It was the address of the cemetery.
You will be in the best of hands. You will be deeply missed.
244, 20-7. The radio code for end of shift.
I have been told that afterward, I walked up to Kurt's coffin. It was so highly polished I could see my own reflection, pinched and unfamiliar. It had been specially made, wider than normal, to accommodate
Elizabeth, too.
She was, at seven, still afraid of the dark. Kurt would lie down beside her, an elephant perched among pink pillows and satin blankets, until she fell asleep; then he'd creep out of the room and turn off the light. Sometimes, she woke up at midnight shrieking.
You turned it off, she'd sob into my shoulder, as if I had broken her heart.
The funeral director had let me see them. Kurt's arms were wrapped tight around my daughter; Elizabeth rested her head on his chest. They looked the way they looked on nights when Kurt fell asleep waiting for Elizabeth to do that very thing. They looked the way I wished I could: smooth and clear and peaceful, a pond with a stone unthrown. It was supposed to be comforting that they would be together. It was supposed to make up for the fact that I couldn't go with them.
'Take care of her,' I whispered to Kurt, my breath blowing a kiss against the gleaming wood. 'Take care of my baby.'
As if I'd summoned her, Claire moved inside me then: a slow tumble of butterfly limbs, a memory of why I had to stay behind.
There was a time when I prayed to saints. What I liked about them were their humble beginnings: they were human, once, and so you knew that they just got it in a way Jesus never would. They understood what it meant to have your hopes dashed or your promises broken or your feelings hurt. St.
Therese was my favorite-the one who believed you could be perfectly ordinary, but that great love could somehow transport you. However, this was all a long time ago. Life has a way of pointing out, with great sweeping signs, that you are looking at the wrong things, doesn't it? It was when I started to admit to myself that I'd rather be dead that I was given a child who had to fight to stay alive.
In the past month, Claire's arrhythmias had worsened. Her
AICD was going off six times a day. I'd been told that when it fired, it felt like an electric current running through the body. It restarted your heart, but it hurt like hell. Once a month would be devastating; once a day would be debilitating. And then there was
Claire's frequency.
There were support groups for adults who had to live with
AICDs; there were stories of those who preferred the risk of dying from an arrhythmia to the sure knowledge that they would be shocked by the device sooner or later. Last week, I had found
Claire in her room reading the Guinness Book of World Records.
'Roy Sullivan was struck by lightning seven times over thirty-six years,' she'd said. 'Finally, he killed himself.' She lifted her shirt, staring down at the scar on her chest. 'Mom,' she begged, 'please make them turn it off.'
I did not know how long I would be able to convince Claire to stay with me, if this was the way she had to do it.
Claire and I both turned immediately when the hospital door opened. We were expecting the nurse, but it was Dr. Wu. He sat down on the edge of the bed and spoke directly to Claire, as if she were my age instead of eleven. 'The heart we had in mind for you had something wrong with it. The team didn't know until they got inside... but the right ventricle is dilated. If it isn't functioning now, chances are it will only get worse by the time the heart's transplanted.'
'So... I can't have it?' Claire asked.
'No. When I give you a new heart, I want it to be the healthiest heart possible,' the doctor explained.
My body felt stiff. 'I don't-I don't understand.'
Dr. Wu turned. 'I'm sorry, June. Today's not going to be the day.'
'But it could take years to find another donor,' I said. I didn't add the rest of my sentence, because I knew Wu could hear it anyway: Claire can't last that long.
'We'll just hope for the best,' he said.
After he left, we sat in stunned silence for a few moments. Had
I done this? Had the fear I'd tried to quash-the one that Claire wouldn't survive this operation-somehow bled into reality?
Claire began to pull the cardiac monitors off her chest. 'Well,' she said, but I could hear the hitch in her voice as she struggled not to cry. 'What a total waste of a Saturday.'
'You know,' I said, forcing the words to unroll evenly, 'you were named for a saint.'
'For real?'
I nodded. 'She founded a group of nuns called the Poor
Clares.'
She glanced at me. 'Why did you pick her?'
Because, on the day you were born, the nurse who handed you to me shook her head and said, 'Now there's a sight for sore eyes.' And you were. And she is the patron saint of that very thing. And I wanted you protected, from the very first moment I spoke your name.
'I liked the way it sounded,' I lied, and I held up Claire's shirt so that she could shimmy into it.
We would leave this hospital, maybe go get chocolate Fribbles at Friendly's and rent a movie with a happy ending. We'd take
Dudley for a walk and feed him. We'd act like this was an ordinary day. And after she went to sleep, I would bury my face in my pillow and let myself feel everything I wasn't letting myself feel right now: shame over knowing that I've had five more years in
Claire's company than I did with Elizabeth, guilt over being re C lieved this transplant did not happen, since it might just as easily kill Claire as save her.
Claire stuffed her feet into her pink Converse high-tops.
'Maybe I'll join the Poor Clares.'
'You still can't be a saint,' I said. And added silently, Because I will not let you die.
Lucius
Shortly after Shay brought Batman the Robin back to life, Crash Vitale lit himself on fire.
He'd created a makeshift match the way we all do-by pulling the fluorescent bulb out of its cradle and holding the metal tines just far enough away from the socket to have the electricity arc to meet it. Stick a piece of paper in the gap, and it becomes a torch. Crash had crumpled up pages of a magazine and set them around himself in a circle. By the time Texas started screaming for help, smoke was filling the pod. The COs held the fire hose at full spray as they opened his cell door; we could hear Crash being knocked against the far wall by the stream. Dripping wet, he was strapped onto a gurney to be transported, his hair a matted mess, his eyes wild. 'Hey, Green Mile,' he yelled as he was wheeled off the tier, 'how come you didn't save me?'
'Because I like the bird,' Shay murmured.
I was the first one to laugh, then Texas snickered. Joey, too-but only because Crash wasn't present to shut him up.
'Bourne,' Calloway said, the first words any of us had heard from him since the bird had hopped back to his cell. 'Thanks.'
There was a beat of silence. 'It deserved another chance,' Shay said.
The pod door buzzed open, and this time CO Smythe walked in with the nurse, doing her evening rounds. Alma came to my cell first, holding out my card of pills. 'Smells like someone had a barbecue in here and forgot to invite me,' she said. She waited for me to put the pills in my mouth, take a swallow of water. 'You sleep well, Lucius.'
As she left, I walked to the front of the cell. Rivulets of water ran down the cement catwalk. But instead of leaving the tier, Alma stopped in front of Calloway's cell. 'Inmate Reece, are you going to let me take a look at that arm?'
Calloway hunched over, protecting the bird he held in his hand. We all knew he was holding Batman; we all
