TWENTY-THREE GRAYSON

T WENTY -T HREE

G RAYSON

The next week, Grayson sat in the same plush blue chair and recounted the same feelings he'd had the week prior. If anything, the ache in his chest had increased, to the point where he'd cried every day. He couldn't pinpoint the cause, even though he'd tried. Grayson had started a journal after his last appointment, detailing everything, including the new foods he liked. Things he hadn't eaten before, like Italian dishes. He'd never liked ricotta, but his mouth watered when he saw commercials for lasagna, and he had ordered ricotta pancakes with brown butter maple syrup and blueberry compote the other day at breakfast. Prior to surgery, he'd loathed fruit on his food, especially when it was warm. Grayson was not a fan of pie, unless it was a pie made of pudding with a graham cracker crust; then all bets were off.

"Did you talk to your doctor about cellular memory?" Dr. Littleton asked.

"I mentioned it, but he says it's near impossible."

Dr. Littleton nodded. "Impossible to prove, but not improbable to feel. I think one thing to remember is if the science isn't there to support and prove, it's hard to compute. Science needs proof—cold, hard facts—and in a situation like this, it's almost impossible to achieve. We can't ask an organ, and if we ask the patient, the answer would be skewed. Some will be like you and say they've experienced something, while others will say they haven't experienced anything. That brings us back to ‘something,' which could easily mean one thing to you and be somewhat different to another."

"This is complicated," Grayson said. "And hard for me to describe." He placed his fist over his heart and shook his head. "This is different, and while I know the heart—my heart—isn't the one I was born with, it feels like mine, and yet I'm reminded almost daily now that it's not." Grayson sighed. "I feel like my heart is broken, and I can't figure out why."

"How's Reid? Did you talk to her about this?"

Grayson nodded. "I did. She's so supportive and understanding. I don't deserve her."

"She feels otherwise," Dr. Littleton said. "We've spoken at length about her role in your life, your rehab, and your relationship. I know you've both done the work to communicate how each of you are feeling. I'm not surprised she's supportive, but you definitely deserve her, Grayson."

He shrugged. "The other day while flipping through the channels, I came across this documentary on transplants. I spent hours watching it and wasted an entire day scouring the web for other stories. And then I searched the news for the time from when I was in the coma."

"Oh?"

Grayson shrugged again. "I know you advised against it, but missing those weeks ... I thought maybe something would spur a recollection, and my heart would start singing or some shit. I don't know."

"Did you learn anything?"

"The news itself is depressing."

"Sports is more your thing, right?"

Grayson nodded. "I spent a lot of time scrolling through ESPN as a mind cleanser."

"Did you find anything interesting?"

Another shrug. "Not really. I don't know. Nothing held my interest."

"Not UConn winning the college basketball championship?"

Grayson rolled his eyes. "Not a fan," he said with a sigh. "Someday, my Zags will be there." When the Gonzaga Bulldogs had made their first run in the tournament, back in 1999, Grayson became a die-hard fan. He appreciated their tenacity and determination and loved that they were a small school making it big.

For a moment, Grayson's mood improved, and then flashes of what he'd found came back to him. "For the few happy moments, there's been so much death," he said to Dr. Littleton. "And then I remember someone lost their loved one so I could live ..." He trailed off and looked out the window. "I'm grappling with this knowledge now more than ever."

"What you went through is an experience like no other."

"Except to the family who lost someone," he said. "What's their experience like?"

"It's hard to say. Everyone copes differently. Have you thought about reaching out to UNOS?"

Grayson nodded. "I have, but at the same time, I don't know how I'd feel if they're not interested in hearing from me. The paperwork I have says I can write the family of my donor a letter, and while I think that's nice, what if they don't read it, and then my questions go unanswered?"

"Which are?" Littleton asked.

"What type of person was my donor? What did they like? Is my new love of Italian food something they enjoyed, or did my palate change from surgery?" Grayson shrugged.

"They may or may not have the answers, unless you try."

Grayson nodded. His life had this odd imbalance. If he leaned too far to the left, he'd fall. Same with the right. The problem was, neither side had the answers he sought to understand his feelings.

On his way home from his appointment, he stopped at the bookstore and bought another journal. His current one only had a few pages left, which he figured he would fill tonight before he went to bed. Reid had started journaling as well. Documenting what was important to them—how they felt, their goals, achievements, and failures—gave them an effective outlet. At times, Grayson had struggled with bouts of depression, often brought on by his daily intake of meds, knowing that if he missed a day, he'd be one day closer to death. His own mortality weighed heavily on his mind. It was scary and at times even crippling.

