“Do you do shows often? I mean, for the public?”
“I dance at a restaurant in Denver—Arabica—most Friday evenings. You’re welcome to come watch anytime.” Her eyes sparkled. Was she flirting with him?
He smiled. “I might do that sometime.” Not that he would, but there was no harm in pretending. It felt good to interact with a woman who wasn’t the mother of one of his patients or Taylor’s teacher.
Other parents began arriving and Darcy turned to greet them. There was a flurry of donning coats and finding backpacks, then calls of “Goodbye!” and “See you next week!”
Then Taylor was at Mike’s side, tugging at his hand. “Dad!”
“What is it, hon?”
“I forgot to take my meds before class.” Worry made a deep V between her brows. “I thought about it on the bus, but then when we got here I was so excited …”
“It’s okay.” He patted her shoulder, as much to reassure himself as her. True, the medications were supposed to be taken at regular intervals, but there was nothing to be done about it right now. Later, at home, he’d emphasize to Taylor again the importance of keeping on schedule. Maybe he could set up a reminder on her phone. “You can take them now.” He turned to Darcy, who was closing the studio door behind the rest of the parents. “Could Taylor have a glass of water?” he asked. “She needs to take some pills.”
“Pills?” Darcy looked at Taylor, who blushed and stared at the floor. “Of course. Come up to the house with me.”
DARCY LED the way up the path to her house, hurrying her steps, aware of the anxiety radiating from the girl at her heels. Taylor looked so ordinary and healthy—why would she need to take pills?
“One glass of water, coming up,” she said once they were in the kitchen. She got a glass from the cabinet, while Taylor opened her backpack on the kitchen table. Mike stood just inside the door, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, studying the photograph in Kali’s arms.
“The boy looks like you,” he said.
Darcy turned from the sink, glass of water in her hand. “Excuse me?”
Mike nodded at the picture of Pete and Riley. “The boy looks like you. He has your eyes.”
Darcy handed the glass to Taylor. “That’s my son. Riley. And his father, Pete. They were both killed in a car wreck two years ago.” There was no easy way to reveal this tragedy—better to say it straight out.
“Oh.” He was clearly shocked. “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you.” The kindness in his eyes touched the tender spot inside her where the pain was still raw. She looked away, focusing on Taylor. “What kind of pills do you have to take?”
Taylor pulled a pill case from her backpack—the plastic kind with multiple compartments. “This is Gengraf and that one is CellCept. This is prednisone, that’s quinine and this one is Zantac.” She rattled off the names of the drugs as if she was reciting a list of favorite music groups or the names of relatives.
“You take all these every day?” Darcy asked, stunned.
“Most of them three times a day—the prednisone and quinine only once. I was taking some drugs five times. Dad says as I get older, I should be able to get down to taking meds only twice a day, and some of them I should be able to stop altogether.”
Darcy swallowed a calcium pill at breakfast and the occasional pain reliever for cramps. She couldn’t imagine a life of ingesting what amounted to the stock of a small pharmacy every day. Mike was frowning at the array of pills laid out in front of his daughter. “Why does she need all this?” Darcy asked.
“The Gengraf and CellCept are antirejection drugs,” Taylor said, ignoring that the question hadn’t been directed at her. “But they give me leg cramps, so that’s why I take the quinine. The prednisone upsets my stomach, so I take the Zantac for that. The prednisone also used to make my face swell, but not so much anymore.”
She spoke matter-of-factly, as if this was all normal. Darcy continued to stare at Mike. He raised his eyes from the line of pills and met Darcy’s gaze. She was struck again by the sadness there. “Two years ago, Taylor had a heart transplant,” he said. “She’s doing great now, but the medications are an important part of her treatment.”
“A heart transplant.” Darcy lowered herself into a chair at the kitchen table, suddenly too weak to stand. She swallowed, trying to bring moisture into her too-dry mouth. In a voice that to her ears didn’t sound like her own, she said, “So—she received a heart from a donor?”
“A boy.” Taylor popped the last pill into her mouth and drained the last of the water. “We don’t know his name, but he was six years old.” She set the empty glass on the table. “Thank you for the water.”
Darcy closed her eyes, fighting dizziness. That was a mistake. As soon as her eyes closed, scenes from her last moments with Riley flashed in front of her. Riley lying still and small in the hospital bed, the only sound the whir and beep of the machines that kept his heart beating. The Donor Alliance coordinator with a sheaf of paperwork, explaining the donation procedure. The doctors think they have a match for your son’s heart. A little girl.
“Darcy, are you all right?”
She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up into Mike’s eyes. “Do you feel faint?” he asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”
Darcy shook her head and studied Taylor, who stood apart, eyes wide. “The boy who donated your heart—you don’t know his name?”
Taylor looked at her dad. “I don’t think they ever told us.”
“No,” Mike said. “That information is kept confidential unless both families agree for it to be released.”
Darcy stood, a little shakily. “Maybe you’d better sit back down,” Mike said. “You still seem very pale.”
She shook her head and crossed to the basket beneath the telephone where she kept the mail. She sorted through the stack of bills and flyers and unearthed the cream-colored envelope from the Donor Alliance. “Read that,” she said, handing it to Mike.
He pulled out the letter and stared at it. Darcy kept her eyes on the floral pattern of the tiles on her kitchen floor. She focused on breathing slowly through her nose, inhaling the aroma of basil and oregano from last night’s spaghetti dinner, and the faint strawberry-shampoo scent of Taylor. Taylor, who was standing here today because a boy had died, a boy like Riley.
Mike folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. “When did your son die?” he asked.
“January twenty-first, two thousand and eight.”
“The same day as my transplant,” Taylor said. She took a step closer to Darcy. “Do you think I have his heart?”
“Except that I never contacted the donor registry,” Mike said. “It’s possible there were two transplants performed that day.”
“Oh.” Darcy hadn’t thought of that. She
