Heart Sister Read online

  Finally I have an outline of my sister on the floor. That single teardrop has sunk in, the splotch a sad earring. I weight the curling edges of the paper with four of her favorite books—Calvin and Hobbes, Pet Sematary, Frankenstein and a book of Walter Potter’s curiosities.

  I’m hit with another wave of pain. I sit back. The note from the guy who received her corneas crumples in my back pocket. I pull it out, smooth the envelope and shake the note free. It’s short. Too short. My parents will need more than some letters and a map of Minnie’s organs. But that’s where I have skills. This past June I spent more than half of my savings on a 360-degree video camera and virtual-reality gear. It’s money I should be saving for after high school, but now there’s only after Minnie.

  I open my laptop and search parts of the body. It’s odd how little I know about my own biology. Where is my liver? That thing I can’t live without? Turns out it should be on the upper right of the abdomen. The kidneys on either side. The diaphragm—does that get transplanted? I know the stomach doesn’t. The lungs do. Pancreas, intestines—ew. The heart. I begin to transfer their locations onto Minnie’s outline.

  My hand hurts from clenching the marker. The image of my sister’s organs all piled together on the floor flashes in my brain. I draw deep breaths to clear the horrifying images.

  I stop for a moment and use my phone to cue up the wireless speaker on my desk to put on my sister’s favorite song, Jain’s “Come.” Not the score I would have picked for Minnie’s movie, but I can hear the quirky fun in Jain’s voice. I’d have chosen the theme from 8 Mile, or maybe Pulp Fiction, but that would be me. I hit play and cue the entire Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack to stream next.

  I google what parts of the body are used in organ donations. Turns out a donor can save up to eight lives, but they can also improve the lives of over fifty people. I draw in some of the less likely parts carved from Minnie. Harvested. Skin, tendons, arteries, bone and eyes. Corneas.

  When I finally meet the guy who has the corneas from Minnie’s beautiful green eyes, I’ll draw them on this outline as emerald butterflies. My heart sister may not have given me any clues, but he did.

  The butterflies are how I will find him.

  THREE

  I’m guessing that the National Transplant Organization was founded long before social media existed.

  It takes me fifteen minutes to figure out that people who hunt butterflies are called lepidopterists and that, in the Toronto area, only one posted on Twitter within days of my sister’s organs being harvested.

  I can see! he tweeted. His handle is @mothman62. I trace it to a YouTube user who, with a shaky phone video, has captured not only some unusual moth activity, but also two street signs that are only a twenty-minute bike ride from my house.

  I stuff my camera, tripod and portable green screen into my backpack. The camera has multiple lenses and image-stitching technology that creates three-dimensional immersive views.

  I’ve experimented with VR—virtual reality—all summer, and I often go to sleep with my headset on, watching my sister playing her uke or sewing a new arrangement. It’s almost like she’s still with me, only just beyond my reach. The scene I gravitate to most often is from a cottage weekend from a few months ago. My parents had splurged on a vacation. It was a treat. A family trip before we grew out of them, with Divina and Hal, a couple of our friends. After the parents had gone to bed, the four of us stayed up at the campfire, talking. Minnie asked me to get out my camera and film us. It was almost like she knew I would need it one day.

  Once I was set up, Minnie started firing questions at us by the light of the fire. “What is your name?” “If you were an animal, what would you be?” “If I were to put you in a diorama, what would it look like?” Stuff like that. We were laughing and so not-serious. I’d thought it was just part of our vacation. But the answers. They surprised me.

  Whenever panic rises within me, that rolling wave of paralyzing grief, I pull the headset over my eyes and join her at the fire. It’s like I slide right under the wave.

  I’ve decided that I’m going to ask her organ recipients those same questions. I’ll bring them into our campfire and make Minnie whole.

  A mere two hours after the delivery of a letter designed to keep us apart, I am on a street corner watching for Mothman. His social-media profile pic indicates I’m looking for a largish black guy in his late fifties. I am relieved to be out of the house. Even if it proves to be a dead end, stalking butterfly hunters is a hundred times better than staying inside all day listening to “For ten thousand dollars, who…”

  I prop my bike against the street sign and settle in to wait. I check out passersby. Cars jerk over speed bumps. The flutter in my stomach feels appropriate. I honestly don’t know what I’ll learn from Mothman, but I know my parents need more than the writer’s short thanks about seeing better. They deserve more than that. My sister does too.

