Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
HAYDEN
As much as I hate to admit it, Jude was right.
I’ve been living with a ghost.
I hadn’t realized how much Cora’s presence still haunted my life until he forced me to come to terms with it. I may have moved away from Chicago. May have even finally quit working for her father.
But her presence was still here.
So, over the past few days, I’ve started doing the one thing I should have done months ago.
I’ve started getting rid of her things. Which is why I’m currently in my home office, finally going through all the paperwork I’ve avoided this past year.
I work methodically. Keep what matters. Shred what doesn’t.
Every so often, a notification pops up on my phone, and I rush to it, praying it’s Rowan finally replying to one of my texts.
It’s not.
While I’m desperate to hear from her, I also don’t want to overwhelm her. So I’ve been giving her space, hoping she’ll eventually reach out.
As I set my phone back on the desk, I grab another stack of files and start going through them, my chest tightening when I read the label.
Donor Correspondence
After Cora passed, I received letters from the various recipients of her organs, facilitated by an organization to remain anonymous.
I read the letters once, then filed them away, choosing not to respond or learn who they were.
But maybe that’s been part of the problem.
Maybe I need to reach out.
Maybe this is part of the closure I need.
So instead of putting the letters into the box of items to be shredded, I pick up the folder and sit behind the desk, reading the first letter from a woman in her late sixties who’d been in renal failure.
Because of your family’s sacrifice, I was able to attend my granddaughter’s graduation. I walked her across the stage myself.
I picture an older woman standing a little straighter. A girl gripping her arm. A future that almost didn’t happen.
I set the letter aside and read the next one. This one’s from a woman in her early thirties with two children around the same age as mine.
I can chase my boys in the yard again. Now when I get tired, it’s because I ran, not because my body is failing.
I swallow hard through the tightness in my throat. Cora would have loved to learn this. To know she gave a mother more time with her children.
I move on to the next letter. This one’s from a teenager. A liver recipient.
I get to do summer swim team this year. I didn’t think I’d still be alive this summer.
My heart warms. She didn’t just save older people. She saved a child, too. Gave them life.
Just like the person who donated Rowan’s heart gave her life.
I reach for the next envelope and lift the flap, pulling out a piece of cream cardstock and unfolding it.
I’ve read all these letters before.
But this one hits differently.
Because it’s from the woman who received Cora’s heart.
Now all I can think about is Rowan. Did she write a letter like this to the family of the person who donated her heart?
Of course she did. There’s no way she wouldn’t have shown her appreciation the first chance she got.
I could almost picture her with her journal, toiling over what she wanted to say, worried it wouldn’t properly convey her gratitude.
I smile at the picture in my head and read the letter written by the woman who now has Cora’s heart.
Dear Family,
I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. Because in my mind, you are my family, even if we never meet. You will always hold a very special place in my heart, and not because it belongs to someone you love.
There are not enough words in the English language to properly thank you for what you have given me.
A few months ago, I collapsed at work. One moment I was talking to my assistant. The next, I woke up in a hospital bed with doctors explaining that my heart was failing.
For months, I lived on borrowed time. Medication. Procedures. Waiting.
Waiting to see if my body would stabilize.
Waiting to see if it would give out.
Eventually, I was told the only thing that would save me was a new heart.
I hate that someone else had to die so I could live.
But someone did.
And because of them, I’m still here.
I don’t know their name. I don’t know what their laugh sounded like or what kind of music they loved. But I carry them with me. Literally and figuratively.
Every morning when I wake up, I press my hand to my chest and whisper thank you.
I promise I will not waste this gift.
To that end, I made a list while I was waiting. A life list. A promise to honor my new life by truly living it.
The air in the room shifts.
Life list.
Rowan had a life list, too.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence.
It’s not unusual for someone who’s been given a second chance at life to make a list of things they want to do. I’ve seen it countless times with some of my patients.
This is no different.
With that reassurance, I keep reading.
This will also be my year of yes.
Yes to travel.
Yes to new experiences.
Yes to joy, even when it feels terrifying.
I bought a van and plan to drive across the country. I want to see mountains and oceans and tiny roadside attractions that make no sense.
I plan to make every moment count.
To find joy.
To live.
Because someone doesn’t get to.
I hope that brings you even a sliver of comfort.
Your loved one’s heart beats strong. I feel it every day. I will take care of it. I will honor it. I will build a life worthy of it.
I hope to thank you in person one day.
If not, know you will always have my endless gratitude.
Thank you for the gift of more time.
I blink, staring at the paper for several long moments. Life list. Year of yes. The van.
It’s a coincidence. It has to be.
But the handwriting. I’ve seen this handwriting before.
