard little bottom. Walter had dropped his pail on the way up, he remembered, and hadn't even cared if the sand he'd so carefully tamped down and soaked with saltwater got kicked over and crushed under his father's bare feet.

Where was Mother then? He had to strain to find her. Finally he caught a quick glimpse of her, smiling and wearing a pale flowered dress, of all things. Maybe memory lied. He couldn't imagine now that she'd really have worn such a fanciful thing, and the face he put with the summer memory was old and haggard and stern, and didn't belong with the soft folds of the full skirt anymore than the sunburned hands she held out to him, so young and full of whimsical motion. He knew that her fingers had become arthritic by the time she reached forty, and she always held them quietly in her lap, a twisted bouquet, gnarled memorial to her youth.

Eight bells already. He shook his head, trying to clear away the unproductive clutter of memories and daydreams. The sky outside his window was gray—no discrete clouds, just a shabby curtain that seemed to stretch across the entire universe. Hard to believe the sun was probably shining in California.

The plane should be landing just about now. God
damn,
to have to sit here until tomorrow while God knows what was going on in Santa Bel. For sure they were screwing it all up, getting the records confused, paying too much for housing near the hospital, renting the wrong kind of car. That Brian Morgan was in such a fog over Sharlie he could barely find his way out of the Midtown Tunnel.

Then he remembered Margaret. How peculiar that her image emerged so distinctly when she'd always seemed just another incidental detail to cope with, someone to invent harmless errands for so she'd be out from underfoot. But as he thought of her now, it was as if she'd changed color. She had always seemed beige or pale gray—a shadow, really, and sometimes less than that, a transparency. Today the word
Margaret
evoked a darker shape—not completely formed, the outline was changing, indefinite, but her color, he decided, was vivid enough—a splash of deep violet What the hell was happening to the woman? Or was it happening to him?

The extraordinary thing of it was that once he got past the initial shock of her behavior, she didn't seem all that strange to him. As a matter of fact she reminded him very much of his mother.

He grunted aloud in the empty office and forced himself to concentrate on Sharlie and the operation. He always preferred to plan ahead so that there'd be no surprises. Nothing wrong with his ability to think on his feet and make split-second decisions under fire, but here he was stuck with the frigging sheikh until tomorrow morning. He might as well try to put himself closer to Santa Bel by at least giving it some thought.

The odd thing was, the harder he tried to think about his daughter, the more he saw Margaret's face. The more he tried to blot it out the sharper into focus came the image of Margaret bending over Sharlie's body on the dining room floor, thrusting his arm away when he tried to help. Amazing what a little bit of loathing can do to a person. Not that he ever thought that she was head-over-heels or anything, but hate he didn't expect. It really wasn't fair of her. He was only saying what had to be said. His mind veered away from the detested scenario, but the silent accusation of the rebellious Margaret, crouched over their daughter, confronted him stubbornly. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. Margaret, he thought, I'm sick of your face. Go away already.

California. Like landing on the moon, Sharlie thought, as they whirred silently down wide, flat streets in the ambulance. Brian and Margaret sat on either side of her, holding her hands, and they all stared out the window. To Sharlie, western flora seemed like prehistoric beasts—stubbly trees with knuckles where there should have been branches, nothing leafy except for scattered palm trees, long-necked creatures with frazzled clumps of green on top. The fearsome
Conconutus rex
and his vegetarian sidekick,
Palmetto dinosaurus.

Even the ambulance attendants were alien. A young woman with a naturally streaked blond mane, and a young man—her brother, perhaps—with strawberry hair, freckles, and a cleft chin. Sharlie found herself expecting them to offer her a stick of Doublemint gum.

She gazed admiringly at the girl. “Do you surf?”

The attendant shook her head.

“Doesn't everybody in California surf?”

“Not around here,” the young man said, flashing his white teeth at her. Sharlie stared at them, transfixed.

“What
do
you do around here?” Brian asked.

They both answered at once: She said, “Disco”; he said, “Movies.” They laughed, and the girl said, “Oh, we just lie around our swimming pools with movie stars picking grapefruits off the trees.”

