The Color of a Memory (The Color of Heaven Series) (11 page)

All I wanted to do was see where he’d lived and worked, and walk the same sidewalks he had walked.

This adventure took me to the address where he’d resided in a third-floor flat, and to the public playground across the street where I unintentionally met his widow Audrey and his young daughter, Wendy.

Caught off guard when they joined Ellen and me in the playground, I chose not to reveal my identity.

Many months later, I would wish that I had, for I’ve learned it would have saved Audrey a great deal of grief and heartache.

When I returned home from our picnic in the Manchester playground, I vowed to finally put it all behind me. I
did
lay it to rest, and for a long time I was content to truly claim this new heart as my own.

But then I received another letter—and my interest in Alex Fitzgerald came alive again.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“I wanted to wait until you came home,” I said to my husband Jesse when he walked through the door after work. “I couldn’t bring myself to open it. I have a weird feeling about it.”

The letter from the Donor Network had arrived earlier in the day and the first thing I did was call Jesse on his cell phone to tell him about it.

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the coat tree. “Where is it?”

“On the table.” I followed him into the kitchen where he picked up the envelope, turned it over and looked at it. “Do you want me to read it first?”

I considered that. “No. I think I should.”

He nodded and handed it over.

I took a deep breath and broke the seal. “But stay here.”

“Don’t worry,” he replied as he pulled out a chair to sit down. “I’m just as curious as you are.”

I sat down across from him at the table and unfolded the letter. It was written by hand on tasteful stationery that looked as if it had been purchased at an expensive boutique. “The penmanship is the same as last time,” I said.

“It must be his mother,” Jesse replied, because I’d shown him the previous letter and we’d both agreed it looked like a woman’s handwriting.

I read the letter with Jesse leaning over my shoulder.

To the recipient of my son’s heart. I hope this letter finds you well. I can’t believe it’s been two years since my son passed. We still miss him every day.

My gaze lifted. I turned my head and shared a look with Jesse, because neither of us could imagine how it would feel to lose a child.

I lowered my gaze and continued reading.

I want to thank you again for writing to us after your transplant. I was pleased and comforted to learn that you were doing well and seemed so happy. I am writing to you now because lately I find myself wondering about you. I hope you are still doing well and that my son’s heart is continuing to provide you with that “second chance at life” you mentioned before. If you are inclined to write to me again, I would enjoy hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Your donor’s mom.

I folded the letter and looked up.

“Wow,” Jesse said. “That’s different from last time. She’s definitely reaching out.”

“Maybe she just needed time to grieve,” I replied. “It was probably too soon before. It was too much to handle.”

Jesse nodded. “Now that some time has passed, I can understand how she’d want to know how you’re doing. You do have her son’s heart. Are you going to write back?”

I slipped the letter into the envelope. “Of course. I want her to know I’m okay. Better than okay. I’ll write to her tonight.”

* * *

It was tempting to open my letter with “Dear Mrs. Fitzgerald,” but I wasn’t supposed to know her identity, or Alex’s for that matter—I had discovered that quite on my own last year. But even so, I had no idea if this woman was even a “Mrs. Fitzgerald.” Perhaps she had remarried and was now a Mrs. Smith or Jones. So I adhered to the Donor Network’s code of confidentiality, and this is what I wrote:

To the mother of my heart donor,

Thank you so much for writing to me. I was touched by your letter and I am happy to report that I’m still doing wonderfully well. Your son’s heart is working like a charm for me and my health is better than ever. I exercise regularly and go for gorgeous nature hikes with my husband and daughter, and I am taking very good care of myself, eating well and never taking for granted the strong heart inside of me.

My daughter just turned two and she’s very bright. She keeps me busy. Since the last time I wrote to you, my husband and I bought a beautiful house on the water, so we are enjoying the task of completing some household projects, as it was an older home and required some updating.

This whole experience of getting sick and finding my way back to health has taught me many things about the importance of treasuring each day and appreciating our loved ones. I have your son to thank for giving me the opportunity to learn these precious life lessons, which I will never forget.

At the same time, I still mourn for your loss. Having a child of my own, I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for you. I don’t know much about your son, but I do know he had a great heart.

Sincerely…

Oh, how I wanted to sign my own name, but I knew that I couldn’t. If I did, the Donor Network wouldn’t allow it. I didn’t know what they would do. Would they even deliver it?

Instead, I signed the letter, “A Friend,” but indicated in writing in a separate cover letter to the administrators at the Network that if the family ever wanted to meet me, I would be happy to oblige.

Three weeks later, I received a phone call that blew my mind.

Chapter Twenty-eight

“Hello?” I struggled to balance the phone between my ear and shoulder because I was trying to buckle Ellen into her booster seat at the table. She wasn’t in the mood to cooperate, however, because she wanted to be tickled.

“Hi Nadia, it’s Marg from the Donor Network. How are you doing today?”

I felt a rush of nervous butterflies in my stomach. “I’m great,” I replied, snapping the buckle on Ellen’s seat and placing the bowl of cereal in front of her. “It’s nice to hear from you.”

After making sure that Ellen was settled and digging into her breakfast, I moved away from the table so I wouldn’t be distracted.

“We got your letter about wanting to meet your donor’s family,” Marg said, “and I sent your note on to them, letting them know that it could be arranged if they were interested. Today I got an email from your donor’s mother and she’s wondering if you’d like to set up a time to meet. If you like, I can give you some information about the family and you can take the time you need to make up your mind.”

