A Heartbeat Away (11 page)

She paused and steadied herself against the wall.
Dakota, were you here?

Mary opened the door after a soft knock. After letting Tori in, Mary excused herself. “I've been here most of the night.” She pointed at the morphine. “Use this if he gets agitated. He's been a little delirious.” She shook her head. “Keeps talking about a fire.”

Tori only mumbled an echo of Mary's words. “A fire.”

Manny had been set up on his old brown upholstered couch. The room smelled of bile and urine. Tori imagined he hadn't the strength to get to the bathroom, but took it as a positive that his kidneys must still be functioning. He was propped up on three pillows, covered with a quilt in spite of the warm temperature.

“Manny,” she said, sliding a kitchen chair to the edge of the couch. “I'm here.”

He squinted in her direction.

She took his hand. “Are you in pain?”

He didn't reply. His respirations were shallow.

She looked in his eyes. His constricted pupils were rimmed in muddy brown irises that floated in a sea of yellow. She counted his respirations. Six in a minute.

The hospice nurse had been generous with the narcotics, and Manny was barely breathing as a result.

“At least you're comfortable,” she whispered.

She watched him, paced, made coffee, and watched the sun rise over downtown Richmond.

After an hour, he stirred, and Tori returned to his side.

“Nadine,” he said, reaching for her. His eyes were unfocused, looking through her to a memory.

Your wife's name.
What to do? She toyed with correcting him, then just took his hand and replied softly, “Rest, Manny.”

“The smoke was too thick.” His breathing quickened. “Too hot.”

She lifted the quilt from beneath his chin. His forehead was slick with sweat. She inspected his biliary drain. The bag was milky and yellow-brown.
Infection has set in.

“You've got a fever.” She put her fingers on his radial pulse. It was a few moments before she convinced herself that she could feel the thready runaway rhythm tapping against her finger.

“I tried … to … save you.” His words erupted in a broken staccato.

“Shh, Manny, don't try to talk.”

“We're together again.”

Charlotte had told Tori about Manny's wife, a strong woman who'd tried to help him after Vietnam but had failed to escape an apartment fire.

He began to shake, the rigors of fever. The doctor in her wanted to keep him cool, but she knew it was only a matter of time, so she let him have the quilt again. “Here,” she said, tucking it up under his chin.

After a few minutes, he relaxed again, and his eyes rolled upward until only yellow slits of sclera remained. He appeared horror-film spooky that way. She imagined the yellow color erupting into lasers.

Girl, you are losing it.
She stood and walked to the window. She looked down at the small playground. Even from her vantage point high on the fifth floor, the image held a strange anxiety for her.
What is it about that playground?

Manny grunted, and she returned to her vigil beside the couch. She took his hand again. This time, he squeezed back. Hard. His grip was crazy strong. Startling, not like that of a dying man.

He pulled her hand to his chest and looked in her eyes. With the light of the morning falling on his yellow eyes, the effect was chilling. Even before he spoke, Tori's heart was in her throat. “God knows what you did,” he said.

Tori pulled away. “What?”

He didn't repeat it.
Was he speaking to his dead wife? Or to me? What did I do?
“What, Manny? What do you mean?”

His eyes were sad. “I forgive you.”

She didn't understand. “Forgive me? For what?”

But Manny didn't answer. Instead, his countenance brightened. He sat up, the first time he'd shown any strength. Reaching toward the light streaming in the window, he grinned. “Oh, Jesus!”

With that, his face relaxed. Then his shoulders. And he sank back onto the couch. She watched his chest. It didn't rise again.

Tori gasped. “Manny, no! Tell me what you meant!”

Silence. Manny was gone.

And for the very first time, Dr. Tori Taylor, one of Virginia's premier cancer surgeons, had been there at the moment death snatched life from one of her patients.

But what had just happened?

How could science explain his hallucination of Jesus?

She took a deep breath, not even trying to hold back the tears. She touched his chest. “What did you mean?”

She looked toward the window and let the sun bathe her face. Instead of comfort, she felt the sting of guilt.
God?

What did I do?

16

Tori spent the next two hours interacting with the hospice home-health staff and a local funeral home that came and picked up Manny's body. By the time Charlotte appeared to give Tori a lift back to her place, Tori was exhausted.

“I knew this was coming,” Charlotte said. “It's a relief, really.”

Tori stayed quiet.

Charlotte seemed to be studying her. “Did he talk?”

Tori shrugged. “He was pretty much out of it. Didn't make much sense.”

Charlotte nodded. “Well, cliché as it sounds, Manny's one that I know is in a better place. His faith really carried him through.”

Tori sighed, unable to get the image of Manny's sunlit face out of her mind. For a moment, she was convinced he'd seen beyond the veil. She walked slowly behind Charlotte to the elevator. “What do you think happens? After we die?”

“Child, you know what I think.”

Tori held up her hands. “The good guys go to heaven. The bad …”

“If that's what you think, I know you haven't been listening to me.”

“But that's it, isn't it? God sends you to heaven or hell, right? That's what you believe.”

