Deceptions of the Heart (7 page)

“I was here when he asked you to…do what you did. I was in the kitchen listening. I heard you. And I saw the two of you leave together. You should have never let him talk you into—”

“Shut up before you say too much.” He turned toward his new wife. A cold, calculating sneer crept over his face before he returned his attention to me. “What do you want?” he asked again.

“I told you already. I want you to help me figure out what happened to me. I want you to go with me to see Dr. Crane.”

He flinched at mention of the heart specialist that performed Jennifer’s surgery. “This is insane.” He seethed as he paced in front of me. “Okay. I get it. He sent you to blackmail me.”

“No. I’m here because I need answers. I told you what I want from you. If you can’t or won’t help me…” I stiffened my upper lip to keep from calling him a few choice names. “I’m leaving,” I said and rose from the sofa. I almost made it out the door before my tears dripped down my cheeks against my will. I didn’t want Alex to see me cry.

“Come back. Sit down,” he cajoled, adopting a long-suffering attitude as if resigned to helping me. “I promise I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

It was pathetic how quickly he capitulated. I almost smiled, but kept my triumph to myself. I turned toward him once again, willing my face into a noncommittal facade. When I looked into his eyes, my joy disappeared. His gaze hardened as if he’d just captured a weaker being in his twisted trap. My victory proved hollow. My pitiful act backfired. Hot liquid filled my tear ducts and I almost broke down. I sucked up my misery. Exposing my weakness only made him stronger. Alex had always liked being in control. I should have known better. Never again would he witness my vulnerability.

“Alex! Can’t you see she’s lying…or trying to con us…or something?” Kristen exclaimed.

He waved off her objection and tugged me back into the house. “Okay. Start from the beginning.”

I stalled in the foyer between him and the front door, then drew a deep, cleansing breath. It did me no good. I needed more than fresh air. A shudder coursed through me.

“About a week ago, I woke up in Virginia. I didn’t recognize anything. Not the house. Not the man. Not the housekeeper. Not the furniture. Nothing. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see my face. I see hers. I don’t know her. Do you have any idea how frightening that is?” I waited for him to reply, but he stared at me with a dubious frown on his face. “They call me Jennifer, but I don’t remember anything about her or these people in her life. They all hate her. And I don’t trust them. I think something awful is going to happen to her—”

“Look, it’s obvious. You have a difficult situation. Something must have happened to you. Maybe you have amnesia or something like that. But there has to be some other explanation. My late wife couldn’t possibly inhabit your body. That’s ridiculous.”

“When did I die?” I asked.

He glared at me.

“When did Rhonda die?” I rephrased my question. If pretending my compliance gained his cooperation, I was willing to pretend for a moment I wasn’t Rhonda.

“Three years ago. I told you that on the phone.”

I blanched at the obvious. I’d pushed the pain away for days, but at that moment it grabbed me by the throat. His quick remarriage hurt—a deep, throbbing wound.

Couldn’t he have missed me longer? Mourned deeper? Remained unmarried out of grief over losing me?

“Jennifer had heart transplant surgery three years ago.”

He backed away and dropped onto the chair arm. His brows drew together over the bridge of his nose.

“Here in California. October 6, 2008,” I added.

Kristen gasped. “That’s…that’s the day after she died.”

Alex scowled at her.

“I suspect that I…that Rhonda donated her heart to Jennifer.”

He slid into the chair, pale as a ghost. “Rhonda…yes…he did harvest her organs.” He closed his eyes and scrunched his face as if pain had overshadowed his anger.

Maybe I’ve been too hard on him. Maybe I jumped to conclusions. Wait! Who had harvested her organs? Crane?

“Well, then it’s obvious. You are the recipient of Rhonda’s heart. I’ve heard about things like this. Transplant patients seeking out the family of their donors.”

“It’s more than that. I have her memories and none of Jennifer’s. I mean,
none
of Jennifer’s. I remember nothing of her life.”

He leaned forward. “This is incredible.”

