What Remains (12 page)

Reynolds smiles a small smile and holds up the stack of papers in his lap that obviously make up my file. “Cal, I know enough about you to know you aren't crazy.”

He's dripping with sincerity, and I can see he believes what he's saying, but still I go back to the initial reason I came in to see him. “I can't drive. I get in the car and I can turn it on, but then I just sit there. I can't move. I'm scared. I killed her once and I don't want to do it again.” My arms wrap around myself, my nails digging into my arms.

He doesn't hesitate before he responds. “You didn't kill her, Cal. I have the report right here. It wouldn't have mattered who was driving. The car that hit you was going eighty miles an hour when it hit that barrier. There was absolutely nothing you could have done.”

I hear his words, but just like Spencer's, I can't process them. “She wasn't wearing her seat belt.” I stumble over my own guilty words.

“And was there anything you could have done about that?”

“Sometimes I'd threaten not to leave until she put it on. Sometimes she'd listen and sometimes she wouldn't,” I admit.

“Do you think she knew she should have been wearing it?” he asks.

“Of course, but Lizzie … Lizzie was stubborn. She's still stubborn, she's … ” I stop, realizing I've broken my swing and totally missed the ball.

I draw my legs up onto the chair and wrap my arms around them. He might not think I'm crazy for not being able to get behind the wheel, but there's no way I'm comfortable telling him I can feel her inside me—like the heart that is keeping me alive is still hers and she's just loaning it to me.

“My file says you're a pretty exceptional ball player.” He changes the subject so drastically it takes me a second to realize he's done it. It isn't a question, so I just nod.

“Shortstop?”

I nod again.

“Will you be able to play in the future?”

His question is so blunt that it takes me back. “I don't know. Not for the first year, anyhow. I'm on steroids. That would break league rules,” I whisper. “After that, I don't really know.” I'm waffling, but it's so freaking hard to have to say the words.

“That must be hard for you. But you know what else my file says?”

I shake my head and try to untangle my cramping legs.

“Science, Cal. I hear you're a very promising student.”

You always follow the rules. You're such a good boy.

Lizzie's voice is mocking. She never understood my love of science and all things provable.

“You're lucky, you know; to be good at so many things,” he says.

I think about it and maybe he's right. At least there's something I love, not as much as baseball, but something else I'm good at.

“Cal, I know this is a difficult question, but what did you mean when you said you didn't want to kill Lizzie again?”

I look up at him and even though the tears aren't
threatening anymore, my eyes are still stinging.

“I have her heart,” I whisper, so softly I'm surprised he can hear me.

“I know,” he says. “That's an incredible gift. She must have been a very special young woman to be thinking of those things at seventeen.”

His words make me smile a little in spite of myself. I got so used to people putting Lizzie down for what they saw as her bad attitude or for her bohemian style. Only her art ever made people stop and think twice. But he's right. She was special. She still is. And I say so.

“Cal, you didn't kill her,” he says, looking right into my eyes. His resolve reminds me of Spencer and his stare is so intense that it makes my whole body feel like it's on fire. I can't look away even though I want to. “I'd like you to come back in and talk to me again,” he says. “Would you be willing to do that?”

I glance at the new watch my parents bought me to replace the one that was destroyed in the accident, and I can't believe the hour is over already. There's so much I want to let go of and we've only scratched the surface. I nod. He asks if Thursday is okay and then scribbles the time in his book.

“You have a ride home, right?” he asks.

“Spencer.” Saying his name is almost more than I have energy for.

“Good,” he says and smiles. “I'd like to meet him sometime, if that's okay with you.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Yes. Maybe. But you I'll see on Thursday. Same time.”

Spencer is in his car waiting for me when I stumble out the door. I say “hi” but then just close my eyes and listen to him talk about the play and how Mr. Brooks is threatening to replace Laura as the lead. He mentions how much fun Ally has been at rehearsal and then pauses like he's waiting to see if I'm going to reply, but there's nothing I can say. I still don't know what's up with her and Dillard, and I'm not prepared to hear the answer if it's bad.

Spencer knows me well enough not to ask me anything about my appointment, or about how I'm feeling, or any of the other questions anyone else might have. He talks about school and shares some silly story about his brother going to a frat party. The sound of his voice calms me enough that by the time we're at my house, I can almost pretend that things are back to normal.

Fifteen

I used to manage fine juggling baseball practice, school, Spencer and Lizzie, and the occasional science fair. But now I almost need a secretary to keep it straight. Remembering to take all the pills I need, the appointments with Dr. Collins, the exercises I'm supposed to be doing, and now meetings with Dr. Reynolds, feels like a lot on top of school. It doesn't help that none of it truly feels like mine. It's all stuff I'm doing because people tell me that I have to.

