14

Tori knocked softly on the open door. Phin MacGrath looked up from behind his cluttered desk. “Hey, you’re out on the town.”

She smiled. “Can’t stay away from this place, you know?” She looked at the stack of papers in front of him. “Got a minute?”

“Sure.” He lifted his hand toward a chair across from his desk.

Tori sat. “I wanted to know if you’ve found out anything about our little investigation.”

He leaned forward, squinting. “Are you in pain?”

“No.”

“You were rubbing your chest.”

“I’m trying not to scratch.” She forced a chuckle. “My incision itches.”

“My grandmother says that’s a sign of healing.”

“Smart woman.” She purposefully took her hands away from her blouse and gripped the arms of the wooden chair. “So what do you know?”

“Not much. My buddy, the one that used to be a cop, remember? He talked to the police in Baltimore. The stab victim was basically dead when EMS picked her up, never even had surgery.”

“Okay, so no time for a transplant. That leaves the car accident and the jumpers.”

“No obituary for the car-accident victim. He found a phone number and confirmed that she lived.”

“That means my heart came from Dakota Jones.”

“Not necessarily. There could have been others that were flown in from somewhere other than the city who wouldn’t be in the Baltimore paper.”

Tori sighed. She studied the top of his desk. Her eyes paused on a small framed photograph. A slightly younger Phin and a smiling young woman bundled up in winter jackets and gripping a set of skis. She looked up to see Phin watching her. Busted. She cleared her throat. “She’s pretty.”

He didn’t bite.

Tell me she’s your sister.

“How’s Dr. Baker?”

“Jarrod?” She made a dismissive wave. “I wouldn’t know.” She smiled. If you aren’t telling me about little miss snow skier, I’m not telling you about Jarrod.

“We should set up another appointment to talk.”

“Can’t you just write the report? Say I’m okay?” She stared at him. “You know I’m okay, right?”

“That’s cheating.” He opened a file drawer in his desk. Moments later, he retrieved a folder.

“My file, huh?” Tori shifted in her chair. Somehow in her conversations with Phin, it hadn’t felt like a professional counseling session. It felt more like talking with a truly concerned friend. This reminder caught her cold. He talks to me because he has to.

He opened the folder. “We’re making progress.” He appeared to be reading his report. “We still haven’t gotten to the root of your anger.”

“I thought I told you, I’m not angry. I’m just demanding.”

He smiled. “Not very tolerant of imperfection.”

“Not in myself or others.”

“Fair enough. But when that driven behavior affects the way you interact with others, it becomes an issue. If we understand what has caused it, then we can help you control it.”

Tori sighed. “Look, I watched my mother’s cancer being mismanaged. I think that would be enough to understand my resolve not to err.”

He just looked at her with that same annoying smile.

“What? You think there’s more?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.” He closed the folder. “You haven’t shared with me about your childhood before your mother became ill.”

“Not much to know,” she said, shrugging. “Typical childhood.” She stood. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. I just really wanted to see if you’d found out anything else.”

His voice stopped her at the door. “About that appointment?”

She didn’t want to look at him. Why it even bothered her that he seemed to want to keep this professional was so not her. “When are you free?”

“I could come by Charlotte’s place tomorrow evening.”

She shook her head. “You’re confusing me.”

He stood. “What?”

Clueless male. “I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Help me out here.”

“I’ve liked talking to you.” She looked at the floor. “But it didn’t seem like a counseling session. It seemed like I was talking to a friend. Then you started helping me with a search for my donor and I just thought—” She stopped talking and looked at his expression.

“I shouldn’t have come by the house, is that it?” he said. “It wasn’t professional.”

“No, I liked it, but—”

“We could meet here.”

“Maybe I should just find another counselor.”

“Don’t do that.” He cleared his throat.

“So all of our time together, it was just counseling? What about looking into finding my donor?”

“I thought your memories could be important to explore. Looking into it might be helpful.”

She felt a lump growing in her throat. Of course, he’s just being a nice guy. He knows my ice-princess reputation around this place. I’m stupid to think he thought of me as something other than a patient. She didn’t want to cry. This was crazy, way out of bounds for her. She didn’t let down. Dr. Taylor didn’t cry. “I’ll give you a call.”

“Sure. We’ll set something up.”

Her composure was back. “Fine.”

She walked away, juggling her hurt. What did I expect?

Tori’s next stop was in the surgical department on the hallway that contained the offices of the cardiothoracic surgeons, a place the residents just called the mauve hallway because of the hideous color of the carpet. At the end of the hall, the wing widened into an open area in front of the chairman’s corner office. Here, office cubicles divided the space. Casually, she sauntered past the CT secretaries and paused at the cubicle of the transplant coordinator, Barb Stiles.

