Brush of Wings Page 4

  Want to be considered? Dizziness washed over Mary Catherine again. She gripped the sides of the exam table so she wouldn’t fall off. “I’m sorry?” Was she really sitting here? Listening to a doctor tell her it was time to be added to a transplant wait list? She blinked slowly, keeping her eyes shut extra long. Focus, she told herself. Dear God, what’s happening? “I’m . . . I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Mary Catherine . . . do you want a new heart?”

  Of course she did. She wanted to live. Absolutely. If she could blink and walk out of here with a new heart she would do so without any hesitation. If only it were that easy. “Yes.” She uttered the word and nodded her head. “Yes, I do.”

  “So then”—he paused—“you need to be on the wait list. When a heart becomes available it is evaluated against the profiles of those waiting. We look for a blood match first, from the urgent list, and then at the health of the recipient, how long he or she has been on the wait list, location, that sort of thing. If we don’t find a match on the Status One list, we move to Status Two.” He paused. “Are you okay with that?”

  What choice did she have? Some of the fog in her mind cleared. “I can still go to Uganda?”

  A quiet sigh slipped between Dr. Cohen’s lips. He took hold of her file again and opened it. For a long time he sorted through the pages. Finally he lifted his eyes to hers. “If your name is called while you’re in Uganda, you will lose your chance at a heart. That will go on your file, and you may be passed over the next time a matching heart comes up. We typically give transplant patients a beeper so you’ll know immediately when a heart is available. Of course, a beeper does you no good in Uganda, Mary Catherine.”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “You said it could take a while to get a heart.” She wiped at a couple of tears. “Can I be on the list and pick up the beeper when I get back?”

  “It’s risky.” Dr. Cohen looked nervous. “I’d rather you stay here, catch up on your reading, and keep your beeper as close as your cell phone.”

  Another tear slid down her cheek. She forced herself to stay composed. “The thing is”—she searched his eyes—“I could do that and die waiting.” She sniffed. “Right?”

  It was a rhetorical question. They both knew the answer. Most people died waiting. “I’m trying to help you live.”

  “Me, too.” She sat a little taller, unwavering this time.

  They were at an impasse. Mary Catherine found a new strength, something deep inside her soul. “For me, there’ll never be a better time to go to Uganda. After the transplant—if I get a transplant—I’ll have medicines and follow-ups and every day will be a gift. I won’t be able to leave for at least six months.”

  Dr. Cohen didn’t speak. Clearly he could say nothing to refute her.

  “Here’s the thing . . . I’ll never get married or have children. I won’t skydive or ride the waves at Santa Monica Beach. I promise.” It took everything to keep her composure. “But Uganda . . . that’s something I can do. It’s very important to me. Besides, there’s a hospital there. I can let them know about my situation.”

  He nodded, his eyes softer than before. After a long while he exhaled again, resignation in his tone. “I understand.” He stood and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll hold the beeper for you.”

  Fresh tears blurred her eyes and Mary Catherine could do nothing to stop them. She covered her face with her hands. When she spoke her voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

  “One thing . . . you need to tell your family and friends about the transplant. You’ll need a support team.”

  Mary Catherine said nothing. She hated this part of the conversation. Her parents would be devastated about the news. She wanted to wait as long as possible before telling them. Marcus was busy with spring training and Sami was in the happiest season ever. Why tell any of them now about the transplant? They’d find out soon enough.

  “Every heart patient needs a support team.” The doctor took a pen from his pocket and reached for her file again. “Why don’t you give me three names and their contact information?”

  She let her eyes drift to the window. As long as she was the only one who knew, the idea of a transplant seemed like something from a nightmare. Not altogether real.

  “Mary Catherine?” Dr. Cohen still had the pen poised over her file. “The names?”

  Her heart pounded harder. She looked at the doctor. “Can I get that to you? Later? I can call the office in the next few days.”

  Dr. Cohen looked doubtful. “That part isn’t optional.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay.” He came closer. “Lie back. I’d like to listen to your murmur.” The doctor listened to several locations across her chest. Then he put the stethoscope away and took a seat opposite her. “You’ll need to get the proper shots before you go. Each of them holds a greater risk because of your condition.” He paused. “But I don’t think that’s going to change your mind.”

  “It isn’t.” She sat up, holding the gown closed again.

  He thought for a few seconds. “In an ideal world you’ll come back from Africa right about the time we find you a heart.”

  “I think that’s what’s going to happen.” She nodded, convincing herself. “The timing could be perfect.”

  “Yes.” Dr. Cohen stood and looked at her, right through her. “You believe in prayer, right? You’ve told me several times.”

  “I do.” She was reminded of God’s role in her life and it brought a surge of hope. “Absolutely.”

  “Well.” The doctor shook her hand. “This would be a great time to start praying.”

  “Yes, sir.” She didn’t need to go into the fact that she prayed constantly about her heart. He seemed ready to get to his next patient.

  The doctor turned for the door and then looked back at her. “And Mary Catherine?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Be careful in Uganda.” His slight smile was colored with concern. “I’ll see you in six months.”

