The Heart Passage © Gerry White
I named her Alician months before because she had an “A” stitched on her tote bag. I didn't know her real name.
She stood behind a yellow line of a low concrete platform at White Hart Lane station in Tottenham. Her long hair, a soft shade of mahogany or perhaps nut, rested about a round face and flowed down and over her shoulders. She wore a simple tan skirt with mid calf leather boots and a ruffled white blouse.
She lived in one of the nearby towers which peaked out over the stained concrete walls of the station. The towers themselves looked like L-shaped mammoths ripped and transported straight from the late 60's. On second thought, they looked like they sat there all these forty years dilapidating in the English rain, their white and blue urban patios piled one atop another stowing bicycles and frayed lawn chairs.
I would lie awake thinking about her in one of those high rooms beside the station. I imagined her there all the time remote and distant until the third Tuesday morning of the month, when she would come to life to join me on the train ride down to London.
As the train pulled in, I watched her eyes count the cars. By arrangement I always sat in the fourth car. She walked down and waited for the doors to open. As soon as she reached the car, her eyes ran over the windows until she found mine, and we both smiled. When the doors swung open, she jumped on and came towards me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
“I was waiting for a blonde.” I said as I scooted over.
“So next month I'll color my hair any color you like.” she said.
She arranged her skirt to fall under the back of her knees as she sat and stowed her tote bag below her seat.
“Are you off to work this morning, Alician?” I asked.
She shifted in her seat, her brown hair flowing smoothly from shoulder to back as she moved. Her eyes regarded me thoughtfully as she formulated the story.
“No, I don't follow regular hours in my line of work.”
“What type of work do you do?” I asked. She pursed her lips and thought for a minute.
“I grow medical marijuana.” she said. Her eyes probed mine for a reaction.
“Medical marijuana!” I nearly shouted it out to the entire train. “What a strange reply!”
Old pensioners, who mainly took the train to go over to Kempton Park for races gawked at us. Some wore expressions of impatience; some were in on the game we played and smiled. I waved them away.
“Strange but true,” she said, “I grow big lovely buds of the stuff, so thick they weigh down the stems, and flop over like Christmas tree branches. You should see the white crystals that grow on those buds. Crystals of THC that taste a bit like peppermint.” She smiled at the last detail. It was close to Christmas.
“You must be using hydroponics, I suppose?” I asked.
“No, absolutely not. No hydroponics in my operation. I grow it in the Forest of Dean, before God and everyone.” She smiled at me, revealing a row of immaculate teeth.
“You're messing with me, right?” I said, “The leaves would mildew in this climate.”
“I grow a special type that is impervious to wet and cold. It comes from Afghanistan and grows on mountainsides.” Her eyes took on a faraway aspect, as if imagining her place there in the Forest of Dean.
“You're putting me on because I'm American, is that it? The Forest of Dean!” I laughed, “Isn't it illegal to grow anything in the Forest?” Then, I whispered like a conspirator, “Does the Queen know?”
We both laughed for awhile. Then, she sat upright and feigned seriousness.
“I trust you completely because you're an American. You cannot possibly be in with MI5.”
“But I'm an American CIA agent,” I said, “on hire to MI5 to sniff out lovely English girls growing pot.” I sniffed at her neck a bit until she feigned a slap.
“Well, you've got me then. Where are your handcuffs? Shall we be off?” She offered her wrists and blushed.
“You don't really grow medical marijuana do you?” I asked.
“No, but I am a florist. I could grow pot if I wanted. No one would know.”
“Of course, of course, but it would have to be hydroponics if you were growing it in the back of your shop.”
“I concede that,” she said. “The layout for the hydroponics is exceedingly high though, you know?”
“So you're a florist? It fits.”
She grabbed her purse and batted me with it.
“What does ‘It fits' mean? Just what are you trying to imply?”
“Well,” I started, “You're so natural, almost like a flower, your hair is lovely brown, your eyelashes resemble petals…”
“Flattery will get you places.” she interrupted. Then she took out some gum, offered me a piece and settled back. “I only share gum with my confidants.”
“Then we are partners in crime?” I asked.
“Yes, you're Bonnie and I'm Clyde.” she said.
“Oh, she is not!” she punched my arm, “Clyde is a girl.”
