Where Mercy Flows (32 page)

The nurse left, returning momentarily with Dr. Wilhelm, my transplant surgeon. His reddish hair stuck straight up like tufts
of mown hay, and because of the way he rubbed his puffy eyes I figured he had been catching a nap. He glanced at the monitors
and then smiled at me.

“It went well, Samantha. Real well.” He scratched the short wiry beard at the edge of his surgical mask. His bloodshot eyes
looked kind and sincere. “You’ve got a beautiful, healthy heart. Good fit. We were in surgery for less than five hours; we
hooked that baby up and she started running like she never missed a beat.” He winked. “How about that?” A simple blink was
all I could do. “I know you’re feeling pretty uncomfortable right now. This tube in your throat is a ventilator. Remember
us talking about that? Try to relax and let it do the breathing for you. It’s only for a few days. So far there are no signs
of rejection, but we’ll keep a steady watch on that. Your meds are coming in through those tubes there. . . .”

A beautiful healthy heart. I didn’t hear much after that. It pumped inside me now. I listened. I tried to feel the rhythm
of its pulse. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself strong—Popeye after a couple of cans of spinach, bandages and tubes bursting
from my body as I sprang from the bed. Soon, I reminded myself. It’s almost time. I saw myself running, laughing. Chasing
TJ. Flashes of brilliant energy. Like highlights from a movie preview, the images played before me and in each scene I beamed
with joy. I leaped to spike a volleyball, splashed through the creek, skipped like a schoolchild. I twirled, arms outstretched,
spinning like a crazy person beneath the sun.

My mother cried when she saw me. I knew she felt terrible about not being with me before I went into the OR, and now here
I lay with tubes everywhere, bandaged like a mummy, unable to speak. I could not have been a pretty sight. David supported
her by the arm and led her out of the room. “I’m sorry,” she said over her shoulder and then I heard her sobbing in the hall.

My sister came in and stood beside me, gently touching the fingers that protruded below my IV splint. “She’s exhausted,” Lindsey
explained. “We all are. None of us have slept.” She smiled at me, but I could tell by her swollen eyes that she had cried
too. It was rare to see her face without a trace of makeup. “We’re so happy for you, Sam. You’re going to be fine now. I just
know it.”

I tried to ask about my father and Donnie and TJ but Lindsey couldn’t understand me. She started fussing with my pillows and
covering up my toes. “Do you want me to get the nurse?” I made another attempt to communicate and then gave up. I closed my
eyes and pretended to be tired. I hated the way people looked at me. Those pinched sympathetic looks annoyed me as much as
the syrupy smiles of the nurses who worked so hard at keeping my attitude positive. I had read the books. I knew that my mental
state played a role in my body’s acceptance of the foreign heart. My mental state was fine.

I cradled my new heart, embraced it with body and soul. Even in my post-surgery condition I could feel its strong, faithful
beat and wondered at the miracle of it all. With every pulse I sensed my invisible donor. Sometimes I cried for her, or him.
Most of the time I found myself silently saying
Thank you
, and our heart seemed to answer in some unspoken language like glances between lovers across a crowded room. One body lay
on my bed and yet I was not alone. I would never be the same.

On the third day, sometime in the morning, the doctors removed the tube from my throat. I sat up from my bed, letting the
sheet fall to the floor, raised my arms to the ceiling and laughed. “I have risen!”

Christopher chuckled. He helped me take a short walk and then checked all my vitals again. “You are a new woman! You’ll be
on the treadmill in a few days. Time to get that skinny little behind back in shape.”

“Bring it on. I can handle anything. I’m ready to see TJ now. I don’t look so scary anymore. Will you tell my mother, Chris?
And where is my father? He hasn’t been here at all.”

“Are you sure? You’ve been sleeping a lot.” Chris tossed my cosmetic kit onto the bed. “You might want to do something with
your hair first.”

I looked in the mirror and smiled. “Did you notice, Chris? Look at the color in my cheeks. That’s not makeup.” Chris opened
the curtains. All I could see was pure blue winter sky.

He returned to my bedside and took the comb from my hand. “Let’s see what a French braid looks like on you.” He pulled my
hair back gently and began to weave.

