Chapter Nineteen

Lina stared out at the glassy surface of Lake Union. A huge black shadow slithered across the flat water. It reminded her of the monster that had lived behind the louvered doors of her closet when she was a little girl. Francis and her mom had told her that the monster existed in her imagination, and mostly she had believed them. But some nights when it was especially dark outside and rain fell like salt in the circle of the streetlamp outside her bedroom window, she’d known that the monster wasn’t only in her mind. She’d heard it moving, scraping, rustling her metal clothes hangers.

By the time she was twelve, she’d begun to understand that whatever lived in the closet was part of her. She felt it inside her, moving every now and then, rearing its ugly head with a sort of formless, wordless dissatisfaction that colored her perceptions, her dreams, her nightmares. It was a loneliness that no amount of family Monopoly games or Disneyland vacations could fill.

It had started as a few bad nights in her thirteenth year and graduated to bad weeks by the time she was fifteen. She remembered the beginning so well—it had coincided with her first period, and no matter how many books her mother had showed her, no matter how many photographs of uteruses and ovaries Lina had seen, she knew the truth. The goodness was bleeding out of her, leaving its brownish stain on her underwear. After she’d started bleeding, the sleepless nights had begun. She’d found herself alternately crying over nothing and throwing temper tantrums that left her shaken by their sudden violence. In her black moods, everything upset her. Especially her mother.

But it had never been this bad before. The dissatisfaction and unhappiness had always come and gone, moments that set her on a path and then left her standing somewhere she didn’t really want to be.

Now it wouldn’t leave her. The blackness sat on her chest and filled her mouth with a bitter taste. It wrapped itself around words she’d never had a chance to say—good-bye, I love you, I’m sorry.

Without Francis, Lina felt lost and alone. So alone that sometimes she woke in the middle of the night unable to breathe, unable even to cry. She would turn her bike toward the rectory, then remember he wasn’t there.

She was falling apart. Nothing satisfied her or made her happy, and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the simplest thing. All she felt was guilt and more guilt for how she’d treated Francis. She wanted to talk to her mother about it, but she couldn’t find the words. And what was the point, anyway? Mom was as much the walking wounded as Lina was. They drifted side by side in that big old house that didn’t feel like home, saying nothing, never smiling.

And now, into all that pain, her mother had produced the father.

Lina winced and drew her legs into her chest, staring sightlessly at the flat silver surface of Lake Union. The big, rusted pipes that gave Gasworks Park its name were a huge hulking shadow to her left.

A light rain started to fall, pattering the lake, pinging off the metal structure.

Just thinking about the day of the funeral made her blood boil. She couldn’t believe her mom had picked that moment to give her the big news about her mysterious father.

She curled into a tight little ball and rolled onto her side. Tiny shoots of dead grass poked her cheek and rain splattered the sides of her face, falling in icy streaks down her collar.

She wanted to hate her mother for bringing it up, and a part of her did, but there was so much more inside her right now. Hate and anger and, worst of all, that niggling hope that wouldn’t grow and yet couldn’t quite die.

She lay there until her clothes were soaked and her hair was plastered to her face. She needed Francis to make everything all right.

But Francis was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

Who would help her now that he was gone? Who would be her rock to lean on when the black moods came, who would throw his door open and grin and say, Come on in, Lina-ballerina …?

Daddy.

She thought of the phantom that was her father, the man she’d dreamed of for years, waited for, prayed to, and believed in. She needed him now more than she’d ever needed him.

I want him to love you, Lina. I want him to want you, but I’m afraid … I’m afraid he’ll break your heart.

When she’d heard the words, Lina had known it was the truth. Her mother was afraid he’d break her heart. And maybe he would. It was impossible to keep hold of all her little-girl fantasies of a perfect father anymore. Since Francis’s death, she understood how dark and frightening the world could be.

Lina sniffed and wiped a flannel-sleeved arm across her dripping nose. This man who was her father could hurt her. She understood that now and knew her mother’s fear was real.

But maybe he could save her, too.

