The Heart of Memory (19 page)

His face held a look of disgust. “On the computer, of course. What else would you do with your life while I’m trying to keep our family and ministry from crashing and burning?”

The attack took her by surprise, but she wasn’t about to let him get away with insulting her. “Don’t you dare judge how I deal with this —”

“Deal? You’re not dealing with anything, Savannah. That’s the problem. You’re wallowing.”

“How would you have any idea what I’m doing, Shaun? How much time have you spent in this house over the last month? If anyone is avoiding things, it’s you. I’m dealing the best way I can, and I’m so very sorry if it’s not fixing things the way you’d like them fixed.”

“Hey, I’d be happy for any kind of fix! But what you’re doing is changing nothing. You just sit on that computer and lose yourself in other people’s problems instead of facing your own.”

“Those people know what it’s like to be in my shoes. You can’t fathom the toll this has taken on me, Shaun. Not that you’d bother to even try.”

Shaun ran a hand through his hair and looked about to respond when he waved her off and left from the doorway. Tears began to form as her adrenaline slowed, but then Shaun was back and her defenses rose again.

“You need therapy. How about spending your day doing
that
tomorrow. Find someone you can go to, since I know you won’t go to John. I have no idea how we’ll pay for it, but obviously you need help, so …” He left before finishing his thought, though Savannah knew he had nothing left to say.

She stared at the search engine screen, knowing he was right, and dreading trying to explain to a counselor what she was experiencing. What were the odds of finding a therapist well-versed in the emotional trauma of organ transplant? She hadn’t read many posts on the forum about people going to therapy, at least not long term. She had a feeling her issues would require a lot of time to untangle. The odds of it making a difference were slim, she was sure.

But what if this was Shaun’s way of throwing her a bone, of giving her a lead on what might make at least their relationship a little better? Therapy couldn’t hurt, right? And even if it didn’t work, the fact that she was trying had to count for something.

It would probably take forever to find someone who didn’t think she was nuts—but she had plenty of time to spend looking.

CHAPTER 10

“T
HE LAST ITEM OF BUSINESS IS FOR ME TO ANNOUNCE WE’RE
going to be moving to a new location in January. It’s not too far, just off West Uintah. I specifically tried to find something that would keep the change in your commute times at a minimum. It’s a great location, nice neighborhood. I’m going to give up my office and join the rest of you in the cubes, and we may need to combine a couple of you in a cube together, but when we make the move we’ll figure that out.”

Shaun looked around at the blank faces of the staff. He’d expected some kind of a reaction, but they didn’t seem to care. Unfortunately, these were the expressions he saw more often than not these days. “So … when I finalize things with the management company I’ll let you know when our moving date is. Any questions?” He was met again with silence. “Alright then, have a good Monday.”

He followed them as they shuffled out, noting how conversation didn’t begin between anyone until he was about to close his office door. He was losing them, he could tell. This did not bode well.

He set aside the notes from the meeting and woke his computer. He checked for new email, then clicked the icon on his desktop that opened his account with his online stock broker. It had been almost a week since he’d purchased that stock, and he just knew one of these mornings he’d open his account and see the little green line shooting up.

When it loaded, he almost had a heart attack. The little green line had plummeted. The amount listed as the worth of his purchase was a fraction of what it had been. He scrambled to open a web browser and look up the company’s website, and once he was there he wanted to cry.

A lawsuit over patent infringement.
This can’t be happening.

He read the article listed on the website, which assured stockholders that the plaintiff in the case didn’t have a leg to stand on, and once the case got to court it would certainly be thrown out.

But that did him no good if it took months to get that far. He needed to get that money back now.

He put a sell alert on his stock, hoping to recover at least part of what he’d spent. Something would be better than nothing—though not by much.

He grabbed his keys to leave, then sat back down. He couldn’t afford to waste gas on aimless driving, even if it did help him think. He was stuck here.

He was stuck, period.

S
AVANNAH’S KNEE BOUNCED AS SHE
flipped through a six-month-old magazine without reading its contents. She’d gotten to Dr. Boxer’s office with ten minutes to spare and was now wishing she’d spent them in the car. Knowing she was about to be analyzed made her nervous, and she began to wonder if choosing a non-Christian therapist had been a good idea. She’d wanted to avoid people who would likely tell her to just pray harder, and people who would likely know who she was, but at least their approach would be somewhat familiar. She had no idea what to expect here.

