A Heartbeat Away (7 page)

“Okay, you're weirding me out. Where'd you get a crazy idea like that?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “This feels like a betrayal. I'm sharing my heart with you, not something I do lightly,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “I'm trusting you here with something important to me, and you think I'm crazy.”

“I didn't say that. I said you had a crazy idea. That's different.”

“Doesn't feel different.” She cleared her throat. “Phin MacGrath told me about the phenomenon. I did some research. I think he's right.”

“The social worker? Not exactly a scientist, is he?”

“He's worked with a lot of heart-transplant patients. He's seen it before.”

“Tori, think about how you sound. There's got to be another logical explanation.”

“I've found a logical explanation. In fact, I think I may need to do something about this.”

“
Do
something?”

“You can't understand.”

“And maybe you shouldn't try either. Have you ever considered that there are some things about your donor's life that you might not want to know?” Jarrod stood again and resumed pacing, shaking his head. “Look, Tori, I think you've been under a lot of stress. Going out on a limb and talking about this publicly would not be good. What are people going to say?”

“I don't know—that I've helped solve a mystery perhaps?”

“More likely you'll lose your credibility. Your great reputation as a surgeon.”

“This is important. I feel an obligation.”

“Why?” He continued shaking his head. “Your donor is dead. Nothing changes that.”

“You don't get it.”

“I want to protect you.”

“Someone gave up her life so I could live.”

“Not on purpose.”

“Doesn't matter. I need to know.”

“Tell me why.”

“I feel different. I'm changing. I need to know who I am.”

“Come on, Tori. You know who you are. You just need to recover a little, get back to work, and life will resume for you just like it always has.”

“It's not that easy. I can't explain it.” She took a deep breath. “Not to you.”

Jarrod continued pacing until he reached the front door. He rested his hand on the doorknob.

“So that's it, huh?” she said. “No payoff for the flowers so you're going to leave?”

“It's not like that,” he said, looking at his watch. “I've got a big day tomorrow.”

“I want to finish the movie.”

“Fine. Maybe you could drop it in a Redbox.”

She nodded.
Whatever.

He paused at the door. “You've changed. I'm not sure I know you anymore.”

She didn't know how to respond.

“Do yourself a favor, Tori. Don't pursue this craziness.” With that, he opened the door and left.

Tori huffed, settled deeper into the couch, and grabbed the remote. A moment later, she couldn't hold back the tears.

Who am I?

9

Ten days later, Tori startled awake with a nightmare of falling.

Stark terror. A scream and then the sudden jerking of her limbs in anticipation of hitting the ground.

For the third morning in a row.

She sat up slowly, trying to sharpen the border between alertness and slumber. Bit by bit, the cobwebs in her mind broke away. Breathing fast, she steadied her runaway thoughts and wiped the sweat from her brow before standing. She gathered her robe around her and plodded to the kitchen, stirring about quietly so as not to wake Charlotte. She made coffee, dripping the first cup straight into a white mug.

She was recovering at a record pace. That was good and bad. Good because she wanted to get back to normal. Bad because she felt good enough to be active—and without a job, boredom was just around the corner. She felt that the sooner she could get back to normal, the sooner she'd have something else worth occupying her mind, hopefully something capable of forcing the night terrors back into hiding.

She needed a plan. Looking out the kitchen window on the early Richmond morning, she decided today was as good a day as any to venture out. She sipped coffee and thought about the transplant team.

Did the harvest team travel by air? If so, did they use the Learjet or the helicopter?
If they had, there would be a record of the flight. When? Where? Knowing the location of her heart donor would be a logical first step in understanding her terror.

After coffee and a bagel, she dressed and took the Broad Street bus downtown, exiting near the main hospital. She walked slowly up the sidewalk, appreciating a newfound endurance. As long as she kept her pace down, she could walk without shortness of breath.