She wanted that to be true, wanted it so badly, she felt bruised by her need. She was so achingly lonely, and her mother’s love didn’t seem to help. She needed her father to open his arms to her and take her into his house, to ask about her life and listen. Oh, God, just listen …

She’d lost Francis, and all she had left was her daddy.

She would make him love her. She wouldn’t take him for granted, as she’d done with Francis. With her daddy, she’d be perfect and witty and lovable. So lovable he’d cry for the years he’d lost.

It had to be possible.

Because if it wasn’t—if he truly didn’t want her—she didn’t think she could survive.

Angel dreamed he was walking in the meadow again. It was winter this time. A thick blanket of sparkling white snow covered everything, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue.

Like Francis’s eyes …

And suddenly he was in an empty church. He blinked and looked around. Sunlight streamed through a huge stained-glass window, sending shards of multicolored light across the hardwood floor. A huge statue of the Virgin Mary, carved of white marble, stared down at him, her arms folded protectively around a swaddled bundle.

Angel turned slowly and saw a group of children huddled at the open doorway. When he turned back around, the church was full of people—parents poised with cameras, craning their necks to see the kids.

One by one the children walked into the church. They were dressed alike—girls in ruffly white dresses, boys in creased black pants and pressed white shirts, their hair slicked back in unnatural stiffness. Angel felt a smile start. It was a day he remembered so clearly.…

Francis appeared first, a gangly nine-year-old with overly starched black pants that made a tiny whick-whick sound when he walked. Angel followed his big brother so closely that when Francis stopped suddenly, Angel rammed into him. Angel heard his laughter trill through the quiet church before he could stop it.

“Shh,” Francis hissed, turning around.

Angel gave his brother a wide grin. “Sorry,” he whispered, trying to straighten up. He tugged on the worn white shirt and retucked it into his small black pants.

Then the line was moving again. They marched past the pews and took their stations alongside the organ. There was a moment of hushed silence before the song began. Parents grinned and leaned forward; cameras came up.

Angel inched toward his brother. Francis stood in the center of the row—the tallest boy in the CCD class—with his back stiff and his eyes straight ahead. He sang the song in the clear, pure voice of a true believer.

Angel reached slowly into his pocket. His fingers curled around the baby tree frog, feeling the slick, rounded surface of his back. Inch by inch he eased the frog out of his pocket and then set it, gently, gently, on Francis’s shoulder.

In the middle of Francis’s solo, the frog let out a loud ribbit and jumped onto Mary Ann McCallister’s head. After that, all hell broke loose.

Girls screamed and clapped and ran away from each other. The boys pounced and dove after the frog. And Father just stared at Angel, shaking his head.

Angel laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. After a long minute, Francis joined in, and the two of them stood there, laughing amidst the pandemonium. And finally Francis wiped the tears from his face and handed Angel his first Communion rosary. “Here, Angel,” he said, grinning. “You’re definitely going to need two.”

Francis’s words echoed as the vision of the church shifted and began to disappear.

Suddenly Angel found himself in the meadow again, standing knee-deep in a freezing snow. The sky overhead was as black as a crow’s wing, and snow fell in a blinding fury, landing on his cheeks in tiny spots of fire. He stood there alone, not knowing what to say, his heart hammering in his chest.

Then Francis was coming toward him, floating, reaching out.

Angel took his brother’s hand and clung to it. “I’m sorry, Franco,” he whispered, feeling himself start to cry. “I’m sorry. Jesus Christ, I’m sorry.…”

“Shh,” Francis said with a smile, a slow, easy smile that crinkled his eyes into slits. “I know.” He squeezed Angel’s hand. “Just hang on, brother. I’m with you.”

And Angel woke up crying.

Madelaine stood in the open doorway of OR 8, wondering what she was going to do about Angel. Allenford and his surgical nurse were huddled around the bed, preparing Angel for his first post-op biopsy. Even from here, Madelaine heard Angel’s angry voice.