She cleared her throat. Barb looked up from her desk. Tori scanned the cubicle. “Hi.”

“Dr. Taylor. Good to see you’re up and about.”

Tori smiled, seeing what she wanted pinned to the far wall. The master schedule for the transplant residents. Who was on call the night before my transplant? Trying not to stare, she nodded. “Were you able to contact my donor family about my request?”

She nodded. “About that,” she began. “The family has not yet decided to allow any contact.”

Tori took a small step toward the calendar. “Did you tell them about the memories?”

“Of course not!” Barb shook her head. “I’m not about to tell them something unsubstantiated that might upset them. Donating organs is an intensely personal decision.” She pushed back from her desk. “You’ll just have to wait on this. If they want any contact with you, I’ll let you know.” Barb looked down at the paperwork on her desk, but not before Tori detected a subtle shaking of her head and a little grunt.

“You don’t believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “My only concern is this program and the protection of the rights of the donor family.”

“What if I agree not to contact the family? I could just talk to the police. It was the jumper, wasn’t it, Dakota Jones?”

Tori watched for a reaction.

Barb’s right eye twitched. “Look, I don’t know how you’re getting your information, but I’ve got to caution you to stop.” She raised a finger in the air. “If it gets out that this department is leaking confidential information about donors, we could lose our accreditation.”

“But—”

“Stop!” Barb’s eyes locked on Tori’s.

“Is that a threat?”

“Look, the chairman is a friend of mine. We all know you’re under evaluation here. Don’t do something stupid to jeopardize your future.”

Tori offered a plastic smile. “Wouldn’t think of it.” She began a turn, but her small black handbag slipped from her shoulder to the floor. “Clumsy me,” she said as she leaned forward slowly to gather it up again. As she did, she steadied herself against the desktop in front of the calendar. Hesitating, she slowed her breathing.

“Are you okay?”

“Getting stronger every day.” Her eyes fell on the name of the resident on call the night before her transplant. Bingo.

Tori turned to leave. “I’m just not quite as fast as I used to be.”

She smiled to herself as she went back down the mauve hallway. But I’m fast enough for you.

Phin MacGrath pushed the stack of papers to the side when his cell phone vibrated. The phone’s screen revealed the source of the call: “Randy.”

He smiled. Randy was the pastor at Hope Community Chapel. He and Phin had been casual friends until two years ago when Randy assisted Phin through a personal tragedy. Since then, the two had been like brothers. They held each other’s feet to the fire. This was an expected call, an accountability check-in.

Phin picked up the phone. “Hey, bro. What’s up? You all ready for Sunday?”

“Getting there. I still have some work to do.” A moment of silence followed. “Listen, I know August 10 is coming up. You okay?”

Phin touched the corner of the small picture frame and cleared his throat and paused before answering. He knew better than to try and bluff a “fine” in response to Randy’s question. “Home has been tough. Memories everywhere, you know? I’ve been working a lot.”

“Sally said she’d seen you at the cemetery.”

He felt his throat thicken. “Yeah.”

He let the silence hang between them for a few moments. Randy was like that. Skilled as a listener, he didn’t feel the need to fill every silent moment with advice.

Randy spoke next. “You want to run the list?”

“Sure,” he responded, glad to think of anything else.

“You keeping up with daily quiet times?”

“Yep.”

“How’s the thought life? Temptations? Any problems with porn? Internet? Movies?”

The questions were a routine part of their interaction, touching on the main areas where Christian men struggle. “No, I’m good. You?”

“I’m okay as well. Remember, Phin, temptation often hits when we’re wallowing in sorrow. It’s almost like we feel we deserve to indulge ourselves in some secret delight because we’ve seen hard times.”

“I’ve been there. I’ll stay aware.”

“I know you will. And I’ll be praying for your heart. We all loved Missy. She was a very special woman.”

Phin stayed quiet. Understatement of the year.

“You finding any chances to date? What about that lady you mentioned? You know, the surgeon.”

Phin sighed. “I’ve been tempted for sure, but there are land mines with that one. Turns out that Dr. Parrish gave me an assignment to do some counseling with her to help her work through some personal issues.”

“Oh wow, so now you can’t cross the line because she’s your patient.”

“Right. I can’t exactly ask her out. Taboo, you know?” Phin looked away from the photograph on his desk. “Besides, she’s pretty much off-limits anyway.”

“Come on, a surgeon isn’t out of your league.”

“It’s not the job, Randy. After I talked to her more, I realized she’s not a believer.”

“Oh.”

“So I really can’t go down that road.”

“Something will come up. God’s got a plan.”

Phin nodded as if Randy could see. He held back a verbal response. But God sure does take his time, doesn’t he?

