Madelaine’s gaze dropped to the table. She studied the tiny black lines in the fake wood-grain veneer. She knew that Chris was right—she’d known it for days, she simply hadn’t wanted to face it. “I’ll tell him,” she said quietly.
Sarandon got to his feet, leaving the half-empty coffee cup on the table. “Just let me know when you’re going to do it.” He grinned. “I’ll advise the staff to grab their Kevlar vests.” Then he shoved his chair out of the way and strode out of the room.
Madelaine watched him go, saying nothing. She tried to imagine what it would be like to tell Angel the truth, and the images caused a sick feeling. She didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to traipse in there and tell him what she’d done what they’d all done. She was terrified of his response, and for more than the obvious reason.
The dreams bothered her.
She realized she’d been silent a long time. She felt Chris’s gaze on her, and she met it. “What?”
He smiled. “You never were any good at games, Madelaine. Just say what’s on your mind.”
She knew it would be smart to say nothing, but she’d learned in the last few weeks that sometimes being smart left you feeling lonely and confused. “It’s Angel,” she said cautiously. “He’s … changing.”
“The good ones do.”
“I think it’s more … surprising than that. He’s becoming …” She couldn’t say it. The words caught in her throat.
Allenford stared at her a second. She saw the moment he understood what she wasn’t saying. His eyes narrowed, and a frown tugged at his brows.
“He’s listening to Francis’s music, eating Francis’s food. Before the surgery, he says, he was allergic to milk—now he loves it. He’s … caring in a way I don’t think he ever really was before.”
“You said you hadn’t seen him since you were kids. People change, Madelaine. Besides, they’re brothers.”
“Maybe.” She leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table, and pinned a steady gaze on her old friend. “Could the heart have memory on a cellular level? Like a cell’s instinctive ability to re-create itself or replicate or—”
“Stop it,” Allenford said gently, touching her hand. “You’re grieving, Madelaine. Let it go. Accept Angel for who he is and be thankful he’s still around. Everything else … let it go.”
“I’ve been trying to, but sometimes when he looks at me…
“Don’t you think you want to see Francis in Angel’s eyes?”
She couldn’t deny the truth of that. She missed Francis so much that she imagined him everywhere—sitting on her couch, swinging in her porch swing, driving up in that battered old car of his. Sometimes she’d turn around to talk to him, and realize instantly that he wasn’t there, that she’d imagined his footsteps on the walk. “Yes,” she whispered.
“What if you didn’t know about the transplant—wouldn’t you think that all these changes were ordinary recovery? Think about it. When a patient goes through this program, he tends to change his life. They’re almost always more caring and more conservative. They’ve learned that each day, each moment of each day, is a miracle. That’s bound to change a man’s outlook.”
The rationality of Chris’s words soothed her. It was possible that she saw Francis in Angel because she wanted so desperately to believe that part of her best friend was still alive. “You’re probably right.”
He gave her a long look. “I don’t believe in that stuff, but we’ve all seen anecdotal evidence for what you’re talking about. Recipients who seem to know things about their donors that they can’t possibly know. I’m not egotistical enough to believe that anything in this world is impossible.” He touched her hand. “I met Francis—however briefly—and I know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“If there is memory on a cellular level, your Angel couldn’t have gotten a kinder heart.”
Sighing tiredly, Angel went into the living room that Madelaine and Lina had created for him. He clicked on the television—and heard a reporter say, “Sources close to the superstar confirm that he has received a baboon’s heart in a successful transplant operation. However, cardiologists at St. Joseph’s will report only that—”
With a groan, he turned off the TV and flicked on the light switch.
It was cozy and comfortable, this living room that was and wasn’t his. Big overstuffed denim sofas and Navajo-print chairs huddled around the huge river-rock fireplace that dominated the room. They’d even put a few framed pictures on the mantel—Lina’s school picture, a shot of Francis and Lina snow-skiing, and an old, crackled photograph of Angel and Francis in front of their mom’s Impala.
Pictures of everyone but Madelaine.
She’d given him the trappings of a family life—comfortable furniture, photographs, milk (nonfat, of course) in the refrigerator—but it was too quiet to be real. There were no fingerprints on the glass of the pictures, no dust collecting beneath the furniture.
The only thing out of place in this perfect little cabin was him. The realization depressed him. Once again, he was just passing through life, observing as if through a window. For most of his life, that had been okay. Hell, it had been better than okay, it was what he’d wanted. He’d never wanted to be real, not like most men. He’d wanted to be Peter Pan, playing with the lost boys, gambling and boozing and ignoring the grownups’ rules. That’s why he’d sought out celebrity. It was life on Pleasure Island.
And if he didn’t change, really truly change, he knew that soon he’d start to slip. He’d go back to the life he’d loved. He’d call the wrong friend or decide that a straight shot of tequila—just one—wouldn’t hurt. But one would end up as two, then three, and he’d be back on the roller coaster.
