The Heavenly Heart (7 page)

“Perhaps you could meet with one of them,” she said. “It may add some closure,” another added, and still another said, “Who knows? Maybe the experience will leave you knowing your daughter is at peace.”

So now my mother is telling my father she’d very much like to see his list. She asks him who he’s met so far, and what he thinks. He seems reluctant to share the information. He’s acts like he owns the information. Just like him. But, my mother persists, which surprises me.  I’ve never seen her stand up to my father before. Her cheeks are flush and she’s holding her head at a very nice angle to her body, with her chin tilted upwards. She looks great! Way to go, Mom!

She explains that she’ll absolutely not take no for an answer.

“Alex,” she says, “You’re being difficult again, but it’s not going to work.” My mother sits down in the wingback chair next to the one my father sits in each morning to read the stock report.

“I have every right—”

“Fine,” my father snaps, and puts the newspaper down. He opens the top drawer of his desk and removes a slim black notebook. He thumbs through the first few pages, his lips pressed tightly together.  My mother clears her throat and brushes a lock of her hair out of her eyes with her index finger. My father simply hands her the notebook and leaves the room. The book has his initials in gold leaf on the cover. He has a stack of these in the cabinet next to his desk; one for every year of his adult existence. I scribbled in one once. I was maybe three years old and overwhelmed with the beauty of my artwork. My father was not impressed. “Lorelei,” he explained, “these are
not
to trifle with. You have your own books to color in.” But his were so inviting, such crisp white paper edged in gold—and the firm black cover with the matching gold embossing was extra special. Mine had Clarabelle the Clown in a multi-colored clown suit on the outside cover, and the paper inside was flimsy and yellow by comparison.

“
These
are for my appointments,” my father said, thumbing through the pages to show me the entries. There was at least one notation on each page. He placed the notebook in the étagère, along with the others. They’ve been there ever since, the stacks growing taller with each passing year.  If my father’s ever accused of a crime he has detailed data to prove he was elsewhere.

My mother’s thumbing through the notebook, gliding her fingers slowly across the page. My father’s notes are easy to read. For sure he’d get an A in handwriting.  There’s is a list of names with a slash next to each, and the name of an organ—in caps—next to that. It’s kind of creepy—the organs listed are mine! There’s:  Mona Scott/KIDNEY. She has three children and lives in Texas. Prior to the transplant she’d been on dialysis daily. Her prognosis without the transplant was dim. My father’s notes include the postscript:
very dim.
My mother’s fingers linger on these words. She takes a deep breath. Her eyes are watery, but the corners of her mouth are tilted slightly upward.  She seems quite relaxed. It’s very possible her support group was right. Pursuing what my father already has, may do her good.

I want to meet this Mona and her children. I’ve got a bunch of questions. How old are they? Are they girls? Boys? Both? Did they know how sick their mother was? Have they always lived in Texas? Are they rich like us? It’ll be an adventure! I want my mother to propose to my father that she meet with Mona. But I see that she’s pouring over my father’s notes on the next entry. It’s also a woman with the word KIDNEY next to her name. Kirsten Lankford it says, Attorney-at-law. She’s twenty-nine, soon to make junior partner. She’s single and lives in Savannah.

Yep. She’s the one my mother wants to meet with. My father’s reluctant; pointing out that a trip to Texas might suit her well.

“Texas?” My mother exclaims. "Why in the world would I want to go there?”

My father says it’s where Ms. Scott lives with her husband and children. He taps the notebook next to her name.

“Perhaps later,” my mother says. “This young attorney is in Savannah. You know it’s one of my favorite places. And she’s closer in age to Lorelei. I want to meet Ms. Lankford.”

My father looks very unhappy. He’s a strange man to figure out. What difference does it make which one on his list my mother meets with?

Right now, my father’s spending the weekend with the black-haired babe. They’re having dinner in the fancy-schwanzy dining room at the Ritz Carlton. She travels to Atlanta on business a lot and is prettier than ever. I call her Black Beauty, but her skin’s more like Snow White’s. Pete’s not amused. He says nothing good can come of my snooping and invites me to come see the baby rooms.

“Now there’s a lovely pastime,” he croons. “Such angels—babies, babies, everywhere!”