I've added all the appointments onto my calendar, each in a different color, but I haven't erased the team's practice schedule. I keep going back and forth as to whether I should or not. Erasing it seems really permanent and I'm not ready to give up yet. But having those dates on the calendar, imagining the team out running drills, is torture.

During one of my late-night Internet searches I read about a guy who plays professional soccer even though he's had a transplant. I printed it off to show Dr. Collins, but he says there's no doctor in the world who would condone it. He made it very clear
he
never would.

And I've read about a golfer who has had three transplants and still plays professionally, but golf isn't the same as baseball. For most people, golf isn't a contact sport. I probably just need to give up, but I can't imagine never playing ball again. I don't want to imagine it. The best I can hope for is that I end up at a college with a good science program, a decent intramural league, and a coach who's willing to let me take the risk.

So when Coach Byrne corners me at school on Wednesday, it makes me a little uncomfortable. I'm on my way to lunch so I'm not in a hurry. I'm used to eating healthy during training, but the kind of diet I'm on now doesn't really inspire me to get to the lunch room faster than necessary.

“Don't look so excited, Ryan. You'll give the cooks a complex.”

I worm my way through the rushing kids and over to a wall out of the flow. I'm pretty sure Coach isn't rushing to eat in the lunchroom either. “It's hard to build up a lot of excitement for lettuce.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I'm sure. Actually, I'm hoping you can put off lunch for a few minutes. There's something I want to talk to you about.” I wonder what use Coach could possibly have for me now. But I follow him out of habit, around the corner and into his office.

The room looks like probably every other high school coach's office. Trophies line the walls. Dusty framed pictures of past teams are hung in every other available space. Equipment litters the floor. On his desk are some baseballs and one of those Magic 8 balls that usually answers “ask again later” or “reply hazy, try again” when you ask it a question.

Over the years, I've spent a lot of time in here. Kids play school sports for a whole slew of reasons. At first, I played because I had a ton of time on my hands before my parents got home from work and I didn't want to stay at the after-school programs. Then I found out that not only was I good at baseball, but I actually loved it. And it wasn't just about playing. It was about the strategy and the numbers. I loved baseball like I loved science. It was safe, and structured, and it made sense.

I spent more hours than I could track talking to Coach about the best way to use our players while still meeting all the stupid league regulations demanding that everyone get a certain amount of playing time. But I have no idea what he wants to talk to me about now.

He gestures for me to take a seat.

“How're you feeling, kiddo?” he asks while he shuffles a bunch of papers on his desk.

“Fine, I guess.” I push back in my seat, feeling both comfortable in this chair where I've spent so many hours and like I have no right to be here.

“We miss you, you know.”

I squirm in the chair, not really knowing how to respond. I've never missed anything, aside from Lizzie, as much as I miss playing on the team.

Coach puts his papers down and links his hands together, leaning across his desk. “You've been a leader for this team for a long time, Cal. And not just on the field. You're one of the smartest players I've ever coached. Your head has always been in the game, and I think the guys are missing that influence.”

Aw. They miss you, Cal.

My cheeks heat up with his praise and Lizzie's words. Coach Byrne isn't one for coddling his players, so I know he means it. The fact that they got clobbered on opening day probably doesn't hurt.

“Thanks.” I look down at my hands, surprised to see they're tossing the baseball from Coach's desk back and forth. I wonder if I'll ever have a legitimate reason to hold a baseball again.

“Look. I don't want to eat up a lot of your time, so I'll get to the point. I've talked to the guys, and we'd like to know if you'd be interested in associating with the team in some way.”

My hands stop moving and I grip the ball. Tight. “What?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You know, set the lineups, talk strategy. If it makes any difference to you, it was pretty much a unanimous vote when I asked them how they felt about this.”

“You mean, like be a student manager?” As I ask it, I realize it's perfect.

Coach nods. “Student manager. I like the sound of that. So, what do you say?”

There's really only one answer I can give. “Wow.”

Coach smiles. “I figured you can run laps with the team when the doctors give you the okay. Lob a few around, work with some of the kids on their form, and we'd still get to use that brain of yours to sort out the hard bits. And I get that you'd have to plan around doctors' appointments and such. You know where we are when you can make it.”

“Absolutely. Yes, thank you.”

“No, thank you, Cal. Seriously, some of these kids need to get their heads out of … well, you know. Anyhow, let's aim for practice on Saturday. Usual time, if that works for you.”