“Look at this.” I retrieved a web article from my purse and handed it to him. “It’s called cellular memory transfer. Usually transplant patients adopt the donor’s habits or feel their emotions. They like what the donor liked. Cut their hair the same way. Marry someone with the same name or something like that. They develop hobbies and interests similar to the donor—care about things the donor cared about. But I have actual memories. Solid memories. Not just impressions. I don’t think that’s ever happened to anyone before.”

He scanned the article with a scowl on his face. “Why do you think you’re different? Why would you have actual memories?”

“Jackson was at a party at the Cristobal’s house. When Jennifer argued with him, it must have jolted my heart. She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, and then she passed out. The shock must have triggered some sort of reaction…something chemical that affected my heart.”

“This is kind of far-fetched. Like a movie plot or something.”

Kristen sprang from the shadow in which she’d been cowering. She resembled a lioness defending her territory. “You’re not buying this, are you, Alex?”

“Shut up, Kristen. Whoever she is, she has a serious problem. I have to help her.” His angry reprimand suggested his willingness to help was more than a good Samaritan impulse on his part.

“Why?” Kristen countered. “She’s not Rhonda. She’s nothing to us.”

“Because somehow Jackson is involved.” He looked at me and rubbed his upper lip. “Have you talked to anybody in Virginia about this?”

“No. They wouldn’t believe Jennifer. I can’t trust them. I think they’re trying to kill her.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Her housekeeper has been giving her two pills twice a day. One of them is a barbiturate and the other is an anticonvulsant. They shouldn’t be mixed. Ever. Jennifer is supposed to be taking medication to prevent her body from rejecting her new heart, but neither of the pills she’s been taking are cyclosporine. That really scares me because I’m depending on her heart.”

“Aren’t you capable of handling your own meds?” he asked, referring to me as Jennifer.

“Sudha said it was for
Jennifer’s
protection. I think she was lying.” I insisted on being myself, referring to the woman whose life I’d invaded as someone I’d come to know instead of who I was.

“Your protection? That’s weird. Sounds to me like you need protection from Sudha.” He said Sudha’s name with a derisive bite. “Is there anyone you can talk to? Have you gone to the cops?”

“I told a deputy sheriff I was having problems with my memory, but he didn’t believe me. That was before I confirmed Sudha was giving me the wrong medication.” I rolled my head on my aching neck. “I can’t go back to him—”

“Why not?”

“I think Jennifer and the cop have a history.”

He rose from his chair and began pacing again. “This is serious.”

“I can’t trust her housekeeper. I can’t trust her doctor. I can’t trust her husband or her stepdaughter. Or the local cops. I can’t trust anyone. That’s why I came to you. Because I don’t know them and I know you. You are the only person in the world I’ve ever been able to trust. You know that.”

He looked sheepishly at Kristen. She turned pale, her face ashen as if they had a dirty little secret. He turned away from her.

My stomach lurched. “Oh, Alex,” I stammered and rose from my seat, clutching my chest. “Oh, please. Tell me it isn’t so. You didn’t.” I scrutinized his new wife. “I recognize you now. I met you once. At a firm Christmas party. You’re a paralegal.”

“I haven’t been a paralegal since—”

“Shut up, Kristen,” he warned.

She withdrew from his wrath, no longer a ferocious lioness but more like a chastised kitten.

“You cheated on me with her,” I sputtered and pointed at the cheap, bottle-blonde tramp. “I can’t trust you. I can’t trust anyone. Who will I turn to now?”

He jumped from the chair and caught me before I bolted through the door, his hand wrapping around my wrist. “Please, Rhonda, don’t leave yet.”

I clawed his paw from me. “Don’t touch me. As far as you’re concerned, Rhonda is dead. I’m sorry I came here. I don’t want your help any longer.” I smirked at Kristen. “If he cheated on me with you, he’ll cheat on you, too. And don’t let him get by with telling you to shut up. He’s a bully. All you have to do is stand up for yourself and he’ll back down.”

