Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(19)

“Monica?”

I heard my name as I spaced out to the music in my head, trying to get words and rhythm to match.

“Dr. Thorensen. I mean, Brad. Hi.” He had a white lab coat over his suit, with a nametag clipped to the lapel. “I’ve never seen you at work before.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“Getting something to eat. I just got in.”

He took me by the elbow and sat me down at an empty table. We sat knee to knee on the same side of it.

“What?” I said.

“I just had to open a transplant assessment of Mr. Drazen.”

I don’t know what I must have looked like. Maybe blank, because a sort of vacuity took hold of me, where I expected more information to be poured into my brain. Or maybe I looked puzzled.

“I don’t understand. It was a bad suture. I know Sheila’s pissed but....”

But I’d assumed she was flying off the handle. But I’d thought he got x-rays all the time. But I thought it was a complication, not ruination. But I was hanging on to my optimism because I missed it.

He glanced around, then back to me.

“Say it,” I said. “I don’t want to hear it from anyone else.”

“It was a suture inside his heart. The tearing’s very bad. He’s bleeding faster than they can pump it out. If they go in and patch him up...well. They can’t. There’s no room. And the tear has moved into his left ventricle.”

“Are you going to fix it?” I panicked. It was the panic of someone whose anxiety was a show, because I knew everything was going to be okay. For sure, there was an easy fix for all this, and Jonathan and I would laugh about how silly I was to worry so much. I couldn’t wait for that laughter. I told the story in my head over an imaginary Thanksgiving dinner, describing the goosebumps on my arms, the dry feeling in my mouth, the sudden breathlessness in my lungs. I’d wax dramatic about holding back tears, and Jonathan would laugh that laugh from deep in his chest, and tears would stream down his own face.

“I don’t know,” Brad said.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“We’re still doing the assessment. I have a lot of forms to fill out. I have to talk to the rest of the cardiac team. It’s tricky.”

“What’s f**king tricky, Brad? You’re either fixing it or you’re filling out f**king paperwork.”

“Take it easy.”

“I’m not taking it easy. I will burn your f**king house down if you don’t tell me right now why you ass**les can’t fix it immediately.”

He took my wrists and held me to a sitting position. I knew he wouldn’t have done that unless he knew me, and the privilege of whatever information I’d already gotten was courtesy of a few hours of City of Dis.

“There’s a good chance, and I don’t know for sure, because I need to review everything with the committee, but I’m pretty sure he’ll need a transplant.”

“Okay,” I said. I breathed, which I’d forgotten to do. That was a thing. It was a course of action. “Then give him one.”

“We need a heart, and his blood type? AB negative? It’s rare. He needs to get on the list. Monica, I hope I’m wrong. If the surgical team believe they can go back in and fix it, then this whole conversation is moot.”

His eyes, deep blue and a little bloodshot, as if he’d been up too many hours, did not waver from mine. He had the confidence of a man who had held a human heart in his hands and made it beat again. A man who had made life and death happen, and for whom Jonathan was just another patient, another puzzle to solve, another career challenge.

I slipped my hands down until I could hold his hands. I squeezed them and closed my eyes.

“I want you to understand something,” I said. “That man. He’s not some boyfriend in a line of them. He is my alpha and omega. He is the sky over me. Without him, I’m lost. There’s no one else, no one whose soul balances mine the way his does. I waited my life for him, and when he came I didn’t recognize him. Not until very recently. If I lose him I swear, as God is my witness, I will be alone. No man can match him.”

When I opened my eyes, Brad was looking at our clasped hands, head down.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I only live next door.”

He looked back up to me. “I’ll do my best, Monica. I can’t promise anything. If he needs a new heart, I want you to be ready for a rough time. He doesn’t have forever to bleed into himself, and healthy hearts don’t come all that often. You need to sleep and eat and live your life while you wait.”

I smirked. “My life is with him, Brad. That’s how I live it. The rest is unnecessary complication.” I felt like Jonathan was there with me, having quoted him.

We sat like that for a few seconds, where I tried to transmit my seriousness. It felt good to just sit with someone and be, even if it couldn’t last.

His cellphone beeped. He didn’t even look at it but let go of my hands.

“That’s my office. I have to go.”

“Will you let me know?”

“You’ll know, Monica. You’ll know.” He stood. “Just the sleeping and eating. Do those. Okay?”

My tea was cold. My granola bar looked more and more like a slab of pressed shit.