Pieces of Me (3 page)

“Hmm.” I was noncommittal.
What do I say? She’s trying. Right?

“Something else, then?” She set them back and shooed away a salesperson. She oohed and aahed over a tweed pantsuit and a silk blouse that looked like variations on the theme of her closet. We worked our way around the floor until we were within eyesight of the special-occasion section. Sequins and ruffles, shiny jewels sparkled against midnight draping on mannequins with ballerina proportions. Something eager must have shown on my face, because Mother picked up on my expression and nudged me closer to the gowns.
Maybe she hopes we can bond over sparkles?

“I need a suitable dress for the Art Museum Gala. I have one I can wear, but I’d rather get a new piece of fabulous.” Mother shared this as if I knew about all of her social events, as if I was invited to any.

“The black and white gala?” I winced, hoping it wasn’t the masquerade- or the ocean-themed.

“Something black, I think.” She nodded.

I tried to appear interested but felt a pull away from the artfully displayed but interchangeable little black dresses and toward a creation the color of clear sunlit sky. I’d never seen anything like it. Layers of every shade of blue blended together and floated like clouds; just a hint of glimmer, like the first stars in the evening sky, hinted that there was something spectacular to come around the bend.

“Oh my.” Mother stopped behind me. Her sigh danced the hairs on the back of my neck and sent a shiver down my spine.

I waited for her to make a comment about it being garish, or too much, or pointing out that I didn’t have any gala to wear it to.
There’s only one and it’s my size
.

“You should try that on,” she said.

Really?

The salesperson hovering nearby studied me head to toe and grabbed the padded hanger, whisking it toward the fitting lounge. How did she know my size by glancing? That’s talent.
How do you figure out that’s your talent?

I felt my breath leave my body and my heart thump. Was it possible to fall in love with a dress? “I don’t—” I felt Mother’s enthusiasm deflate as if I was purposefully being difficult. “Sure.”

Mother beamed and asked the sales associate to help her find a suitable black dress.

A dressing room large enough to accommodate the football team, and a fainting couch, filled with the gaggle of women. According to them, it was the flecks of Swarovski crystals that made the layers of tulle and chiffon dance. I felt like a shooting star in the magic of space. The material was hand-dyed and hand-stitched.

There were the right undergarments and height of slipper heels to haggle over—Mother and the team of three sales associates discussed and lobbied and thrust opinions at me. They could have been trading stock futures, or baseball statistics, for all I understood or cared. My heart melted, and I couldn’t stop smiling at myself in the mirror. I was elfin, fairy princess–esque, utterly and completely not myself. I had the slightest of curves in the right places, and my pale skin almost seemed to glow against the fabric.

I didn’t want to take the dress off, but the attention slowly turned from me to her, as it was bound to do. The retail team worked hard, running and suggesting, making sure we headed toward the counter with every possible piece. The saleswomen blended seemingly back in the racks and nooks around them, as if by magic.

Mother saw friends and air-kissed over small talk. They suggested quick coffee. I had no desire to sit and try not to look bored out of my mind.

“I must talk to Cynthia,” Mother told me under her breath, and walked me toward the checkout counter.

Quick! Come up with a getaway plan
. “I’ve been invited to a Halloween party.” My dress floated as if it were alive. I couldn’t wait to wrap myself in it again and be the girl who wore it. She was interesting and beautiful and noticeable.

The briefest of shocks flickered in Mother’s eyes before she smoothly replied, “Of course you have. I should have asked what your plans were for tomorrow night. Well then, I’ll speak with my friends and these lovely associates will find you something more appropriate for a Halloween party.” Again the flock flapped forward as if on cue.

Brilliant
. As much as I hated the idea of having help from strangers while I shopped, it was better than trying to make small talk about people I didn’t know, or care about, with my mother’s frenemies. I saw their expressions—they were vultures clothed in couture. No way were they real friends. Not that I knew what real friends looked, or sounded, like. I didn’t have any of my own to compare.
Call it a gut feeling
.

“We don’t have to get the dress,” I offered, my heart pangs ignored.

