Where Mercy Flows (24 page)

The Judge finally couldn’t stand it another day. He stormed into my room one morning, tossed me the robe and insisted that
I get out of that bed.

“Why? What’s going on?” I asked.

“Life. Life is going on.” He gestured for me to follow him and headed for the bedroom door. “Come on now, or you’re going
to miss it.”

Curiosity got the better of me. I stepped tentatively from the bed, wrapped the robe around me and followed my father out
of the room. Weak and slightly dizzy at first, I skimmed my hand along the wall of the hallway for support. Mom was in her
bathrobe too, propping TJ where he stood on the sill of the big picture window in the dining room. The shirt of his pajamas
had ridden up, exposing his bare tummy. He was giggling.

“I wanna play with them, Grandma.”

The Judge guided me up to the window with his hand on my back. “Mama Bear wouldn’t like that, son. Besides, those guys have
sharp claws.”

They were black bears. Two big cubs rolling, chasing and tumbling together at the edge of the back lawn. “Where’s the mother?”
I asked.

My father pointed. “Over there by the tree. Do you see her?”

All the snow from prior weeks was gone. The sow was rolling a rotted log with her powerful paw. “How do you know that’s the
mother? She’s not much bigger than they are.”

“I saw her with these guys last spring, when they were the size of a twenty-pound bag of flour. She has a lighter patch under
her chin. Can you see it? She’ll keep them with her at least through next summer, until they’re old enough to go out on their
own.”

“They’re brothers,” TJ volunteered. “They’re not fighting, Mom. That’s just the way they play. I
really
want to go play with them.”

Mom moved aside and I leaned into him. “Sorry, baby, they play pretty rough.”

The big cubs suddenly turned and scrambled toward the sow bear as if by some grunted command. Their rich brown fur flowed
loosely in waves along their bodies as they ran. “Shouldn’t they be hibernating now?” I asked.

The Judge shook his head. “Bears don’t shut down completely like squirrels or skunks. They can actually wake up from time
to time during the winter. It looks like Mama Bear got hungry.” The cubs were now snacking along with their mother on something
they had found inside the log. Probably grubs.

TJ turned and patted me with his hand. “Why don’t
I
have a brother, Mom?”

My father shot me an amused glance with one raised eyebrow.

“Well, I never had another baby after you, Teej.”

“Why not?”

Now my mother was smirking. Everyone looking at me. “Well . . . It’s just that I would have to . . . These things don’t just
happen. You have to plan, but even then you never know . . . and in my case . . .” I stopped myself. “Help me out here anytime,
somebody.”

We all laughed. All except TJ, who still wanted an intelligent answer to his question. I told him that I would get back to
him later on that. The bear family headed downstream with Mama Bear in the lead, and Mom announced that she was going back
to making waffles.

“Eat out here with us, Sam,” my father said.

“Oh, I don’t think so. I feel gross.”

“Go take a shower. We’ll wait.” He wasn’t asking.

I didn’t feel like showering. I wanted to hibernate like a skunk, in a sleep so deep that nothing could hurt me. But I obeyed
my father.

The water washed over my body, running in rivulets down my arms, between my breasts. I realized my skin was still beautiful,
my body almost as sleek as it was at seventeen. I should have been in my prime. I would have liked to present TJ with a little
brother. My eyes closed and I pretended I was a child again, letting the little waterfall on the creek wash over me. Remembering
my river. How as a child I thought it flowed forever; it had no beginning and no end. The water spiraled at my feet and disappeared
down the drain.

At breakfast I was quiet, not on purpose but because I felt my very soul had washed down that drain. It had gone on before
me, awaiting my physical body in some dark place from which there could be no escape. TJ covered my silence with questions
about bears, which my father—the talking encyclopedia—answered in vivid detail. Mom said she had never seen bears so close
to the house before, but the Judge said not to worry; they would disappear into the woods the minute they caught wind of us.
After taking a few bites and poking at my food for some time, I excused myself and returned to my room.

Later, the Judge knocked on my door. “Samantha?”

I pulled the front of my robe together. “Yes. Come in.”