Before he left the section, he chose another journal for Reid and then wandered over to the self-help section, not knowing what it was he looked for, but he hoped someone had written a book about their journey from transplant recipient to living with someone else's heart. No one had. At least not a book for sale in the store.

It had started to rain while he was in the bookstore. He opted to take the subway home instead of walking. If he walked in the rain, his mom and Reid would kill him for being irresponsible. Saving them from jail time was definitely a bonus.

Halfway home, his earbuds died, and he could hear the conversation taking place in front of him. Two young women sat there, with their heads bent together, talking about how they'd looked up one of their dates online to see what they could find out. Grayson thought the idea was brilliant, and if he had a sister, he'd tell her to do the same thing. Everything was online these days.

A thought occurred, and despite the voice in his mind telling him this was a bad idea, Grayson proceeded anyway. He took his phone from his pocket, opened a web browser, and typed: people who died on or around April 9th in the United States .

Casting such a wide net was a crapshoot, especially since he only knew one thing for sure—his donor had come from the US. The other he guessed based on when he'd had his surgery.

The main hit was notable deaths worldwide, and it listed over ten a day. He'd have to figure out a way to narrow his search. There was no way to obtain this information from UNOS unless the donor's family gave him permission. He'd have to do it the old-fashioned way, with the help of the internet and obituaries.

All he wanted to know was what his donor was like, and then maybe he could figure out what was going on in his chest.

Grayson opened another browser and typed in the URL for the local newspaper. He clicked on the obituaries, waited, and then stared at the search bar. He had to know the name of the person he sought. He couldn't put in a date range or a specific date.

Grayson closed the app with a bit more aggression in his finger than needed. He clutched his phone and leaned his head against the window of the train. There had to be a way to find out who had passed locally without having to wait for UNOS.

When his stop was announced, he was so deep in thought that he almost missed it and barely escaped through the closing doors. He rode the escalator up, and when he got outside, he saw a line of taxicabs parked out front of the station, and he made the choice to take one home. Getting home was more important now. Grayson needed to be in front of his computer, with a wider screen, so he could search more effectively.

At the front desk of the apartment building, the receptionist handed Grayson three boxes and a stack of bridal magazines. The sight of them made him smile. Now that they had their location, other things would start to fall into place. They still had time to figure out their guest list, what they were going to feed everyone, and, more importantly, what colors they were going to wear. Grayson thought a traditional black tux would be ideal, but some magazine had told him that black and outdoor spring weddings weren't always the posh thing to do. Reid thought a suit in linen would be good. Truth was, he'd wear whatever Reid told him to, as long as the scar on his chest was covered. It wasn't as gnarly as it was when he'd had surgery, but he still saw it as a bright-red line, even though it had faded.

Somehow, he managed to unlock their door without dropping any of the boxes or the numerous magazines that undoubtedly showed the same dress in each one. They had so many of these catalogs, all with dog-eared pages. Reid had asked him not to look, and he hadn't. He'd never disrespect her by peeking.

After making something to eat, he sat down with his laptop, a pen, and a pad of paper. He stared at the screen for a moment and then typed Who passed away in Washington, DC , along with the date range he'd come up with.

A few names came up. He copied the first one into the obituary section of the local newspaper and read, then read the next, and then the next. Each time, Grayson found something to eliminate the deceased—age or disease, or a wording such as "overdose."

He searched a few more newspapers but hit roadblocks each time. Mostly because searching for someone who might have donated vital organs was hard, and he honestly wasn't sure he knew what he was looking for.

And each time he did a search, he grew more and more depressed. On the verge of giving up, he scrolled through a newspaper from beyond DC, and a familiar name caught his attention: Warren and Lorraine Bolton. Grayson clicked and read the first line, about how they had lost their son-in-law, Rafe Karlsson, in a Boston accident.

He'd known the Boltons all through high school but had lost touch after graduation. Grayson had spent many days and some nights, although no one knew about those, at their house, just on the outskirts of the city. He hadn't thought about them in years.

Grayson continued until he saw which daughter had lost her husband.

He swallowed hard when his eyes landed on her name.

Nadia.

The girl he had dated in high school, until they went their separate ways when they'd left for college, essentially losing touch. Nadia had gone to Boston College, far away from her parents and siblings, needing to spread her wings. Grayson had chosen American. It was close to his mom, and while he wasn't a mama's boy, he didn't want to be too far from her. Before they left for school, they'd agreed it would be best to be single so they could enjoy college without worrying what the other thought.

Nadia and Grayson had dated for two years, and while the initial heartbreak hurt, they both had moved on. They kept in touch for the first semester, and then communication gradually decreased. Grayson had never been upset about losing Nadia. They were going in two different directions, and it was easier than having a long-distance relationship.

