When Crickets Cry (21 page)

Royer was a teddy bear. Six-foot-eight and with hands like bear paws, he was a gentle giant. Due to the sheer size of his hands, he was limited in what he could do with children, but he was everybody's all-American when it came to adults. If my heart failed and I needed a heart surgeon, I'd want Royer's hands in my chest.

Emma and I took him to dinner at Chops in downtown Buckhead, where he drank red wine, nibbled at a steak, and listened to our story. At the end of dinner, I asked him to be my hands. He looked at Emma, she nodded, and he said yes.

We began the multitude of tests that certified her ready for surgery. We also listed her. About midnight on a Tuesday, I entered Emma's information into the national transplant data computer, also known as the UNOS database, and formally registered her as a waiting recipient. I called her, and she began to cry. She didn't like having to wait for someone else to die so she could live.

ednesday would be a warm summer day; the breeze off the lake told me that. I was up early because my dreams wouldn't let me sleep late. Actually, they didn't let me sleep much at all. I wore a flannel shirt with a collar that I could pull up if needed, put on my sunglasses, and pulled down my baseball cap. To make myself look even worse, I had not trimmed my beard. In my faded gray Suburban covered with Georgia red clay, which looked nothing like the Lexus I once drove, I felt I could escape detection at St. Joseph's.

The narrow graveled road winding down to their house was carved from gullywashers and a chronic lack of maintenance. I pulled into the drive and saw Cindy and Annie sitting on a bench, reading. Annie was wrapped in a blanket and wearing a purple fleece beret; Cindy wore a knee-length skirt that was not new and a sleeveless cotton sweater that had worn thin in spots.

There is a look, a hollow, thinning, wasting look shared by people who are chronically ill. The eyes are sunken; skin color is pale, glued over a blue translucent base; veins are exposed and appear brittle; hair is not something you'd see on a Revlon commercial; and movements are slow, as if the body were walking through water or the feet blistered from the sun. The medical term is cachexia. The more common expression is "death warmed over." Whichever you prefer, Annie was beginning to have the look. And beneath it was the faint suggestion that more and more vibrancy, more and more life, was slipping away.

She hopped off the bench, walked up to the passenger-side window, and said, "Hey, you, guess what we've been reading?"

I got out, walked around, and opened the door for her. "Oh, do tell," I said.

"Madeline. "

"You don't say."

Cindy spoke up. "Yeah, we thought about Dr. Seuss, but figured you'd get tired of three-letter words."

Highway 400 south was uneventful, and we pulled into St. Joseph's twenty minutes early.

Cindy shook her head. "You must have been here before. It always takes me an hour just to find the right entrance."

I smiled and said, "The Internet is a wonderful thing."

"Yeah, but they charge you twenty bucks an hour to use it at the Internet cafe."

"Come to my house. You can use my connection anytime." As I said it, I made a mental note to move my laptop out of my office.

I parked around back in patient parking that few patients know about.

"Wow! We can park here?"

I tried to look curious. "I think so. That sign says we can."

Cindy shook her head and opened Annie's door. "You coming up?" she asked.

"No, I think I'll stay put. I try not to go to doctors' offices unless absolutely necessary."

She smiled and held Annie's hand as they entered through the electronic door. I sat in the car, staring at the cover of Madeline and remembering how Emma's mom had read it to her.

Thirty minutes later, a tap on the window woke me up. A security guard motioned to me with an imposing-looking black stick. "Excuse me, sir, can I see some ID?"

Mike Ramirez had been the nighttime security five years ago. His parents were natives of Old Mexico, which explained his dark, tanned skin and dark hair. I can't say how many times Mike met me at the door after midnight and made sure my car would start and that nobody jumped out of the bushes and took my wallet, watch, or life.

Mike and Sofia had two kids and were hoping for more. He always carried pictures and said his goal was to send them to private school. As soon as he made Director of Security.

He knew Emma because of all her trips to the hospital and had followed her progress religiously. At her funeral he sat two rows back, crying like a baby.

In the five years since I'd last seen him, Mike had rounded a bit more in the middle and his hairline had receded. I had always liked Mike, always liked talking with him and always looked forward to seeing him when I finally clocked out of the OR and began the short trek to my car. But the last thing I wanted to do was show him my ID.

When I looked up, he tapped the glass again and said, "Sir, I'm sorry to bother you, really am, but security is pretty tight around here, and if you'd be kind enough ..."

I rolled the window down and reached for my back pocket. My wallet was there, but I didn't let him know that.

"Ummm . . . " I stalled, hoping Cindy and Annie would miraculously appear. I pointed toward the electronic door without looking at him. "I gave it to my sister and niece so they could get a bite. They're just inside. A checkup at Dr. Morgan's office."

He paused. "Oh ... so you're waiting on a patient?"

"Yeah, little girl, 'bout this tall, wearing a purple thing on her head. You know how little girls are. All trying to be the Cover Girl model." I tried to sound as backward and country as I could, but I wasn't sure he was buying it.

"Yeah, tell me about it," he said. "Got two of my own."

That meant he and Sofia had four kids now-the first two were boys. I glanced at his badge. Director of Security. Good. I knew it made him proud.

"Uhh ... sir," I said, trying to sound stupid but willing, "if you need me to move, I can. But I really need to be here when they come back down."