He immediately walked to my window and pulled the yellow curtains aside. “It’s gloomy in here. Why don’t you let the light
in?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. It glares on the TV sometimes.”

“While you sit here in the dark, you’re missing things that go on in the light. Like the bears. That was a nice surprise,
wasn’t it?”

I nodded. “Life is full of surprises.” The irony of what I’d just said hit me. I looked up at him sheepishly.

“You need to get back to the doctor, Samantha.” He pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “I know you think it’s pointless,
but it
is
necessary. If for no other reason, just to show you’re still in the program. If you’re not willing to do whatever it takes,
you’ll get passed up. Donor hearts are too scarce to chance on someone who’s not willing to fight.”

I sighed deeply and coughed. My heavy heart felt like it had sunk into my stomach. “I can’t.” As soon as I said it, I knew
I had made a mistake.

The Judge shot to his feet and his chair fell backward with a crash. “That’s a lie! It’s a lie from the pit of hell!
I can’t.
Yes, you can! You
can
fight, Samantha! I know you’re tired, but forget your body for a minute. This battle is in your mind.” He was pacing now,
running his hand through his hair, his eyes ablaze. “You give up in your mind and your body’s naturally going to follow. But
if you have faith—the essence of things hoped for, the assurance of things not seen—you can do anything.” His eyes fell on
the picture of TJ and me eating watermelon on the Fourth of July. He picked it up and passed it to me. “This can happen again.”

In my weakness, I didn’t argue. I took the photo and saw the pure joy in our eyes, our smiles as wide as the melon rinds.
I let my hand with the framed photo fall to my side and stared at the window. My eyes filled with tears.

The Judge’s anger ebbed. He pulled the chair upright and sat down, remaining quiet for some time. When he spoke again, his
voice was soft. “If you really want to die, Samantha, then dwell on how sick you are. Think about it day and night. Imagine
never seeing TJ again, never again standing in the river or smelling the cottonwoods. Think about life going on without you.
But if you want to live, do the opposite. Pray for a new heart. Believe that it’s on its way and speak accordingly. Speak
of the future. Choose life, Samantha.
Decide
to live.”

WHEN WE WERE KIDS, Donnie and I built our first dam together. A dam we were sure would put the Army Corps of Engineers to
shame, that would cause them to crawl to us begging for our plans. But the plans were all in our heads. We spent several days
carrying heavy rocks from the river to the little creek that fed it, placing them stone on stone, carefully fitting, chinking
the gaps with smaller chunks of rock, until we had built a wall. A mighty barricade that blocked the stream, all but a wash
of trickles, causing it to spread into a placid pond. Our own private swimming pool.

After our celebration swim we lay on the creek bank among the bracken ferns, admiring our work. The water level continued
to rise, slowly spreading, reaching beyond the low sandy banks into the grasses, stretching out like a sleepy child.

But just at one edge a tiny rivulet made its way around the rocks. The rivulet pushed and prodded until it became a small
stream. An escape route. The pent-up waters began to throw themselves at the newly discovered opening. They shoved forward,
stampeding through the narrow pass. They undermined the foundation. We stood and watched in horror and delight as our seemingly
benign pond rammed against the dam, tumbling its heavy stones and exploding through, rushing, gushing in a powerful rage that
could no longer be contained.

That’s the way it was with me.

To my father I must have looked as placid as that dammed-up pond when he left my room that day. Surely there was no outward
sign of what was happening inside of me. But his words pushed and prodded. Something about what he said rang true and I found
myself repeating the words over and over.
Choose life. Decide to live.

I actually got up and dressed myself that afternoon. My hair had air-dried in its natural wavy state. I pulled it up into
a high ponytail and sat by the dining room window with a cup of tea, hoping the bear family might return. TJ played with his
cars and trucks at my feet and between the mahogany chair legs. I practiced what my father said. I thought of taking my son
to kindergarten next fall. Not Lindsey but
me
packing his lunchbox and walking him to the door of his classroom. Once I even said, “Hey, Teej. Maybe we’ll see those bears
when we’re fishing next summer.” The words came out hollow, but at least they came out.