“Have you ever been to New York?” Sharlie asked. The girl shook her head, grimacing a little. Sharlie thought,
Nobody
looks like that in New York. People from the West must come to the city. What happens to them? Do they get covered with soot and turn pale and pinched and anxiety-ridden on their way in from La Guardia?

They pulled into the emergency entrance of the Santa Bel Medical Center and removed Sharlie from the ambulance—a very smooth and efficient operation, not the usual Laurel and Hardy routine of the New York crew, with all the accompanying grunts and complaints:
Hey, schmuck, whadya tryna do with this here sick lady? Tryna shake her brains loose or what?

Before she knew it, they were whisked through Admissions, leaving a businesslike Margaret to remain downstairs and cope with the paperwork. Sharlie was deposited in a bright room with pale-yellow walls and flowered drapes. Before the attendants had even left them, a nurse with a name tag that read,
Irene Wynick R.N.,
entered. She said, “Welcome, Miss Converse. Mister Morgan. How was the trip?”

Sharlie said, “Fine,” in a cowed voice.

Nurse Wynick nodded. “This afternoon you will have a chest X ray and an EKG. We'll take some blood and urine samples, and that'll be it. Mainly we want you to rest. Tomorrow we'll begin the other tests. You can have a few more minutes, and then I'll have to ask Mr. Morgan to leave.”

She tucked in a loose sheet at the bottom of Sharlie's bed. On her way out she turned to Brian and said, “Fifteen minutes.”

Sharlie and Brian looked at each other in silence, then Sharlie breathed, “Boy, they don't mess around in California.” Brian laughed. “It took me three trips to Saint Joe's before they got my name straight,” she said, “and they still send me the wrong tray. I'm not used to this, I mean, these guys are
scary.”

“On my way out I'll see if I can arrange a little screw-up in the medication.”

“I'd appreciate it.” She fell silent again.

“Scared?” he asked.

“Yup.” After a moment she said, “How many minutes have we got left?”

He looked at his watch. “Twelve. And a half.”

“I bet they split them into centiminutes around here. Give me a hug and go, okay? I can't take the anticipation.”

“Oh, honey,” he said, leaning over her.

“Oh, shit,” she said, and kissed him. He looked at her in mock horror at her use of the word. “Well, I've been associating with the wrong sort of people lately.” She felt tears beginning at the tenderness in his face. “Go,” she whispered, giving him a little shove.

He lifted himself away from her, and with a wave left her alone.

Sharlie listened to his footsteps disappear down the hallway toward the elevator—characteristic sound, no muted shuffling in hushed hospital corridors, but bold, loose-limbed strides. She remembered the first time he'd come to see her at Saint Joe's, how she'd been seized with identical panic at his leaving her. What if she were a normal woman and they fell in love just like anybody else? Barbie doll standing at the front door waiting for a chaste kiss from Ken doll before he set off for his job at the insurance company. Would she still feel the same horrible tearing sensation when he withdrew from her, would her insides bleed all over her little white apron and cover adorable Ken junior with blood and gore? Brian once said he felt like diving head-first down her throat. How she'd love to swallow him whole and let him live inside her.

Ken and Barbie must come from California, she decided, and closed her eyes. She heard the piping voice at the back of her head, chanting,

You never could take parting lightly;
Separation always grieves you.
First a kiss and then a hug, but
In the end he always leaves you.

Whiner, she said to the voice. Shut up.

She fell asleep, and the next thing she knew, someone with blue-black hair and Indian features was smiling at her and rolling up her sleeve. Sharlie gazed into the brown face and murmured, “I'm glad you're not a blonde.”

Dr. Elizabeth Rosen's office was on the ground floor, overlooking an expanse of green lawn and, just outside the window, a gardenia tree. Sharlie sat in a wheelchair next to Brian, twisting her hands in her lap. They were icy cold. Shaking hands with the psychiatrist a moment ago, she had been ashamed of her clammy fingers in Dr. Rosen's strong, warm ones.

They sat in silence as the doctor leafed through the file on her desk. The pages fell, crackling. Each time, the sound startled Sharlie. How was it possible to feel so benumbed and yet raw enough so that a whisper or a minute gesture made her want to leap up screaming from the wheelchair? A highly strung slab of concrete, perhaps?