“Ouch! Have you been smoking some of that Afghani weed you were telling me about?” I shook off my arm by flapping it around in front of her. “Anyway, I always fancied myself as more of a Dillinger type.” I cocked my finger and pointed it at her. She played dead and then broke out into an easy laugh. The entire time I watched the way her head bent back revealing a nape of neck which I wanted to ravage.
“You don't look like a Dillinger, and anyway, Dillinger kept floozies around. Do I look like a floozy to you, dear sir?”
“Definitely not. Not a floozy.” I said. She smiled shyly and looked away. After a couple of minutes of silence, I began to wonder if I had inadvertently issued a deal breaker. Then, she began.
“So, are you working this morning?” She playfully imitated my voice, and I knew it was a dig at my American accent.
“No, I'm headed to town to see a doctor…” I trailed off, not knowing how to continue.
“….and you have some dreaded disease.” she finished.
“Ummm, something like that.” My voice sounded too serious for the light hearted banter of a moment before. Of course, she thought I was issuing one of my usual stories. The month before I told her I was a Rugby player, although I'm all of a buck fifty pounds with no muscle. The month before that, we laughed over me being a high powered finance banker who traded credit default swaps for kicks and brought down the world economy.
We played the game once a month until the train slowed at Waterloo Station, and I would see her off. She would run chores, while I wandered over to St. Damian's. Today, I didn't feel like playing the story game.
“You are going to London then, for some health issue?” She asked.
“No, I'm off to eat fish and chips, get in a brawl in a pub, and go to a show.” I recovered the lighter atmosphere of a moment before, and she shifted with it.
“Ah, so you're going to play the tourist.” Then she leaned in closer. “Let's go together. I'll show you my town .” Again she mimicked the way I said town.
My heart beat faster, and I had a palpitation which ran up through my chest and took hold of my breath for an instant. They always came on like that, strong and assuring. They assure me that one day the body will be in full revolt, and I will have to listen. I leaned back in the chair, took a deep breath, and waited.
“Well, if it's a bad proposition…I'll withdraw,” she said.
“Don't you dare,” I fought to catch my breath, “It's just I do have this doctor's appointment today. You would be bored by it.”
“I'll wait outside and mind my own business,” she said.
At that moment, the train charged towards the Thames on its way to Waterloo Station. We stopped for a minute to admire the way the Thames snaked around the ancient river bank. On the far side of the car, the modern City of London spread out, a cluster of steel beams and glass capped off with the Gherkin, a cigar shaped building wrapped in intricate black and silver layers of steel and glass, it resembled a Faberge egg more than a skyscraper.
I stretched to see the Tower of London across the water. I saw the high stone walls, and then caught the light blue Tower Bridge over the water. Closer in, the austere dome of Saint Paul's and the Doric column of the Great Fire Monument tipped in gold peeked out. A cold wind blasted the high windows of our car, and a mist drifted over the panes of glass.
On our side of the car, the London Eye rolled massive cars the size of small buses around near Waterloo Bridge. Across the river Big Ben and Parlaiment rested silently on the water's edge. I caught glimpses of Westminster's grey towers, each with four gothic spires pricking the sky. The train screamed over the last stretch of the Thames and ran down into the depths of Waterloo.
“Then come,” I said. “Come, but don't wait outside. Come and see.” She considered this for a moment, and put her hand on my cheek.
“You're an odd, fuzzy American. I will come.”
We
left the train, and found ourselves in the massive interior of Waterloo
Station, the glass spider web works spinning outward. We walked
along the streets, crowded with business people and tourists, and dodged
the traffic that came at us from unexpected directions. The cobblestone
sometimes beneath our feet grew difficult, and I had to stop several
times to catch my breath. She came close to me then and put her soft hands on my face. I held one hand, so warm against me.
“You're so pale.” she said. I pulled away coughing.
“I'm fine. Just a little cough.” I said. “It's the cold air.”
Then we saw St Damian's in the distance, and I pointed it out.
“St. Damian's. That's where we're going.”
She took my hand in hers, and said, “Slow steps. We will get there.”
Walking was painful and ominous. My legs seemed like dead logs.
The hospital, once a cathedral, was much further away than it looked. We walked for a half an hour before reaching the steps, and as we arrived it loomed larger and larger until filling up our entire vision.
We entered through the doorway in the nave and looked eastward toward a looming cross, wooden and heavy, suspended in the air in front of a massive arched window with delicate hues of red and blue stained glass.
“Are we in a church?” she asked.