“Well, yes, I believe in a heaven and a hell, but heaven isn't a place for the good guys, Tori.”

“But you always—”

Charlotte held up her hands. “Heaven is for the bad guys, Tori. For those of us who realize we're bad and in desperate need of some help. No one can be good enough to earn heaven.”

“Manny was a good guy.”

“True. He was honest. A good friend. But that alone didn't make him fit for heaven. His relationship with Christ did.”

“That's where I stumble,” Tori admitted. “Why does it always come down to Jesus?”

The elevator doors opened and the duo stepped in. Charlotte punched the
G
button. “What do you mean?”

“Christians shouldn't claim to be the only way. What about the Buddhists, Jews, and Muslims? They deserve a chance.” Tori looked over at Charlotte. “Christians are intolerant.”

“Hey, Christians didn't make up the claim that Jesus was the only way. He said that himself. ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man comes to the Father but by me.'”

“Doesn't seem fair.”

“Why are you suddenly on the attack? You're feeling guilty.”

“Oh, just because I attack your faith, you think I'm feeling guilty? You're not supposed to judge, remember? I seem to recall you teaching that to me.”

“
Are
you feeling guilty?”

Tori looked away.
Yes. But I'm not sure why.

What did I do? What did Manny mean?

“Watching someone die makes you think, huh? I mean, life and death, eternity, what's it all about?”

“Whatever,” Tori mumbled.

They stepped off the elevator. They walked down the hall and out into the sunshine. The day was clear. Outside, children played, a squirrel ran up an oak tree, and a maintenance man was mowing grass, smiling as he saw the two women. Death may have stolen Manny away, but outside, life marched forward, going on as if nothing had happened. Tori wanted to scream.
It's so unfair. The good die too young.

Once they were in Charlotte's car, Tori changed the subject. “I'm going to Baltimore. I want to talk to the police about my donor.”

“Your donor?”

“It was the fire victim, Dakota Jones. The consensus is that she died trying to escape the fire. But I believe someone wanted her dead. It wasn't an accident.”

Tori listened as Charlotte sighed. Charlotte turned on her blinker and pulled into the traffic flow. “Can I be completely honest with you?”

Tori shifted in her seat, pushing the shoulder harness up and away from the scar over her sternum. “Could I stop you?”

“Probably not.”

“Well?”

“I think this is a diversion, Tori. You've got enough trouble in your life right now, what with dealing with recovery from surgery, these issues surrounding your job, and sorting out your anger. Why can't you just leave this obsession with your donor alone?” She paused. “You need to focus on your own life.”

Tori stared through the window. “That's what I'm doing.” She shook her head. “I'm not sure I can expect you to understand. For the first time in my life I feel like I'm doing something for someone other than myself. Dakota Jones gave her life. I owe her.”

“No, you don't. She died in an accident. She didn't willingly give up her heart so you could live. She signed a donor card, that's all.”

“I don't expect you to get this.”

“Think of her parents. Do you think they want to know that you think their daughter may have been murdered?”

“Do you want her murderer to go unpunished?”

Another sigh. “Of course not.”

“I didn't ask for this, okay? But there are memories that keep bubbling up, stuff that scares me, Charlotte.” Tori touched her friend's arm. “Don't you get this? If I can find out what happened to Dakota, maybe I can put this torture to rest.”

Charlotte didn't respond. At least not verbally. Instead, she flipped on the radio, a station that played her favorite gospel music.

Outside, Tori examined the population of Richmond's downtown. Scores of unsmiling workers clipped along with phones welded to their ears. A hot-dog vendor argued with a customer over change. Tori lowered her window to listen.

A middle-aged woman directed a dozen preschoolers down the sidewalk toward a McDonald's. A white woman wearing gray sweatpants stepped away from an approaching businessman. She looked at Tori to reveal a face caked with too much makeup. Her eyes danced with fear. “My husband beats me,” she said.

Tori touched Charlotte's arm. “Stop the car.”

“What for?”

“Don't you want to help her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Didn't you hear her? The woman in the gray sweats. Surely you heard her.”

“Nope.”

“She talked to me. She said, ‘My husband beats me.'”

The woman walked on down the block. Traffic was slow. The woman paused at the front of a building and glanced back at Tori one more time before entering. The sign on the door said “Arms of Love.”

Charlotte turned down the radio. “Why would she speak to a stranger? Abused women don't just tell random people their problems.”

Tori rubbed her eyes. “I know what I heard.”

“Arms of Love. It's a women's shelter. Maybe you just had a stroke of intuition.”

Tori took a deep breath. “The way she stepped away from that man, makeup that could cover a black eye, the fear in her expression … all of it spoke to me.”

“Has this happened before?”

She nodded.
This morning. I felt the lost.

“Tori, that's a gift.”

“No. I'm falling apart. I've got nightmares. Now people talk to me without words.”

“You've been up since four. Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Your meds?”

“I left them at your place.”

“Okay, kid, let's get you home, get your meds, feed you, and let you nap.”