I cranked the car, but Mike put his hand on the window frame and said, "Hold on just a second."

I put my foot on the brake, but kept the car in drive.

Mike turned his head, grabbed the little radio transmitter hanging on his shoulder, and said, "George, call up and ask Mary Jane in Dr. Morgan's office if-" He looked at me and whispered, "What's her name?"

"Annie."

He spoke into the radio again. "If Annie, a little girl wearing a purple thing on her head, has had her appointment."

Mike scanned the area around us, ever vigilant, watching the parking lot but training his ear on the radio. A plane flew overhead, garbling the transmission. He depressed the Talk button and said, "Come again, George."

"Yeah," George returned. "She's on her way down now."

I breathed a little easier.

George spoke again. "You might want to meet them at the door, 'cause Dr. Morgan's bringing them down."

"Ten-four," Mike said, straightening a bit.

I rudely waved at Mike, rolled up my window, and readjusted my disguise. Mike walked to the door just as Royer walked through it, pushing Annie in a wheelchair, followed by Cindy. He had a large envelope tucked beneath his right arm. The films.

I looked straight ahead, turned the radio on so I couldn't hear them, and didn't offer to help. Royer opened the rear passenger door, lifted Annie off her chair, placed her on the seat, and buckled her in. Cindy let herself in the front door and sat, deflated.

Royer kissed Annie on the forehead and shut her door. She leaned against the seat and closed her eyes. Cindy rolled down her window and leaned her head out the window. Unable to hear Royer, she turned off the radio and said, "Thank you, Dr. Morgan."

Royer handed her the films and then looked into the backseat where Annie sat breathing short, shallow breaths with her eyes closed. "Cindy," he said, holding up his hands, "God gave me good hands, but He gave me big hands. I could perform her surgery, but she needs somebody special. Somebody gifted. I can't physically get my hands into the places she presents, and I can't physically sew stitching that fine. We'll have to find someone else." Royer stopped and looked off into the distance.

"I knew a surgeon who could pull this off ... we called him the miracle maker. But I haven't been able to find him for a few years ... Well." He snapped back to the present and patted the films. "You keep these. We'll keep Annie a priority on the list. Her ejection fraction now puts her close to the top. Worst case, I'll do it. But ..." He looked back at Annie. "It's time to start praying for a miracle. We need it."

Cindy wiped away a tear and whispered, "Thank you." She rolled up the window and sat with her hands in her lap.

I placed the car in reverse and was just about to touch the gas when she rolled the window back down and said, "Dr. Morgan?"

Royer turned and came back.

She took a deep breath and changed hats, from mother to provider. "I'm behind in my payments to your office. Next month I think things will change. A bank I've been talking to ..."

Royer lifted his hand and waved her off. "Later," he said. "Surgery first. Then, when she's back in school, running around on the playground, chasing boys, and asking you to help her paint her fingernails, then we'll worry about other stuff."

Cindy choked back a sob.

Royer patted her on the back. "Let's keep our eye on the ball. Get Annie well, let her get married, have kids, be a wife, a mom, a grandmother. All this is possible, but we've got a few hurdles to overcome." He looked again at the films. "Don't lose those."

For the first time, Royer looked inside the car. At the driver.

I was looking straight ahead, but I could see Royer studying my hands as they sat poised on the wheel.

Serious oversight on my part. I pulled my sleeve down to cover my watch-the Blue Seamaster Omega diver's watch Emma had given me on our first anniversary.

Royer leaned down to see what he could of my cheekbone and face. I never looked his direction. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Cindy, then at me, back at Cindy, then back at me. He spoke slowly and deliberately, looking all the while past Cindy at me. "Miracles still happen. Despite what some people think, miracles still happen."

We drove out of the parking lot, and Cindy put her hand on my shoulder. "Thanks for bringing us. I don't think I could have done this alone."

"You've been doing pretty well thus far," I said.

"Appearances can be deceiving," she said, looking out the window as we drove into traffic. Annie was asleep so we skipped both the Varsity and Starbucks and rolled back onto the northbound ramp of 400.

I was quiet, lost inside the questions that hounded me, and I guess Cindy picked up on my mood.

"You've been quiet since we left the hospital. You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, sure, just umm ... thinking about Annie."

Cindy nodded. `Join the club."

ANNIE SLEPT THE WHOLE WAY HOME. WE PULLED INTO THEIR drive after dark. The motion-sensor spotlights came on and comforted me. I left the Suburban running, carried Annie inside, patted Cindy on the shoulder, and walked myself out as Cindy softly called "Thank you" from Annie's bedside. I climbed into the car, and there on the passenger's seat lay the envelope.

The two sides of me competed for control.

I looked again at the envelope, then picked it up and slid the contents out. I found pictures; computer disks that no doubt held the ultrasound images; the video of the heart cath, which would show the dye injection and overall performance and strength of the heart; and, finally, a CT scan. I held the scan up to the dome light and studied the contours of Annie's heart.

Royer was right.

I carried the envelope to the door, slid it between the weather stripping and the wood, and drove home. I parked the car, walked up on the porch, and listened to the crickets. The noise was raucous.

t was the weekend of July Fourth, and I knew the lake would be crowded with people, boats, and the noise of Jet Skis, but I needed to get Emma out of the house. She'd been bedridden for months and, if she'd had the energy, would have gone stircrazy weeks ago.