Change of Heart

  Before I realized what I was doing, I had stepped into the tiny circle of space that the media had afforded to Rufus. "Maggie," he whispered, covering the mikes, "I'm working this here."

  A reporter gave me my invitation. "Hey, weren't you his lawyer?"

  "Yes," I said. "Which I hope means I'm qualified to tell you what I'm going to. I work for the ACLU. I can spout out all the same statistics that Mr. Urqhart just did. But you know what that speech leaves out? That I am truly sorry for June Nealon's loss, after all this time. And that today, I lost someone I cared about. Someone who'd made some serious mistakes--someone who was a hard nut to crack--but someone I'd made a place for in my life."

  "Maggie," Rufus hissed, pulling at my sleeve. "Save the true confessional for your diary."

  I ignored him. "You know why I think we still execute people? Because, even if we don't want to say it out loud--for the really heinous crimes, we want to know that there's a really heinous punishment. Simple as that. We want to bring society closer together--huddle and circle our wagons--and that means getting rid of people we think are incapable of learning a moral lesson. I guess the question is: Who gets to identify those people? Who decides what crime is so awful that the only answer is death? And what if, God forbid, they get it wrong?"

  The crowd was murmuring; the cameras were rolling. "I don't have children. I can't say I'd feel the same way if one of them was killed. And I don't have the answers--believe me, if I did, I'd be a lot richer--but you know, I'm starting to think that's okay. Maybe instead of looking for answers, we ought to be asking some questions instead. Like: What's the lesson we're teaching here? What if it's different every time? What if justice isn't equal to due process? Because at the end of the day, this is what we're left with: a victim, who's become a file to be dealt with, instead of a little girl, or a husband. An inmate who doesn't want to know the name of a correctional officer's child because that makes the relationship too personal. A warden who carries out executions even if he doesn't think they should happen in principle. And an ACLU lawyer who's supposed to go to the office, close the case, and move on. What we're left with is death, with the humanity removed from it." I hesitated a moment. "So you tell me ... did this execution really make you feel safer? Did it bring us all closer together? Or did it drive us farther apart?"

  I pushed past the cameras, whose heavy heads swung like bulls to follow my path, and into the crowd, which carved a canyon for me to walk through. And I cried.

  God, I cried.

  I turned on my windshield wipers on the way home, even though it was not raining. But I was falling apart at the seams, and sobbing, and I couldn't see; somehow I thought this would help. I had upstaged my boss on what was arguably the most important legal outcome for the New Hampshire ACLU in the past fifty years; even worse--I didn't particularly care.

  I would have liked to talk to Christian, but he was at the hospital by now, supervising the harvest of Shay's heart and other organs. He'd said he'd come over as soon as he could, as soon as he had word that the transplant was going to be a success.

  Which meant that I was going home to a house with a rabbit in it, and not much else.

  I turned the corner to my street and immediately saw the car in my driveway. My mother was waiting for me at the front door. I wanted to ask her why she was here, instead of at work. I wanted to ask her how she'd known I'd need her.

  But when she wordlessly held out a blanket that I usually kept on the couch, one with fuzzy fleece inside, I stepped into it and forgot all my questions. Instead, I buried my face against her neck. "Oh, Mags," she soothed. "It's going to be all right."

  I shook my head. "It was awful. Every time I blink, I can see it, like it's still happening." I drew in a shuddering breath. "It's stupid, isn't it? Up till the last minute, I was expecting a miracle. Like in the courtroom. That he'd slip out of the noose, or--I don't know--fly away or something."

  "Here, sit down," my mother said, leading me into the kitchen. "Real life doesn't work that way. It's like you said, to the reporters--"

  "You saw me?" I glanced up.

  "On television. Every channel, Maggie. Even CNN." Her face glowed. "Four people already called me to say you were brilliant."

  I suddenly remembered sitting in my parents' kitchen when I was in college, unable to decide on a career. My mother had sat down, propped her elbows on the table. What do you love to do? she had asked.

  Read, I'd told her. And argue.

  She had smiled broadly. Maggie, my love, you were meant to become a lawyer.

  I buried my face in my hands. "I was an idiot. Rufus is going to fire me."

  "Why? Because you said what nobody has the guts to say? The hardest thing in the world is believing someone can change. It's always easier to go along with the way things are than to admit that you might have been wrong in the first place."

  She turned to me, holding out a steaming, fragrant bowl. I could smell rosemary, pepper, celery. "I made you soup. From scratch."

  "You made me soup from scratch?"

  My mother rolled her eyes. "Okay, I bought soup someone else made from scratch."

  When I smiled a little, she touched my cheek. "Maggie," she said, "eat."

  Later that afternoon, while my mother did the dishes and cleaned up in my kitchen, and with Oliver curled up at my side, I fell asleep on the living room couch. I dreamed that I was walking in the dark in my favorite Stuart Weitzman heels, but they were hurting me. I glanced down to discover I was not walking on grass, but on a ground that looked like tempered glass after it's been shattered, like the cracked, parched landscape of a desert. My heels kept getting stuck in the crevasses, and finally I had to stop to pull one free.

