Estranged Heart

Sixteen

Silas

Rushing inside, I can’t help but look out the window to see if Elijah is fully out of sight yet. He is, and I’m met with an uncomfortable shift in my stomach mixed in with relief. Him leaving doesn’t matter at this point. We already did what we shouldn’t have done. We already went too far. The stroke of his fingers brushing back my hair felt so good, I was buzzing from the innocent touch. We were talking about all my different instruments and before I knew it my lips were on his. Desire burned within me, along with a promise of escape from the loneliness I’ve been experiencing for too long.

Not once while he was going down on me did I look around to see if anyone was coming. I was too caught up in my pleasure and the wonderful things he was doing with his mouth. The only way it could have ended was if he’d stopped on his own, but he’d been as far gone as I was, and at that moment I’d felt like if I pulled away I’d disintegrate into nothing.

Pressing my face into the window, I stay here until the sun starts to go down. Pink and yellow hues fill the sky, calling me to the porch swing. I walk to the kitchen and heat up water in the kettle, singing to myself until it’s hot enough. After fixing myself tea in one of my favorite mugs, I exit the front door and lower myself into the white swing, staring ahead at the darkening sky. It really is beautiful out here, and still I have no one to witness it with me. Would Elijah have stayed if I’d asked him?

Shaking my thoughts away, I lean back against the hardwood, pressing my shoes into the porch to swing myself back and forth. I don’t go inside until the sky is completely black and accompanied by a few stars. We see a few out here but it’s nothing compared to being outside town. I bet the sky is littered with them at the lake. Does Elijah ever stay late enough to watch them? Why does my mind keep falling back to him?

I reach for my phone in my pocket, and my eyes widen at the time. It’s already eight p.m., and not only haven’t I started dinner, but Stacey isn’t home. I walk back into the house, grab some pasta, cut up some veggies for a homemade sauce, and throw some ground beef on a skillet. Dinner simmers on the stove, and as I fill two cups with wine, my phone goes off. A message from Stacey awaits me. I don’t read it until the food is done and I’m sitting at the table with a filled plate in front of me.

I wasn’t ready to feel the disappointment until I was able to drown it away with food and wine. I’m still not ready. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself I’m the bad person here, not her, before reading her excuse for not coming home again.

Stacey : Back-to-back shifts again. I can’t wait to spend Sunday together. Send me a picture to show me what I’m missing?

Is she sure something else won’t come up this weekend? I’m getting too used to her being gone. I’m also growing used to seeing someone else in her place. At the lake, the bakery, restaurants, and even my home. For once, I wasn’t waiting for my wife all day, checking my phone or looking out the window for her car coming down the road. Elijah showed up like an angel of mercy, helping me paint, move furniture, and keeping me occupied, and now I feel like I’ll be waiting for him from here on out. For him to randomly swing by and ask me if I need help and agree to go on more walks with me.

The idea is crazy. He came by to bring me a water bottle and felt obligated to stay. He probably won’t come back even if it felt like only a few hours ago he didn’t want to leave me at all. Then he did, and I can’t stop seeing him getting in the car to drive away. He shouldn’t return anyway, and I need to stay away as well, or else I’ll keep ending up panting against him with my pants down.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I take a sip of wine and open them again. Reading Stacey’s message over, I take a picture of me and the food, waiting until I’m done eating to send them. The dishes are washed and I have the counters wiped down by the time she writes back.

Stacey : Looking good. The food too.

She sends a winky face afterward, and I’m left feeling as if I don’t deserve to be walking around so easily without any struggle. Someone better than me does. A man or woman who doesn’t cheat on their spouse with a . . . well, he hardly feels like a stranger now. What am I going to do? I know what I should do but none of it feels like the right answer. Not only did I mess up once, I’ve messed up four times, and I can’t stop wanting more. More kisses, touches, laughs and smiles. More Elijah.

A hand wraps around my neck and I’m being strapped to a table. A familiar, cold, long metal table. I gasp for air when the pressure crushing my lungs is gone.

“We have to hurry. His recipient doesn’t have much time,” a man says, adjusting his mask.

Recipient? But I’m the recipient? Fighting against the straps, I try to open my mouth to speak, but my throat is too dry and sore.

“He’s all beat up,” a man in a white lab coat says.

“You only said to keep him alive,” the man in the mask responds back.

“You’re right, I did. Let’s get to work before we no longer have a customer and another heart goes to waste.”

What does he mean by another heart going to waste? Loud ringing has everyone searching the room and it sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else.

I lose focus of the room, and the warehouse begins to look more like my living room. I open my eyes wider and wait until the room is no longer blurry before I sit up. Another nightmare, but this one was longer and new people were there. A woman in blue scrubs with her dark hair pulled back in a bun and a blue mask covering her face. Her gray eyes struck me as familiar, and I swear I’ve seen them before. Why won’t these dreams stop? Who are these people? Are they real? Is this what the man who gave me his heart experienced?

Swinging my legs out of the blanket, I turn on the lamp and the clock on the wall reads three a.m. Stacey isn’t home and I have no new messages from her. Rubbing my eyes, I turn on the TV and watch reruns of an old show, my chest suddenly bothering me. There’s a little stinging and tingling where the incision is. It happens sometimes. Except now it’s followed by a tightness that’s more in the center than anywhere else. I haven’t had an anxiety attack in a long while. My heart problems used to contribute to them, along with the fear of going unresponsive with no one around.

