Home Again

Fury flashed through Angel, so hard and fast, he felt dizzy with it. “An operation. Christ, you doctors, you’re all the same. You say ‘you need an operation’ like it’s no different than telling me I need a wisdom tooth pulled.” He struggled to sit up straighter and couldn’t. The failure increased his anger. “Well, Doc, you let ’em cut your fucking heart out and then tell me how it was. If you still endorse the operation, I’ll think about it.”

Allenford never broke eye contact, but the wrinkles in his cheeks seemed to deepen. “I don’t know … I’ve never been a very brave man.”

The words were quietly stated and honest. Angel lost his hold on anger. Fear slipped in to replace it, twisting his insides. “My heart,” he whispered, wanting to sound cocky and sure of himself, and knowing that again he’d failed.

Allenford stared down at him. “I can’t pretend to know how you feel, Mr. DeMarco, but I can tell you a little bit about the surgery. Demystify it somewhat. Years ago, heart transplants were very risky ventures, very uncertain, and most patients died. But we’ve made great strides in the last decade. Anti-rejection drugs, tissue typing, and immunosuppressants—they’ve all played a tremendous part in making this type of operation successful. And you’re one of the lucky ones—only your heart has been damaged; your other organs are functioning amazingly well, given the life you’ve led. This gives you a jump on long-term post-op prognosis. Approximately ninety percent of all patients live a relatively normal life afterward.”

“Relatively normal,” Angel said, feeling sick at the thought.

“Yes, relatively. You’ll take medications for the rest of your life, you’ll have to watch your diet and exercise. No drugs, no smoking, no booze.” He leaned forward, smiling gently. “That’s the downside. The upside is that you’ll be alive.”

“Sounds like a great life. I can hardly wait.”

Allenford’s hawkish gray brows pulled together slowly. “I’ve got a seventy-year-old indigent apple picker down the hall who won’t even be considered for a new heart…. Then there’s the six-year-old girl who has been in constant arrest for the past week—all she wants is to live long enough to see seven candles on her birthday cake. Either of them would take your condition in a second.”

Angel felt like shit. “Look, I’m sorry, I just…”

Allenford wouldn’t let it go so easily. “I know you’re a celebrity, but believe me, that doesn’t mean anything in here. I won’t put up with your tantrums and your selfishness. In here you’re just another patient waiting for a new heart. The hard truth is, Mr. DeMarco, you’re going to die. Without the surgery, you’ll get weaker and weaker. You won’t be able to move around much, and drawing a decent breath will seem like a gift from God. I know it’s difficult, but you’ve got to understand what I’m telling you. Life as you know it is over.”

Angel knew he should shut up now and pretend to be a team player. But he was scared and angry, and his fame had given him license to misbehave for so long, he didn’t know any other way. “I could get up, walk out of here, and take my chances.”

“Of course you could. And you could get hit by a bus before you die of heart failure.”

“I could die screwing some woman’s brains out.”

“Yes, you could.”

“Maybe that’s what I want to do.”

“Maybe it is.”

Angel stared at the man. He’d never felt such a confusing jumble of emotions. His head was spinning with thoughts, possibilities, fears. Mostly fears. “If I did decide to have the surgery—”

“Let me tell you right now, Mr. DeMarco, it’s not completely your decision.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re talking about a heart transplant here, not capping a tooth. There are only so many hearts available. Unfortunately, most families choose not to donate a loved one’s organs. Thousands of patients die every year waiting for a new heart.”

“Are you telling me I could die waiting for a heart?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ, what a mess.”

“Your condition is critical. If UNOS—that’s the United Network for Organ Sharing—agrees that you’re an acceptable candidate, they will put you on the top of their transplant list. The first heart that matches would be yours. But I couldn’t guarantee anything.”

The words hit him like a sucker punch. “Whoa. Now you’re telling me I might not even be put on the list?”

“A psychological profile is required. We all need to believe that you’ll change your life and take care of the heart.”

The truth crept over Angel. He realized the significance of the doctor’s words. For once, Angel couldn’t storm or charm or buy his way out. All he could do was play ball—pretend to be worthy of this chance. And he didn’t have a hope in hell that he was that good an actor. “Oh, this is just perfect. I’m going to die because I’ve got a shitty personality.” He gave a bitter laugh. “My mother was right.”

“Assuming you get on the list—and that will be up to your psychiatrist and your cardiologist—your chances of getting a new heart … in time, are running at about fifty-fifty.”

He wanted to say, Thanks for the morbid stats, Doc. I’ll be sure to set my heart on the surgery, but he bit back the sarcasm. Instead he asked, “How are you going to guarantee my anonymity while I’m here?”

“We’ve put a lid on everything—you’re just Mark Jones, in for a heart transplant. Only my oldest and most trusted team members will know who you really are.” He sighed. “To be honest, I don’t know how long it will last, but we’ll do our level best to protect your privacy. If a leak occurs, I’ll report simply that you’re here for cardiac surgery.”