The Color of Hope (The Color of Heaven Series) (20 page)

I swallowed over a painful lump in my throat and realized I couldn’t imagine my twin sister’s child ending up without a family either.

“Of course I’ll take her,” I replied. “If anything happens to you, I promise I’ll scale mountains to make sure she is never left alone. She’ll have all the love I have to give, and I’ll raise her as if she were my own.”

Strange, how there was almost no thinking involved. I realized in that moment that some decisions – even those that are enormous and far reaching – are simply made by the heart.

A
WEEK LATER
, Nadia was discharged from the hospital.

By then I considered myself a bit of an expert on C-sections, myocarditis, and all things relating to heart transplants – including the system that matched donors with patients, the complications that could arise during and after the surgery, and the prognosis and life expectancy for those who made it that far.

Two things I knew for sure – I didn’t want Nadia to go through this alone, nor did I want her to be treated by Dr. Vaughn. So, with her permission, I made arrangements to have her files sent to Massachusetts General Hospital, so that she could come home with me and live in Boston.

I found an excellent obstetrician, experienced in dealing with pregnancy complications due to heart conditions. Her name was Dr. Aline Jones, and I spoke to her on the phone. She sounded perfect for Nadia.

I also found a hotshot cardiac surgeon who appeared to walk on water. His name was Dr. Jacob Peterson, and he was one of the top transplant surgeons in the country. He had even dealt with a pregnant myocarditis patient in the recent past. That case was similar to Nadia’s, and the woman went on to have a successful heart transplant three months after delivering her healthy baby by C-section. This gave me hope.

I spent the week getting Nadia out of her apartment lease and arranging for movers to put all her furniture into storage, and ship her personal belongings to my home in Beacon Hill.

Since no commercial airline would permit Nadia to fly in her condition, we hired a private medevac plane to take the three of us home to Boston. Nadia did well during the flight, and my father picked us up at the airport.

When we arrived home, I settled Nadia comfortably in the spare bedroom. We went to sleep early, because we had an appointment first thing in the morning to meet her new doctor.

It will baffle me forever that when Dr. Peterson walked into his office, and I turned in my chair to watch him close the door, I felt no great spark of attraction or fascination. Upon first glance, I didn’t even find him terrible handsome. My only response was a thoughtful appreciation of his expert skills as a heart surgeon, and gratitude that he had taken Nadia on as a patient.

Nevertheless, I remember every single detail about his appearance that day: the white lab coat over a blue denim shirt, the loose-fitting jeans, and the well-worn running shoes on his feet. His hair was red, his complexion freckled, and he appeared to be about forty.

As he entered the room, he didn’t speak or make eye contact. His attention was focused on Nadia’s chart, which we had arranged to be sent from the hospital in LA.

He moved around his desk, sat down, and took another moment to finish reading the file before his green eyes finally lifted. He smiled at us, and the little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes made me wonder if he might be older than forty. Forty-five perhaps?

“You must be Nadia,” he cheerfully said, glancing at her belly.

“Yes,” she replied. “This is my sister, Diana.”

He inclined his head slightly as he looked at me, and to my surprise, I fell completely into the openness of his stare. Ordinarily, I was not a shy person, but I felt rather tongue-tied. Not because I was bowled over by any sort of romantic attraction; this was something else entirely. I was overwhelmed by the intelligence and confidence that radiated from his expression. Most importantly, I sensed in him a genuine kindness, a warmth and caring that convinced me I had made the right decision to bring Nadia all this way across the country. I felt very proud.

“You’re twins,” he said.

“Yes,” Nadia replied, and his gaze returned to her.

“I hear you flew back from LA only yesterday,” he said. “That was quite a brave feat in your condition. How was the flight, Nadia? Good service? Did they bring you lots of those little packets of peanuts?”

He was joking of course, because he knew I had hired a private medevac plane. I had discussed it with him on the phone days ago.

Nadia and I both chuckled, but I knew her nervousness about discussing her transplant matched mine.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet both of you,” he said, “and I want you to know that I’ll be working closely with Dr. Jones over the coming weeks. The priority right now is to take care of your baby, then we’ll start the screening process for the transplant.”

“What will that involve?” Nadia asked.

“Quite a lot of things, actually. First we’ll do a medical evaluation, some diagnostic tests to make sure you’re a good candidate. And you’ll see a social worker––”

I sat forward and interrupted him. “Why a social worker?”

His eyes turned to me, and again I felt knocked over.

“I’d like you both to become familiar with the resources available to you while you wait for the transplant. There are group sessions where you can meet other transplant candidates and recipients and learn from their experiences. There are support groups for family members as well.” He paused. “Coping with everything surrounding a transplant can be stressful. Most people find the sessions to be educational and helpful.”

Satisfied with his answer, I leaned back in my chair again.

“You’ll also see a psychiatrist,” he said to Nadia, “and a physical therapist who will work with you to make sure an appropriate level of exercise remains part of your life before and after the transplant. We have a transplant coordinator here, and she’ll be available to answer any questions you might have – about anything. Mostly, I want you to consider this evaluation period an opportunity for you to learn all about heart transplantation and get familiar with the process. That way, you’ll have appropriate information and time to consider all your options and decide whether or not you even want to move forward with it.”

“Is
not
having it even an option?” Nadia asked. “How long can I live with only twenty-five percent heart function?”