“A hospital that used to be a cathedral.” I whispered. She crossed herself before going further.
“It's not a functioning church anymore, dear.” I said.
“Then why are you whispering?” she answered. I didn't really know how to answer her. She was right. It felt like a church; imposing, demanding, instructing us to silence.
“There's no St. Damian's Hospital in London.” she whispered. “There was never a St. Damian's Cathedral either. It simply isn't here.”
“Maybe we're in New York then,” I insisted, “or Paris.”
“Maybe you're insane.” she replied.
I found the elevator, a small European job which fit us two comfortably, very comfortably. I considered just standing there with her, and not pressing any buttons, until she looked up.
“Are you going to press the button?” she asked.
“Do you want me to?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Are you one of those Catholic girls my mother warned me about?” I asked.
“I am the Catholic girl your mother warned you about. There is only one, you know, and I am her.” She pouted until I kissed her, and when I kissed her, I kissed her fully and irrevocably.
Her lips slightly opened to accept mine and we lingered in the moment. My hands greedily pulled her in, settling behind her neck, and then the back of her head, stroking her hair. She opened fuller; her body softly gave way to mine, until the warmth took over both of us.
I didn't know that flesh could taste so good, that one could love the taste of another that way. Every fiber of her lips, teeth, and tongue pressed mine, found mine, and moved with mine in harmony. Her soft breath flowed out and I inhaled it in, as if we were symbiotic beings. We could only be this perfect now, this first time. I found myself grasping to kiss more of her, and I felt her doing the same. All those train rides from Tottenham, her eyes locked on mine, her smile in sympathy with mine, came to this final denouement, this settling and start of an affair. We were lovers before we ever touched, and this kiss the affirmation that we would be lovers always. Finally, we broke away into a gentle silence, clear that we had kissed each other to utter completion, and that we could never go back to how we were before. Her head rested on my shoulder. I looked around until I found the down button for the basement.
“The basement?” She looked surprised. “Cathedral basements are crypts for the dead.”
“Relax, it has been centuries, and the dead don't mind.” The elevator hummed and slowed and the doors whished outward. We found ourselves in a cavernous hall, hands pressed together. We headed for the reception desk.
“Hello.” The woman behind the desk looked neat, professional, and cautious
“Hello, I am here to see Dr. Lambert. I'm, Matt Stein.” I signed the sign in sheet. My hands and face were still warm from the kiss. I wondered if the receptionist could see that I had just had the kiss of a lifetime.
“Of course, Mr. Stein, I remember you. I have you down for the ten o'clock. Please have a seat. You will be called soon.”
We moved to the empty seating area, and sat beside one another, her on the right, and me on the left, just like the train. I made a note that I would have to sit on her right next time.
After a few minutes, a nurse came out, called my name and looked around. I waved, as if she would have a hard time picking us out from all the other people who weren't there.
We followed her back. The halls were sterilized and our footsteps thundered as we walked. At the fourth door, the nurse stepped aside and asked us to go ahead of her. Inside, the room was outfitted with a simple exam table with a white paper sheet across it and the usual blood pressure cuffs and stool for the doctor. The nurse issued the automatic questions; weight, height, any numbness or difficulty breathing, current medications.
“Well,” she said. “Let's get the EKG, and then Doctor Lambert will see you.” She continued filling out the chart.
“I live for EKG's.” I began taking off my shirt. The nurse left, and Alician approached.
“Where did you get this scar?” She ran her hand along the middle of my chest and traced a line down the scar.
“In dreamland,” I said.
“That must have been some awful dream.” Her fingers didn't stop at the scar.
“The waking up was the awful part.” I tried to smile.
“What elaborate story have you cooked up for me this month Mathew?” she asked.
“The truth.”
The nurse wheeled in an EKG cart, and Alician returned to her chair. An EKG machine looks like a portable printer with a bunch of tentacles and suckers.
“I suppose you know about dextracardia.” I said casually.
“Oh, yes,” she smiled, “I was prepped on your unique anatomy.” She began hooking up leads. “You're a bit backwards, aren't you?”
“A bit. When I stare in the mirror, it's like I'm seeing an image of my true self.” I said. I didn't tell the nurse, but a doctor once said that to me when I was five, and it stuck as a way to explain myself. They thought I was a freak show, so I went along with it.