“See you then.” I want to dance out the door. I know
it isn't the same as actually playing ball but it's a hell of a lot better than sitting at home imagining I'm at practice.

I bring the idea up to my parents at the end of dinner; dinner that involves food that's been cooked and not just reheated and with Mom, Dad, and me all sitting around the same table at the same time. That alone would make me happy if I wasn't already brimming over with excitement. But my joy is short-lived in light of the expression on my mom's face. My parents obviously aren't quite as convinced that this is a good idea.

“I don't know, Cal,” Mom says. “I don't want you pushing yourself too hard.”

Old Mom wouldn't have noticed if I'd trained for the Olympics. But this is new Mom. And new Mom, in comparison, is here all the time and making me crazy. I mean, I love her and all, but I'm used to a certain amount of autonomy, which seems to have been thrown out along with my old heart.

“Mom, it's a manager's spot. I'm not going to be turning double plays.” I try to be matter-of-fact about it, figuring if I don't make it a big deal than maybe she won't either. I silently plead with Dad to jump into the conversation. We really haven't talked much since the night I found out about Lizzie's heart, but even so, he has to know what this means to me.

Dad looks from me to Mom. “Sheila, let's give him a chance.” He says it in such a way that I know it's his ver
sion of an apology. I hold my breath waiting for Mom's
response. In our house, Dad might have an opinion, but Mom is the one to make the final call.

She sighs and gives me a “don't screw with me” look. “Cal, we'll try this, but you do not miss doctor's appointments and you don't get yourself overtired. And the minute Dr. Collins says it's too much for you, that's it. You're done. Do you hear me?”

I rush out of my chair and kiss her on the cheek and then give Dad a hug that takes him completely by surprise.

“Thanks. Thank you. Really,” I say, smiling, which makes Mom smile.

Way to go, champ.

Even Lizzie's voice doesn't do anything to take away the joy of this moment. I rush upstairs and call Spencer. I know he's at rehearsal, but I'm so excited I'd rather leave a voicemail than wait until later. Then I pull out my glove from under the bed, put it in front of me on the desk, and start to plow through my homework, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.

Sixteen

I would have expected that my excitement at being part of the team again would make me dream about baseball. Or at least that Lizzie would let me enjoy tonight. But it's like she's feeling left out or something, because the dream I have is definitely not something my brain is generating on its own. And it's definitely not about baseball.

I remember reading once that nightmares are the brain's way of working out things you're too afraid to face when you're awake. That pretty much explains why I've never really had them. I'm intimately acquainted with all my fears; they don't really give me a break during the day so I think they sleep at night too. Anyhow, most of my dreams used to be about baseball and school, and stupid stuff like chasing a missing dog down the street. Oh, and if I got lucky, Ally.

But that was before. Now my dreams are filled with other things: dark tunnels and masked psychopaths driving tanks towards me; Lizzie's mom and her horrible assembly line of abusive asshole boyfriends. These dreams make me wake up covered in sweat and cowering in a twisted pile of covers.

And then there are the dreams about Spencer. Of course, Lizzie still likes to dream about Spencer.

I don't know what her dreams were like before they slept together, but these aren't as graphic as I would have guessed. I mean, she isn't
always
dreaming about having sex with him. Instead these dreams are worse than the terrifying ones because they're filled with so much sadness, I've actually woken myself up crying, bringing my mom charging into my room, probably worried I was dying.

Of course I can't fess up and tell Mom that I'm having Lizzie's dreams, and obviously talking to Spencer about them isn't an option. I suppose I could tell Reynolds, but given that he's the person most likely to have me committed, that's probably a stupid idea, so it's just me stuck with Lizzie's fantasies and grief.

Not only does it make seeing Spencer even more awkward in ways I can't explain to him, but I'm exhausted all the time because I'm spending too much time fighting against falling asleep. It's making it hard to concentrate in class too. I don't even realize it's Thursday until Spencer offers to drop me off at Dr. Reynolds' office after school.

The office is the same as it was when I left on Tuesday, only this time I know what to expect so I don't feel quite as stressed out. This time when he ushers me in, I sit down and start to make a list of the things in my head I
do
want to talk about.

There's the driving thing, of course. I mean, I can't ask Spencer to drive me around for the rest of my life, although knowing him, he'd do it. It's been fine since he hasn't brought up that night in The Cave again and neither have I. I just wish I could stop thinking about it. And doing an Internet search for “what do you do when you've made out with your best friend” is not going to get me anywhere. I can only imagine what Mom would think if she saw that in my browser history.