Tori nodded again.
Maybe that's it. I just need food and a nap.

But somehow she knew things had changed. Life was different somehow. Effervescent trouble bubbled from the surface of her life like the sparkling gas escaping from soda on a summer day.

She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. This trouble was far, far deeper than anything that could be cured with a sandwich and a nap.

For most teenagers, Saturday morning meant a chance to sleep in, but for Christian Mitchell, Saturdays meant a chance to go on hospital rounds with his father. They'd fallen into a comfortable routine, including a stop in a little hospital cafeteria where Christian ate
mandazis
, the almost-doughnut-sweet fried Kenyan bread washed down with chai, sugary tea steeped in half milk and half water.

After that, he would follow his father, Dan Mitchell, as he saw patients on the men's and women's wards. Often, a Kenyan intern and a medical student or two accompanied them. Today, the team was Dr. Mitchell, Christian, an intern named John O'mollo, and a medical student, Charity N'ganga.

John greeted them warmly. “We have a patient in ICU.”

Dr. Mitchell nodded. “We'll start there.”

As they walked up the long hallway, John explained. “This is our lymphoma patient.”

“Mr. Wanjiku?”

“Yes. He began struggling to breathe. He has cough and fever. I thought he might have had a pulmonary embolus.”

Christian's father paused. “It would be a relief, really. I don't want him to suffer.” He looked at his intern. “He shouldn't be intubated. We can't use up a ventilator on him.”

Christian met his father's gaze. “Why?”

“He has AIDS, son. And an advanced cancer that has spread throughout his abdomen and, I suspect, to his brain. There is no cure for him.”

Christian followed the team into the small high-dependency unit. In the third of six beds, Jeremy Wanjiku was clearly struggling to breathe.

Dr. Mitchell used his stethoscope, placing it on the patient's chest, front and back, on both sides. “Diffuse rales. He sounds wet to me.” He then uncovered the patient's lower legs. “Equally swollen, but not tender, so I don't think he has a venous clot. He probably hasn't had an embolus.” He added quietly, “If he has, it would be a mercy.”

A nurse, a female whose name tag identified her as Purity, approached the team.

“Let's try Lasix,” Dr. Mitchell instructed. “Use morphine generously to keep him comfortable.” The team stepped away as the intern wrote the orders. When they were out of earshot of the patient, Dr. Mitchell spoke to the nurse. “No ventilator for him. He doesn't have long.”

She nodded.

Outside the door to the ICU, Christian paused. “I think I'll stay back with Mr. Wanjiku. He doesn't have any family here.”

His father shrugged.

Christian pushed back through the door and looked at Mr. Wanjiku.
He seems so lost.
He felt an urgency.
I want to give him one final chance to know the Savior.

Christian made his way to the bedside where the nurse injected the man's IV with a syringe full of clear fluid.

“Lasix,” the nurse said. “It will help him get rid of extra fluid. Maybe he will breathe easier.”

Mr. Wanjiku's eyes widened. Muscles in his neck flared as he braced his arms against the mattress, struggling for air.

“Does he understand English?”

Purity shook her head. “Kiswahili and Kikuyu.”

Christian sighed. “Will you talk to him with me then?”

Purity moved closer.

How to start?

“Mr. Wanjiku, I am Christian Mitchell. My father is your surgeon.”

Christian waited as Purity interpreted.

“It doesn't look like you will survive very long.” He paused. “Do you know what will happen after you die?”

The patient seemed annoyed. Or perhaps it was only because all of his effort was in grabbing for his next breath and he couldn't be bothered.

Christian continued, pausing to let the interpreter follow each phrase. “You are going to face God's judgment for all of your earthly activities, good and bad. You will be sent to heaven if you put your faith in Christ and the cross.” Christian struggled, wondering if the patient could understand such terms. “No one gets to heaven by being good on their own. It is only because Jesus paid for our bad deeds by dying on a cross.”

Mr. Wanjiku looked at Christian and grunted out a few phrases in Kikuyu.

Christian looked at Purity. “What is he saying?”

Purity reached up and silenced an alarm with the push of a button on the cardiac monitor. The patient's heart rate raced along at 155 beats per minute.

Sweat drops beaded the patient's forehead. The air around him was thick with the smell of his breath. It was an odor Christian hadn't yet learned. An odor of death. Decay, sour and bittersweet, mixing in with the antiseptic odors of the cleaning solutions used for disinfection.

“What does he say?”

Purity stared at Mr. Wanjiku. “He says he's made choices. He's made his decision long ago.”

“So he's already a Christian?”

Purity shook her head and looked back at Christian. “No. He does not believe.”

Christian took the man's hand. “It is not too late. Even a criminal who died on a cross next to Jesus turned to God in his final moments and was admitted to heaven.”

The nurse translated.

Mr. Wanjiku pulled his hand away.

Purity touched Christian's arm. “He doesn't want to believe.”

Christian shook his head. “He will burn in hell.”

The patient grunted out a few more phrases.

Purity looked down. “He wants you to leave.”