Dr. Boxer’s office door opened and a young couple came out holding hands. That gave Savannah some hope. A few minutes later a woman about her own age popped her head out of the door and smiled at her. “Savannah Trover? Come on in.”

Savannah smoothed her pantsuit as she stood. She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to dress up, but it seemed like a good idea. She was kicking herself now for not dressing in something more comfortable. The suit just added to her sense of unfamiliarity with her own self.

Dr. Boxer nodded to a couch set under the window. “Feel free to take a seat. I just need to switch my files around here.” Savannah sat and looked around the office while the doctor fiddled with some papers on her desk. After a minute she sat across from Savannah with a notepad and pen. “So, Savannah, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what brought you in today?”

Savannah took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Well, I had a heart transplant about two and a half months ago.” She explained the circumstances leading up to it, even though the details weren’t pertinent; she needed time to acclimate to telling a complete stranger about her most intimate thoughts. “And I feel like every day when I wake up I discover something else that has changed about me, or my personality, or the things I liked or didn’t like. And it’s not just in my head; my family and coworkers have noticed it too. But the worst part is that I have this anger that I just can’t shake. I don’t know why I’m so mad, but I am, all the time, and it doesn’t take a lot for me to really show it.”

Dr. Boxer pulled a form from a desk drawer and handed it to Savannah.
Depression Inventory.
“Do any of these apply to you?”

Savannah scanned the list.
Are you often sad or irritable? Have you noticed changes in your sleep patterns? Have you lost interest in activities you once enjoyed?
Her frustration mounted as she saw where this would likely lead. “Well, yes,” she said after reading all ten items. “They all apply, actually. But not because I’m depressed, because I’m
not.”

Dr. Boxer nodded as she wrote on the notepad. “It’s quite common for transplant recipients to experience a wide swing in moods after their operation. Depression is very common—”

“But this
isn’t
depression; it’s anger. I’ve counseled people with depression before. I know what it looks like. This is anger.”

“Anger is very common as well.”

“For people who lost out on a lot of their life waiting for a heart—yes, I’ve read about that. But that’s not true in my case. I went from healthy to transplant in less than a month.”

“Anger can also be a symptom of depression.”

“But I’m not depressed!” She took a deep breath, trying not to let her anger get the best of her. “Depression and anger are obviously two different things, otherwise we wouldn’t have two separate words for them. I’m
angry.
And more importantly, I’m angry at God, around whom my entire pre-transplant life revolved. A
little
anger would make sense, but not this much—and not at someone that I wouldn’t have even considered blaming before. Now I don’t think he’s even there to be blamed. And that makes no sense. It scares me. I’m not
me
anymore. And I want to get back to who I was.”

Dr. Boxer’s even expression made Savannah want to slap her. “I understand that, Savannah. But until you’re willing to work with me and with what I believe is your diagnosis, you’re not going to get any better.”

Savannah tried not to roll her eyes. “Alright, what is my diagnosis?”

“I believe you’re suffering from clinical depression, and I propose that you see your doctor about starting an antidepressant. We can continue to meet, if you want to, to work through the underlying issues that are manifesting themselves as anger toward God.”

Savannah slouched back in the couch, resigned to the fact that this woman had no idea what she was talking about. “Fine, fine — I’ll call my doctor.” She stood and gave Dr. Boxer’s hand a brief shake, then left the appointment twenty minutes early.

She knew she’d never be able to explain it to the therapist, whose mind was obviously made up, but Savannah just knew she wasn’t depressed. It made sense that no one would believe her, but she wasn’t going to play along with a diagnosis that she knew was incorrect, and she certainly wasn’t about to add yet another pill to her daily regimen.

She sat in the car and tried to decide her next move. She didn’t want to, but she knew her best bet was likely going to be with Rose, the counselor to whom A&A often directed local women when they called for advice. She and Rose had known each other for almost ten years, and while they weren’t close friends, Savannah hoped Rose knew her well enough to know she wasn’t in denial about being depressed.

She called Marisa on her cell and got Rose’s number, then called the counselor’s office. “Rose? It’s Savannah Trover.”

“Savannah! Honey, how are you — I heard about the surgery.”

“Well, you know … I’m not that great, actually. I was wondering if I could come talk to you some time this week?”

“This week? Nonsense. Can you come at 5?”