I didn’t think a worse fear existed until my recent nightmares. Having my life taken from me so someone else could have my heart. I don’t understand what’s setting them off but they only grow more detailed with each one I have, like someone’s trying to get some message to me. A person without a voice. Grabbing my chest, I lie back against the cushions, watching TV until the sun comes up. I have to find out whose heart this is. Maybe once I do, it’ll explain what’s happening to me.

Reaching for my phone, I dial the transplant hospital where my surgery was performed, and when a nurse answers I ask her what the protocol is for finding out information about who my organ donor was. She tells me the information isn’t always available but I’m welcome to write a letter to the family and maybe they’ll write me back, and to ensure I don’t include too much personal information.

Maybe . I guess that’s better than being told I have zero chance of hearing from them. After thanking her, I hang up the phone and write my letter, starting off with how grateful my wife and I have been, followed by how I’d love to know more about the man whose heart now rests in my chest. Once I’m satisfied with what’s on paper, I fold it up and place it in an envelope. I carry it with me everywhere I go as if setting it down will cause it to disappear.

It rests on the counter as I drink my usual coffee, turning my nose up at a taste I once loved. The envelope is on the table while I eat my eggs and toast. I leave it next to the bathroom sink when I shower, ignoring the ringing noise I swear is only in my head until it grows louder. It’s gone when I shut off the water, and doesn’t return while I’m dressing or getting ready to leave the house. I’m locking the door with the envelope tucked under my arm and swear I hear the ringing again. Phantom ringing. I heard it in my dreams and now it’s everywhere.

I don’t go back inside to check whether I’m right, I just continue heading for my car. It sounded like a cell phone, but it can’t be mine since that’s in my pocket, Stacey has hers, and there’s no other phone in the house. Turning up my music, I back out of the driveway and head to the hospital. Tightness creeps back into my chest again and I rub it out with my fingers before exiting the car. Of course that’s the one time I don’t bring the envelope with me and have to turn around halfway to the door to go back and grab it.

The sun has fully taken over the sky. I feel like I’m melting when I step away from my car and make my way to the large gray building. Cool air greets me as I walk through the double doors, and I head toward a smiling woman standing behind a gray stone desk.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“Hi, my name is Silas Adams and I’m here to drop off a letter for my donor’s family.”

“Oh, I believe we spoke on the phone. I’m so glad you could make it in. I’m sure they’ll be happy hearing from you. The family usually is. Please keep in mind, they don’t always write back.”

“As much as I’d love to hear more about the man who gave me his heart, telling them thank you is just as important to me.”

“Of course.” Her brows bunch together as she types away on her keyboard. Tilting her head, her brow wrinkles. “Are you sure this is the right hospital?”

“Yes.” I press my hand to the desk, leaning over a little. “This is the very hospital I remember leaving and coming back to for a follow up.”

“That’s weird. I don’t see your name in our system. What’s your birth date? Perhaps it’s spelled wrong.”

Giving her the information gets me nowhere again and she calls her manager to see what can be done. He comes down to tell me what was already said. My heart is a roller coaster of emotions and I can’t slow it down, worried it’ll slide off the rails soon. This isn’t possible. How could my information randomly vanish?

“That can’t be right. I had my transplant here and was a patient for weeks. How could my information vanish so quickly?”

“I’m sure it’s some misunderstanding. Maybe our system is experiencing a mishap. Give us a call in a few days and we’ll check again for you.”

“Yeah.” I shove the letter in my back pocket. “Okay . . . Wait. My doctor. He stopped by to visit me here. You have to know him. Dr. Preston.”

“Ah. Yes. Dr. Preston. He does have patients here but we still aren’t seeing your name. We’ll give him a call and I’m sure we can get it all settled in no time.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry we couldn’t be much help today,” the manager says, forcing his lips into a smile. Everything about him is so plastic. His eyes are empty and I can’t help but feel he’s hiding something.

Nodding, I turn around and walk back out into the blistering heat, back where I started. I’m leaving with no new answers and more questions than before. Pressing my hand to my chest, I close my eyes and focus on the fast beat against my palm. Whose heart is inside me? I feel like I might know the answer but don’t want to admit it out loud.

I pull out my phone, googling heart transplant side effects and click on the link mentioning memory transfer. My chest squeezes at all the words in front of me. It’s like they’re all blending together the more I read about the possibility of gaining your recipient’s memories, dreams, and interests. My breaths are shallow and my chest caves in as I press my hand tighter to it. If that was the case . . . I . . . no. It can’t be.

Do I have Landon’s heart in my chest?

Sliding my finger up to the search engine again, I type in “Landon Pena” and “boating accident.” There are various articles saying almost the same thing with a few minor details differing. Some say his body was never found and some say it was. Which is it? It can’t be the first one. I look at the date of the accident and suck air between my teeth when I realize it’s the same day I almost died. The day they told me I had a donor.

Feeling lightheaded, I lower my phone and close my eyes again, remembering the hands touching Elijah in my dreams, the clothes I was wearing as I was being dragged into the warehouse, and the voice that didn’t sound like mine. They really were all memories, weren’t they?

The thoughts follow me until I’m falling asleep half drunk on the couch, trying to escape a new living nightmare I can’t wake up from.