“What’s the matter, Chris?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem preoccupied . . . or sad. You’re going to miss me, aren’t you? I mean, I don’t think you’re in love with me or anything.
You’ve seen too many of my body fluids, not to mention my stinky moods.”

He kept braiding silently for a moment. “I guess I’m just concerned about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Chris. Trust me; my body won’t reject this heart. It’s mine forever. I’m going to do all
the right things. I’ve changed. I feel it, Chris. No more pity parties. If I have to fight, I’ll fight. I can do anything
now. I can get a job, and a house! A house by the river so TJ can have the kind of childhood I did—fishing and building forts
and climbing trees.”

He grinned and hugged me. “I don’t know who you are or how you got in here, but I like you.”

“I like you back.”

There was a light tap on the door. Dr. Sovold peered in, then motioned and was followed by my mom and Matthew.

“Hey, Matt!” I reached out and he placed the pink palm of his black hand on mine like we used to do when I was small. “Hey,
Mom.” She looked better. There were still shadows under her eyes, but her hair was pinned up in a French roll and she wore
a clean and pressed pants outfit. They all pulled up chairs next to my bed. “What’s up? Where’s Dad?”

I had called him Dad again, which still seemed new to me, but no one seemed to notice. Mom was smiling. “You look wonderful.”
She touched my cheeks and I knew she was seeing me healthy for the first time since I left home as a teenager. Matt leaned
forward, resting his arms on his knees. Dr. Sovold’s chair was pushed back a little, like he was just there as an observer
or something. Christopher nervously excused himself and left the room.

“Is something up?” Mom’s eyes darted toward Matt as he cleared his throat. I sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath.

Matt sighed, dropping his head momentarily, and then raised his chin and let his eyes meet mine. His lower lids hung open
a bit like apron pockets and they immediately filled with tears. He swiped at them and shook his head with a weak laugh. “I
wasn’t going to do that.” Mom reached over and placed her hand on his arm. “You know I love you, Sammy. Like you were my own
little girl. I’m so happy for you. You look like you’ve come back to life again.” He placed his hand over Mom’s. “Doesn’t
she look just like she’s twelve again with her hair all pulled back like that, that sparkle in her eye. This is a happy day,
Sammy.” He sighed. “But we got ourselves some sadness too.”

“Where’s Dad?” Now my mother’s eyes flooded up. I stifled a sob. “Where’s my father, Matthew?”

He broke down. His forehead dropped to his clenched hands and he cried right out loud. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

My body fell against the pillows propped behind me.

Mom took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Sammy, we’re going to tell you the truth now. The doctor says you’re strong
enough and I believe you are. I don’t know what you were doing out in the barn that night.” She shook her head. “I thought
you were asleep in your bed. Dwight Enrich is the one who’s been prowling around, harassing us. Do you remember, honey? Do
you remember anything about that night?”

I nodded. It was all coming back to me. It seemed so unreal. I had been whisked into surgery so fast afterward that it seemed
like a bad dream. “I was on my knees. His gun was pointed at my head.”

Matt wiped his face and cleared his throat. “Your father took the bullet, Sammy. They found him on top of you.” He began to
stroke my hand.

It was supposed to be me. Enrich wanted to kill me. “I asked Christopher that next morning. He said Dad was alive!”

Matt shook his head. “The bullet went right up through here”—he pointed to his jaw—“and lodged in his head. He was unconscious.
An ambulance took him into Darlington. Another one took you on down here, where they could take better care of you.”

“So it wasn’t just the snow that kept you from getting out of Darlington.”

“No. It wasn’t the snow. The surgeons were trying to get the bullet out . . . but where it was—it was just no good, Sammy.
They couldn’t save him.”

My eyes were fixed on my mother. She sat there like the queen of England, regal and strong, half smiling at me with moist
eyes. My father was the only man she had ever loved.

“Mom,” I managed to croak, “I’m so sorry.” It was a while before any of us spoke. I used my bedsheet as a tissue. The sky
was still so blue beyond my window, like any ordinary day. “Where is he now?”

Mom smiled. Matthew reached out and took my hand, gently placing it on my chest. “He’s here, Sammy. He’s right here.”