Then there's Lizzie. I've spent some time while I'm in school and Lizzie is … wherever she goes when she isn't actively in my head … thinking about it all. And I've made the decision that I have to find a way to talk to Reynolds
about her before I go completely bonkers. I'm going to
leave the dreams out of it. But at least I can talk about missing her. And maybe, if he seems cool, about the feeling that she's somehow still here with me.

“I'm glad to see you, Cal. I wasn't completely sure you'd want to come back,” Dr. Reynolds says when he sees me. He's laughing a little and he really does look glad to see me.

“There are things I guess I really want to talk about,” I admit.

“Go ahead then. What's on your mind?”

“It's Lizzie, really.” I'm surprised at how guilty those words make me feel. It's like I'm reporting her to the principal or the cops.

“Yes?”

I have this speech in my head, but somehow the words keep tying themselves in knots between my brain and my mouth.

“I Googled it. I mean, what happens to people who are transplant recipients. People who get organs that belonged to someone else and who remember stuff … ”

“Remember?” Dr. Reynolds cocks his heads and puts his stack of papers down. “Cal, are you talking about the theory of cellular memories?”

I nod. This is where he tells me I'm nuts; that Lizzie is dead and having her heart doesn't mean it's possible for some part of her to still really be alive inside me. My stomach flops and for a minute I worry that coming back here was a mistake. My shoulders tense as I glance at the door, calculating the best way to make a run for it.

“Interesting,” he says. “So you feel like you're able to access Lizzie's memories?” He doesn't say this in the way I expected him to. It isn't that condescending response that means he's going to have me locked up. He actually sounds intrigued.

“No, not memories.”

Yeah, be glad about that, Cal. You'd never sleep again.

“Dreams,” I say, ignoring both her comment and my promise to myself to keep this a secret. “I've had dreams that I think are hers. And I can feel her. Inside me.” I stop and blush because it sounds like I'm saying something suggestive when that isn't my intention at all. “Sorry. I'm not saying this right.”

“It's okay, Cal. We're going to take this slowly. So you say you can feel her … what, thoughts? Emotions? Even when you're awake?”

“Sometimes, I can feel her react to things.” I'm kind of embarrassed to talk about it now. I've read report after report about people suddenly liking chicken when they'd been a vegetarian or bursting into tears when they listen to Frank Sinatra when they'd only listened to heavy metal. But I haven't really read anything about hearing voices or being influenced like what happened with Spencer.

“How does she react?” Dr. Reynolds asks.

“It's like I can feel her heart race in reaction to things. I can kind of sense when she's happy or upset. And I hear her voice almost like she's talking to me, only I know that I can't really be hearing it. And sometimes, it's like she wants to do something and … ”

“Her heart?” he asks with a raised eyebrow. “Do you feel like she's made you do things you don't want to do?”

“No … I … It isn't like that. She just … I don't really want to talk about it. I thought I did, but … ” I say, too quickly. I'm pissed at myself because I've just said everything I wasn't going to. I thought I could talk to him about Lizzie without talking about Spencer and everything else, but it's all tied up together and it isn't working.

And really, at the end of the day, all I want is to be able to get in the car and drive like a normal person. I want to not be afraid that I'm going to kill someone every time I'm behind the wheel.

“Okay, that's fine. We'll talk about what you're comfortable with. Do you want these feelings to go away?”

I try to figure out how to untangle the mess of thoughts in my head. “It doesn't really bother me all the time. I mean, it's like she isn't really totally gone and that's nice. It's nice to have her with me. I miss her. I just … ”

I miss you too, you know.

“Do you feel like sometimes it's too much?”

“Yeah. Something like that.” I look around for something to do with my hands. I wonder if this is how Spencer feels when he's onstage and how he could possibly like it. I hate that feeling of being watched except when I'm on the field. I get up and walk over to his desk and pick up a ball encased in plastic, black signatures flowing over it.

“That's the 1984 team,” he says. It's pretty cool that he has all of this historic baseball stuff.

“My coach … my old coach … asked me to be student manager of the varsity team,” I say. I hope it will balance all of the stuff about me that's probably in that paperwork and all the bizarre stuff I've told him today. Maybe it will make him realize that I haven't turned into a total loser.

“That sounds like it would be good for you. Are you going to do it?”

“Sure.” I try to downplay the excitement I'm feeling to be doing something that involves baseball, but then it wells up and spills over through the smile that widens my mouth. “I start on Saturday.”

