Home Again

It came to him that easily, without bells or whistles or epiphanies. Just a simple realization that he owed someone his life. He reached forward and grabbed a pen and yellow legal pad off the heavy iron coffee table. He stared down at the thin blue lines and doodled a little heart in the corner.

Before he even realized what he was going to do, he started to write.

Dear donor family:

This is perhaps the most difficult thing I have ever done, writing this letter to strangers who feel like family. There are no words to express my gratitude, or if there are, it would be left to greater minds than mine to find them.

I was in a coma and dying when your beloved family member was tragically killed. Until recently, I couldn’t conceive of what that moment must have been like for you. Then I lost my brother in a sudden car accident. The grief was like nothing I’d known before—a wound that kept tearing itself open.

How is it possible that in a time like that, your family looked outward? Even in your incomparable grief you looked to me and others like me across the country. You did this without knowing my name or my life or anything about me. The courage and compassion of your act makes me believe in the world, and in my fellow man, for the first time in years. And even more surprisingly, it has made me begin to believe in myself.

You have given me the most precious of gifts—the miracle of life itself—and though I will probably never meet you, I want you to know that I carry a piece of you and your whole family in my heart. I will do everything in my power to deserve the second chance you have given me.

May God bless you and your family.

As he wrote the last sentence, Angel felt himself changing. It was as if sunlight, pure and hot and white, were flooding through his body, lighting places that had been cold and dark for years. For the first time in his life, he knew—irrevocably and completely—that he’d done the right thing.

Madelaine reached into her closet for something to change into. Her fingertips brushed soft, well-worn flannel. Very slowly she pushed the silks and cottons aside and came to a blue and gray flannel shirt that had been Francis’s.

She remembered the day he’d left that shirt here—a spring day that had started out cold and rainy and by noon turned almost summer-hot. He’d thrown off the old flannel shirt and put on one of those oversized T-shirts that the drug companies were always giving her.

For a moment the pain was almost unbearable. Blinded by stinging tears, she reached out for the shirt and pulled it from the hanger. She brought it to her nose and breathed deeply.

She could smell him. A trace of aftershave filled her senses, bringing a dozen treasured images to her mind. Francis unwrapping the small red and green plaid box, laughing as he always did when he saw the aftershave. OK thank God, I was almost out.

She realized in a rush that he wouldn’t be here for Christmas this year, or Thanksgiving. She and Lina would have to make it through those days alone. How would they do it? Every one of their traditions had been forged as a threesome. Who would carve the turkey, who would hang the Christmas lights, who would eat the Christmas cookies they laid out for Santa Claus on the good Spode china?

She clutched the shirt to her face and breathed in deeply, as if she could somehow bring him back to life through the sheer force of her will.

God, how she wanted to turn around and find him there, her priest with the blue, blue eyes and the infectious laugh. She wanted to run into his waiting arms and hear him tell her he loved his Maddy-girl. She squeezed her eyes shut. Just one more time, God … one more time.

Solitude stretched taut around her. She heard the quiet ticking of her bedroom clock, the gentle tapping of the wind against the glass.

Standing in her own bedroom, in her own house, she’d never felt more alone.

Suddenly she couldn’t endure it another second. She shoved her arms in Francis’s shirt and buttoned it up, running headlong through the house. She wrenched the door open and felt the cold air hit her in the face.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Angel. He was leaning against the front end of his gray Mercedes—the one she’d bought for him with an American Express Platinum credit card. He was standing there, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world, in his snug blue Levi’s jeans and faded Aerosmith T-shirt.

He pushed away from the car and strode up the walkway. Wind whipped a long strand of brown hair across his face.

Angel came to within a few feet of her and stopped. For once, he didn’t smile. “I want to see Francis’s grave.”

She frowned. That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. “It’s in Forest Lawn … in Magnolia Heights.”

“I thought maybe you would come with me.” He flashed the smile that had graced a hundred movie magazines, and she noticed for the first time that it was a little sad around the edges, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

“What is it, Angel?”

His false smile faded and he looked up at her with an intensity that made her breath catch. “He’s haunting me, Mad. It’s because there were so many things I never said. I thought maybe … if I said them now, he’d let me get on with my life.” He took a step toward her. “I’m starting to figure some things out, Mad. I can see a life ahead of me for the first time in years, but…”

She was drawn by the words he didn’t say. It felt as if she were falling into the past, but she didn’t care. All she knew was that she was lonely, had been lonely a very long time, and he was holding his hand out for her. She reached down and took it, felt his strong fingers close around hers, and her heartbeat sped up a notch. “I’ll take you,” she said softly, knowing that if she went with him to Francis’s grave, she would tell him the truth about his heart and he might never offer his hand again. She squeezed tightly, clinging to him.

He led her down the path that cut between her faded flower beds, to the sidewalk that guarded her house. The first hint of nightfall tinted the sky a deep, rich lavender blue. Wordlessly she climbed into the soft, sweet-smelling leather seat and directed him toward the freeway.

When they reached the cemetery, it was almost four o’clock. Pink and red fell in silken streaks across the twilight sky.

They walked up the granite path to the grassy knoll she’d chosen for Francis. The church had put up an exquisite white marble marker. Beside it was the wrought-iron bench that Madelaine had chosen.