  Mary Catherine got dressed, checked out at the front desk, and headed for her car. The news was terrible and getting worse. She turned on the radio, rolled down her car windows, and took Pacific Coast Highway home to her apartment. Along the way she let the ocean breeze fill her lungs. She would not cry again, no matter how discouraged she felt. No matter what tomorrow held, today she would choose joy.

  She remembered the mission trip to Africa and the orphans she’d helped when she was in high school. The team of women had handed out gifts of food and built a kitchen for the village. The children clamored around the volunteers, starving for attention. The looks on their little faces was something that had stayed with Mary Catherine. It was as if they’d never been loved like that before. From that moment on, Mary Catherine knew that one day she would be back, loving kids like those again. What was the purpose of life if she couldn’t take a season to make a difference?

  Now that time had finally come. A sense of joy and happiness replaced any sadness from earlier. She wouldn’t have her own children, but she would have the orphans in Uganda. Nothing could’ve made her happier.

  This wasn’t a day to grieve her heart condition. It was a day to celebrate.

  After all, she was one day closer to packing her bags.

  ASPYN AND EMBER kept up with Mary Catherine’s car. Their Angels Walking mission had included much heartache. Little Jalen, who’d been nearly killed by gang gunfire. The broken relationship between Mary Catherine and Marcus. But this—seeing Mary Catherine relegated to the sidelines of life, knowing her days were short, her desperate need for a heart—this was the most difficult time yet.

  “She needs to tell Sami.” Ember looked worried. “Her, at least.”

  “Maybe tonight.” Aspyn watched Mary Catherine pull up in front of her apartment and go inside. “She thinks telling people will make it more real.”

  “It’s real either way.” Ember kept her attention on the beautiful girl below them. “This is crucial.”r />
  It was true. Aspyn and Ember had brainstormed every possible way to get Mary Catherine’s attention, to persuade her to talk about her impending heart transplant. They’d been successful earlier today at the Arizona ballpark. Now the two of them took a spot on the bench across the street from Mary Catherine’s apartment—a couple of tourists in floppy sun hats thinking up plans for the evening. Sitting there, with Mary Catherine in for the night a few dozen feet in front of them, Aspyn and Ember did the most powerful thing they could do.

  They prayed.

  MARY CATHERINE WAS STILL REVELING in her renewed joy over the upcoming trip to Africa. She didn’t feel sick—not at all. The last thing she planned to do tonight was put together her support team, the one Dr. Cohen wanted. There was no point. If she grew sicker in Africa, then she would email Sami and tell her everything. But odds were—if she stuck to teaching and loving the kids, and if she didn’t overexert herself—her heart wouldn’t get too much worse. She might even get better. God could do that. It was something she would pray about.

  Then she would tell Sami and her parents when she came back home. So they wouldn’t worry about her.

  The lights were off inside the apartment. A chill passed over her. How cold is it in here? She walked to the thermostat. Seventy-four. So why am I freezing? Mary Catherine kicked it up a few degrees, found a blanket from the end of her bed, and grabbed her laptop from the table in the kitchen.

  She sat on the sofa and spread the blanket over her lap. The sun was setting outside, but she left the lights off.

  How could anything be wrong with her heart? She let her head fall against the back of the couch. She almost felt fine. Just a bit more tired. A walk to the beach would wake her up. If she could grab her boogie board and hurry to the shore, ride waves till it was pitch dark.

  But she wouldn’t. That was one promise she’d make good on. She had no choice if she wanted to stay well in Uganda. A yawn came over her and she opened her computer. She went to the Front Line Studios website. Sure enough. Her marketing materials had been uploaded for their fall film.

  Mary Catherine sat up straighter. Her work looked great. She hadn’t found a love for design until the end of her college days. But maybe she had a real gift. She grinned at the designs on the various pages. The look and brand of faith films needed to be exceptional. At least if it was ever going to compete in the marketplace.

  She opened her email—in case her boss had feedback about her design work. But she saw a different letter instead. The name on it made her catch her breath. Marcus Dillinger. The second letter he’d sent since he left for spring training.

  The ache inside returned without warning and the memories played out all over again. His voice and his laugh, his hand around hers. She opened the email.

  Like it was water to her parched soul, she drank in every word.

  Hey . . .

  I’ve tried to give you space, like you asked. But today I came in from the field and my computer was open and there it was—your last email. You sent it weeks ago, but for some reason it was there. Staring at me like some kind of sign. Like someone had gotten into my computer and left it out—all so I’d write to you.

  So here goes.

  The chills on Mary Catherine’s arms had nothing to do with the cold in the apartment. She kept reading.

  I have to be honest. I have the strangest thought that something’s wrong with you. Maybe I just don’t want you to leave for Africa. Or maybe it’s something else. Only you know, I guess. But Mary Catherine, do me a favor, please. If something is wrong, will you tell me? If you’re struggling or worried about something . . . if you’re sick . . . please talk to me. Or at the very least talk to Sami.

  Mary Catherine shivered. The goose bumps ran the lengths of her legs now, too. The timing of his message was uncanny. As if he’d known somehow that she’d been at the doctor’s earlier today. She ignored the way the ground felt suddenly unsteady, and instead she found her place in the email again.