She smiled in spite of herself.
Maybe this is a good omen.
“Tonight? Yes, absolutely.”

“Wonderful. I’ll carry in some sandwiches and we can chat.”

Savannah hoped the encouragement she already felt wasn’t misleading her. They rang off and she headed home to change out of the ridiculous pantsuit and into her new jeans.

Savannah pulled up to Rose’s office at five and smiled when she saw the Jimmy John’s Sandwich delivery car in the lot. She went in just as the delivery boy came out, and was quickly greeted with a hug from Rose. “Come on in, honey. I’ve got a sandwich right here for you. Just pull up a chair to my desk.” Savannah did as she was told, then froze when Rose said, “Shall we pray?”

Deciding then and there to be completely transparent, Savannah said, “Actually, I’d prefer that we didn’t.”

Rose didn’t even blink, but instead pointed to the sandwich in front of Savannah and said, “Turkey and swiss. I hope that’s alright. I didn’t even think to get your order when we were on the phone.”

“That’s perfect. Thank you.”

“So you had your transplant back in August, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Is the reason you’re here today related to that?”

“I think so, yes.”

“I don’t have any first-hand experience counseling people who have gone through transplants, just so you know. I’ve read case studies in the past, but nothing recent.”

“That’s alright. From what I gather the things I’m experiencing aren’t very common, so I don’t know how much help extra experience would have been for you anyway.”

Rose’s eyebrows arched. “Well, now I’m curious. Do tell.”

So she did, trying not to gloss over anything as often happened when telling a story for a second time in a day. Rose nodded along as she ate and listened, and when she finished Savannah sat back and gestured with her soda in a “voila” kind of way. “I don’t need to tell you how devastating this is to my entire life, Rose. I need to figure out what’s happened, and get it fixed.”

Rose dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then sat back and gave Savannah the answer she’d been hoping not to hear. “I don’t know what to tell you, honey. I agree it doesn’t sound like depression, though. I’ve never heard of this kind of a reaction to a transplant, but I can tell you that God created us in such a way as for all our facets to be integrated—the physical affects the emotional and the spiritual, and vise versa. You sound pretty well-versed in the basics of the emotional effects, but I’m just as clueless as you when it comes to the spiritual. If you don’t mind, I’d like to consult with a few other professionals who might have a little more experience with this, see what they have to say. I won’t use your name, of course.”

Savannah nodded, though her spirits sank. “That would be fine, Rose. I appreciate your trying to help.”

“Of course, honey. Just wish I could offer you more right now.”

Savannah gave her a small smile. “Me too.”

B
ACK AT HOME,
S
AVANNAH DECIDED
it was time to pull out the big guns. It wasn’t the approach Shaun was likely to approve of, but it was the only option left she could think of. She wasn’t about to waste her time bouncing from clueless therapist to clueless therapist, rehashing her personal life over and over and getting the same response. She needed to talk to someone who had lived through at least some of what she was experiencing. She woke her computer and brought up a search engine, then typed in the name of her old college roommate, her former best friend, the woman she hadn’t talked to in twenty years.
Tabitha Vaughn.

Google returned only seven pages of links. She scanned the first page, then the second, wondering if she should save herself some time and trouble and just pay for the people finder website that came up as the top hit. Then her eye caught something familiar: the name of Christ College of Colorado, their alma mater. She clicked the link and found Tabitha’s bio on the college’s alumni page. It hadn’t been updated in about six years, but it listed her location as Georgia. She went to one of the social networking sites Shaun had bugged her to join once and typed
“Tabitha Vaughn” + Georgia
into the search box. Only two profiles appeared, including one that was marked as private, but the picture next to the name was definitely her.

Seeing Tabitha’s face after so long brought back a deluge of memories. Double dates, sneaking out—and back in — after curfew, studying for finals and envying how easily Tabitha’s straight A’s came to her. She was reminded yet again of the falling out that had come right after their graduation. She chewed her lip, debating. Was this worth it?

No harm in trying— or at least, not much.
She clicked a link beneath Tabitha’s name and began writing her a message.

Dear Tabitha,

She stopped, thinking. What did one say to someone after twenty years? Should she ease into things, not explain right away her reasons for tracking her down? Should she apologize? An apology over email didn’t seem appropriate, given how harsh she’d been the last day they’d spoken. But then what
should
she say?