“Charlotte,” Dr. Rosen said. A statement, not a question. Sharlie wondered if she were required to respond, but the doctor looked up at her and smiled. “Lovely name.”

“Thank you,” Sharlie said with her cement lips.

“We all call her Sharlie,” Brian offered. Sharlie felt something now, a prick of resentment, which was quickly swallowed up in a distracting reverie about her name
—perhaps it would be pleasant to be a Charlotte—Sharlie was a little girl's name, which was okay if you never made it to forty—but a middle-aged Sharlie? No maturity, no dignity, like their one-time chauffeur, the balding, paunchy Sonny—if he'd used his actual name, Frederick, maybe it would have been tougher for Walter to fire him. Maybe if Sharlie were a Charlotte, she'd feel more authoritative…

She started, realizing that Dr. Rosen's eyes were fixed on her. “It's always tense the first time,” the doctor said quietly.

“We've never been to a psychiatrist before,” Brian said, then laughed at the sound of his words.

Dr. Rosen watched the two pairs of eyes reach for each other and hold, dark-gray eyes lost in blue. She waited, reluctant to disturb the mysterious, intense communion. After a while she said, “Tell me your plans.”

Brian blinked and said, “We're going to get married.”

“We hope,” Sharlie murmured.

“For sure,” Brian said flatly.

Sharlie dropped her eyes.

“Do you want the transplant?” Dr. Rosen asked.

Sharlie waited for Brian to answer, but the doctor's green eyes were trained on her. Finally Sharlie said, “Sort of.” Brian made a soft sound of dismay.

“Most people in your situation feel ambivalent,” Dr. Rosen said.

Sharlie smiled. Oh, that's what you call this sensation? And all the time I thought it was terror.

“But basically she's positive about it,” Brian said, then turned to Sharlie. “Aren't you?”

Sharlie nodded, but so halfheartedly that Brian looked stricken.

“We don't expect anybody to jump up on the operating table and say, ‘Take me, I'm yours,'” the psychiatrist said.

“But she has to want it.”

“There are always doubts.”

Dr. Rosen and Brian stared at Sharlie expectantly. Her eyes looked trapped.

“I don't think I want to say anything,” she choked.

“What do you think would happen to you if you went ahead and had the transplant?” Dr. Rosen asked.

Sharlie felt as if her words were coming from somewhere far away, muffled perhaps by the sensation of thick stone encasing her thoughts. “People do strange things afterward—run around naked, attack the nurses. Nice, gentle people.”

“Oh, Sharlie,” Brian said.

“She's right,” Dr. Rosen interjected. Sharlie and Brian stared at her, Sharlie with gratitude and Brian surprised. “But post-operative psychosis can usually be avoided with therapy. That's one of the reasons you're here. Also let me reassure you that oftentimes that kind of bizarre reaction is a response to the drugs. It disappears within a few days.”

Brian looked at Sharlie. “You wouldn't attack anybody.”

Sharlie looked unconvinced, and Dr. Rosen continued, “Probably not. More often a man who receives a young girl's heart will become temporarily impotent. Things like that. Donor identification.”

Sharlie's face tensed, and Dr. Rosen prodded, “You've been thinking about that?”

“Not
every
waking moment,” Sharlie replied. They all laughed, and Sharlie felt her cement shroud crack a bit.

“What about the people who can't hack it?” Brian asked.

“We've made some mistakes,” she answered.

Sharlie said, “I couldn't bear not handling it. All those other people waiting …”

“That's not your responsibility,” Dr. Rosen said firmly. “We make the final judgment, and most of the time we guess right.”

“It's only an operation,” Brian said. “I mean, of course it's more complex, but do you go through this for kidneys?”

Dr. Rosen smiled. “Just think about the mythology, the language. ‘You've stolen my kidney'? ‘You've got to have kidney'?”

“In my heart of hearts, I want to get to the heart of the matter,” Sharlie said.

“Yes,” Dr. Rosen nodded. “It's quite a burden. Sometimes an exhausted heart patient is just too worn out. Unless there's a compelling reason to withstand the stress.”