  A woman walks toward me along the sidewalk, tugging a little kid in a flouncing green dress. She has pigtails and ocean blue eyes. Will I recognize my sister in Mothman’s eyes? Do I want to? The woman clears her throat, and I realize I’ve been staring at her child in what is probably a creepy way. I avert my gaze and try to shrink my six-foot-plus frame into something less threatening. They cross the street.

  A dozen more people pass with curious looks as I scan each of them for signs of Mothman. Finally I spot a man squatting by a bush. It looks like he’s holding a camera. From half a block away I can’t discern his features, but he’s wearing an inordinate amount of khaki, like he’s on safari. I grab my pack and bike and slowly approach, the bike derailleur clicking. As I near, he cocks an ear, and I can tell he’s no longer looking through the viewfinder of the camera, which is targeting something in the scraggly bushes.

  He’s huge. Gray spackles his cropped hair, and a constellation of freckles scatter across his face.

  “Hi,” I say. His gaze has such intensity that I can’t help but hold it. “Mothman?” I whisper.

  The eyes burn fiercer. Not the same color as Minnie’s. His are brown.

  “Who’s asking?”

  “You have my sister’s corneas.” A moment of stillness stretches as thought catches up to words. A car rips past, undercarriage crunching over a speed bump. He stands, eyes dancing over me in a quick appraisal, perhaps of my intent, maybe my potential to be dangerous, and then it’s gone.

  “You got my note.”

  “Off to catch butterflies,” I say.

  Mothman’s lips split into a grin, and his arms envelop me, plunging my face into his shoulder, hands rubbing my spine, camera body digging into my chest. “It’s all right, man. It’s all right.”

  I force a laugh, trying to pull away from a kind of hug I haven’t shared since the funeral, which even then had felt awkward and compulsory but somehow comforting too. “Thanks, thanks. I’m good, I’m fine.” I pry free. Mothman’s hand lingers on my shoulder. It feels heavy and too intimate. He drops his arm.

  “I’m Emmitt. Emmitt Highland. Can I talk to you for a bit?” I ask.

  “You kidding? Of course you can. I really want to talk to you too. My name’s Gerry. Let’s sit over there.” He motions at a park bench and keeps talking as we walk toward it. “I’d hoped the note would work, but man, those transplanters really scour the letters. It was lucky my little clue managed to sneak through.”

  I struggle for words. It is so strange to be looking at this man, at his eyes, knowing a part of my sister is with him. I move my camera to my lap so the lens is between me and Mothman. This small barrier helps me to calm.

  We sit silently for a minute. Mothman follows the flight path of a butterfly.

  “The tweet helped,” I say finally.

  He looks like he is getting ready to hug me again. I scoot down the bench until I teeter on the edge. I lift my camera and zoom in on his face. If Minnie’s here, I’ll find her.

  “Okay if I roll this thing? I’m working on a project,�
�� I say. I will have to hone my pitch for anyone else I track down.

  “Sure, sure. I’ve been dreaming of meeting her, you know. Your sister. I wish there was some way I could thank her,” he says. “I was a sniper in the army. Afghanistan. All sand and lost time. My eyes were everything. Until they weren’t, and they discharged me. Honorably, sure, but not honorably here.” He clutches his heart. “Know what I mean?” I shake my head. Talking to Mothman is like deciphering poetry. He sucks in a slow breath before continuing. “I can tell you all this. I can. We’re family, right?” I swallow and nod. “Sure, we are. Well, I’ve never told anyone, but I once shot a man. A bad, bad man. From over a mile away. The sort of target that is so distant you need to factor in gravity. I counted four seconds before the guy dropped. I thought my eyes were everything.”

  I’m not sure what Minnie would think of having a sniper receive her eyes, but I’m nodding from behind the frame of my shot, and I keep the camera rolling.

  He lowers his gaze. “So whose eyes have I got?” he asks. “All they’d tell me was she was a young woman. All these years and I finally have a woman’s perspective.” His laugh fills the day. “How did your sister see the world?”

  I swallow, at first not trusting speech. “Minnie was my twin sister. She was a total pacifist. Hated war.” It’s too much truth. “I’m sorry.”

  His eyes look back to his scuffed work boots, also khaki, and I realize it’s his uniform. He’s not on safari. He’s on deployment. Or at least is dressing like he is.

  “Yeah, I’ve had three lives—sniper, blind man, butterfly catcher. Guess which one I like the most?”

  Mothman has a “before Minnie” and an “after Minnie” too. “I’m pretty sure she loved butterflies,” I say in reply. “Live, still-fluttering ones.”

  “Well, I don’t know many people, soldiers included, who don’t hate killing things. But the butterflies…I only take pictures. I don’t pin anything, man, just pictures.” A tear tracks down his cheek.

