Coda (Songs of Submission #9)(36)

I ripped open a bag of bread and jammed a piece in the chimichuri. The oil and flakes of parsley dripped off it. The peppers were invisibly green in the mix, and I didn’t give a f*ck. I ate it. Cringed. God, that chemical burn. How could I have eaten stuff this hot and not needed a skin graft after? How could this not be damaging tissue? I smelled flesh burning and knew it was in my mind. I curled up the bread and scooped out more, eating it before the burn from the last bite had dissipated.

I didn’t swallow. I kept it in my mouth, nurturing it, letting it hurt me, rejecting whatever weakness this new heart had brought, because they were reactions to something that had happened to someone else. They weren’t me. I had the opportunity and responsibility to reject the changes I didn’t want, and goddamnit, this was excellent chimichuri.

I ate it, leaning over the counter, until the last flake of parsley was gone and my eyes ran with tears. And as if all the new traits I’d gained feared I’d leave, I had the desire to go for a run.

“That, I’m keeping,” I said as I dropped the empty jar into the sink. “I like it.”

I laced up my sneakers and took my phone, because this run had a purpose. I had no more excuses. In the middle of the run, as I was whipping wet sand, I slowed to a walk and called Dr. Solis.

“He’s with a patient,” his assistant said. “Should he call you back?”

She’d presented me with the perfect opportunity to bail. His call back might not go through, or maybe I wouldn’t pick up. If he called back late enough, I wouldn’t be able to get Jacques online for a flight plan.

“I’ll wait.”

“Is this an emergency, Mr. Drazen?”

“No. Yes, but no.”

I faced the darkening ocean, watching the last of the sun dip into the horizon. I heard the birds overhead and had a flash of my heart jumping out onto the wet sand before a wave came in. The weight of the heart was enough to dig it into the sand and create a wake of ripples as it fought, still beating, to stay on the beach against the pressure of the water. I stared at the spot, feeling an emptiness in my chest as two seagulls came down and plucked up my heart, fighting for the fresh meat.

“Fuck you,” I said. “You’re not real.”

“Jon? What’s the trouble?” Dr. Solis said, jarring me.

“I need to travel.”

“So?”

“Cross country.”

“Tell Patty the city. She’ll notify the nearest cardiac unit and text you a number. Is that what this was about?”

I swallowed. No, that wasn’t what it was about. It was about a paralyzing fear that I didn’t recognize because it was so foreign. It was about my wife and how I’d abandoned her because of that fear. It was about regret, and forgiveness, and worthiness.

“Yeah,” I said. “That was it.”

“Good,” he said and hung up.

Damned doctors. Hold a human heart in your hand and the everyday courtesies go out the window. I laughed to myself. I was going to New York.

chapter 23.

MONICA

“Can you explain this one more time?” the old doctor asked with an accent so deeply New Yawk, he sounded like an old Irish cop in a black-and-white movie.

The office was in the eighties and Seventh Avenue, with old cabinets, ancient metal and glass syringes in frames, and photos of a family, then a family’s family. The certificates and diplomas, if observed closely, were from the fifties.

I sat on the leather-surfaced examining table with my hands folded in my lap. “My husband is immunosuppressed—”

“I got that part.” The doctor moved his half-moon glasses to the top of his bald head. “I’ll be happy to help you, but if you’re not actually sick…” He pivoted his hand at the wrist.

“I can’t bring the flu home.”

“Do you have any symptoms?”

“My stomach is a little ishy.”

“Vomiting? Diarrhea?”

“No.”

“So go home.”

I made a face and twisted my shoulders. I don’t know what I was trying to express but discomfort and awkwardness.

“Do you not want to go home? Does he beat you?”

“No!” He did, of course, but that wasn’t what the good doctor meant. “I’m worried. If I get him sick, it’s not like a normal person getting sick. He had a heart transplant.”

The doctor up held his hand. It was surprisingly big, like a wrinkled leather dinner plate. “I’ll tell you what. You’re a nervous wreck. I can see that. And your blood pressure’s through the roof. You gave Bernice a urine sample when you came in?”

“No, I—”

“Do that then. We’ll check your sugar. Check for antibodies. If there’s anything irregular, I’ll let you know. You might be carrying a virus, and you might not. There’s not much more I can do.”

“That’s fine. It’s great. Thank you!”

“You’re very cute, young lady. If I were about sixty years younger, I’d be the older man in your life.”

I laughed, and he helped me off the table with his dinner-plate hands.

I gave my sample and waited.

What would I do if my results came back with some sign that something wasn’t a hundred percent? Like elevated blood sugar? That could mean my body was fighting something, or it could mean I ate too much bread with lunch. Would I stay in New York to keep Jonathan safe? Or would I go home and tell him to stay away from me?