Home Again

His

eyes snapped open and he lay there, breathing hard. “Oh, Christ,” he whispered, wishing it were a prayer, wishing he knew what to say, what to beg for in this moment. But his whole life had been a headlong rush to death, and he had no hope, no real hope, that he would ever wake up again, that this stranger’s heart would be his redemption.

A masked woman came over to him, peering down at him through eyes that were crinkled in the corners. It was pathetic how pleased he was to have her beside him, even if it was for a second, even if she didn’t know or care who he was. At least he wasn’t so alone.

“The heart has just landed at SeaTac, Mr. Jones,” she said in a hushed voice. “We’ll be ready to begin soon.”

He pictured a huge, beating heart splatting on runway twelve, spraying blood everywhere. He winced, swallowed hard.

He reached out, grabbed the nurse’s gloved hand. Don’t leave me. The humiliating plea ached for release. Instead, he sucked in a sharp, shaking breath and whispered, “Where’s Mad?”

Above the mask, he saw her frown. “You’re mad?”

He shook her hand impatiently. “Dr. Hillyard, where is she?”

The frown faded. “She was on Lifeflight One with your new heart. Now they’re on a helicopter. They should be here any second.”

“Don’t let them anesthetize me until she gets here, okay?”

She glanced at the clock. “It’s not my decision, Mr. Jones.”

He clung to her hand. “Please.” He heard the pathetic shake in his voice, but he couldn’t change it, didn’t really care anymore. “Don’t let anyone touch me until Madelaine gets here.”

There was so much he needed to say to her before they did this abominable thing to his body….

And to Francis.

Francis. Jesus, he had so many things to say to his big brother. So many things … and yet, only one. I love you, bro.

He winced at the memory of their last meeting, and closed his eyes. He’d make it up to Franco, if only God would give him a second chance. Just a second—a moment of consciousness before death, when Angel could say he was sorry. So damned sorry.

At exactly 3:15 a masked man came over to Angel, looked at the machines one by one, then finally said, “Hello, Mr. Jones. I’m Dr. Arche.” He reached for one of the clear plastic bags hanging above Angel’s head. “It’s easy to remember—Dr. A. for anesthesia.”

“Oh, good. Mnemonics.” Angel sighed. “Just don’t put me to sleep until Madelaine gets here.”

“Don’t worry, she’ll be right beside you.” Dr. Arche swept past Angel in a blur of blue-green and settled with a whining squeak onto a stool. The wheels grated across the linoleum and took the anesthesiologist to his station.

Angel tried to lift his head off the hard table and couldn’t. Instead, he turned, stared at the closed door. An image shimmered in front of bland steel.

Francis, he realized suddenly. It was his brother come to hold his hand.

Heya, Angel.

Angel started to say something and realized he didn’t know what it was. Dizziness rolled through him. He blinked hard, and when he opened his eyes, Francis was gone.

Angel’s cheek seemed to hit the table with a loud thunk.

They’d done it. The assholes had started the anesthesia.

He could feel the drugs oozing into his veins, crawling through his body in a swaying, intoxicating rhythm. He tried to concentrate … on the bag hanging above his head … the prick of the needle in his wrist…. It was dripping, dripping into his blood, seeping, seeping….

He swallowed thickly; it felt as if cotton were wadded in his mouth and throat.

Dr. Arche wheeled back toward him. “Just relax, Mr. Jones. Go with the flow … the flow … the flow …”

Angel tried to lift his chin and couldn’t. “Fu … fuck you … mother… fucker…”

Dr. Arche laughed quietly and wheeled back to his station.