I shove back from the desk so hard the chair slams into the wall. My legs don’t work as fast as I want them to as I bolt upstairs into my bedroom, pulling out the resignation letter Rowan gave me earlier in the week.
With trembling hands, I lay them side by side on the bed.
The same rounded a.
The same narrow e.
The same curling t.
There’s no mistaking it.
These were written by the same person.
“Oh, my god.” My knees give out and I fall heavily onto the mattress, struggling to breathe.
Rowan has my wife’s heart.
All the nights she lay against my chest, all the mornings I felt her heartbeat under my palm, it was Cora’s heart I was feeling.
The sound of the door opening cuts through, followed by my sister’s voice.
“Hayden, we’re back.”
I snap out of my stupor and grab the letters before hurrying downstairs.
“Woah,” Dylan says when I enter the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
I slam the papers down onto the island. “Were these written by the same person?”
Dylan blinks at me in confusion. “What are you going on about?”
“Just tell me what you see.”
She studies me for a protracted beat, still confused.
“Please, Dylan,” I beg, my voice barely audible.
Sensing my desperation, she steps forward, her confusion giving way to focus as she examines the pages. When she notices one letter is Rowan’s resignation letter and the other is from an organ recipient, she darts her eyes back to mine, sucking in a sharp breath.
“Tell me I’m not imagining it or seeing something I want to see.”
She nods, returning her attention to the papers. She tilts her head, comparing the slant, the spacing.
But before she can answer, Presley moves closer and touches the letter from the heart recipient.
“Rowan.”
The sound is fragile. Scratchy. Like a door that hasn’t been opened in a long time.
Dylan and I both freeze, unsure what to do.
Presley just spoke for the first time in over a year.
We’ve heard a few laughs and hums over the past several weeks, although that all went away when Rowan did.
But to hear her voice again?
I drop to my knees in front of her, not wanting to make a big deal of it and scare her off from ever talking again.
“Yeah, baby,” I say gently, forcing my voice steady. “I think Rowan wrote that letter.”
Dylan nods behind Presley, confirming my suspicions.
“She has Mom’s heart?” Her words are barely audible.
“It appears so.”
Presley takes a moment to absorb this, her gaze dropping to the paper again. “Do you love her?”
My chest tightens as tears burn the back of my eyes. “I loved your mother very much.”
She shakes her head. “No. Rowan. Do you love her?”
I nod slowly. “I do.”
“Then why isn’t she here?”
My mouth opens, but no words come.
What do I say?
That I was afraid?
That I chose statistics over love?
That I didn’t want to risk losing someone again?
“I think… I think she thought she was protecting us. And I think I let her go because I was trying to protect myself.”
Presley considers my response for a long moment before returning her determined gaze to mine. “Then get her back.”
“I tried to reach out, but she hasn’t responded. She might… She might not want to come back.”
“Then try harder.”
I glance up at Dylan, who simply shrugs. “The kid’s got a point.”
I look back at my daughter, tracing my eyes over her soft features. Her eyes are Cora’s. Same shade of green. Same intensity.
But the quiet strength in her posture? The raw determination in the face of adversity?
That’s all Rowan.
“Okay, Presley. I’ll try harder.”
“Thank you.” She leans forward and wraps her arms around my neck.
I hold her tighter than I have in months, fighting back the tears welling in my eyes.
“Can I go play now?” she asks matter-of-factly.
I huff out a laugh and pull myself to my full height. “Of course.”
She slips out of the kitchen like she didn’t just flip my world upside down.
“She spoke.” Dylan moves toward me, her eyes wide.
“I know.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I thought that part of her was gone.”
Dylan gives my arm a squeeze before staring into the distance, seemingly deep in thought. She could just be thinking about the fact that Rowan has Cora’s heart, but I get the feeling there’s something else on her mind.
Call it an older brother’s intuition.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
She sucks in a sharp breath, snapping out of her thoughts. “Oh. Of course.” She forces a smile.
I step closer. “Are you sure?”
“It’s nothing.” She averts her gaze.
“Dylan…”
“Hayden,” she retorts, mimicking my tone.
“Nice try. What’s going on?”
“I told you. It’s nothing.” She opens and shuts her mouth several times. “Did you know Archer Ward was in town?”
Of course. I should have known this had something to do with our old neighbor. I never knew Archer that well. But I certainly know of Archer Ward. Any self-respecting hockey fan does.
“I don’t exactly stay informed of his movements.”
She nods, seeming to process this. Then she clears her throat, returning her focus to me. “So what are you going to do about Rowan?”
I exhale a deep breath. “I don’t know. She hasn’t responded to my texts and didn’t leave any forwarding address.”
I glance at her letter once more. At the last few lines.
I hope to thank you in person one day.
A slow smile crosses my face as an idea pops into my head.
“But I think I might know another way.”