Leaning against the wall, I kill some time on my phone, pulling up every app I can think of to burn off a few minutes while I wait. But when ten minutes turns into fifteen and fifteen turns into twenty, I decide to call him again.
Five rings.
Voicemail.
“Hey … I’m thinking you got caught up at work, so I’m just going to raincheck tonight. If you get this in the next couple of minutes, call me. If not … we’ll figure something out for another time.” I end the call, shove my phone in my bag, and grab the grocery sack, taking my time shuffling back to the elevator.
I order an Uber when I get to the lobby, and by the time it arrives five minutes later, I still haven’t heard from him.
I’m sure whatever it is, there’s a perfectly good explanation.
Twenty-Six
Bennett
* * *
“It appears you came here in the early onset of a humoral rejection,” Dr. Rathburn stands at the side of my bed, clipboard in hand, a nurse flitting around the room.
I have no recollection of getting from the examination room to this hospital bed—nor do I know who dressed me in this flower-covered flannel gown. The sky is pitch black outside. For all I know, I’ve been out for a couple of hours … or a couple of days.
“Do you have my phone?” My thoughts go immediately to Astaire.
“Bennett, did you hear what I said?” Dr. Rathburn’s tone is firmer than it was a second ago, each syllable accented. “Your body is rejecting your donor heart.”
I sit up. “I thought you said once we made it past the one-year mark, it’d be statistically rare for that to happen.”
“Statistically, Bennett. There are always exceptions. And those numbers were based on acute cellular rejections. Humoral rejections can happen months or years after transplant. Essentially what is happening is that your body is producing antibodies that are injuring your blood vessels—specifically the ones going to your heart. This likely accounts for the lightheadedness you’ve been having and also why you passed out in the exam room.”
“Okay, so what now?”
“We’re going to run a treatment on your blood to filter the antibodies, then we’ll put you on a steroid for the short term. Increase one of your antirejection medicines. If we can’t get this under control, we might be looking at open-heart surgery down the road, but we’re not to that point yet.”
“All right.” I readjust, trying to get comfortable in an impossibly uncomfortable hospital bed. “Nurse, do you know where my personal belongings are?”
“Bennett, I’m going to need you to take my guidelines seriously. Plenty of sleep. Good nutrition. Minimal stress. A few weeks off work to take it easy and then no more than forty hours a week at the office once you’re back. Live more. Work less. Do the things that make you truly happy and leave the rest. I’m going to do my part to ensure you have the longest, healthiest life possible—but you have to do your part, too.”
The nurse behind her places a clear plastic bag on my tray table, my name scribbled on the label. Inside are my keys, cell phone, and wallet. I’d ask where the hell my clothes are, but I don’t want to get yelled at again.
“Is there anyone we should call for you?” the nurse asks.
“No.” I’ll call Astaire myself. Later. When I’ve got a shred of privacy. I’m still unsure what I’m going to say to her. I more or less gave her my entire life story the night we had our first date. I don’t know how she’ll feel about the fact that I left out a significant, recent portion of it. Not only that, but she’ll worry. And she’ll dote. And there’s nothing sexy about that for either of us.
I may be lying in a hospital bed on the cardiac floor of Mercy Cross Hospital, but I’m still a red-blooded man with every intention of having my way with her—whenever the hell that may be.
“Are there any questions I can answer for you?” Dr. Rathburn slides her hands in the front pockets of her white jacket.
“How long will I be here?”
“We have you scheduled for the procedure first thing in the morning. After that we’ll run a few more tests. If all goes well, we’ll discharge you in the early evening,” she says, heading to the door.
The nurse hands me a hospital menu.
I was supposed to have dinner with Astaire tonight, at my house. She’d suggested getting dinner some night this week, but I hadn’t been feeling well so I invited her over to my place instead, thinking a quiet night in would give us the best of both worlds.
This morning, I was leaving my attorney’s office after updating my will and leaving everything to Honor when I nearly passed out on the elevator ride to the main entrance.
After the transplant last year, I was well-versed in all of the rejection warning signs, and I passed my one-year check-up with flying colors.
Denial got the best of me these past few days.
“Press seven on your room phone to dial the kitchen,” the nurse says before handing me a red button. “Press this if you need a nurse. I’ll get you some ice water, and then I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour.”
“Thank you.” I place the menu and call button aside and retrieve my phone from the plastic bag. A dozen missed calls—a mere two of them from Astaire. The battery is critically low, and of course I don’t have a charger.
When I was going through cardiac rehab last year, I remember one of the nurses telling me that some cardiac transplant patients never have signs of rejection—they simply go into cardiac arrest without any warning.
I’m living with a borrowed heart on borrowed time, and the gravity of those facts coupled with the fact that I’m adopting a child render me paralyzed for a moment.
If I drop dead a year from now, I need to have someone else lined up to take care of that little girl.
I imagine how Astaire might fare as a mother.
There’s a gentleness to her, a softness in her disposition that I’ve yet to find in another person. Her sunny disposition can get exhausting at times, but her heart is always in the right place. And clearly she adores children.
She’s patient, intelligent, curious, and sweet.
Her voice alone was made for bedtime stories.
It’s the strangest thing … and maybe it’s the meds or maybe I hit my head when I passed out … but I think I miss her right now.
It’s as if there’s an indescribable void in the room where she should be, as if a piece of me is missing.
I tap out a text message on my phone, nothing more than MERCY CROSS HOSPITAL and FLOOR 4, ROOM 4677 followed by BRING PHONE CHARGER. Then I lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and wait for what feels like forever.
Twenty-Seven
Astaire
* * *
It’s been hardly over a year since the last time I stepped foot inside the beige brick walls Mercy Cross Hospital, when Trevor was braindead and hooked up to machines and his mother was signing his organs away—exactly what he would’ve wanted.
I never dreamed I’d be back.
Certainly never thought Bennett no-showed to our dinner plans because he was here.