I slammed the door behind me, making a hasty exit from the horror that was my life.

Chapter Nine

Dr. Crane leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Cristobal, you have presented me with an extraordinary story. This is incredible. In fact, it’s
impossible
.” He paused as if waiting for me to object, but I was still reeling from my narrative. Reciting all my experiences, my doubts, my fears, had exhausted me.

The sun gleamed through the streaky panes of the picture window behind him. A bird captured my attention, flitting around a tree outside as if its nest had been disturbed. The sun reflected off the steel and glass structure across the street, shining in my eyes and making me blink from the glare.

“Mrs. Cristobal?” he prompted me. His chair squeaked under the strain of his movements.

I returned my attention to him. He slid his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and started to rise from his chair.

“So which is it? You can’t help me or you won’t help me?” I asked.

He dropped back into his seat. The chair rolled a bit. “I don’t know what you think I can do.” He spread his hands as if he was helpless. As if I’d asked the unreasonable.

“Couldn’t this cellular memory thing explain—”

“Someone else’s soul cannot inhabit your body. Even theories of reincarnation—if you believe such nonsense—do not suggest such as this. You cannot have another woman’s memories. The combination of medications you have been taking must have produced delusional thinking. Your mind has tricked you,” he explained as if instructing a slow student. “I suggest you see a psychiatrist. I can give you the names of several well-respected doctors in your area.”

My neck muscles tightened. “You know, somehow this doesn’t surprise me.”

He leaned back as if my vehemence surprised him. “What doesn’t?”

“That you can’t explain what’s happening to me. If you can’t, what makes you think a shrink can?”

“This is some sort of psychological—”

“So you’re saying I’m psycho?” I fumed.

“This might be a psychotic break or—”

His telephone interrupted his analysis. He grumbled, but it continued the hideous buzzing.

“Excuse me,” he said and snatched the bothersome instrument from its base. “What?” He listened and then his brow creased. “No. No. Send him back.” He dropped the receiver onto the base with a thud. “You’ve been to see Mr. Prentiss?”

My pulse jumped. “Is Alex here?”

“You cannot interact with Mrs. Prentiss’ family. I thought we discussed this the last time you were here.”

Knocking interrupted our conversation. The doctor flew to the door and I stood when Alex entered the room. My stomach muscles tightened. He had refused to help me. Why was he here?

He addressed me instead of the doctor. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“Please, Mr. Prentiss, come in. Sit down. It seems we have a…situation.” The doctor returned to the sanctuary behind his desk.

Alex studied me. “Are you all right?” I nodded. Concern radiated from his eyes while he held my gaze. “I believe her.”

My knees nearly buckled, the relief was so overwhelming. I dropped into the nearest chair.

The doctor mumbled something beneath his breath before responding to Alex’s incredible declaration of support. “You do realize her story is unbelievable?”

Alex still stood, one hand supporting his weight on the back of my chair, the other hand resting on my shoulder. His warmth permeated my blouse. His reassuring presence overcame my weariness. Despite his infidelity, it was comforting to have someone on my side.

“I don’t understand it, but I know she has Rhonda’s memories. She told me things only Rhonda would know. She talks like Rhonda and she acts like Rhonda. I feel…I sense Rhonda’s persona in this woman I don’t recognize. Whoever she is, she needs help to cope with this.” His fingers pinched my shoulder a little more with each word. His statements echoed around the small office. Yet somehow the recitation of what he believed sounded stilted, as if he’d rehearsed what he should say.

The doctor huffed. “I have seen two or three instances of what might be considered cellular memory phenomena. But never have I seen anything such as Mrs. Cristobal suggests.”

The two men conversed and, within the context of the situation, what they said made sense, but their words rang hollow as if they were sight-reading lines from a play.

I wiggled out of Alex’s grip. “What am I going to do?” I cried in frustration because they talked around me and about me, but not to me. “I need to know what happened to me. I need to know who I really am.”