That evening Tori took the number 7 bus downtown to Legend Brewing Company, a local Richmond microbrewery, home to an award-winning brown ale. There, she met two thirsty chief residents, Paul Griffin and Daniel Freeman, the two surgery residents who had participated in her operation. Paul had gone out with the harvest team and operated on her donor. Dan had stayed and operated with Dr. Parrish on the transplant.

The atmosphere was perfect. A little noisy. Casual. Friends enjoying a variety of local brews and comfort food.

Tori hoisted a frosty mug of Belgian White and tapped the mugs of the two residents. “Here’s to you, boys. Thanks for your great work.”

“To your speedy recovery,” Paul said. He had the hungry look of a runner. He had his eye on a career in academic surgery and had the drive to succeed. His shirt was wrinkled. He probably hadn’t slept the night before.

Dan, on the other hand, was an obsessive neatnik. He was still in a white shirt and tie although he’d left the hospital two hours before. He looked well rested and sported a red goatee over a generous chin. He never missed a meal, a feat worthy of praise at a busy university hospital. Many times Tori had seen him gather his interns in the cafeteria to make “card rounds,” so named because the interns kept data cards for each patient. Dan’s card rounds were legendary, and he grilled the students and interns while each patient was discussed over a load of carbs.

She caught the eye of their waitress. “Could you bring us another order of these wings? And how about a plate of those loaded fries?” She looked at the duo at her wooden table. “You boys good with that?”

There were smiles all around.

The waitress nodded. “I’ll get that order right in. Could I bring you another round?”

“I’m still nursing this,” Tori said.

Dan looked up. “Absolutely. Could you bring me a pale ale this time?”

“Porter for me,” Paul said.

The waitress disappeared.

Dan chuckled. “I’ve been at VCU Med Center seven years and never once has a patient said thank you in such a nice way.”

Tori smiled and sipped slowly. She didn’t even bring up the subject of her transplant until the boys were on their third round of brews and a platter of bratwurst, warm pretzels, and mustard sat on the table in front of them.

“Have you guys ever heard of cellular memory?”

Blank stares.

Dan belched quietly into his hand. Paul yawned.

“We don’t really understand all the intricacies of stored memory,” she began. “But it’s much more complicated than we previously thought. There is a complex neural network surrounding the heart, and there are some interesting reports in the literature about heart recipients receiving transplanted memories from their donors.”

Dan conquered the last of a bratwurst. “Hmm.”

“In some cases, it’s merely a transplanted like or dislike—a new taste for a certain food, for instance. In other cases, it’s much crazier, a transplantation of a complete or partial memory from the donor.”

Paul looked sleepy. He drained his beer. “That is freaky.”

Dan shrugged. “Do you believe it?”

She leaned forward. “It’s happening to me.” She watched as the boys exchanged glances.

“What do you remember?” Paul asked.

“A fire. Falling.” She didn’t elaborate.

Dan straightened his tie. “When did you first notice this?”

“As I was waking from my operation. I thought it was a nightmare at first, but it wasn’t like a normal dream. The images persisted beyond the night.”

“Wow.”

She sipped her beer and slid the mug across the table. “Maybe I’m just going crazy, huh, boys? The big surgeon has finally lost it.”

“No way,” Dan said. “We wouldn’t think that.”

“I don’t know. I’m having a hard time with it. It’s really making it difficult to sleep.” She watched for a reaction.

Well lubricated by this time, the boys seemed reluctant to offend the one picking up their bar tab. “No, no,” Paul said. “You’re not crazy.” He pushed back from their table. “Heck, you’re practically a hero among the residents.”

“I don’t know,” she said, sighing. “Maybe I should just hang it up. I can’t be trying to conquer cancer if I’m troubled with these images of fire.”

Dan seemed to be studying the golden ale in his mug. “Don’t say that.”

“You know, you guys could help convince me I’m not crazy.”

Dan finished his beer.

“Want another?”

“Not me.”

Paul shrugged. “What can we do, Dr. Taylor?”

Tori forced herself to breathe. This was it, the whole point of this little thank-you celebration. She was all in, no turning back. She reached into her purse and pulled out a copy of the Baltimore Sun story of the jumpers. She laid it on the table in front of the boys. “Look, I know you can’t tell me the name of my donor, so I’ll make this easy for you. I know the helicopter took the harvest team to Baltimore.” She pushed the paper closer to Paul, the resident who had been on the harvest team. She tapped the paper. “Just tell me if I’m wrong. This is where my heart came from, isn’t it?”

She watched as Paul looked at Dan. Finally he looked back and shrugged. “You didn’t hear it from us.”

“You didn’t tell me a name,” she said. “Just tell me if I’m wrong. Am I crazy here?”

Paul shook his head. “No, Dr. Taylor, you’re not crazy. And you’re not wrong.”