His mood swings were uncontrollable. One minute he was compliant and charming, and the next—wham! He threw the kind of temper tantrums that became legend almost before they were over. Nurses had started drawing straws to see who would have to check his vitals and adjust his meds. He’d become the six-hundred-pound gorilla in Intensive Care.

Physically, things were going well. He’d been weaned off all intravenous drugs, including dopamine and Isuprel. He was progressing in leaps and bounds, and had been able to leave isolation earlier than most patients. The physical therapist had already visited him twice and reported that he was up and walking at least forty minutes a day. The blood cultures were negative.

Yes, physically he was doing great. Mentally he was a mess. He seemed unable to come to terms with the new lifestyle. Every pill or shot or blood test drove him crazy. He couldn’t stand the swelling in his cheeks or the weight he’d lost while he was sick.

In short, most of the time he was a pain in the ass.

But he wouldn’t be one for long.

Soon Angel would be discharged from the hospital and he’d be on his own. No one to take care of him but him.

And if something didn’t change quickly, she was afraid he wouldn’t take it seriously enough. Hadn’t that always been Angel’s problem—that he took nothing seriously?

His meds schedule wasn’t something he could ignore. He had to follow the rules, for once in his life. If he didn’t …

She pushed the thought away, refusing to dwell on it. Angel had Francis’s heart—all that was left of her laughing, blue-eyed priest—and she’d be damned if she’d let him throw the miracle away.

He was lost right now. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the fleeting softness of his touch. And whenever Angel got scared, he got angry; she knew that, had always known it.

The question was, what was she going to do about it?

She walked over to his bedside, taking his hand in hers. “Hey, Mad,” he said in a drowsy voice, “guess you wanted to see old Allenford stick it to me again.”

Chris dipped some cotton in the iodine solution and swabbed a spot at Angel’s throat.

Angel flinched at the touch and squeezed his eyes shut.

Madelaine could see how afraid he was, and she tightened her grip on his hand. She wanted to tell him that everything would be okay, but she was a doctor, and she knew—as he did—that this procedure was too important to sluff off on generalities. It would alert them if his body was rejecting Francis’s heart.

“I need more Valium,” he muttered, opening his eyes to look at her.

She tried to smile. “We’ve already given you more than your fair share.”

Half his mouth lifted in a sloppy grin. “I never was good at sharing my drugs. I have a high tolerance—I need more.”

She heard the raw edge to his voice and wished she could calm him.

He lay there, his head twisted sharply to the side. The portion of his neck that was painted orange throbbed with a thick blue vein. Allenford injected a local anesthetic just below Angel’s Adam’s apple. When the anesthesia took effect, he inserted a needle into the jugular vein and eased the bioptome down, down, down toward Angel’s heart.

All four heads turned toward the television monitor at the foot of the bed. Angel’s heart appeared on the screen as a pumping, writhing shadow. Allenford nicked off a tiny piece of heart muscle—no bigger than a pinhead—and removed the bioptome.

“That’s all, folks,” he said, smiling as he placed the specimens in a container and bandaged the small incision. He peeled off the white rubber gloves and tossed them in the garbage, then stood up. “We should have the results in a few hours.”

The surgical nurse wrapped everything up and left the room.

Allenford picked up his charts and began studying the notations. “Anything on your mind, Angel?”

Angel turned to stare up at the surgeon. “Yeah, since you asked. Mad here won’t tell me anything about my donor.” He said the last word as if it tasted bitter on his tongue.

Chris’s gaze darted to her face for a second, and Madelaine felt her cheeks grow hot. Then he looked back at Angel. “There’s a strict protocol for these things, Angel. We have found in our years of practice that the transition proceeds much better if confidentiality is maintained.”

Angel rolled his eyes and struggled to sit up. The polka-dotted hospital gown gaped across his bandaged chest. The orange iodine looked like an angry burn against his pale throat. “You asshole doctors, you think you’re God, but you’re not. You’re just people with a few more years of college than a dental assistant. You have no right to play with my life.”