Once in the university hospital, she hoped to slip into the ER without much fanfare. The medevac flight-dispatch office was just inside the ER main entrance in a little cubicle run by a single person in radio contact with the helicopter crew and outside rescue units.

On that day, Tori smiled to see an empty chair. Rodney Smith was a constant charmer and was busy chatting it up with one of the new ER nursing recruits. His back was to Tori as she approached the door to the flight-dispatch cubicle. Slipping inside the office, she looked around for what she needed. Would the record be on a computer? Or did they have a physical logbook?

She opened and shut the top drawer below the desk. She eyed a filing cabinet, then spotted a logbook to the right of the radio. Opening the book, she paged back to a record on the night before her transplant. Running her finger down the page, she saw exactly what she wanted. “Organ harvest team, Baltimore City Hospital.”

“Bingo,” she whispered.

Hearing the door, she quickly closed the book and looked over to see Rodney.

“Dr. Taylor?”

“Hi, Rodney.”

Rodney adjusted the bill on his Atlanta Braves baseball cap. “What are you doing here? You're about the last person I'd expect to see. How are you? You had a transplant, right?”

“Yes, yes. I'm fine. Bored, but fine. So bored in fact that I decided to look around the ER to see if anyone was stirring up trouble. When I saw flight dispatch, I thought I'd step in and see if you were flying anywhere memorable.”

She watched his face. She was talking too much and didn't want to appear as nervous as she felt. She pointed to the logbook. “Looks like today has been quiet.”

He chuckled. “The day is young.”

“Yes, well,” she said, edging past him to the door. “Great seeing you again. Take care.”

She walked into the hallway and met two men, one she expected and one she didn't. The taller of the duo was Rick Harveson, an associate professor in Tori's department, surgical oncology. Rick was young but skilled and often sought Tori out for advice. The shorter man was Steve Brown.

“Steve?”

“Tori,” the shorter man said, smiling.

Rick didn't smile. “I didn't expect to run into you.”

Tori gave Steve the once-over. Steve had been a med-school classmate. He had aged. His hair, once black, was now silver. “Wow, how long has it been?”

“Too long.”

“So what brings you to town?”

He looked at Rick and shrugged. “The surgical oncology chief. I'm interviewing for the job.”

Tori tried to hide her surprise.
I wasn't told Dr. Fisher was retiring. That should be my job!
She cleared her throat. “I see.”

“We should catch up sometime.”

She couldn't think. She fought to focus. “Uh, sure.”

Rick stepped between them. “I was just showing Steve around,” he said, looking at his watch.

“Sure,” Tori mumbled.

She steadied her weight against the wall as the men walked on through the swinging ER doors and the noise of trauma beyond. She took a deep breath.

A young orderly passed. “Ma'am, are you okay?”

Tori swallowed. “I'm fine.”

She moved slowly down the corridor, aware that the breath that had seemed so easy outside on the sidewalk was now coming in labored gasps. She waited to enter a crowded elevator of shortcoats, the medical students on their third-year rotations. Fortunately, they hadn't rotated on surgery yet, so they didn't recognize her. She moved to the back of the elevator and listened to their banter.

“Jason spent the whole night in the ICU.”

“He's kissing up.”

“He got to do an arterial line.”

“Wasn't Dr. Hinkle's lecture on physical exam hilarious?”

A student imitated the professor, holding up his finger. “The first rule of physical assessment is lights on, clothes off!”

Tori drifted as they droned on, complaining about their hours.
How did I not know that Dr. Fisher's spot was opening up?

She exited on the floor of the surgery offices. Once on her hallway, she was greeted by her secretary, Valarie Herman. “Dr. Taylor? What are you doing here?”

She plodded forward, grunting through her teeth. “I'm here to see Dr. Evans.”

Valarie trailed Tori like a toy poodle, barking warnings about the chairman's schedule, his clinic, and his other appointments.

Tori ignored her. “He'll see me.”