“Nonsense, I’m sure there will be an upcoming occasion that will be perfection for.”

I smiled and kissed her on the cheek. She couldn’t cover the surprise and handed me her card. “I’ll see you in about an hour? Take care of those beautiful gowns for us, please,” she instructed.

I nodded, we all nodded, as Mother squared her shoulders and headed toward the café and her friends. Part of me wondered why she needed to talk to Cynthia and part of me focused on trying to ditch the commissioned help. “I don’t need help—I’m heading down to the juniors’ floor,” I said, and they looked relieved to not leave their department.

I touched the hem of the wishing-star dress as it disappeared into the fabric bag. I couldn’t wait to wear it again.

If Mother had known she was buying the dress she’d bury me
in, I wonder if she’d have chosen something different, or if she’d have still gone to java talk with those biddies.

SAMUEL

Samuel pulled a postcard from his stack, barely glancing at the photograph of adobe caves. His mother was at it again. He smacked the stamp down and picked up his pen to jot the next address and a quick note. Four hours of dialysis a day required inventive ways to pass the time: snail mail to relatives and friends, The-Daily-Miracle.com, and inventing video games.

“You’re not listening to me.” Ma slapped her hand over his. The pressure forced the pen to drag a black line down the side of the card.

Sam sighed. She didn’t understand. He couldn’t make her see it his way, but he wished she’d give it a rest. “I will not pray for a transplant,” he repeated.
Again
.

“Samuel—you must. We’ve tried everything else. You must pray.”

Pray for someone to die? How can she be serious?

“I will pray for a miracle. Miracles are okay.” Miracles didn’t necessarily mean tragedy for another family. Death was a thin blade—who it cut and when was unknown. Why didn’t she understand that?

“You and your miracles.” She paced to the window.

He knew she thought his website, The-Daily-Miracle.com, a silly waste of his energy. His snail mail even sillier. She wanted him to go conquer and piss on trees and be a man outside among the bears and warriors. Not inside with screens and nerds. Her desperation for him to live at all morphed into something else
entirely. They’d had this fight so many times he didn’t need to see the script to know his lines. “A transplant means someone else died.”

“And that’s not a miracle? You know, with your PRA count—” She broke off, stifling a sob before suppressing it and turning with fire in her eyes. “You believe Christ died for you and that you’re worthy of that. Why not someone else?”

“It’s not that simple, Ma.” Sam turned back to his computer. “Christ died for everyone. All of us. Not just me. As did Juan Martinez of Balbao, a supposed and little-known reincarnation of the Messiah from the twentieth century. Buddha lived for the world’s enlightenment. How’s that? Muhammad was a prophet bearing Allah’s words. Christ was not alone.”

She leaned over his back and squeezed his shoulders. “Don’t start quoting your hobby to me. Yes, yes, it is that simple.”

Sam shook his head. “Christ died for all of humanity, for all time.”

“Who says you’re not going to impact the entire world? You are not going to die, Samuel. I forbid it.” She stomped out and slammed the door. There was no arguing with her when she was in one of these moods.

He logged on to MiracleMakers; his online gaming community understood him. Twenty-one thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven people currently playing to save the world understood his dilemma. He prayed for a miracle, but he wouldn’t pray for someone to die to save him. How could he be more worthy of a long life than someone else?

VIVIAN

There was a ten-ton moon-rock (Pantone 17-1210) elephant sitting on Vivian’s chest. There had to be. It was the only plausible explanation. The elephant began dancing. Swing dancing in bottle-green (Pantone 17-5722) Chuck Taylors. And giggling.

Vivian forced the elephant to sit next to her and be quiet so she could listen to the doctor talk to her parents. She hated when they talked about her as if she wasn’t in the room. Dr. Feilstone didn’t usually; he knew better after all these years. She must be really sick. The kind of sick that buried her friends.

Dr. Feilstone continued. “She’s been very healthy and shown she can manage her disease well up until this point. There’s nothing she could have done to prevent this attack. So I see no reason why they won’t move her up the donor list for lungs and, now, a heart.”