  When I did, a clod of earth overturned, and beneath it was light, the purest, most liquid lava form of it. I kicked at another piece of the ground with my heel, and more beams spilled outward and upward. I poked holes, and rays shined up. I danced, and the world became illuminated, so bright that I had to shade my eyes; so bright that I could not keep them from filling with tears.

  June

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  This, I had told Claire, the night before the surgery, is how they'll transplant the heart: You'll be brought into the operating room and given general anesthesia.

  Grape, she'd said. She liked it way better than bubble gum, although the root beer wasn't bad.

  You'll be prepped and draped, I told her. Your sternum will be opened with a saw.

  Won't that hurt?

  Of course not, I said. You'll be fast asleep.

  I knew the procedure as well as any cardiac resident; I'd studied it that carefully, and that long. What comes next? Claire had asked.

  Sutures--stitches--get sewn into the aorta, the superior vena cava, and the inferior vena cava. Catheters are placed. Then you're put on the heart-lung machine.

  What's that?

  It works so you don't have to. It drains blue blood from the two cava, and returns red blood through the cannula in the aorta.

  Cannula's a cool word. I like how it sounds on my tongue.

  I skipped over the part about how her heart would be removed: the inferior and superior vena cava divided, then the aorta.

  Keep going.

  His heart (no need to say whose) is flushed with cardioplegia solution.

  It sounds like something you use to wax a car.

  Well, you'd better hope not. It's chock-full of nutrients and oxygen, and keeps the heart from beating as it warms up.

  And after that?

  Then the new heart goes to its new home, I had said, and I'd tapped her chest. First, the left atriums get sewn together. Then the inferior vena cava, then the superior vena cava, then the pulmonary artery, and finally, the aorta. When all the connections are set, the cross clamp on your aorta is removed, warm blood starts flowing into the coronaries, and ...

  Wait, let me guess: the heart starts beating.

  Now, hours later, Claire beamed up at me from her
hospital gurney. As the parent of a minor, I was allowed to accompany her to the OR, gowned and suited, while she was put under anesthesia. I sat down on the stool provided by a nurse, amid the gleaming instruments, the shining lights. I tried to pick out the familiar face of the surgeon from his kind eyes, above the mask.

  "Mom," Claire said, reaching for my hand.

  "I'm right here."

  "I don't hate you."

  "I know, baby."

  The anesthesiologist fitted the mask to Claire's face. "I want you to start counting for me, hon. Backward, from ten."

  "Ten," Claire said, looking into my eyes. "Nine. Eight."

  Her lids dropped, half-mast. "Seven," she said, but her lips went slack on the last syllable.

  "You can give her a kiss if you want, Mom," said a nurse.

  I brushed my paper mask against the soft bow of Claire's cheek. "Come back to me," I whispered.

  MICHAEL

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  Three days after Shay's death, and two after his funeral, I returned to the prison cemetery. The headstones formed a small field, each one marked with a number. Shay's grave didn't have one yet; it was only a small raw plot of earth. And yet, it was the only one with a visitor. Sitting on the ground, her legs crossed, was Grace Bourne.

  I waved as she got to her feet. "Father," she said. "It's good to see you."

  "You, too." I came closer, smiled.

  "That was a nice service you did the other day." She looked down at the ground. "I know it didn't seem like I was listening, but I was."

  At Shay's funeral, I hadn't read from the Bible at all. I hadn't read from the Gospel of Thomas, either. I had created my own gospel, the good news about Shay Bourne, and spoke it from the heart to the few people who'd been present: Grace, Maggie, Alma the nurse.

  June Nealon had not come; she was at the hospital with her daughter, who was recovering from the heart transplant. She'd sent a spray of lilies to lay on Shay's grave; they were still here, wilting.

  Maggie had told me that Claire's doctor had been thrilled with the outcome of the operation, that the heart had started beating like a jackrabbit. Claire would be leaving the hospital by the end of the week. "You heard about the transplant?" I said.

  Grace nodded. "I know that wherever he is, he's happy about that." She dusted off her skirt. "Well, I was on my way out. I have to get back to Maine for a seven o'clock shift."

  "I'll call you in a few days," I said, and I meant it. I had promised Shay that I would look after Grace, but to be honest, I think he wanted to be sure she'd be looking after me as well. Somehow, Shay had known that without the Church, I'd need a family, too.

  I sat down, in the same spot where Grace had been. I sighed, leaned forward, and waited.

  The problem was, I wasn't sure what I was waiting for. It had been three days since Shay's death. He had told me he was coming back--a resurrection--but he had also told me that he'd murdered Kurt Nealon intentionally, and I couldn't hold the two thoughts side by side in my mind.

  I didn't know if I was supposed to be on the lookout for an angel, like Mary Magdalene had seen, to tell me that Shay had left this tomb. I didn't know if he'd mailed me a letter that I could expect to receive later that afternoon. I was waiting, I suppose, for a sign.

  I heard footsteps and saw Grace hurrying toward me again. "I almost forgot! I'm supposed to give this to you."

  It was a large shoe box, wrapped with a rubber band. The green cardboard had begun to peel away from the corners, and there were spots that were watermarked. "What is it?"