Brian smiled at Sharlie, stretching his hands out, palms up.
Here I am. Compelling enough
? He turned to Dr. Rosen. “When do you think she'll get off the pot?” He looked startled. “I mean, out of the hop …
hospital. Damn.”
Brian wasn't used to muddling his words.

Sharlie grinned at him now. Shit or get off the pot, huh? Well, she could hardly blame him for feeling that way. Dr. Rosen had put it together, too, and shot her a quick glance. Sharlie's cement cracked again, shuddered, and fell away, crumbling into nothing.

“I'm sorry, Bri,” she said. “I want it, but I'm so scared.” Tears spilled down her cheeks, and Dr. Rosen saw Brian's eyes begin to water, too.

“All right,” the doctor said softly. “Tell me about your donor. Who's it going to be?”

Sharlie began to talk, choking through the tears at first, about Margaret Mead and Dorothy Hamill and Charles Manson and the Reverend Jim Jones and all the others, dead and alive, wonderful and dreadful, the parade that strutted and stomped and danced and hunched across the sterile air above her hospital bed. Her words tumbled out uninterrupted until at last she came to a halt, suddenly crushingly tired. Dr. Rosen stood up. She reached a hand across her desk and held Brian's briefly, then Sharlie's.

“All right, then, Sharlie. Or would you like me to call you Charlotte?”

Sharlie hesitated and then nodded shyly.

“I'll see you tomorrow, Charlotte. And Brian, thank you for coming.”

Brian pushed Sharlie to the elevator in her wheelchair. They had been silent, but now Brian said, “Well, Charlotte, what did you think?”

“Oh, shut up,” she whispered.

“Why not, if you like it better?”

“It sounds ridiculous coming from you. Charlotte's my … my stage name.”

A nurse in the elevator shot them a curious look, and they moved out onto the eighth floor.

“Now
look,” Sharlie said, dismayed. “She thinks I'm a star.”

“Why not? You're in California.”

“You say ‘why not' more than anybody I ever met.” Sharlie said as he pushed her into her room.

“Why … oh, shit,” Brian said. Sharlie got out of the wheelchair, walked the few steps to her bed, and climbed in with Brian lifting her by the arms. Then she settled back against her pillows, gave him a weak smile, and fell instantly asleep.

He pulled a chair over next to her bed and sat down. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin seemed pasty. Even while she was asleep, her breathing came in short little puffs. Brian took her hand and stared down at the slender fingers. So he said “why not” a lot. Well, at this very moment there were nothing but
why's
in his head.

Sharlie gasped a little in her sleep, and Brian glanced at her anxiously, feeling his body stiffen. He averted his eyes from her mouth, open slack against the pillow. She seemed like a stranger, and all at once he felt a rushing sensation inside his head, screaming sirens.
Out. Let me out.
Of this room, this love, this life that was attached inside him like a dying fetus, clinging to his intestines. Where was his own life, all the pieces that were his? His work, his clients, his crazy, hectic days in court, his fierce dialogues with Barbara, his tennis games with the vital, energetic Susan? All squeezed into some dark, musty corner of himself to make room for this disease of hers, this remorseless struggle that allowed no distractions. Her disease was his disease, her battle his battle, her pain his pain.
Out!

He released her cold fingers and dropped his head into his hands. Double contradictory shame—self disgust at the panicked impulse to abandon Sharlie, and the more shadowy repulsion at his inability to flee, a certainty that his identity had become so intertwined with this tenuous life on the white bed that he could no longer free himself and stand alone.

He sat bent over his hands until self-loathing became a numbed exhaustion. Then he looked up at the sleeping figure again. She was breathing more easily now, with faint color under the pale cheeks. She stirred in her sleep, and he watched the outline of her legs slide apart under the sheet. He found himself remembering the last time they'd been together in his apartment. He'd felt the urgency of her body, arching toward him. Was she dreaming now, her legs open like that? He wanted her. Even now, in this sterile room with her so close to death. He wanted to be inside her, as far into the center of her as he could thrust himself. He wanted to reach out and touch her breasts as she lay there.

Feeling the sudden, hot obstruction between his legs, he thought, Christ, maybe Sharlie's right. I
am
a necrophiliac.