A transplant? She didn’t need new lungs; she needed the zoo-keepers to come take the elephant home and she’d be okay. Her heart was fine. She had a painting to finish. It was important. If only she could remember who she’d been painting. She tried to speak, but they weren’t listening and couldn’t have understood her over the machine crammed into her throat and mouth. Adding machines to aid her breathing and body functions meant it was bad.
Say good-bye kind of bad
.

Dr. Feilstone frowned. “I have to caution you. Even if a set of donor lungs and a heart become available, it won’t stop the CF issues she has elsewhere. It will merely make it possible for her to live right now.”

Donor lungs? A heart? How did someone donate vital organs and keep liv—? They didn’t. They couldn’t. These meds made
Vivian loopy and slow. Of course she knew transplants happened all the time. But those were vague conversations about down the road. When she was older and the CF took its exacting toll on her body. When they were all out of options and all other treatments failed.

“We’re lucky to have a top transplant team here at the medical center. This will make it easier on Vivian to get the best care. I’ve asked Dr. Alexander to join us to answer any questions you might have. He’s head of the transplant team. And we’ve called her primary CF specialist to consult as well.”

The door opened and Vivian turned her head toward the bright light.

She recognized her dad’s voice. “What if we don’t find a donor?”

A new voice answered in clipped business tones the color of suitable dark blue (Pantone 19-3921). “She will not make it out of the hospital this weekend. It’s simply not reversible with current methods of treatment. She hasn’t responded to anything. She needs lungs. A heart. Now.” Was that Dr. Alexander matter-of-factly declaring her life over?

Vivian’s mom made sounds of heartbreak. Vivian wanted to reach out and reassure her. It would be okay. It would all be okay. They’d known her whole life that she would not live forever. Thirty-five was probably the outside edge of possible. She’d made it past year six, then eleven, then fourteen. Day by day, she’d made it this far. Maybe this was as far as her journey went.

She imagined her dad locking his jaw and crossing his arms, steeling himself to ask the question she knew came next. Sure enough, he rumbled, “What are the odds? What are the numbers
that it’s even possible for her to be high enough on the list and for someone to …” His words trailed off but they all knew what he was asking.

Vivian tried to lift her hand to get their attention, but they weren’t looking at her. She watched Dr. Alexander’s shadow, saw him pause.

The doctor spoke with slow deliberation, as if carefully weighing each word as deed. “It’s Halloween weekend, with a high probability of Saturday-night parties. The Weather Channel forecasts one of the Pacific Northwest’s famous powerful November storms rolling in a bit early—which means lots of rain and wind. These are all factors in favor of donor organs becoming available. I’ve been doing this for thirty years. Someone’s going to die tonight. That’s all I can tell you for sure.”

The wind’s fingers snaked through my hair
and sent chills down my spine as it flicked the bare spots behind my ears. I kept the windows down to chase out the perfume Mother had insisted on spritzing all over me. I smelled like a middle-aged woman heading to a garden party.
Eww
.

Even with my bag on it, the party flyer threatened to take off as a gust picked it up and danced it out of reach across the passenger seat. I hit the window buttons and the glass glided closed. I needed that flyer for directions.
Where the heck am I? Where is this party?

New, crisp skinny jeans with artful and expensive rips complemented tall black leather boots, a lace camisole, and a bolero jacket with a skull woven into the lace along my back. A mask of molded lace lay across my eyes and nose, tied with delicate velvet ribbons at the back of my head. It made my eyes seem twice their size and an interesting magical shade of gray instead of the usual boring blah. I didn’t take off the mask for fear that I’d lose my nerve completely. My hair was both spiked and tousled like it hadn’t taken hours to get it exactly so. Dmitry and his elves made it seem so easy.

I smiled into the rearview mirror. For once I looked dangerous. Like a rock ’n’ roll pixie with a mischievous secret. I stifled a giggle that bordered on hysterical.

What secret?

Tonight, I am someone else
.

Tonight, I can have all the secrets I want
.

Maybe changing my life started with my hair. Halloween. Wasn’t that what the holiday was about? Transforming into someone else? Being whoever you wanted to be instead of yourself?