That night I dreamed. I don’t remember the players. I don’t know where the sea could be as clear and green as lime Jell-O
or the sky could be so blue. Certainly not in Washington State, midwinter. We were laughing. I dove into the warm sea and
swam right to the bottom with the strength of a porpoise and stayed there for a long time with my eyes wide open and never
craving air. Though unaware of it at the time, now I’m sure I was absolutely naked. No tight swimsuit creeping up, no tank
or regulator, no flippers. I burst up through the surface into the tepid sky, soaring and swooping like a swallow until I
found myself lying on a dock panting, laughing, beads of water drying inward on my tight brown skin. A breeze as gentle as
a mother’s touch ruffled my hair. I was not ashamed of my nakedness but aware only of infinite freedom, dazzling light and
energy that radiated from some invisible source.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of cupboard doors slamming in the kitchen. I had slept propped
upright, as usual, because it relieved the pressure on my chest, allowing me to breathe more freely. I closed my eyes and
tried to soar like a swallow again. If only I could retrieve the dream. I had never known the absolute joy that my soul had
conjured up while I slept. Where did my mind conceive it? I gradually understood. Love. That’s what it was. I was surrounded
by it, swimming in it, flying through it. Fear did not exist.

I know now that the dream was a gift. I felt the love I had been so starved for—but didn’t believe in. It was the love I always
wished my father could have for me.

It would take a lot of love for me to break down the dam that was stopping up my life. A tiny rivulet of hope rose up in me
and with it a surge of strength. I could do it. I would love my son enough to fight for my life. And Donnie. I knew now that
he was the man I wanted. I would be strong for him and for my parents. I would make them all proud.

Choose life.
Little by little, the dam was coming down.

F
OR WEEKS THE MOVIES in my head had starred a motherless boy and his blond, vivacious auntie—perfect in every way, with her
plastic-haired husband and a supporting cast of two doting grandparents. My only lines were chiseled into a gravestone. That
was about to change.

Since I had
misplaced
my pager, the Judge stopped by RadioShack on his way back from the city for a replacement.

I called my social worker, Irma Krueger, from the privacy of my room. She had been out to the house back in late July after
my cardiologist determined that conventional treatments were not working on my damaged heart. I knew that Irma had come to
evaluate my worthiness for acceptance into the heart transplant program and that I was being psychoanalyzed to determine whether
I had the grit to stay committed to it. She also came to discuss financial issues, which my father insisted be between the
two of them. What could he do? I had somehow become his responsibility again, not by law of course, but by his own code of
honor. The same self-woven cable had caused him to take responsibility for me twenty-five years ago because of a promise he
made to an obnoxious coworker.

Irma answered her phone on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Hi, Irma. This is Samantha.”

“Well, well. I thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.” Her middle-aged voice was tinged with a German accent and a
smile.

“Sorry. I was having a bad day last time you called.” I closed my eyes and remembered the dream. I pictured myself soaring
like a barn swallow with the sun on my back, full of joy, and I drew on that strength. “Irma. I don’t want to die. I want
to live.”

“That’s good. That’s good, Samantha. Now we can get back on track. Christopher said you missed your last appointment. Do you
want me to reschedule?” I said yes. She gave me a pep talk and said she would speak to the doctor about giving me some kind
of antidepressant. “You have to be willing to fight, Samantha. You have to do everything in your power. We will depend on
God for the rest. Are you ready to fight?”

I didn’t give it a moment of thought. “Yes. I’m ready.”

CHRISTOPHER WAS THE NURSE assigned to me by the hospital. His dark hair was woven into a single braid that fell just short
of the small of his back. A few wiry gray strands sprang rebelliously from the smooth ones at the top of his head and from
his sideburns. I’d say he was about thirty, going on thirteen. He always made irreverent jokes about the hospital staff, including
my transplant surgeon, Dr. Wilhelm. One day he told me not to get beeped between five and seven p.m. because that’s when Dr.
Wilhelm went to happy hour. “He just can’t pass up a bargain. Half-price drinks and hors d’oeuvres. Come to think of it, don’t
get beeped after seven at night either.”