“It’s impossible to predict. Some people can live for years, while others...” He didn’t finish his sentence.

“How long will the wait be,” she asked, “if I decide to go ahead with it?”

“It depends how far up the list you are.” He spoke frankly, but there was always an undercurrent of positive encouragement in his voice. He was nothing like Dr. Vaughn. “Your position on the list can change depending on your health,” he continued, “and the health of others who are on the list with you. There are a lot of factors that go into determining a patient’s placement, and you’ll learn about those as we move along.”

I turned to Nadia. “I read that in our country, three thousand people are on the wait list for a heart transplant at any given time, and only two thousand donor hearts are available each year.”

“That’s about right,” Dr. Peterson said. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

I looked back at him and nodded, and we stared at each other for several seconds. My gaze roamed over his face, and I decided his was one of the most interesting faces I’d ever seen. The shape of his lips and teeth, the length of his nose, and the strong line of his jaw... As I said before, he was not classically handsome, but he was attractively different. Even the soft velvety tone of his voice had a strange effect on me.

“If you don’t have any more questions,” he said to both of us, “I’d like to get started with some bloodwork this morning, and perform a few other tests just to see where we are. Then I’ll set you up with the coordinator to book appointments with the rest of the team.”

“Thank you,” Nadia replied, “but I do have one more question. If a person is on the list, but they’re not home when a heart becomes available and you can’t reach them, what happens? Does the heart go to the next person in line?”

“The hospital will issue a pager,” he said, “so you’ll keep that with you at all times. We wouldn’t want you to miss out,” he said with a smile, as if it were a party invitation.

We all stood up. I held out my hand to shake his over the desk between us. His grip was warm and strong, his gaze friendly, direct, and open.

In that moment, I knew we were in excellent hands, and I was very grateful. So grateful, in fact, that when he escorted us out of the room and I shook his hand at the door, I felt an internal jolt. It became clear to me, then, that he was going to be someone very important in our lives.

September

A
FEW WEEKS
after meeting Dr. Peterson at the hospital, I was standing in line at Starbucks near my house when the person behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around, and there he was – my twin sister’s cardiovascular surgeon. This morning he wore loose-fitting jeans, a black turtleneck, and a brown leather jacket. His hair was windblown, and the sight of him forced me to take back my foolish first impression – that he was not particularly handsome.
What had I been thinking?

“I thought it was you,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, hi,” I jauntily replied over a sudden whooshing sensation in my belly. His unexpected appearance in my neck of the woods had caught me off guard. “What are you doing here?”

Stupid question
.
Obviously he’s getting a coffee
.

“I live near here,” he replied.

“No kidding.”
Not so stupid after all
. “So do I. What street?”

He pointed toward the door to gesture in the direction of his house. “I’m over on Chestnut.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “I’m on Charles Street.”

His eyebrows lifted. “We’re neighbors then.”

“Yes, we are.”

I couldn’t believe it. Nor could I stop staring at him. I felt a little frazzled.

Dr. Peterson glanced over my head. “It’s your turn.”

I swung around to discover a wide space between me and the counter. The clerk was staring at me impatiently. “Can I help you?”

Jostled out of my trance – which was the only word to describe my reaction to seeing Dr. Peterson in my local Starbucks – I hastened forward and ordered a tall non-fat latte.

Dr. Peterson placed his order next. Then we found ourselves waiting together at the end of the counter for our coffees.

“On your way to work?” I asked.

“Always,” he said. “You?”

I nodded.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a divorce attorney,” I told him. “I joined a small practice downtown a few months ago.”

“A divorce attorney,” he replied. “That must be a challenge.”

I adjusted the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “It can be. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel completely smothered by heartbreak. I just hope it doesn’t make me jaded about marriage.”

“You’re not married?” he casually asked.

“No. I was in a relationship recently, but it didn’t work out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be. I’m much better off. It’s just taken some time to put all the little pieces of my heart back together, that’s all.”

Oh, God, did I really just say that?

The clerk called my name. I raised my hand in response and stepped forward while he set my latte on the counter. Slipping my cup into a cardboard sleeve, I glanced up when a female clerk placed a coffee on the counter and inquired, “Jacob?”

It was odd to hear Dr. Peterson addressed by his first name. He moved to collect his coffee, and I handed him a sleeve. “Want one of these?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I waited for him so we could walk out together.

“How’s Nadia?” he asked as we pushed through the door and emerged onto the sunny street.

“She’s doing well, although she’s a bit bored. She misses her job.”

He nodded with understanding. “That’s pretty standard for someone who’s been through what she has. There’ll be a lot of adjustments. Just make sure she gets out every day, even for a short walk around the block. When’s her next appointment at the hospital?”

“She sees her obstetrician tomorrow.”

“Will you be taking her?”

I inclined my head. “Unfortunately, no. I have to be in court in the morning. She’ll take a cab.”

I wasn’t sure why I said ‘unfortunately.’ Was I disappointed I wouldn’t bump into Dr. Peterson again?

“Why don’t I give you my home number, in case you ever have questions or need anything,” he said out of the blue. “I don’t usually give it out to patients, but since we’re neighbors....”

My head drew back in surprise. “That would be wonderful, thank you.” I dug into my purse for my phone so I could add him to my list of contacts.

He gave me two numbers – one for his home landline, and another for his cell.