Allenford looked sympathetic. “It’s the grief and the meds that are making you act this way, Angel. Don’t worry about it, it’s completely normal. Of course you want to know about your donor—all recipients do—but the truth is, it’s not a good idea to cross those wires. The donor family is as entitled to privacy as you are.” He leaned down toward the bed, draped his arms atop the bedrail, and stared at Angel. “So don’t think about what you can’t change. Keep in mind that soon it will all be up to you. You can keep railing at the injustice of it all, or you can get on with what’s left of your life.”

“Yeah, so what if I die—it’s just a black mark on your surgical history. You’ll get over it.”

Allenford frowned. His voice fell to a whisper. “Do you believe that, Angel?”

Angel seemed to shrink before their eyes. He sank into the pillow and sighed heavily. “That’s the problem, Doc. I don’t seem to believe anything. You want me to stop ‘railing at the injustice of it all’ and get on with my life. How in the Christ am I supposed to do that? If the biopsy comes back bad, I could have ten minutes left. It’s pretty damned hard to plan for a life like that.”

“That’s not necessarily true, Angel and you know it. You could live a long time. There’s a man in California who’s going on eighteen years—”

“Don’t give me the stats again, or Nurse Ratchet will have to mop my puke off the floor. Believe me, nothing fills my heart like the knowledge that I can live a long, full life if I drink carrot juice and exercise.” He laughed bitterly. “I get a second chance at life—yee-haw. All I have to do is act like Richard Simmons.”

Allenford laughed quietly and straightened. “Richard Simmons is a new one. I’ll get back to you with the biopsy results. Think positive.”

Angel snorted. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Allenford gave Madelaine a pointed glance, then left the operating room. Angel opened his mouth to say something to Madelaine, but before he could speak, Dr. Marcus Sarandon came striding into the room.

Angel rolled his eyes. “Oh, good, another doctor. And this one looks like Malibu Ken.”

Marcus laughed out loud. His gaze cut to Madelaine, got her quick nod, then turned back to Angel. “Well, I suppose if there’s anyone who ought to recognize plastic, it would be a movie star.”

Angel gave the man a grudging smile. “Touché, Doc.”

Marcus held out his hand. “I’m Marcus Sarandon. I’m going to be … helping out Madelaine with your case.”

Angel frowned. “No way.”

Madelaine moved quickly toward the bed. “I’ll explain later. For now, just listen to Marcus. He’s a good guy.”

“So’s Clint Eastwood. That doesn’t mean I want him for my doctor.”

Marcus pulled a blue notebook out from beneath his arm. “This is your daily calendar—medicine dosages and times. Look it over and we’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to talk tomorrow.”

Marcus grinned. “The perfect patient. Good. I’ll talk and you listen.” He gave Angel another quick, flashing smile, then left the room.

Angel picked up the meds calendar and threw it across the room. It hit the blank wall and slid to the floor.

With a sigh, Madelaine retrieved it and placed it carefully on the foot of the bed. Then she pulled up a chair. “You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

“Shut up.”

She smiled. “Good comeback, Angel. What’s next—you going to stick your tongue out at me?”

“Don’t rule it out.”

“You’re making life hell for everyone on this floor.”

He gave her a bleak look. “What do you think it’s like for me? I lie here every day, getting poked and prodded and checked like I was a side of beef on a conveyor belt. And I keep dreaming.…” His voice faded and he turned away from her. “Go away, Mad.”

She scooted closer. “What is it, Angel?”

He waited a few moments to answer. “I keep dreaming about Francis. The dreams all start differently, but end the same. We talk for a little while, and then he reaches over to me. I can feel my heart beating inside my chest like a bird trapped against a window. He whispers something—I can never remember what it is—then he takes hold of my hand and he disappears. And that’s not all. It’s like … he’s inside me. Yesterday I asked that fat charge nurse, Betty Boop or whatever her name is, to change the radio station. I asked her to put on something by the Beatles.” He sighed. “The Beatles, for Christ’s sake. Before the surgery, I didn’t listen to anything but hard rock—you know, the kind of music that makes you want to take your clothes off and snort busloads of cocaine. Now I want to listen to ‘Yesterday.’ ” He gazed up at her, and those eyes that always seemed so full of life looked dull and colorless. “I feel like I’m losing my frigging mind, Mad.”