  "My brother's things. The warden, he gave them to me. But there was a note inside from Shay. He wanted you to have them. I would have given it to you at the funeral, but the note said I was supposed to give it to you today."

  "You should have these," I said. "You're his family."

  She looked up at me. "So were you, Father."

  When she left, I sat back down beside Shay's grave. "Is this it?" I said aloud. "Is this what I was supposed to wait for?"

  Inside the box was a canvas roll of tools, and three packages of Bazooka bubble gum.

  He had one piece of gum, I heard Lucius say, and there was enough for all of us.

  The only other item inside was a small, flat, newspaper-wrapped package. The tape had peeled off years ago; the paper was yellowed with age. Folded in its embrace was a tattered photograph that made me catch my breath: I held in my hands the picture that had been stolen from my dorm when I was in college: my grandfather and I showing off our day's catch.

  Why had he taken something so worthless to a stranger? I touched my thumb to my grandfather's face and suddenly recalled Shay talking about the grandfather he'd never had--the one he'd imagined from this photo. Had he swiped it because it was proof of what he'd missed in his life? Had he stared at it, wishing he was me?

  I remembered something else: the photo had been stolen before I was picked for Shay's jury. I shook my head in dis belief. It was possible Shay had known it was me when he saw me sitting in the courtroom. It was possible he had recognized me again when I first came to him in prison. It was possible the joke had been on me all along.

  I started to crumple up the newspaper that the photo had been wrapped in, but realized it wasn't newspaper at all. It was too thick for that, and not the right size. It was a page torn out of a book. The Nag Hammadi Library, it read across the top, in the tiniest of print. The Gospel of Thomas, first published 1977. I ran a fingertip along the familiar sayings. Jesus said: Whoever finds the interpretation of these sayings will not experience death.

  Jesus said: The dead are not alive, and the living will not die.

  Jesus said: Do not tell lies.

  Jesus said.

  And so had Shay, after having years to memorize this page.

  Frustrated, I tore it into pieces and threw them on the ground. I was angry at Shay; I was angry at myself. I buried my face in my hands, and then felt a wind stir. The confetti of words began to scatter.

  I ran after them. As they caught against headstones, I trapped them with my hands. I stuffed them into my pockets. I untangled them from the weeds that grew at the edge of the cemetery. I chased one fragment all the way to the parking lot.

  Sometimes we see what we want to, instead of what's in front of us. And sometimes, we don't see clearly at all. I took all of the bits I'd collected and dug a shallow bowl beneath the spray of lilies, covered them with a thin layer of soil. I imagined the yellowed paper dissolving in the rain, being absorbed by the earth, lying fallow under winter snow. I wondered what, next spring, would take root.

  "There are only two ways to live your life.

  One is as though nothing is a miracle.

  The other is as though everything is a miracle."

  --ALBERT EINSTEIN

  EPILOGUE

  Claire

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  I have been someone different now for three weeks. It's not something you can tell by looking at me; it's not even something I can tell by looking at myself in the mirror. The only way I can describe it, and it's weird, so get ready, is like waves: they just crash over me and suddenly, even if I'm surrounded by a dozen people, I'm lonely. Even if I'm doing everything I want to, I start to cry.

  My mother says that emotion doesn't get transplanted along with the heart, that I have to stop referring to it as his and start calling it mine. But that's pretty hard to do, especially when you add up all the stuff I have to take just to keep my cells from recognizing this intruder in my chest, like that old horror movie with the woman who has an alien inside her. Colace, Dulcolax, prednisone, Zantac, enalapril, CellCept, Prograf, oxycodone, Keflex, magnesium oxide, nystatin, Valcyte. It's a cocktail to keep my body fooled; it's anyone's guess how long this ruse might continue.

  The way I see it, either my body wins and I reject the heart--or I win.

  And become who he used to be.

  My mother says that I'm going to work through all this, and that'
s why I have to take Celexa (oh, right, forgot that one) and talk to a shrink twice a week. I nod and pretend to believe her. She's so happy right now, but it's the kind of happy that's like an ornament made of sugar: if you brush it the wrong way, it will go to pieces.

  I'll tell you this much: it's so good to be home. And to not have a lightning bolt zapping me from inside three or four times a day. And to not pass out and wake up wondering what happened. And to walk up the stairs--upstairs!--without having to stop halfway, or be carried.

  "Claire?" my mother calls. "Are you awake?"

  Today, we have a visitor coming. It's a woman I haven't met, although apparently she's met me. She's the sister of the man who gave me his heart; she came to the hospital when I was totally out of it. I am so not looking forward to this. She'll probably break down and cry (I would if I were her) and stare at me with an eagle eye until she finds some shred of me that reminds her of her brother, or at least convinces herself she has.

  "I'm coming," I say. I have been standing in front of the mirror for the past twenty minutes, without a shirt on. The scar, which is still healing, is the angriest red slash of a mouth. Every time I look at it, I imagine the things it might be yelling.

  I resettle the bandage that I'm not supposed to peel off but do when my mother isn't there to see it. Then I shrug into a shirt and glance down at Dudley. "Hey, lazybones," I say. "Rise and shine."