Part 41 (1/2)

EPILOGUE.

Claire

I have been someone different now for three weeks. It's not something you can tell by looking at me; it's not even something I can tell by looking at myself in the mirror. The only way I can describe it, and it's weird, so get ready, is like waves: they just crash over me and suddenly, even if I'm surrounded by a dozen people, I'm lonely. Even if I'm doing everything I want to, I start to cry.

My mother says that emotion doesn't get transplanted along with the heart, that I have to stop referring to it as his his and start calling it and start calling it mine mine. But that's pretty hard to do, especially when you add up all the stuff I have to take just to keep my cells from recognizing this intruder in my chest, like that old horror movie with the woman who has an alien inside her. Colace, Dulcolax, prednisone, Zantac, enalapril, CellCept, Prograf, oxycodone, Keflex, magnesium oxide, nystatin, Valcyte. It's a c.o.c.ktail to keep my body fooled; it's anyone's guess how long this ruse might continue.

The way I see it, either my body wins and I reject the heart-or I win.

And become who he used to be.

My mother says that I'm going to work through all this, and that's why I have to take Celexa (oh, right, forgot that one) and talk to a shrink twice a week. I nod and pretend to believe her. She's so happy right now, but it's the kind of happy that's like an ornament made of sugar: if you brush it the wrong way, it will go to pieces.

I'll tell you this much: it's so good to be home. And to not have a lightning bolt zapping me from inside three or four times a day. And to not pa.s.s out and wake up wondering what happened. And to walk up the stairs-upstairs!-without having to stop halfway, or be carried.

”Claire?” my mother calls. ”Are you awake?”

Today, we have a visitor coming. It's a woman I haven't met, although apparently she's met me. She's the sister of the man who gave me his heart; she came to the hospital when I was totally out of it. I am so so not looking forward to this. She'll probably break down and cry (I would if I were her) and stare at me with an eagle eye until she finds some shred of me that reminds her of her brother, or at least convinces herself she has. not looking forward to this. She'll probably break down and cry (I would if I were her) and stare at me with an eagle eye until she finds some shred of me that reminds her of her brother, or at least convinces herself she has.

”I'm coming,” I say. I have been standing in front of the mirror for the past twenty minutes, without a s.h.i.+rt on. The scar, which is still healing, is the angriest red slash of a mouth. Every time I look at it, I imagine the things it might be yelling.

I resettle the bandage that I'm not supposed to peel off but do when my mother isn't there to see it. Then I shrug into a s.h.i.+rt and glance down at Dudley. ”Hey, lazybones,” I say. ”Rise and s.h.i.+ne.”

The thing is, my dog doesn't move.