Grayson continued reading the article. Rafe and Nadia had two daughters, Gemma (eight) and Lynnea (six). Each time Grayson read, he felt more and more sorry for his onetime girlfriend, and he felt a pang of hurt and anger that he hadn't known. He had never checked with his mom to see if she still spoke to the Boltons. They didn't live far from each other. Surely, his mother must've heard from the neighborhood.

He picked up his phone and pressed the contact image for his mom. On the second ring she picked up. "Hi," she said happily.

"Hey. Um, you remember the Boltons, right?"

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

"Do they still live in the area?"

Sydney was silent for a moment. "No, I think they moved farther out about five years ago. If I remember correctly, Warren retired, and I think they either sold the home or their daughter lives in it with her family."

"Nadia?" He had no idea why he said her name. The article he'd read said she lived in Boston.

"No, the other one. Sierra?"

"Sienna."

"Yes, Sienna. She has two boys. I see them from time to time. Why are you asking about the Boltons?"

Grayson enlarged the photo of Nadia and her family and studied it. She looked happy. They looked happy. Their older daughter looked like Nadia, while the youngest looked like Rafe.

"Grayson?"

"Uh, what?"

"Why are you asking? Did something happen?"

"Curious," Grayson told his mom.

"Okay. How are you?"

"I'm good. Can I call you back?"

"Okay. Is everything good?" There was worry in her voice, and Grayson chided himself for being preoccupied. He should've texted her instead of calling.

"Yes, I'm good. I promise."

"Okay, call me later."

He hung up and opened another browser. This time he searched for Rafe Karlsson's obituary. As he hit enter, he had no idea what he was looking for. He guessed he was curious because he knew someone who had been affected by the tragedy, which was a first for him. He often counted himself lucky, since he'd never lost a classmate or a friend to death.

Grayson skimmed, soon learning that Rafe had died after saving the life of another runner during the annual Commonwealth Cup. Rafe was madly in love with Nadia. A doting father to Gemma and Lynnea. The only son of Otto and Cleo Karlsson. Loving brother to Freya and uncle to Leif and Astrid. He left behind his best friend and college roommate, Kiran Dunlap.

And then at the end, the sentence that rocked Grayson was there in black and white: Rafe Karlsson gave the gift of life.

Grayson sat back and focused on those words. He wasn't a betting man, but if he were, he'd bet his salary that Rafe's organs had been donated.

In another window, Grayson looked up the Commonwealth Cup, which was now known as the Rafe Karlsson Memorial Cup. He read extensively and took notes on what he could. There was Nadia, receiving the key to the city. He recognized her now. She wore a dark wool coat, with a black hat. Her daughters wore something similar. Nadia held the hands of her girls. The cameras followed their every move.

He lost track of how long he sat there, looking up random things, learning increasingly more about the accident, Nadia's family, her, her husband, and anything else he could sink his teeth into. What he found interesting was the lack of interviews with her. In all the searches, he could only find one, and it was recent.

The Nadia he remembered was outgoing, vivacious, and loved having the camera on her. Captain of the cheer squad and valedictorian, she thrived in the spotlight. Grayson surmised life had probably changed when she had children, or her light had dimmed after she lost her husband.

The constant ache he'd felt in his heart changed. It wasn't dull. It now throbbed, and no amount of rubbing the spot made it lessen. Tears threatened as he looked at the faces of Gemma and Lynnea, which seemed silly. Why would he cry for two girls he'd never met before? His mind told him it was from knowing Nadia, for feeling sorry for her. They'd once had a connection, and it was logical for him to experience some sort of sting after learning of her loss.

Grayson hadn't seen Nadia since the summer they'd graduated from high school, when he helped her pack her car. He had mad organizational skills, and she'd begged him to help her. She carried her things to him, while he put them in her car. Warren, her father, wanted to make sure Nadia could see out of her rearview mirror when she drove. Grayson made that happen for her.

Now, instead of pushing her out of his mind, he typed her name into a search engine and watched as her name, along with her husband's, came up. For a fee, he could pay a company to give him her phone number, address, and email. That seemed excessive and invasive.

Yet he did it for no other reason than he had to know. While his mind told him not to do it, his heart pushed him forward. He typed in his information, along with his credit card number, and he fully expected the bank to call him right away with some fraud charge; then he clicked submit.

The screen changed, and her address, along with a picture of her house, showed on his screen. The house was everything Nadia had ever talked about wanting. The craftsman-style home had a wide porch with a white rocking chair. The stairs had potted flowers, blooming and overflowing. She had a home, a family, and had lost her husband.

He told himself that despite her loss, she was doing well.

Or was she?