  See, you have this way of keeping everything locked in. And that’s not good for you. I’m here, Mary Catherine. I want you to talk to me.

  Okay, well . . . I have to run. If I wrote to you every time I thought about you, you’d have an email every hour. Normally I resist.

  Today I couldn’t.

  Oh, and by the way . . . sometimes I’m warming up for a game and I’m supposed to be thinking about the ball and the glove and the speed and control it’ll take to stay at the top of this crazy game.

  But all I can see is you in my arms that night on my back deck. All I can hear is your laughter. Just thought you should know.

  I’ll let you go. It never feels right being so far away. Just remember I’m always thinking of you. Praying for you.

  Missing you.

  Love, Marcus

  Not until she finished the letter did she notice the tears on her cheeks. She read the email one more time and wished with everything in her that Marcus could’ve been here, sitting beside her, telling her these things in person.

  But the fact that his words had come through a cold, impersonal computer did not lessen their impact. She set the laptop down and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders. God was clearly trying to tell her something. First the doctor, then Marcus.

  It was more than she could ignore.

  If the Lord wanted her to talk about her heart transplant with someone, then she would. The next time she had a chance she would tell Sami. Because apparently that’s what she was supposed to do.

  But what she wouldn’t do—what she would never allow her heart to consider—was to tell Marcus. Or even write back to him. Whatever her brief future held, Marcus Dillinger didn’t deserve to take on her medical issues. He would forever be only a part of her past.

  Which meant it was okay to cry. Because this was harder on Mary Catherine than anything: the pain of missing Marcus. The man with the beautiful, real soul, and his way of making her feel loved.

  For the first and only time in her life.

  4

  JAG COULD FEEL THE building intensity of the mission, feel it gaining on them.

  An hour had passed since their work at the ballpark, and now Jag walked along a sidewalk in the Signature Collection Estates, an elite neighborhood in prestigious Westlake Village. He wore a suit and tie and carried a professional leather bag. The only way he wouldn’t look out of place here. A blond woman in a black Cadillac Escalade drove by and waved absently at him.

  He returned the wave.

  His sunglasses hid the brightness of his blue eyes. No way the woman thought he was an angel. Even so, Jag didn’t have long. If residents thought he was soliciting, they’d call the police.

  It was that type of neighborhood.

  Jag pulled the postcard from the outside pocket of his leather bag. He heard a hissing sound and then felt something whiz past him. Demons. Scattering in the presence of light, off to wreak havoc on someone else’s family.

  There were more demons in neighborhoods like this than there were in the projects. More ways to be tempted by the darkness.

  Jag focused on the matter at hand. The street was free of traffic for now. Jag looked at the postcard, checking the details. Matthew West in concert. Monday night. 7:00 p.m. Central Community Church, Thousand Oaks, California, and the address. It looked good.

  He opened the mailbox, placed the postcard inside with the bills and miscellaneous letters, and closed it again.

  Then Jag walked down the street to a parked delivery truck.

  He slipped around behind it and disappeared.

  EXHAUSTION WAS SOMETHING new to Mary Catherine, and she hated it. She longed for time alone so she could ask God to renew her spirit of adventure, her energy. In a few weeks she’d be living in Uganda, after all. This was no time to be tired.

  She and Sami were just home from church, and already Sami was heading back out to meet the new volunteers at the Youth Center. A couple of times during the service, Mary Catherine caught her friend w
iping tears. The message was very relatable: People might fail you. They might leave. God never would.

  Sami opened the fridge and grabbed a string cheese. “Come with me.” She looked over her shoulder at Mary Catherine. “We can talk on the drive.”

  She could tell her friend was already missing her, and normally Mary Catherine would’ve jumped at the chance. But today she didn’t have the energy. “I’m too tired. Thanks, though.” Mary Catherine did her best not to look as run-down as she felt. “I have too much to do before I leave. I think I’ll walk to the beach and sort through my thoughts.”

  Sami managed a smile. “I understand. I feel like you’ve already left for Uganda and things have changed between us.” She peeled back the plastic wrapper on her string cheese. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mary Catherine hugged her friend. “I’ve been so distracted lately. I’m going to miss you, too. More than you know. ”

  This was when Mary Catherine should’ve told Sami about her impending heart transplant. But she couldn’t bring herself to talk about that now. Not when Sami was already sad, and Mary Catherine didn’t have the energy.

  She waited until Sami was gone before heading to the bathroom and slathering sunscreen on her arms and face. All she wanted was to feel the sun on her skin. If she couldn’t ride the waves, she could at least walk the beach.

  The weather outside was perfect. The sky a forever blue, temperatures in the low eighties. Mary Catherine slipped a few bottles of water, her keys, her phone, and a towel into her beach bag, locked the door behind her, and set out.

  Despite being so tired she decided to walk. Even if she was a little slower than usual. The fresh air was bound to do her good—as long as she didn’t push herself. But the walk was harder than she expected. Fifteen minutes later when she stepped onto the sand she had to stop and stretch her arms over her head. Her breathing wasn’t normal. Faster than usual.