  “Sorry, Gerry, but my sister would totally pin a butterfly. Trust me.” I burst out in a laugh that surprises me. “Minnie never had a good idea that didn’t require needles.”

  “That’s a fine thing then. I won’t judge…” Gerry briefly covers his eyes with his fingers. “I’ll take good care of these, son,” he says.

  I nod.

  We sit in silence for a few moments, my camera still rolling. “How’d it happen?” he asks finally.

  I shake my head. “She was hit by a car. The driver said she dashed into the road like she was trying to save something, but all there was on the road was a raven. She never regained consciousness.”

  “Saving the bird,” he says.

  “A long-dead bird,” I reply.

  Gerry clasps my forearm and elbow with his hands and says, “Well, Emmitt, if you ever need me, I’m here.” He jerks his head toward an old house with a bowed porch roof and shingles that are starting to curl. “Just knock. If you want to hang out with me or just with her eyes.”

  It’s not nothing, these words. I haven’t seen Divina or Hal since the funeral. Maybe they’re mourning too, and they don’t have any space to offer. Or maybe they’re uncomfortable around me, or they fear saying the wrong thing, or they think they’re intruding. I try not to believe it’s because they don’t care. But part of me wonders, were they only Minnie’s friends? Have they been boxed away with my room? I’ve never felt more alone. It’s not nothing, Gerry’s offer.

  We stare at each other for a moment before his smile cracks again, and I start laughing. Briefly I really do have a piece of Minnie back. It gives me hope that maybe, if I manage to assemble the rest of her, the feeling will last forever.

  “Gerry, I have a favor to ask,” I say.

  “I’d give you a kidney,” he replies.

  “Will you be in my movie?”

  EXT. CAMPFIRE - NIGHT

  Around the campfire, MINNIE (16) sits with GERRY (late-50s). She has her guitar across her knees and plucks absently at the strings without realizing she’s doing it. She grins at him, face aglow, sparks flying into the night.

  MINNIE

  What’s your name?

  GERRY

  Gerry.

  MINNIE

  If you were an animal, what would you be?

  GERRY

  What? An animal?

  “Run with it for a bit, okay?” I ask. Gerry shrugs and continues.

  GERRY

  I’d be a mongoose.

  MINNIE

  If I were to put you in a diorama, what would it look like?

  GERRY

  Diorama?

  “Yeah, it’s like a miniature slice of life,” I say. “Anthropomorphic scenes. Imagine kids are running through an old-style museum and they see a mongoose you in your daily human life. What would it be doing?”

  GERRY

  This is bizarre.

  “Well, that’s my sister. During the winter she wore a coyote-head hat. A real one.”

  GERRY

  Okay, well, my mongoose would be wearing a hat too. A top hat. Have one of those slick black canes. My coat, a big trench coat, would be on the ground for a lady mongoose to step on, and I’d be tipping my hat in appreciation, watching all the other mon—what’s the plural? Mongeese? Mongooses? The others wandering past. A gentleman. A watcher. A mongoose.

  MINNIE

  Cool. What would other people put in your diorama?

  GERRY

  Jeez. How do they see me, you mean?

  Gerry’s mouth tightens, and he glances down at his hands, hands that have pulled triggers.

  GERRY (CONT’D)

  It’d be real different. They’d put me on a rooftop with a clear line of sight for my scope. Something would be down there… maybe a weasel.

  (beat)

  I’ve got a lot of brothers, sisters, moms and dads to answer to in the next life. I did my job—saved and protected many more people than I shot—but some people will only ever see a killer.

  Gerry’s shoulders slump, defeated.

  MINNIE

  How can you make the diorama better?

  GERRY

  We’re not really talking about dioramas anymore, are we?

  “Were we ever?” I reply.

  GERRY

  Yeah, okay then, sure. I see where you’re going. You know how in those dioramas you can see the glue coming unstuck sometimes? Or where some kid threw an apple core into the mouth of a T.rex in an exhibit? I’m gonna ignore that stuff. I make my own diorama better up here.

  Gerry taps his head.

  GERRY (CONT’D)

  When I see something new, learn something I never knew before, that’s a good day. I don’t think I can fix the diorama—not the one others see. Just mine. There’s a reason why I chose the mongoose as my animal. They’re immune to snake venom. Eat cobras for breakfast. Gerry’s jaw flexes, much as it did on a mission, just before he relaxed to take the shot.

  GERRY (CONT’D)

  I will refuse to see hate. