“The electromagnetic current of the heart is sixty times higher in amplitude than the field of the brain. It also emits an energy field five thousand times stronger than the brain’s, one that can be measured more than ten feet from the body.”
—Dr. Mimi Guarneri, The Heart Speaks: A Cardiologist Reveals the Secret Language of Healing
“The data [from a study entitled ‘The Electricity of Touch’] showed ‘when people touch or are in proximity, a transference of the electromagnetic energy produced by the heart occurs.’”
—Institute of HeartMath
I WAKE SO slowly, I can feel the layers of my dream slipping away, and I fight to keep it because I know as soon as I open my eyes, Trent will be gone, and I will be alone. Again.
Four hundred and one.
The house is so still, I know I’m alone, and then I realize it’s Saturday, and my parents are probably already out for their weekend walk to the coffee shop in town, followed by their lap around the farmer’s market, before they head home for a Mom-mandated day without phones or email, working in the yard or cooking or reading together.
It’s part of the campaign she started to overhaul their whole lifestyle after my dad had stumbled into the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon sounding confused, his speech garbled. She raced him to the hospital fearing the worst. After hours of tests, the doctors determined that he hadn’t had a true stroke but something called a transient ischemic attack, or TIA for short. They told us it meant there had been a brief blockage of blood flow to the brain, and though there was no permanent damage, it was a major warning sign. A precursor to the real thing.
From a chair in the corner of my dad’s hospital room, I watched as my mom stood next to his bed, holding his hand while the doctor listed all the risk factors: his blood pressure, cholesterol, poor eating habits, stress level, and on and on. It wasn’t anything my mom hadn’t already tried to tell him, but I guess it was different coming from the doctor after his attack. Changing all these things was no longer a smart recommendation but a matter of life and death.
When we got home, Dad was still shaken, but Mom had a purpose and a plan. Along with the medications the doctors prescribed, she was going to change every risk factor that could be changed. Around me, she tried to focus less on the health benefits of this “lifestyle change,” but I knew what she was doing. She was fighting for my dad’s life. Both of my grandpas had died before they were sixty—one from a heart attack, the other from a stroke—and she wasn’t about to let history repeat itself and become a widow like her own mother. Or her daughter.
First, she hired an assistant at their accounting office and took on most of Dad’s workload herself. Next, she insisted he be home each night by dinner—a healthy dinner that she cooked, rather than stay late at work and grab something on the way home like he always had. I expected him to resist and say there was too much work to be done for him to make that change, but he didn’t; and that’s how I knew he must be scared too. We all were. It was nine months since Trent’s death, and I think even my parents were still reeling from the realization that life can be gone in an instant, without any warning at all. In a heartbeat.
Luckily, my dad had gotten a warning, loud and clear. He hadn’t been at the dinner table my whole childhood, but suddenly he was there every night, obediently eating grilled fish and veggies and grains we’d never heard of. Next, Mom moved on to the weekends, which, in the last few years, he’d generally spent in his home office on the computer, answering work email and going over reports and spreadsheets, grumbling about how no one else could do any of their jobs properly. It hadn’t always been like that. He used to be the one who got my sister and me up at the crack of dawn and had us out the door for a run along the rolling country roads around our house.
Now it’s my mom who has him up and out early on weekend mornings. They make the long walk into town, talking and laughing together, just the two of them. Reconnecting, I guess you could say, after so many years devoted to getting a business off the ground, and getting Ryan and me to school, and practices, and meets. It’s good for them both to have that connection again, and I’m glad they have that to focus on, because it takes a little bit off me. To a certain extent.
Downstairs in the kitchen my mom has left a note reminding me that Gran will be stopping by after brunch with her Red Hat ladies because she wants to spend some time with me (or because Mom asked her to babysit after my accident), and Gran needs help with a “project.” Also that there’s a pitcher of wheatgrass-kale morning something in the refrigerator for me. Juicing has become a part of the regimen too.
I head to the coffeemaker instead, pop in a little plastic cup, and put a mug underneath the spout. My phone buzzes from the counter, and when I pick it up, I don’t recognize the number. I hesitate for a moment, think about letting it go to voicemail and then calling back later when I haven’t just gotten out of bed, but I pick it up instead. “Hello?”
“Hi, may I please speak to Quinn Sullivan?” The voice is male, formal.
“This is me—she.” I roll my eyes at myself. “This is Quinn.”
“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Hi. You, um . . . I think you hit my bus yesterday? You left a note with this number?”
“I did,” I say, taking my coffee to the island. “I’m so sorry. I know I should’ve stayed and waited for you to get back, but I cut my lip and ended up needing stitches, and—” The doorbell rings. “I’m sorry; there’s someone at the door. Can I call you right back?”