She began sticking the leads on my chest, in reverse order, one after another, sometimes pulling them off and reapplying. My arms and chest felt as if they oozed into mud. As the EKG started, the paper rolled out slowly and the nurse bent over examining it. She ripped off a section of paper and shut the machine down.
“Okay, Mr. Stein. Doctor Lambert will be here in just a moment.” She began putting the leads away, pulling them off again one by one and leaving the sticky goo on my chest.
“I've been slimed.” I said. The nurse didn't get reference to Ghost Busters , but Alician laughed. A minute later the nurse closed the door behind her.
The silence after she left stunned us both.
“Maybe I should know your name before we do this.” I said.
“Oh my, what have I gotten myself into?” A tear formed at the corner of her eye.
“Nothing horrible, dear.” I put my hand up and tried to brush away the tear, but she turned away. “I just need your name.” .
“Ariel, it's Ariel, damn you.”
“Thank you, Ariel”
“You're welcome, Matt Stein.”
“Please don't damn me in holy places anymore.”
“I won't.”
Dr. Stuart Lambert knocked once and let himself in. He was tall, thin, and he had an animated self that his body tried to keep up with. One sensed immediately that he had limitless energy and intelligence. He shook my hand and stopped to examine Ariel.
“Well, Mr. Stein. Have you been hitched since I last saw you?”
“No, this is Ariel. She's a friend.” Ariel came forward and shook Dr. Lambert's hand.
“I'm here to find out about it all.” She said. The doctor looked at her quizzically, noted that she had been crying.
“Of course, that is the only thing you would be here for.” The doctor took out a scope and ran it over my chest on the right, and then the left, then back to the right. He placed it on my stomach, and then back, telling me to breathe in deeply. He grabbed both my ankles and counted.
Then he took out blood pressure cuffs and counted again. The nurse already took my blood pressure, but when you're dealing with a cardiologist they like to do it themselves. They don't do it the normal way either. They dispense with the automatic blood cuff and use an old fashioned one, and they grip your wrist furtively, as if they and only they can divine the true state of your heart from the pounding blood rushing through their fingers.
He pushed on my abdomen, thumped on my chest, made me cough. Then he stopped.
“We'll need the usual diagnostics. An echo to measure against the last visit. We need to order you a CT for next month.”
“Of course.” I said.
“Have you had any trouble breathing?” He started checking off symptoms with the damn pen. I hate that litany of symptoms that rain down. Like I can remember just when I felt faint, or I can describe the way my heart feels like it's collapsing or coming to a grinding halt.
“A bit.” I said.
“When you're exerting yourself or all the time?” He asked.
“I don't know. All the time. Let's go with all the time.”
“This isn't a game show Matt. Tell me what you're truly experiencing. Trouble sleeping?” He looked up from his chart.
“Well, yes. Wouldn't you?”
“Of course, dumb question,” he said, “Any dizziness or faint feelings?”
“Not like I haven't had them for years.” I said. Ariel shifted in her seat.
“He barely made it here from Waterloo Station. He stopped three times. And on the train, he had some kind of spell.” I widened my eyes and looked shocked at her betrayal. She just shrugged and looked away.
“Yes, patients always underestimate symptoms. I'm glad you're here Ariel.”
“Well,” I spread my fingers out, “I didn't mention them because I didn't think they had anything to do with my heart.”
“At this point, Matthew, everything is related to your heart.”
“I know.” I looked over at Ariel and winked. She kicked me when the doctor turned his head.
“Here's the deal.” the doctor took off his glasses and stopped writing. “I think it will happen in six months. I'm certain. It's ready.”
“I assumed so. I told myself that my little trips up here were coming to a close.” I glanced over at Ariel who was still refusing to make eye contact.
“You're smart. You know your body. I'm always amazed at your fine machinery.”
“Ha, fine machinery,” I said, “more like broken machinery.”
“Look, it's in there on the wrong side, but God did right by you, your body made good adjustments. It built collaterals to compensate for lack of oxygen. It built itself up into something sustainable until we could handle the situation.”
“There are plenty of people with Situs Inversus who don't have heart problems at all.” I said. “Yes, they have complete Situs Inversus. You have the ambiguous kind. You can't expect to work like them.”
“Christ man!” Ariel said. “Someone tell me what this is about! What do you have going on? What's this Situs Inversi stuff? I've never heard of it.” The doctor turned to her.