My breath hitched in my throat.
They wanted to meet me?
I was both overjoyed and intimidated, because I was using their son’s heart and benefiting greatly from it, while they had lost him forever. I know it wasn’t my fault he had died, but there was still a part of me that felt incredibly guilty about that.

I fought to sweep all those doubts and insecurities from my mind, however, and quickly answered the question.

“I’d love to know more about them,” I said to Marg. “What can you tell me?”

“I’ll start with their names,” she said. “First of all, your donor. His name was Alex Fitzgerald and he didn’t live that far from you, in Manchester, Connecticut. He was a firefighter.”

I swallowed over a spark of excitement that rose up within me upon hearing his name—even though I already knew it.

“I see,” I replied, not letting Marg know I’d already known this.

“His mother’s name is Jean and she’s married to Garry Martel, who was Alex’s stepfather. His real father passed away when he was very young. He also has a younger sister named Sarah who is in her early twenties and works in Boston. Jean and Garry live in Manchester, and in Jean’s email she suggested that you and she could meet for lunch anywhere that’s convenient for you. I didn’t tell her where you lived because I didn’t have your permission to do that, but whatever you want to share, I can pass that along and put the two of you in touch directly.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Please, when you reply to her email, tell her my name and that I live in Waltham. I’d be happy to come to Manchester, or if she’d prefer to meet somewhere neutral, like in Boston, that would be okay, too. Tell her my husband’s name is Jesse Fraser and he’s a helicopter pilot, and our daughter’s name is Ellen and she’s two years old. And you can give her my full address, phone number and email. I’ll wait for her to contact me.”

“Great,” Marg said. “I’ve got all this and I’ll send her an email right now. Good luck, Nadia, and if you wouldn’t mind keeping me posted about what happens…”

“I will. Thank you, Marg.”

We hung up, and I turned around to face Ellen who was just finishing her cereal.

“Want some more?” I asked.

Ellen nodded her head, so I grabbed the box and poured, realizing only then that Marg hadn’t mentioned anything about Alex’s wife or child. Audrey’s name hadn’t even come up.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Twenty minutes after I spoke to Marg, my phone rang again. This time the call display said Garry Martel, so there was no question who it was—the mother of my organ donor.

For two years, I had been living a new and beautiful life with her son’s heart beating inside of my chest, and I’d wanted desperately to meet her in person, to embrace her and convey the affection I felt for her.

Intellectually I knew it was silly to feel so connected to a woman who was, effectively, a complete stranger to me. We weren’t related, yet I had her DNA inside of me.

The whole thing was totally bizarre and my heart was beating like a drum when I picked up the phone.

“Hello?” I said tentatively.

“Hi, may I speak with Nadia Fraser?” She sounded formal but friendly.

“This is Nadia,” I replied.

There was a brief, momentary pause. “Hi, Nadia,” she finally said. “This is Jean Martel. The Organ Donor Network gave me your number.”

“Yes,” I quickly replied. “It’s so nice to hear from you.”

There was another excruciatingly long pause.

“This is strange, isn’t it?” she said with laughter in her voice, and my whole body relaxed. I was worried it might be an emotional phone call and there would be weeping, but she sounded at ease with the situation.

“It sure is,” I replied. “But I’m really glad you called. I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time because I feel so incredibly connected to you.” I stopped myself. “Oh, gosh. That must have sounded crazy. I’m sorry. I’m actually a very levelheaded person.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I’ve had the same thoughts. For me, it feels like a part of my son is still alive out there in the world because of what he gave. And you were always the recipient I wondered about the most because you were the one who got his heart. Maybe it’s sentimental of me, but something feels special about that.”

I smiled. “It feels special to me, too.”

I chose not to bring up the subject of my flying dreams, or the fact that I believed her son’s spirit had helped me through a very difficult experience a year ago when I contracted pneumonia and was rushed to the hospital. Instead, I focused on the here and now.

“Marg told me you live in Manchester,” I said. “We’re not that far from each other. I live in Waltham.”

“Yes, Marg mentioned that,” Jean said, “and I would love to get together with you in person if you’re interested. I was thinking we could meet for lunch somewhere, but now that we’ve had a chance to speak, I feel more comfortable asking if you’d like to come and visit us at our home. I’m sure you’re as curious about Alex as we are about you. I could show you some photo albums and tell you more about his life. I think I’m ready for that now. I wasn’t before.”

My heart leapt. To learn more about my donor was a dream come true.

“I understand,” I replied, “and I would love to come and visit you. When would be a good time?”

We talked it over and made arrangements for Saturday afternoon. She gave me her address and told me to bring Jesse and Ellen.

I hung up and felt a great swell of joy move through me. I scooped Ellen into my arms and hugged her tight.

“On Saturday we’re going to meet a very nice lady,” I said. “She’s not exactly your grandmother,” I added, “but she sort of is, in a weird sort of way.”

Then something struck me, and my stomach clenched tight.

What if Audrey was there? Surely she’d remember me from the day we met in the playground across the street from her house. She’d wonder why I didn’t tell her who I was.

How would I explain that I knew where she lived because I’d met her husband in a dream?

I hoped she wouldn’t think I’d been stalking her.

Chapter Thirty

“Wow, nice place,” Jesse said as we pulled up in front of the Martel’s home.