He didn’t belong there, didn’t belong in his old life. But he didn’t fit in this new world, either. He was like a ghost, moving shadowlike through some plane in which he could never really touch anything, never really be touched. He couldn’t go back and he didn’t know how the hell to go forward.
There was a knock at the door, and he felt a surge of relief. He stumbled across the tiny living room and flung the door open.
Val stood in the opening, smoking a cigarette, holding a bottle of tequila. “I can’t believe you live in the suburbs.” He shuddered. “What were you going to do next, mow the lawn or barbecue?”
Angel stared at the bottle, at the sloshing beads of gold that clung to the glass sides. The sweet, familiar smell of the smoke wafted to him, set off a longing deep inside.
His old life. It was here, standing in front of him, wearing designer jeans and long hair and a smile that held nothing but cynicism. And suddenly he wanted it again, wanted to be the same old shit-kicking hell-raiser he’d once been. He wanted that life that smelled of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
Grinning, he stepped aside. “Valentine. Where in the hell have you been?”
“Trying to find booze in a town that shuts down at twilight—and sells liquor only in state stores.” He shuddered dramatically. “Christ, what an archaic custom.”
Angel led the way into the darkened cabin, turning on a few lights as he went. Val followed, his boot heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
Val set the bottle down on the table with a clunk. “Cuervo Gold. Your favorite.”
Angel looked longingly at the bottle. Could one drink really hurt?
The smoke tantalized him, swirled invisibly beneath his nose, leaving its stamp on the air.
Val collapsed on the overstuffed sofa, one arm flung out along the back. He tucked a long strand of hair behind an ear. “Nice furniture—what did you do, get a Ralph Lauren credit card?”
Angel thought of his high-rise in Vegas—the stark white walls and black leather furniture, the chrome and glass end tables, the bar that glittered in a dozen shades of gold when the lights came on. “Madelaine picked this stuff out.”
One eyebrow shot upward. “Ah …”
Angel saw the cynicism in his friend’s eyes
, the inability to understand or appreciate a home like this, or a woman like Madelaine, and again he felt adrift and lost. A man who didn’t belong anywhere. He thought suddenly of Lina, of the way she looked at him—as if he hung the moon—and the things she asked of him without even opening her mouth.
Be my daddy … I love you … be there … be there … be there…
He would only disappoint her if he tried to be a real father. What the hell did he know about being a father? And yet, he’d break her heart if he failed.
“Have a drink,” Val said softly, moving the bottle toward him.
Angel took a step toward the table, his eyes trained on the tequila. Val’s soft, metered voice echoed through him, and he knew it was what the devil’s voice would be like, soft and soothing and reasonable. And it would say what you wanted to hear….
He went so far as to reach out, to curl his fingers around the warm glass. He lifted the fifth, twisted it open, and smelled the pungent, sweet aroma of the liquor. He wanted to drink it all in one heady gulp, let the tequila flow down his throat and pool firelike in his gut, wanted to let this liquid take everything away—even if it only lasted for a night.
But he knew that if he had one drink—just one—he’d crawl into that bottle and find himself back where he’d begun.
He closed his eyes. Shaking, needing that drink so badly he felt queasy, he slammed the bottle back down on the table. “I can’t do it, Val.”
Val frowned. Something flashed through his friend’s eyes—was it jealousy, or fear? Angel couldn’t be sure. “You always do it. The other heart attacks—”
“It’s not the same anymore. It can’t be. I… I have a kid.” He smiled. It was the first time he’d said the words out loud, and it made him feel surprisingly good. “Madelaine … you remember the girl I used to talk about?’ At Val’s quick nod, he went on. “Seems she—we—had a baby all those years ago. Her name is Lina and she’s sixteen years old. I told her I’d quit partying if she would.”
“Sounds like she’s your daughter, all right.”
Angel laughed uneasily. “She is.”
Val released a sigh. A silence fell between them, and it was a long time before he spoke. “I’m proud of you, Angel. I always told you you were stronger than you thought. God knows you’re stronger than I am.”
“I’m not strong.” He said the words quietly, wondering if Val even heard them.
“I was thinking of heading for New York—they’re looking for someone to play the Green Hornet. I thought you might be interested, but … I guess not.”
Angel stared at his friend and knew this was Val’s way of saying a longer good-bye, of pulling back from a friendship that could never again be what it was. It hurt, knowing what was happening, but Angel understood.
“It’s okay, Val.” He said the easy words, the expected ones, though he knew that Val saw the truth in his eyes, the disappointment and the regret. “Keep in touch.”
Slowly Val got to his feet. “You’re gonna make it, Angel.”
Angel nodded, though he wasn’t so sure. “Yeah. Sure I will.”
Angel woke up screaming his brother’s name. He lay in the darkness, trying to control his ragged breathing. The heart ticked away in his chest, completely unaffected by the adrenaline pumping through his body. He felt as if Francis were close enough to touch.
