“Maeve?” she called from the door. “What’s happening?”
But I couldn’t answer. The two cops stood on either side of Mrs. Patel’s body like sentinels. She was still propped up by the chair. The paramedics hadn’t even slid her onto her back. She was that dead, as if there were degrees of deadness, which I had never considered before. The paramedics threw questions at me instead of helping Mrs. Patel. What’s her name? How old is she? Did she have any medical conditions? When was the last time you saw her?
“Hardeep Patel. Seventy-two. Or three. Or one. She takes a lot of pills. Last Thursday,” I said. “She was wearing that pink cardigan. And I thought, Oh, she needs a new sweater.”
“But she was okay then?” the paramedic said. “Had anyone seen her since?”
“I thought, Oh, she needs a new sweater.”
And then Claire was pulling me away, down the stairs and outside, where the smell of lilacs hung in the thick, hot, windless city air and it wasn’t any easier to breathe.
—
Back home, Claire steered me to the couch. But I didn’t want to sit. I just stood there, staring at the far wall. Mrs. Patel was on the other side. Still dead. “Maeve?” Claire stood too close. I could smell garlic on her breath. I almost gagged. “What do you need? A glass of water? Something to eat? Are you cold? Do you want a blanket? Sometimes people in shock get the shivers.”
“I want to talk to my dad.”
“Of course,” Claire said. “I’ll call him for you. Right now.”
She dialed and then held the phone to her ear.
“He’s not answering.” She dialed again. “It’s just going to his voice mail.”
I put my hand out. Claire gave me the phone. I had the idea that if I was the one to dial him, if I was the one to call, then of course he would pick up. Of course he would. Because he was my father and I was his daughter and there should be a telepathic connection that would give him the knowledge that this was an emergency. A true, genuine emergency. I needed him.
It rang and rang and rang. Claire stood even closer. The smell of garlic made me want to retch. Her face was so full of sadness and sympathy and concern that I had to look away.
You’ve reached Billy Glover, scenic artist and portrait artist. Please leave me a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
The phone felt suddenly hot in my hand. I tightened my grip.
“Dad?” The word caught in my throat. “Daddy? I need you. I really, really need you. Please come home right away.”
I gave the phone back to Claire and kept standing there.
Of course he’d call back. It was an emergency. He was my father. I needed him.
But he didn’t call. And he still didn’t call. And he didn’t come home. And I was so, so mad at him. Furious. I had just had the most devastating day of my entire life, and he just was not there. He was somewhere in the city, near enough to come to me. Mom would probably have come all the way from Haiti, if I’d asked her to. He was close enough to get here fast and pull me into the hug that I needed from him, not from Claire. From him. I wanted to be held by my dad, his big arms tight around me, holding me so that I wouldn’t have to hold myself. But he just wasn’t there.
The boys went to bed without protest, climbing the stairs with heavy steps, glancing back with red-rimmed eyes. For an hour the house was still and quiet. I sat on the couch, still staring at the wall we shared with Mrs. Patel. Claire busied herself with one of her dolls, stitching the yarn hair to its head. We both looked up when we heard soft, slow footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Owen, his face blotchy, the tears still coursing down.
“Can I sleep with you, Maeve?”
“Oh, honey.” Claire put down the doll and went to him, hugging him to her. “I don’t think Maeve wants company tonight.”
“He can sleep with me,” I said. “I don’t mind.” I hadn’t spoken since leaving the message on Dad’s phone, and my throat was dry and my words were scratchy. “Come on.” I took his hand. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Thanks, Maeve.”
“Thank you, Owen.” I squeezed his hand.
“I didn’t want to be all by myself.”
“Me either.”
I couldn’t get Mrs. Patel out of my mind. I tried thinking about my mom in Haiti. I tried thinking about Salix. I tried thinking about all the things I could come up with, and nothing stuck. I tried counting sheep, counting up to one hundred, counting down from one hundred. All I could think about was Mrs. Patel. Dead Mrs. Patel.
Mrs. Patel was dead.
Mrs. Patel was dead.
Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw her. The TV tray toppled over. The folds of Mrs. Patel’s sweater. The image of the man and woman on the TV, arguing, gripping each other, their faces contorted in anger. I don’t love you! Go away!
Sleep just never came.
Every once in a while I would slide one hand across until I found Owen’s. I’d hold his wrist lightly, my fingers resting on his pulse. I was glad he was there, to remind me that life was the common denominator, not death. Although I supposed one equaled the other when it came right down to it.
Sleep just never came.
It didn’t come and it didn’t come, until I finally got up and turned on the light beside the bed. Owen didn’t stir. I found Dad’s illustrated anatomy book and looked up heart.
One page showed a human heart, sketched in black, suspended in white space. Another image was in color: reds of all shades, and purple, and black, white plaque, blue blood pumping out one side, red blood flooding in the other. On the next page the heart was sectioned. Halved, and then quartered. It looked like meat. Like each quarter should be wrapped in butcher paper, a label on the front, priced accordingly. This week, on sale. A quarter heart. A dollar ninety-nine a pound. Or a million dollars a pound? What was it worth when it didn’t work anymore? When it was just meat?
Did Mrs. Patel still have her heart?
Did the morgue man cut it out? Did it rest in his gloved hands, wet and cold? Did he put it in a bowl? Did he look at it and examine it and poke it and slice it open? And then did he put it back, placing it in her chest cavity, held open by angry metal spacers?
I found an empty page in my sketchbook and drew the outline of a whole heart, intact. Not butchered quarters. Not sections revealing the clockwork. Just a heart. A vital muscle so strong it could power the whole body. So vital that if it didn’t work, a person died.
According to the book, Mrs. Patel’s heart would’ve been about the size of her fist. She had tiny hands, with short slender fingers, like a child’s. I read on. The heart was located not so much to the left, but almost midline. I made a fist and placed it where my heart would be. Where her heart had been.
Myocardial infarction. Ischemia. Death of heart muscle. The heart couldn’t function without oxygen. It started to die as soon as the vessels were blocked by plaque or a coronary spasm or a thrombus—a blood clot—which could be sudden.