She got to the receptionist's desk outside the chairman's office. The assistant, a woman of considerable stature, stood as a physical barrier between Tori and the chairman's door.

“I need to see Dr. Evans.”

The secretary continued standing in the way and reached awkwardly for the phone. She pressed the intercom. “Dr. Taylor here to see you, sir.”

She heard Samuel Evans grunt. “Send her in.”

Tori offered a terse smile and moved toward the door. Once there, she took a deep breath and pushed her way inside.

She looked at the man behind the massive mahogany desk. He didn't raise his eyes from the stack of papers on his desk. Tori cleared her throat. “I want to interview for the division chief position.” She sighed and wondered why the air seemed so
rare
.

He stayed quiet, sighing and rubbing his short crop of white hair. “Look, Tori, I was going to tell you.”

“Well, it doesn't matter now. I know.”

“Tori, you're on leave. You need to be concentrating on recovery. Counseling.”

“Right now I'm concentrating on my career. You know everyone expects me to take Dr. Fisher's position. I've worked for this. I've earned it.”

Dr. Evans looked up. “Tori, surgeons don't walk on water anymore. You can't just treat the staff like red meat and expect to get ahead.”

She wanted to defend but held her tongue. “Agreed.” She paused. “But I've changed, sir.”

“Oh really? So why do I hear that you can't even obey a simple nurse's instruction to stay in bed after your catheterization?”

Tori was aghast. “That's crazy, sir. It has nothing to do with my ability to get along with the staff. I needed to use the restroom, so I got out of bed a little earlier than advised. End of story.”

The chairman shook his head. “You're not making this easy on yourself.” He tapped a designer ink pen against the desktop. “Why haven't you followed up with counseling?”

“I've talked to Phin MacGrath. I'm waiting for him to set up the next session.”

The chairman sighed and pushed back from his desk.

“With all due respect, Dr. Evans, we have talked about this. I've served this department faithfully. No one has published more. No one carries my patient load.”

“And no one has the file of complaints from staff that you do.”

Her mouth was suddenly cotton-dry. She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “I don't deny that I've been hard on the staff. But I can learn better ways to deal with incompetence, sir.”

Dr. Samuel Evans coughed and continued tapping his pen. “You're supposed to make my life easy. Instead—” He halted with apparent concern.

She couldn't respond. Her face was on fire. She needed to find a Kleenex to wipe away the perspiration.

“Tori?”

She felt the room spinning and found it more difficult to get her breath.

“You're sweating.”

She was aware of a feeling of tightness in her chest, a constricting pain in her throat. She reached for the corner of the desk to stop the spinning room.

She missed. And after that, everything went black.

10

Linda Mitchell stirred, nudged from sleep by the squeak of the back door. She'd gotten used to the sounds of the old house, the way the wind rattled the chains on the porch swing and the occasional creaking whisper of what her husband called “settling noise.”

But this was different. The squeak followed by the rattle of the door had a human component. She poked her husband, who snored blissfully at her side. Her whisper was urgent. “Dan.”

He moaned.

“Dan, I hear someone.”

He sat up, rubbing his eyes.

The noise continued.

She followed her husband down the stairs. A light was on in the kitchen.

There, a shirtless Christian sat at the kitchen table. He leaned forward, his attention on his right leg where he had pulled his pants leg up to reveal a jagged gash.

Dan rushed to kneel in front of his son, who looked up with tears in his eyes.

“Chris, what happened?”

“Dad, I really screwed up.”

When Tori opened her eyes, her chairman's face seemed to float above hers. She heard the voice of his secretary. “Should I call 911?”

Dr. Evans chuckled. “We're in the largest referral hospital in Virginia already. What do you think?”

“Oh,” she said. “I could call a code.”

“Don't do that either. She has a pulse.” Tori felt his fingers on her neck. “Call the ER. Ask them to send up a nurse with a stretcher.”

Tori tried to concentrate.
How did I end up on the floor?
She coughed.

“Oh my,” the secretary said. “I think she's coming around.”