I put the ball down and go back to the chair and sit, more relaxed now. “See, it's just that Lizzie is braver than I am. Lizzie … nothing really scares her. It never really did. And I feel like I owe her.”

Dr. Reynolds nods and plays with his pen. “Cal, before the accident, did you ever feel like Lizzie pushed you into doing things?”

“I guess that depends on what you mean by pushed,” I say. “I mean, she was always trying to get me and Spencer to do crazy things with her. She just liked to have fun. And I think … no, I know, she enjoyed making me squirm, which is pretty easy to do.”

“And now?”

“Well, no I wouldn't say she's pushing me. Most of the time it's just these surges of feelings, except for … ” Crap, I've done it again and I'm not talking about that. I don't care how cool this guy is and how much great baseball stuff he has. I'm not talking about Spencer.

“Except for?” Of course, he doesn't miss anything.

“Nothing,” I say, wondering when the hour will be over.

“These surges of feeling. Are they frightening?”

“No … I mean, it's just Lizzie. But it's distracting sometimes and we don't always feel the same way about things.”

Ain't that the truth!

Reynolds leans forward. “Cal, you're dancing around something here that I think you want to talk about but are afraid to. You know you can tell me anything, right? I'm not judging you. I'm here to help you work through all of this.”

“Can we talk about driving?” I know that it isn't an an-swer to what he's said, but I feel like if I keep talking about Lizzie, I'm going to crack in two and not even the doctors will be able to put me back together.

“Of course. We can talk about whatever you want.”

“It isn't getting easier. I mean, every time I even think about getting in the car I'm worried that I'm going to kill someone.”

“You know that isn't likely, right?”

“The odds are one in 19,000.” I know this because I looked it up. I tried to find the odds of getting a heart transplant at sixteen, but it must be so rare that they haven't been calculated.

“What do you think would have happened had Lizzie or Spencer been driving the car that day?”

His question stumps me. It was one I hadn't thought to ask. “I don't know. Lizzie drove like a maniac, and Spencer … I don't know.”

“I have a copy of the accident report here,” he says, pulling out a dog-eared sheet of paper from the middle of his pile. “Has anyone shown it to you?”

I shake my head.

“Would you like to see it?” He holds it out to me. I hesitate for a minute. I've done everything possible to avoid hearing the details or knowing anything about the guy in the other car. But I'm curious about what he thinks might help me, so I take it.

There are a lot of things written down, like mile-markers and license plate numbers. To my relief, the other driver's name has been crossed through with black magic marker, but in the “notes” box it says “distracted driver: cell phone text.”

Okay, the guy that hit us wasn't paying attention. I get it.

Dr. Reynolds is looking at me expectantly, waiting for something to sink in. “I don't want to preach to you, but did you know that over nine people a day are killed in the US alone by distracted drivers?”

I shake my head.

He looks down at his papers and muses, “It's the leading cause of death for teens.”

“Was the driver a kid?” The question doesn't feel like my own. I really don't want an answer. None of that matters. But I can feel Lizzie's curiosity rising. She'd want every last detail. “Never mind. I don't want to know.”

Dr. Reynolds pauses and looks at me. “It might help you come to terms with things,” he says. “If you did want to know. When you're ready.”

I shake my head as he reaches over and takes the paperwork back before I have a chance to read the rest of it. I'm sure somewhere on there are a bunch of other things I don't want to know: details of how they had to pry me out of the car and where they found Lizzie.

“And we
can
review that, Cal. But until then, try to accept that it wasn't your fault,” he says again, as if repeating it enough times will push it through the wall in my brain that's keeping me from being able to accept it.

I nod. I almost believe it when he says it so emphatically. He looks down at his book and cocks his head. “Tuesday? Do you want to come back Tuesday?”

I think about it and am almost surprised that yes, I do want to come back. It's easy to talk to him. I might not be jumping in the car when I get home, but I can breathe a little easier than I could when I came in.

“Okay.”

“Can I ask you to do one more thing?” he asks. “I'd like you to keep a journal.”

“Like a diary? I'm not really a writer.”

“That's okay. I'm not suggesting that you write a book. But I'd like you to make a list of every time you think Lizzie is … with you. Influencing you. Every time you think you can feel her thoughts.”

My stomach goes sour. Putting things in writing scares me. There's something permanent, something public about that. Something I'm not sure Lizzie wants. Something I'm not sure I want.

“Dr. Reynolds … ” I start to beg off.

“You don't have to, Cal. You don't have to do anything. But I'm going to suggest it might help you to get a handle on which areas of your life you feel she's having the most control.”