Jodi Picoult - Change of heart

"Hey!" Calloway had been watching, too. "You didn't do anything!"

"Leave me alone," Shay repeated. The air had gone bitter as almonds; I could barely stand to breathe it. I watched him fish back that dead bird, and all of our hopes along with it.

Maggie

When Gordon Greenleaf stood up, his knees creaked. "You've studied comparative world religions in the course of your research?" he asked

Fletcher.

"Yes."

"Do different religions take a stand on organ donation?"

"Yes," Fletcher said. "Catholics believe only in transplants done after death-you can't risk killing the donor, for example, during the donation.

They fully support organ donation, as do Jews and Muslims. Buddhists and Hindus believe organ donation is a matter of individual conscience, and they put high value on acts of compassion."

"Do any of those religions require you to donate organs as a means to salvation?"

"No," Fletcher said.

"Are there Gnostic Christians practicing today?"

"No," Fletcher said. "The religion died out."

"How come?"

"When you have a belief system that says you shouldn't listen to the clergy, and that you should continually ask questions, instead of accepting doctrine, it's hard to form a community. On the other hand, the Orthodox

Christians were delineating the steps to being card-carrying members of the group-confess the creed, accept baptism, worship, obey the priests. Plus, their Jesus was someone the average Joe could relate to-someone who'd been born, had an overprotective mom, suffered, and died. That was a much easier sell than the Gnostic Jesus-who was never even human. The rest of the Gnostics' decline," Fletcher said, "was political. In A.D. 312, Constantine, the Roman emperor, saw a crucifix in the sky and converted to Christianity. The Catholic Church became part of the Holy Roman Empire... and having Gnostic texts and beliefs were punishable by death."

"So, it's fair to say no one's practiced Gnostic Christianity for fifteen hundred years?" Greenleaf said.

"Not formally. But there are elements of Gnostic belief in other religions that have survived. For example, Gnostics recognized the difference between the reality of God, which was impossible to describe with language, and the image of God as we knew it. This sounds a lot like

Jewish mysticism, where you find God being described as streams of energy, male and female, which pool together into a divine source; or

God as the source of all sounds at once. And Buddhist enlightenment is very much like the Gnostic idea that we live in a land of oblivion, but can waken spiritually right here while we're still part of this world."

"But Shay Bourne can't be a follower of a religion that no longer exists, isn't that true?"

He hesitated. "From what I understand, donating his heart is Shay

Bourne's attempt to learn who he is, who he wants to be, how he is connected to others. And in that very basic sense, the Gnostics would agree that he's found the part of him that comes closest to being divine."

Fletcher looked up. "A Gnostic Christian would tell you that a man on death row is more like us than unlike us. And that-as Mr. Bourne seems to be trying to suggest-he still has something to offer the world."

"Yeah. Whatever." Greenleaf raised a brow. "Have you ever even met

Shay Bourne?"

"Actually," Fletcher said, "no."

"So for all you know, he doesn't have any religious beliefs at all. This could all be some grand plan to delay his execution, couldn't it?"

"I've spoken with his spiritual advisor."

The lawyer scoffed. "You've got a guy practicing a religion by himself that seems to hearken back to a religious sect that died out thousands of years ago. Isn't it possible that this is a bit too... easy? That Shay Bourne could just be making it all up as he goes along?"

Fletcher smiled. "A lot of people thought that about Jesus."

"Dr. Fletcher," Greenleaf said, "are you telling this court that Shay

Bourne is a messiah?"

Fletcher shook his head. "Your words, not mine."

"Then how about your stepdaughter's words?" Greenleaf asked. "Or is this some kind of family trait you all have, running into God in state prisons and elementary schools and Laundromats?"

"Objection," I said. "My witness isn't on trial here."

Greenleaf shrugged. "His ability to discuss the history of Christianity is-"

"Overruled," Judge Haig said.

Fletcher narrowed his eyes. "What my daughter did or didn't see has no bearing on Shay Bourne's request to donate his heart."

"Did you believe she was a fake when you first met her?"

"The more I spoke with her, the more I-"

"When youjirst met her," Greenleaf interrupted, "did you believe she was a fake?"

"Yes," Fletcher admitted.

"And yet, with no personal contact, you were willing to testify in a court of law that Mr. Bourne's request to donate his organs could be massaged to fit your loose definition of a religion." Greenleaf glanced at him.

"I guess, in your case, old habits die fairly easy."

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn." Greenleaf started back to his seat, but then turned.

"Just one more question, Dr. Fletcher-this daughter of yours. She was seven years old when she found herself at the center of a religious media circus not unlike this one, correct?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware that's the same age of the little girl Shay Bourne murdered?"

A muscle in Fletcher's jaw twitched. "No. I wasn't."

"How do you think you'd feel about God if your stepdaughter was the one who'd been killed?"

I shot to my feet. "Objection!"

"I'll allow it," the judge answered.

Fletcher paused. "I think that kind of tragedy would test anyone's faith."

Gordon Greenleaf folded his arms. "Then it's not faith," he said. "It's being a chameleon."

During the lunch recess, I went to see Shay in his holding cell. He was sitting on the floor, near the bars, while a U.S. marshal sat outside on a stool. Shay held a pencil and scrap of paper, as if he were conducting an interview.

"H," the marshal said, and Shay shook his head. "M?"

Shay scribbled something on the paper. "I'm down to your last toe, dude."

The marshal sucked in his breath. "K."

Shay grinned. "I win." He scrawled something else on the page and passed it through the bars-only then did I notice that it had been a game of hangman, and that this time around. Shay was the executioner.

Scowling, the marshal stared down at the paper. "Szygszyg isn't a real word."

"You didn't say that it had to be real when we started playing,"

Shay replied, and then he noticed me standing at the threshold of the door.

I'm Shay's spiritual advisor," I told the marshal. "Can we have a minute?"

"No problem. I have to take a whiz." He stood up, offering me the stool he was vacating, and headed out of the room.

"How are you doing?" I said quietly.

Shay walked to the back of the cell, where he lay down on the metal bunk and faced the wall.

"I want to talk to you. Shay."

"Just because you want to talk doesn't mean I want to listen."

I sank down on the stool. "I was the last one on your jury to vote for the death penalty," I said. "I was the reason we deliberated so long.

And even after I'd been convinced by the rest of the jury that this was the best sentence, I didn't feel good about it. I kept having panic attacks.

One day, during one, I stumbled into a cathedral and started to pray. The more I did it, the fewer panic attacks I had." I clasped my hands between my knees. "I thought that was a sign from God."

Still with his back to me. Shay snorted.

"I still think it's a sign from God, because it's brought me back into your life."

Shay rolled onto his back and flung one arm over his eyes. "Don't kid yourself," he said. "It's brought you back into my death."