A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Where did you two meet?” Ashley asks, looking at Mark.

“In a cardiologist’s waiting room,” Mark says. “I was there with my grandmother.”

“Remind me again, how are you related to us?” Madeline wants to know.

“They’re not,” Nate says, firmly.

“So what’s it like in Ohio?” I ask, trying to manage the awkwardness, wondering if I’m the only one noticing.

“Nice,” she says. “Very nice. I just realized, this is the first time I ever left the state with my new heart.”

“Did they tell you anything about her?” Nate asks.

“No,” she says. “It’s all kept confidential — it’s a big deal, some people really don’t want to know. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

The hamburgers arrive.

“My mother would be happy for you. She liked doing things for others. She was a very generous person,” Nate says, his voice cracking with emotion.

When Avery has to go to the bathroom, Ashley goes with her. Later, Ashley tells me that Avery showed her the scar — it goes right down the middle of her, like a zipper.

Left alone at the table, Mark tells us how grateful Avery is to be meeting us. “She’s had a hard time since the transplant; she’s different in some way and can’t quite put a finger on it — she has bad dreams, dark thoughts.”

“It’s a big surgery,” I say.

“Dying is worse,” he says, and there’s nothing left to say.

“I just really want to thank you,” Avery says when she comes back from the bathroom. She doesn’t sit down again. It’s one of those meals that are over before anyone’s really eaten.

Cy wraps his burger and slips it into his jacket pocket; Ricardo sees him and does the same, adding his waffle fries as well. As we’re leaving, Ashley asks if Avery and Mark would like to come over to the house. Nate looks stricken.

“Sure,” Avery says. “Just a little visit.”

I lead the way, with Mark driving on my tail up the hill towards home. I glance at Nate in the rearview mirror. “You okay, kiddo?” I ask.

“No,” Nate says flatly. “I’m not okay.”

When I pull into the driveway, Nate is the first one out of the car and into the house. The front door hangs open like a hole into the house, an open wound.

Mark and Avery park at the curb as Tessie comes bounding out and stands at the edge of the grass, barking.

“She doesn’t like people?” Avery asks.

“She’s very friendly, but she won’t cross the line,” Madeline offers.

“The line?” Mark asks, coming around to Avery’s side of the car.

“The invisible fence,” I say.

Avery gets out of the car. She stands looking up at the house, but, suddenly unsteady, she wobbles and sits back down in the front seat. “Owww. Owwww.”

“What?” Mark asks.

“Tessie,” I implore, “stop barking.”

“My head,” Avery says.

“Did you bang your head?” I ask.

“No,” she says, “it just suddenly hurts.”

“Do you often have headaches?”

“No,” Avery says, as if annoyed with all my questions. “It’s not like a headache. It’s like something’s banging on my head, hitting me. Oh, I don’t feel good, I don’t feel good at all.”

“Just a second,” Ashley says, running back up to the house to get something.

“Is this the house?” Avery asks.

“This is where they live,” Mark says.

“Yes,” I say, knowing full well what she’s getting at.

“I think my head hurts because this is the place where it happened,” Avery says.

“Seems like a stretch,” Mark says. I hear him struggling with the idea that his fiancée is not who she once was.

“It’s real,” I say, hoping to reassure both of them. “Jane’s heart knows. …” I tell them about cellular memory and repeat the story of the girl who got the heart of a ten-year-old murder victim: “The transplant recipient began having terrible nightmares, and ultimately the police were brought in; the girl’s nightmares were accurate and provided the clues that solved the murder.”

“I think we should go,” Mark says.

Ashley comes running out with a gift she’s wrapped for Avery. “It was something I made for my mom; I want you to have it.”

“Thank you,” Avery says, her headache clearly getting worse.

Mark starts the car and puts it in gear. It lurches forward — we all stand back.

“I’ve got to go, honey,” she says to Ashley. “Stay in touch. …”

“I’m not entirely clear what she wanted,” Madeline says, watching the car drive away.

“I never want to see her again,” Nate says, when we’re all back inside. “It was too weird, like one of those movies you see the trailer for — by M. Night Shyamalan.”

Nate is up in the night. I hear footsteps and intercept him in the living room. “What’s up?” He doesn’t answer. “Are you sleepwalking?”

He shakes his head no, and sits on the living-room sofa. “Why did she come? It’s like she wants us to tell her it’s okay that she has Mom’s heart — that we’re sorry she has feelings about it, like we’re supposed to make her feel better? How about it’s not okay, none of it is okay? How about no one thought for one minute about me or Ashley when all this was happening?” He goes on and on. I don’t interrupt. I look at him. I listen. I pat his back. He rocks back and forth, downloading all of it — erupting. Every feeling he’s ever had is coming out of him — at various points he’s crying, or wild-eyed and screaming. Ashley and Ricardo come to the top of the stairs and ask if everything is all right.

“Yes,” I say. “Nate is very upset, but he’ll be fine.” In truth, I’m not sure. He’s exploding; everything he tried so hard to keep in for so long is coming out.

Tessie is with us in the living room, helping too. At some point during the night, we start talking about the trip to South Africa — it seems to calm Nate to revisit our adventures. I tell him about the Web page Sofia made for the trip, how she posted pictures and stories about the experience culled from the e-mails and photos I sent, and that strangers had been visiting the site and making donations. I tell him that there’s close to thirty thousand dollars in the account.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Nate, it’s one-thirty in the morning. Why would I lie?”

I take him to his father’s computer, show him the page and the comments people have made about being so impressed to see such a young person committed to making social change.

“Is the money real? Do we actually have it?”

“Yes,” I say, “it’s in a bank account in your name.”

“Can I call Sofia tomorrow and thank her? I didn’t know how involved she’s been. I mean, it’s really kind of amazing that someone who had nothing to gain was so supportive.”

“Yes,” I say, “it’s unusual.”

“And we should make a time to talk with Sakhile about what to do with the money,” Nate says. “Can we e-mail him now?”

“Sure,” I say, and we do.

“How about trying to get some sleep?” I suggest. He nods. “Listen, I’m really sorry about today — I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it would be so upsetting.”

“I didn’t know it would be,” Nate says.

I follow him upstairs and down the hall to his room. “Will you read to me?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say. He picks a book from when he was younger off his shelf and crawls into bed. I read to him like he’s a little boy, and while I am reading, Ricardo wakes up again and also listens, and when I am done, I kiss Nate good night on the forehead, and then I kiss Ricardo too.