“Tori?” Dr. Evans touched her forehead.

“What … what happened?”

“You fainted. I think you have a fever.”

She struggled to sit.

“Stay down. I think your blood pressure is low. When's the last time you had fluids?”

“This morning. I had coffee.”

Dr. Evans frowned. “Hmm. Coffee is a diuretic, probably not the best choice for a heart patient.” He spoke as if she were an idiot child.

He stood and picked up his phone. “Operator? Page Dr. Parrish.”

Thirty minutes later, Tori found herself the center of her transplant surgeon's attention. He held up his index finger. “Low-grade fever.” He held up a second finger. “Fainting episode.”

Tori raised her hand and inspected her IV line. “So what's the differential diagnosis?”

“Could be any number of things. The big two are acute transplant rejection and infection. Your immunosuppressive drug regimen puts you at risk for that.”

This Tori knew. “My throat is dry.”

“Sore?”

“A little.”

He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket. “Say ‘ah.'”

She obeyed.

“Wow. You've got a candida infection.”

“And here I've never been across the northern border.”

“Funny. If it's this bad in your throat, I'll bet you have it all the way down your esophagus. Very common in immunosuppressed patients.”

“So give me some nystatin swish-and-swallow and send me home.”

“Not a chance.”

“But I didn't pack. I'll come right back if I have problems.”

“Do you want me to spell it out? An acute rejection could mean sudden death. An infection while taking immunosuppressive drugs can be quickly fatal.”

“I'm a doctor, okay? I get it. I'll be careful. Let me go.”

“Not before we do a heart biopsy.”

“But if we know the source of the fever—”

“You may still be in rejection. Too risky not to know. You're due for a biopsy in a few more days anyway.”

Tori groaned. “This wasn't on my day planner.”

Dr. Parrish folded his arms across his chest. “Is there anything you aren't telling me?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“I don't know. You just seem … to be somewhere else.” He paused. “How are the nightmares?”

“In a word? Vivid.”

“I'm going to order a head CT.”

“Looking for?”

“Central nervous system fungal balls.”

“You won't find anything. The memories are real. They just aren't mine.”

“If the CT is normal, I'm going to look into changing your drug regimen.”

“It's not the drugs.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“The nightmares preceded my first dose.” She gathered the sheet under her chin. “And it just seems like something I know.”

“Like it happened to you.”

“Exactly.”

He stood over her, his silence confirming her fears. He didn't believe her. And because she was also a scientist, she felt his disdain for her falling under the spell of such emotion.

She shook her head. “I can't imagine that you could understand.”

“Look, I need you to be honest with me about these things. Just because I'm having a hard time with your theory doesn't mean I don't need to know about it. But I will look for another source for the problem.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

He stepped to the doorway. “I'll be ordering your tests and some antifungal medication.” He pulled open the doorway and then halted. “Say, I wouldn't mention these dreams to Dr. Evans. He certainly won't hear it from my lips.”

Tori nodded. His unspoken message was clear.
The boss will think you're as crazy as I do.

The next evening, Phin stopped by Tori's hospital room. They quickly covered her present situation: she'd undergone a cardiac cath and biopsy and the results were pending. In the meantime, she was being treated for an “opportunistic” infection, one that doesn't routinely cause problems in the healthy patient but, in a patient on immunosuppressive drugs, takes advantage of the lowered defenses to attack and cause illness. In her case, it was the common fungus known as candida, and it had attacked her mouth and esophagus with a vengeance.

After reviewing the present, Phin naturally steered the conversation to Tori's past. He seemed truly interested. He wanted to know everything about how she ended up in her chosen career of cancer surgery.

“I was a teenager when my mother developed breast cancer,” she began.

Tori thought back over her mother's pitiful struggle and how a surgeon had made mistakes, reassuring her mother that she didn't need to worry about her mammogram findings.