“In a minute,” I say. I absolutely love babies, but I want to hear what’s up with my father and Black Beauty first. They have their heads together and are whispering in earnest. I can’t hear anything they’re saying, and it looks very serious. My father’s quite solemn and Black Beauty’s cheeks have lost all their color.

“It’s going to be fine,” my father says, and signals the waiter. “You’ll see.”

Black Beauty nods, but the look on her face says, “No way, Hosea.”  

*      *      *

My father’s packing to go out of town again. He’s headed to Texas to visit with Mona Scott.

“Kidney,” my father says—which is to say she has one of mine.

Mona lives in Sugar Land, Texas. It’s a suburb of Houston. It’s all there in my father’s daily planner, letter perfect notes, listing specifics:

Mona Ruth Scott, age thirty-eight, homemaker, KIDNEY

Husband
:
Robert Allen Scott, accountant

Three children: Allison, Robert, Jr. (Bobby), and Bradley

Below that are pages of notes outlining the circumstances which led to her needing one of my kidneys. You’d think a person living in a place called Sugar Land would lead a fairytale life. And maybe now, Mona does. But, prior to her transplant, she was near death and receiving dialysis three times a week to have the toxins removed from her blood. My father’s notes are quite specific. Mona was experiencing end stage renal disease, commonly known as kidney failure. She was high on the priority list to receive the next available match. But, she got sicker with each passing day, regardless of the dialysis treatments, which meant she was in danger of not only losing her life, but of losing her place on the priority list. If she wasn’t considered healthy enough to survive a transplant, those in charge could move someone ahead of her who,
was
. It’s great to think that one of my body parts was a perfect match, but eerie to realize she got it only because I croaked in the nick of time.  I’m anxious to see what she’s done with her life, now that she has one. I lean back in the Golden Window, eager for my father’s journey to begin.

He arrives at George Bush Intercontinental Airport—looking very handsome in a tweed sports coat and khaki pants—and walks to the Hertz counter. He’s got his burgundy leather briefcase with him and his garment bag slung over his shoulder. My father never checks his luggage. He packs light and buys what he needs when he gets there. It’s good to be the king.

“Alex Goodroe,” he says to the Hertz attendant, a bubbly blonde in a navy blue blazer. “I have a reservation.”

“Good morning, Mr. Goodroe,” she says brightly. It’s obvious she likes her job. Her smile is effortless. It lights up her face like sunshine.

She’s good at her duties, too. In less time than it takes to hail a taxi, my father has the keys to vehicle number A-2678, an Audi A4 Cabriolet convertible—there were no Mercedes available to choose from—and is in the driver seat, heading south on I-45, which will take him to US Highway 59, and on to Sugar Land, less then twenty miles from the airport.

Mona Scott lives in a subdivision dotted with three bedroom bungalows with lots of green grass. I thought there’d only be cactus. The houses are all quite small. The look on my father’s face tells me he is wondering how people can live like this and be happy. He thinks money is the basis for everything, which is pathetic. I mean, it’s important to have enough, sure, but there are lots of miserable rich people, so having massive amounts of money doesn’t do anything but make them comfortable while they’re miserable.

Mona answers the door. Three small children are standing on top of her.

“Come in. Come in,” she says, and motions for the children to step back. “Let’s be on our best behavior now.”

The youngest, a blonde-haired boy, is holding a small ragged blanket with one hand and hanging onto his mother’s skirt with the other. Mona reaches down to pick him up.

“This is Bradley,” she says, bouncing the little guy on her hip.

My father nods. “Hello, Bradley.”

Bradley tries to bury his head in Mona’s armpit. Mona chuckles.

“He’s the shy one. Here’s our brave one.” She nods her head at the other boy. “This is Robert, Jr.”

“I’m Bobby, I’m five tomorrow!” he says. He stands at attention and grins. His hair is much blonder than Bradley’s, platinum, with thick long bangs brushing the tops of his eyelids. He’s beautiful. They all are. The only girl stands quietly next to Bobby.

“And who have we here?” My father asks.

“I’m Allison.”

“She’s only three,” Bobby offers. “I go to school. She’s not big enough yet.”

“I go to school!” Allison insists.

“That’s nursery school. It’s not really a school.”