He threw the covers back and stumbled into the kitchen. Wrenching the refrigerator open, he stood in the wedge of yellow-bright light, staring sightlessly at the jumble of jars that Madelaine and Lina had left for him. Without thinking, he reached for the pitcher of skim milk. As his fingers curled around the cold plastic, he snapped. He was about to drink milk, for God’s sake. What was next—humming show tunes?
He flung his head back and stared up at the wood-beam ceiling. “Get out of my head, Franco.” The words brought a wrenching sense of guilt. He slammed the refrigerator door and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ve got to get on with my life. My life …”
But what was his life—and how did he find it?
He went into the living room and flopped into the Navajo-print chair. “What do I do, Franco? How do I change?”
He waited and waited, but no answer came to him. After a few minutes, he started to feel like an idiot. I’ve gone off the deep end, bro. I’m asking for tips from the recently dead.
His smile faded. It wasn’t funny.
Restless and edgy, he got out of the chair and went to the back door, flinging it open. Outside, dawn was just beginning to break across the water, throwing pink spears across the rippling silver sea. Wind shivered through the trees, and for a weird moment, it sounded like Francis’s laugh. “How do I change, Franco? How?”
You already have.
The words came to Angel from far away, threaded through the wind. At first he didn’t understand, didn’t remember his question. Then it fell into place.
He smiled. “Sure, Franco, go for the easy answer.”
He laughed uneasily and closed the door, going back inside. Now he was talking to ghosts. Could channeling be far behind?
Angel knew he’d changed, but it didn’t feel like anything that mattered much. Little changes—taste in music and food, a new need to be around people. It wasn’t exactly earth-shattering. He hadn’t done anything different, and he was a man who’d always judged himself by his actions, not his words or his feelings. Denying himself one drink and one cigarette wasn’t enough. He had to do something.
He’d been in this cabin for almost a week, and he hadn’t left once. Madelaine brought him food and left it on the porch, as if he were Quasimodo on a low-fat diet. There was a brand-new Mercedes in the driveway—the first time he’d ever owned a car with more than two seat belts and a metal roof—and a brand-new Harley-Davidson Sportster alongside it. He’d yet to drive either one.
He was hiding out here, protecting himself from what would happen when the world found out about his transplant. Now there was confusion about the diagnosis, but that wasn’t going to last.
The world was going to find out, he knew that. Each day the rags offered more money for the inside story. Soon someone would talk.
It should be you, Angel.
He could almost hear his brother’s voice. It was exactly the kind of thing Francis would have said.
Francis would tell Angel to come out of hiding and tell the truth about what he’d been through. Remind him that he could be a role model for someone else, some other poor schmuck who was lying in a lonely hospital bed, waiting for a heart.
He almost laughed out loud at the thought of him him!—being a role model to anyone. He was definitely on too many meds.
And yet he knew the truth when he heard it, knew what he should do.
Before he had time to think about it, he acted. He grabbed the phone and dialed information. He asked for the number for St. Joe’s Hospital and punched it in. A practiced, polished voice answered and put him through to Allenford’s voice mail. Angel left a message that was simple and to the point—please set up a press conference for ten o’clock Thursday morning.
When he’d done that, he felt better, but he knew it wasn’t all he had to do. There was something more….
He had no idea what.
Something about the heart.
For the first time, he thought about his donor’s family, and what they must have gone through. Instead of caring about who his donor was or how he’d died, Angel wondered about the man’s family (he could never think of his donor as a woman), the people who had chosen to give Angel a second chance at life.
All he’d cared about before was the donor’s name. He’d thrown fit after fit trying to get Madelaine to break her blessed confidentiality. He fantasized about the mysterious man, wondered where he came from and how he died and what he believed in. But was that really the important part? Did it really matter whose heart he had, or did it simply matter that he made the best of the gift he’d been given? The miracle.
They deserved something from
him.
A thank-you.
It came to him that easily, without bells or whistles or epiphanies. Just a simple realization that he owed someone his life. He reached forward and grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off the heavy iron coffee table. He stared down at the thin blue lines and doodled a little heart in the corner.
Before he even realized what he was going to do, he started to write.
Dear donor family:
This is perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever done, writing this letter to strangers who feel like family. There are no words to express my gratitude, or if there are, it would be left to greater minds than mine to find them.
I was in a coma and dying when your beloved family member was tragically killed. Until recently, I couldn’t conceive of what that moment must have been like for you. Then I lost my brother in a sudden car accident. The grief was like nothing I’d known before—a wound that kept tearing itself open.
How is it possible that in a time like that, your family looked outward? Even in your incomparable grief you looked to me and others like me across the country. You did this without knowing my name or my life or anything about me. The courage and compassion of your act makes me believe in the world, and in my fellow man, for the first time in years. And even more surprisingly, it has made me begin to believe in myself.
You have given me the most precious of gifts—the miracle of life itself—and though I will probably never meet you, I want you to know that I carry a piece of you and your whole family in my heart. I will do everything in my power to deserve the second chance you have given me.