She remembered the afternoon her mother came home from her first surgical consultation. “He said I'm okay. I don't need a biopsy after all.”

Tori squeezed her mother tightly. “So all that worry was for nothing. Let's celebrate.”

“How about Cold Mountain Creamery?”

The memory warmed her.

Three months later, Tori's mother started bleeding from her right nipple. She ignored it. “The doctor reassured me that it was okay, remember?”

By the time she presented back to her primary doctor, she had palpable lymph nodes under her arm and a chest X-ray showing lung metastasis.

Tori vowed she would become a surgeon and never make the same mistakes. She would dedicate her life to an aggressive surgical attack on cancer without regards to flim-flam emotions.

The memories tumbled down the mountain and picked up speed.

Chemo.

Surgery. The loss of a breast.

Her mother didn't feel sexy anymore.

And it mattered to Tori.

There were other losses.

Her mother's auburn hair.

A continuous dropping of weight. The fat fell from her hips. Yes, even from the butt she'd always complained was impossible to downsize, but in the end, she looked like a boy. Gangly. All knuckles and knobs. Bones sticking up under a thin tent of skin like moles poking up in a backyard.

More surgery. Cutting away a chest recurrence.

Dianne Taylor was sexless. No breast. No curves. No sexy auburn hair.

Tori cursed her mother's cancer every day.

And every other day: the God who allowed it to steal her away. In the end, when she found out that the surgeon had erred, warm fuzzy emotions became suspect to Tori because she feared another false hope. She grew into a skeptical, closed adult, suspect of any real hope, knowing the hammer of truth may lurk just around the bend.

By the time she finished telling her mother's story, Tori was glad she hadn't bothered with mascara. She blew her nose and looked up through watery eyes. “I'm a mess.”

“Far from it,” Phin said.

He stayed quiet throughout her story. Once, he reached his hand out and simply let it rest on hers for a moment.

She didn't mind the rough calluses.

“You still blame God?”

Tori stared off, above and beyond the social worker. “I don't think about it much anymore. But I never went to church after that either.” She hesitated, then added, “I guess I'm mad because he didn't answer my prayers to take away the pain.”

“God had an interesting answer to human suffering.”

Tori didn't respond. When Phin stayed quiet, she shifted in her hospital bed. “Well, aren't you going to continue?”

“If you want,” he said, with the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile. “God doesn't always deliver us from pain. God joined us in human suffering by coming as a man and experiencing pain and death for himself.”

“You sound like Charlotte.”

“She must be a good friend.”

“She's gullible. Believes in fairy tales.” Tori dabbed her eyes again. “I take a scientific approach. Pain is an important message, our body's way of telling us something is wrong. It's my job to figure out what is wrong and offer a solution.” She smiled. “Fortunately, it's something I'm good at.”

“Would you have become a surgeon if it wasn't for your mother's story?”

“Probably not. Until she got sick, I was planning on an Air Force career like my father. I wanted to be a helicopter pilot.”

“Ever thought that God may have allowed some of this because he wanted you to do the good work that you do?”

“Okay, that's too Pollyanna for me. He could have just had me read an article in a magazine about cancer research or something. Why'd he have to take my mother away?”

“I doubt you'd have listened. As it was, he had your attention.” He reached for her hand. “You'll probably never have an answer to the why questions until you get to heaven. For now, we have to comfort ourselves that while God doesn't always deliver us from pain, he joined us in it by taking on human flesh.”

She let his words settle. Water filtering slowly into the sand of her mind. For some reason, she didn't fight. For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to consider that Phin might be right. And if not right, at least his sincerity was touching.

After a minute, she turned her hand over in his so that they could rest palm to palm. “Can I change the subject?”

“Sure.” He smiled. “I think we're making progress.”

“Oh, great. Here it seemed like we were just two friends talking about life and I almost forgot that I'm in counseling.”

“I didn't mean it like that. We can be friends.”

She nodded. “Okay. I think I know where my heart came from.”