M
AY CAME AGAIN. Purple lilacs bloomed on the bush outside my mother’s bedroom window, and their scent combined with the spicy
fragrance of the new cottonwood buds was almost more than I could bear. Goldfinches the color of buttercups twittered from
the branches of the old apple tree and then scattered in a flurry of wings. I swear there has never been a spring, before
or since, that was so intense. So perfect.

The river, swollen from melting mountain snows, flowed peacefully, musically, from places I had never seen to places I hoped
I would. My possibilities were endless.

Donnie climbed the grand old cottonwood that stood near the intersection of our creek and the river and tied one end of a
rope to a thick limb; the other end he triple-knotted around a tire we found behind the barn. TJ wanted to go first, but Donnie
insisted that the maiden swing be his. He held the tire in the crook of his elbow as he climbed the nearby slope and then
with a running start and a sickly Tarzan yell swung out over the creek. He and TJ went double next, laughing like two little
boys, while I pinched off a sticky, aromatic cottonwood bud and held it beneath my nose. They wanted to go again, but I wrestled
the tire away from them and ran up the hill. The rope creaked when I hoisted my body onto the tire and pushed off. I swung
wide over the creek and then back to the bank and pushed off again with my feet. The tire began to spin as I lay back, holding
on to the knot, admiring the kaleidoscope of waving leaves and shards of sky above me.

When I was a child I hung by my knees from the lower branches of that very tree. Sometimes I sprawled like a cheetah on a
fork of heavy limbs and watched my father fish the mouth of the creek where it spread to join the river. He would turn his
head from time to time and look at me there among the big leaves that flapped like laundry in the breeze.

I never went to his grave and I never will. He is not there.

The Judge’s memorial service was held at the Darlington Community Church, where I had sat between my parents every Sunday
as a child. The service had been delayed for several weeks so that I would be well enough to attend. The place was packed,
with people standing along the side and back walls. Friends and relatives gave glowing tributes, including Matt, who broke
down and cried twice, as we all did right along with him. When he came down from the pulpit and sat with us in the front row,
Mom rested her hand on his arm. Everyone made a big deal about Blake Dodd living on because his heart still beat inside of
me. It was a terrible thing that happened: the father of a convicted killer taking his revenge on the judge who sentenced
his son. But Enrich’s rage had turned on me. What better way to repay the Judge? An eye for an eye, a daughter for a son.
(The news media loved it. They were out in full force, even though Matthew threatened to smash the first camera he saw in
the church.) And then, how ironic, my father threw himself on me. He saved me twice. Once by taking my bullet and then by
giving me his heart so that I could live to raise my son. So that come spring I could swing on the tire swing down by the
river with Donnie and TJ, planning and dreaming about the log house we would build on the other side. It was a great story,
but they really didn’t get it. How could they? They didn’t know what I knew—what Matt told me while I was still in the hospital—which
I couldn’t comprehend for some time. In fact, there are still days when I am so overtaken by the whole truth that I fall to
my knees and cry.

After the service a lot of people came to our house with food. It was still too cold outside to use the deck, so they milled
about with overflowing plates, dripping coffee onto the carpet, reminiscing and chatting, even laughing right out loud. Aunt
Lilse kept saying it should have been her that died. “Blake was so young and strong,” she said. “Who would have thought he’d
go before me? God knows,
I’ve
been on the verge of death for twenty years.” People said a lot of nice things to me about my father. They said they were
happy for me and that I must be proud to have his heart beating inside me. They said they were sorry that we lost him, but
wasn’t it fortunate the way things turned out? Like it was all a fluke. An accident with a lucky twist. After the hundred
and fiftieth person asked me how it felt to have my father’s heart, I ducked down the hall to the refuge of the Judge’s study.

The room had not changed. I settled into my father’s leather throne and pulled my feet up. There was a gap on the bookshelf
where several law books had been removed. The Judge had willed them all to Donnie, but Donnie removed only a few at a time
and later replaced them in the exact same spots on the shelves. My mother had dusted the worn leather Bible on the Judge’s
desk, an antique brass fishing reel, a glass display case of tied flies. Everything was left in its place like she expected
him to return any day, lean back in that big chair with the capillary cracks in the brown leather and plop his feet up on
the mahogany desk.