“Is, too,” Allison says. “Right, Mommy?”

“Why of course, dear,” she says. She takes Bobby shoulder and guides him out of my father’s way.

“Would you like to sit down?” She motions for my father to have a seat on the sofa. It’s a brown floral print that has worn spots on two of the cushions, and a hole in one of the arm rests.

“You, too, children; we’ll have some refreshments. Who wants some lemonade?”

Without answering Bobby reaches for the pitcher perched on the coffee table and begins to pour a glass full.

“Be careful”—Mona says.

“I can do it,” Bobby says, but pours too fast and overfills the glass. He sets the pitcher down. “I got it. Don’t worry,” he adds, but manages to knock the pitcher off the table as he reaches for the napkins.

“Goodness!” Mona says, and laughs. “I’m afraid this is what it’s like around here, Mr. Goodroe, one mess after another.”

Bradley slides backwards off the sofa, steps into the sticky puddle of lemonade, and proceeds to stomp up and down.

“It’s all soggy, Mommy,” Allison says.

“Soggy, soggy,” Bradley chimes in, prancing round and round.

“Looks like we’ll have to head to Home Depot and rent the carpet cleaner again,” Mona says, without a bit of irritation in her voice.

My mother would be having a major hissy fit.

“Can I help?” Bobby pleads. “Can I?”

“Of course, we’ll all help,” Mona says. “You, too Bradley,” she adds, and swoops him into her arms. “You’re making a
worse
mess, young man.” He giggles as she nuzzles his neck.

I like her bunches already. It’s quite possible my kidney couldn’t have found a nicer home.

FIFTEEN

The Golden Window

Miss Lily’s taken a liking to me and comes around each morning to “chat”—her word. She’s convinced she knows me and is determined to remember how we possibly could have met before we met here.

“I know I’ve seen your sweet face, dear,” she says, patting my hand. “Now, let me see—”

“I don’t see how that’s possible. I live in Atlanta. That is I did, when, you know—”

She nods and smiles sweetly.

“Why, that’s it!” she exclaims. “I lived in Avondale Estates. My husband and I were together at the nursing home there. We must have met there.”

Now she has me nervous. If we met at the nursing home, there’s only one such place I ever stepped foot in, along with Paige and Annalise, and I’m afraid we did something that could have gotten us all into a lot of trouble. We sort of took one of the residents for an unscheduled outing, not really kidnapped her, but you know took her without permission and gave her the time of her life. We may have
saved
her life. That place was like—
boooring
with a capital “b”. Plus, the poor woman was losing her mind there. Ask her a question and she’d say, “You’ll have to ask Sylvia.” Who’s Sylvia? She couldn’t tell us
that
either, so you see what I mean about her losing her mind. We took to calling her Sally, because she looked very much like Sally Field’s, but
much
older.

It’d have to be a pretty big coincidence if Sally was indeed Miss Lily, right? I mean, far out. I wrack my brain, but I can’t for the life of me—or lack of life of me, huh!—remember what the poor old woman sounded like. I know she had a very good time. Well, she did up until it was time for her heart medication, which we had no idea she was even taking so we didn’t have it or anything even resembling it with us. Her gasping and heaving got so bad we had to drop her off at a hospital. Basically, we ditched her. We got out of there the second they wheeled her inside.

It all stared out rather innocently. Paige and Annalise and I had volunteered to be part of the Reading Angels program for the nursing home. After several dismal Saturdays spent reading to the elderly who mostly sat and drooled or snoozed, we got to thinking how sad their lives were.

“We should hold a Queen-for-the-Day party,” Annalise suggested.

“Huh?”

“You know, select one for a special day, say like an outing and give her the time of her old life!”

“You’re kidding, right?” Paige said.

“No, really, I mean it,” Annalise insisted. “We can take her in the limo and let Henry drives us to all the places we want her to see. What do you say?”

Paige shrugged her shoulders and looked at me.

“Anything is better than what we’ve been doing for them,” I added. “No harm in it, right? I mean we’ll bring her back in time for dinner.”

So that was it, We selected the only women who wasn’t drooling or snoozing, guided her wheelchair past the nurses station for a walk around the garden we said, and popped her into the limo. Henry placed her chair in the trunk.