“It means sides switch. His body is almost a mirror image. Every organ opposite of where it should be. Except, in his case, the reversal wasn't complete, so he missed an organ, a spleen, and his heart is just a little off, not quite plumbed out like you and me. His right side decided to duplicate itself. So, he has two right lungs instead of a right and a left. Umm, some of his organs are shaped symmetrically when they should not be. It's a hodgepodge of traits really Ariel. Hard to explain.”
“Well, for God's sake what are you going to do about that?” she said. I laughed.
“When I was born, my mother told my grandmother the news. The story goes that she asked my mother if they would be able to put everything back in the right spot. Like they could just go in there and move my heart over, turn my intestines around, push my stomach to the left. Maybe procure a spleen and squish it in there.”
“That's insane.” She said. “You've been dealing with that kind of commentary your whole life?”
“Oh, that and more. That's why I only save this news for the special people.” I winked at her again, and she kicked me again, this time not caring whether the doctor saw.
“Can we see it?” I asked.
“That might be the best thing.” The doctor stepped to another door and said. “Please come back.”
“See what?” Ariel asked. “What strange new wonder are we going to see now?”
We stepped through the door into darkness, and the air immediately dropped by twenty degrees.
“Is this the crypt, then?” Ariel asked.
“Oh no,” replied the doctor, “All the things here are living.”
All around us, dark glass walls stood in place of plaster walls. I found myself reaching up and sliding my hands on the glass before remembering what I was touching. Then I withdrew and walked in the center of the hall. I didn't think Ariel could get a true sense of what we were walking in.
“Light is not useful for these. It's not natural.” The doctor explained.
“Just what is it we're looking at here doctor?” Ariel asked.
“Come” he said. We turned twice in the hall and found a large glass panel with a placard that said ‘Patient Matt Stein”. He turned on an overhead switch.
The light assaulted the dense fluid beneath, and it appeared, behind the glass, fist sized, larger than life for me. The fist pumped red and blue, transparent valves opened and closed and made a whooshing sound followed by liquid sounds and slurping sounds like an alien in the dark.
The sound was so familiar to me, like the sound from an echocardiogram when the technician turns it up for a second and you get an intimation of the chaos of your broken heart. And, you turn to see the screen, and the techie turns the screen away, but you see the valve, and it looks ragged. The new heart perched on the top like a jelly fish, looming over the tank, with the tubes floating in a suspension which preserved it for decades.
My own heart sped up in sympathy, as if it felt the yearnings of that other heart outside, wanting in. The other heart was in our family, my family, my genes, growing here for fifteen years, until it was the appropriate size to put inside me. My chest nearly opened at the sight, and my old heart wanted to jump out and let the other in. I felt the scar with my hand, the zipper, they called it. Sharp knowing pains rolled down the ragged zipper, and I wished that I could simply unzip, yank away the old component, and reach up into the tank and put the new one in.
Ariel gasped and touched the glass, her eyes wide in the reflection
“It's so, so beautiful,” she said, “Where did you find it?”
“It's his.” The doctor said, pointing to me. “That's his heart. It's as much his heart as the one inside him. More so, in fact, because it works.”
“So, you're here to check on your heart? See how it's progressing?” she said.
“No, I'm here for the fish and chips. The heart is just a sideshow.”
“Six months, and they will open you and put this in?” She asked.
“Yes.” the doctor interrupted. He flicked another switch and a video played on the glass. “Here is the wiring diagram. We've mapped out his entire chest, noted the way everything is lined up. The heart is a bit different. It has a different shape. So we'll have to make adjustments to his chest cavity to fit it in.”
“What about his spleen?” she asked.
“What spleen?” the doctor replied.
“The one that's missing.”
“Well, if it's missing, then it obviously doesn't need to be there.” She looked dumbfounded at his reply.
“Doesn't he need a spleen?”
“We don't know. We've never figured out what the spleen does really. It's a complete mystery.”
“Well, this beats my medical marijuana story.” she said. The doctor looked confused and then recovered.
“Hydroponics?” he asked.
“Clearly,” she responded, “It's the only kind you can grow in this climate.”
“I don't know about that,” the doctor said. “There's an Afghani sativa that will grow anywhere.”
“Yes, but I have the big bud seedlings. They grow huge buds, that droop and look like a Christmas tree.”
“You clearly have an original mind.” I said to no one in particular. They looked at me and said simultaneously.
“…and you, have an original body.” |