Jodi Picoult - Harvesting the Heart

Several times a week he drove across the river to Mercy, the diner off JFK Street, because he liked the anonymity. There were always other students there, but they tended to be in less exacting disciplines: philosophy, art history, English. Until tonight, he didn’t realize anyone even knew his name. But the black guy, the owner, did, and so did that slip of a waitress who had been stuck in the corner of his mind for the past two weeks.

She thought he hadn’t noticed her, but you couldn’t survive at Harvard Med for three years without honing your powers of observation. She thought she was being discreet, but Nicholas could feel the heat of her stare at the collar of his shirt; the way she lingered over the water pitcher when she refilled his glass. And he was used to women staring at him, so this should not have rattled him. But this one was just a kid. She’d said eighteen, but he couldn’t believe it. Even if she looked young for her age, she couldn’t be a day over fifteen.

She wasn’t his type. She was small and she had skinny knees and, for God’s sake, she had red hair. But she didn’t wear makeup, and even without it her eyes were huge and blue. Bedroom eyes, that’s what women said about him, and he realized it applied to this waitress too.

Nicholas knew he had a ton of work to do and shouldn’t have gone to Mercy tonight, but he’d missed dinner at the hospital and had been thinking of his favorite apple turnover the whole ride back from Boston on the T. He’d also been thinking of the waitress. And he was wondering about Rosita Gonzalez and whether she’d got home all right. He was in Emergency this month, and a little after four o’clock, a Hispanic girl-Rosita-had been brought in, bleeding all over, a miscarriage. When he saw her history he had been shocked: thirteen years old. He had done a D &C and held her hand afterward as long as he could, listening to her murmur, over and over, Mi hija, mi hija.

And then this other girl, this waitress, had drawn a picture of him that was absolutely amazing. Anyone would be able to copy his features, but she had got something other than that. His patrician bearing, the tired lines of his mouth. Most important, there, shining back from his own eyes, was the fear. And in the corner, that kid-it had made a chill run down his spine. After all, she had no way of knowing that Nicholas, as a child, would climb the trees in his parents’ backyard, hoping to rope in the sun and always believing that it was within his power to do so.

He had stared at the picture and caught the casual way she accepted his compliment, and suddenly he realized that even if he had not been Nicholas Prescott, even if he had worked the swing shift at the doughnut shop or hauled trash for a living, it was quite possible that this girl would still have drawn his portrait and still have known more about him than he cared to admit. It was the first time in his life that Nicholas had met someone who was surprised by what she saw in him; who did not know his reputation; who would have been happy with a dollar bill, or a smile, whatever he was able to spare.

He pictured, for the space of a heartbeat, what his life might have been like if he had been born someone else. His father knew, but it was not something they’d ever discuss, so Nicholas was left to speculate. What if he lived in the Deep South, say, and worked on a factory assembly line and watched the sun set every night over the muck of the bayou from a creaking porch swing? Without intending to be vain, he wondered what it would be like to walk down a street without attracting attention. He would have traded it all-the trust fund and the privilege and the connections-lor five minutes out of the spotlight. Not with his parents, not even with Rachel, had he ever been given the luxury of forgetting himself. When he laughed it was never too loud. When he smiled he could measure the effect on the people around him. Even when he relaxed, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on the couch, he was always a little bit guarded, as if he might be required to justify his leisure time. He rationalized that people always wanted what they did not have, but he still would have liked to try it: a row house, a patched armchair, a girl who could hold the world in her eyes and who bought his white shirts at five-and-dimes and who loved him not because he was Nich olas Prescott but because he was himself.

He did not know what made him kiss the waitress before he left. He had breathed in the smell of her neck, still milky and poso Qilky andwdered, like a child’s. Hours later, when he let himself into his room and saw Rachel wrapped like a mummy in his sheets, he undressed and curled himself around her. As he cupped Rachel’s breast and watched her fingers wrap around his wrist, he was still thinking of that other kiss and wondering why he never had asked for her name.

“Hi,” Nicholas said. She swung open the door to Mercy and propped it with a stone. She flipped over the Closed sign with a natural grace.

“You may not want to come in,” she said. “The AC’s broken.” She lifted her hair off the back of her neck, fanning herself, as if to emphasize the point.

“I don’t want to come in,” Nicholas said. “I’ve got to get to the hospital. But I didn’t know your name.” He stood and stepped forward. “I wanted,” he said, “to know your name.”

“Paige,” she said quietly. She twisted her fingers as if she did not know what to make of her hands. “Paige O’Toole.”

“Paige,” Nicholas repeated. “Well.” He smiled and stepped off into the street. He tried to read the Globe at the T station but kept losing his place, because, it seemed, the wind in the underground tunnel was singing her name.

While she was closing up that night, Paige told him about her name. It had originally been her father’s idea, a good Irish name from the homeland. Her mother had been dead set against it. A daughter named Paige, she believed, would be cursed by her name, always having to do someone else’s bidding. But her husband told her to sleep on it, and when she did she dreamed of the name’s homonym. Maybe, after all, naming her daughter Paige would give her a beautiful blank slate: a starting point upon which she could write her own ticket. And so in the end she was christened.

Then Paige told Nicholas that the conversation about the history of her name was one of only seven conversations with her mother that she could remember in their entirety. And Nicholas, without thinking about it, pulled her onto his lap and held her. He listened to her heartbeats, between his own.

Early the year before, Nicholas had made the decision to specialize in cardiac surgery. He had watched a heart transplant from an observation lounge above, like God, as senior surgeons took a thick knotted muscle from a Playmate cooler and set it in the mopped raw cavity of the recipient’s ribs. They connected arteries and veins and made tiny sutures, and all the while this heart was already healing itself. When it began to beat, pumping blood and oxygen and second chances into the shadow of a man, Nicholas realized he had tears in his eyes. That might have been enough to move him toward heart surgery, but he had also visited with the patient a week later, when the organ had been labeled a successful match. He had sat on the edge of the bed while Mr. Lomazzi, a sixty-year-old widower who now had the heart of a sixteen-year-old girl, talked baseball and thanked God. Before Nicholas left, Mr. Lomazzi had leaned forward and said, “I’m not the same, you know. I think like her. I look at flowers longer, and I know off the top of my head poems I never read, and sometimes I wonderr t Qes I won if I’m ever going to fall in love.” He had grasped Nicholas’s hand, and Nicholas was shocked by the gentle strength and the warm rush of blood in the fingertips. “I ain’t complaining,” Lomazzi said. “I just ain’t sure who’s got control.” And Nicholas had murmured a goodbye and decided right then that he’d specialize in cardiac surgery. Perhaps he’d always known that the truth of a person lies in the heart.