She sat very still. Her own heartbeat fluttered in her chest. It was common for transplant patients to think they’d been invaded by the donor’s personality, but Angel didn’t know he had Francis’s heart. He shouldn’t be feeling these things; it wasn’t medically possible. “We have a wonderful psychiatrist on staff, Angel. She knows what you’re going through—it’s very normal—and she’d be happy to talk to you.”

“That’s what I need, another doctor. Oh, and you haven’t heard the best part. Last night I asked for a glass of milk.”

She couldn’t think of what to say. “Nonfat milk is good for you.”

“If you’re going to spout physician-babble like some sort of medical communist, you can get the hell out. I’m trying to talk to you, Mad. I’m tryin’ to tell you …” He released a heavy sigh and shoved a hand through his tangled hair. “Never mind.”

She scooted closer. “What?”

He looked up at her, and the sadness in his eyes almost broke her heart. “You doctors keep offering me ‘life’ as if it were a plum role in a Spielberg flick, but it’s not my life, Mad. This heart’s like a shoe that doesn’t fit right. It never lets me forget that I wasn’t born with it. Maybe if Francis were alive, or I had someone to talk to, someone who could take my hand and help lead me somewhere … I don’t know. I feel like a freak.”

She reached out and took his hand, squeezing gently. “I’m here for you, Angel.”

He tried to smile. “No offense, Mad, but you’re like a mirage I can see but can’t touch. Sometimes I think I dreamed our time together. That crazy, head-over-heels boy couldn’t have been me. Now, the kid that roared out of town on a brand-new Harley, that kid was me.”

She stared down at him, seeing the pain and loneliness that haunted his green eyes. She cared for him so much in that moment that the feeling was almost an ache in her chest. He was hurting now, for himself and for the brother he lost. She knew how it felt to lose someone suddenly. All you had left was faith, and if you didn’t have that, the emptiness could swallow you whole.

And Angel had never truly believed in anything, least of all himself.

“A dream, you forget over time.” She leaned toward him. “Have you forgotten me, Angel?”

The second she asked the loaded question, she saw the answer in his eyes, the flash of longing, the fear of responding. “No,” he answered quietly.

“I know I’m not Francis. I know I’m not family, but I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” he asked in a harsh voice.

Madelaine nodded. “That’s why I can’t be your cardiologist anymore. I’m going to let Marcus Sarandon take over from here. He’s an excellent physician. I’ll still be around for you whenever you want … as your friend.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.…”

“I’m too emotionally involved.” She swallowed hard and said quietly, “I care about you too much.”

He was silent for a long minute, studying her, then he said, “I don’t deserve you, Mad.”

She gave him a quick, teasing smile. “You never did.”

“Yeah, just ask Fr—”

“Francis,” she finished, and her smile faded. Silence settled heavily between them.

“He loved you,” Angel told her, watching her steadily as he spoke.

For a moment the grief was so strong, she couldn’t speak. Finally she nodded. “He loved you, too.”

“I miss him. It’s strange … after all those years apart, I always knew he was just a phone call away. I hardly ever thought about him, and when I did, I laughed and had another drink and told myself I’d call in the morning. Course, I never did. And now he’s gone, and sometimes I miss him so much.…”

Madelaine couldn’t help herself. She went to him then. Placing her hands on his cheeks, she stared down at his handsome face, staring deep, deep into his eyes.

Francis, she thought. Are you there? You’d better be there.…

She had to take a chance on him—on all of them. It was time.

“He’s not your only family, you know,” she said quietly.

Angel frowned up at her. She knew the moment he understood what she was saying—his frown lifted and a cold, stark fear widened his eyes. He shook his head. “Don’t you do it, Mad,” he said, still shaking his head. “Don’t put that on me.”

Madelaine didn’t look away. For the first time in her life, she felt strong and in control, and God, it felt good. She gave him a slow, steady smile. “Her name is Lina.”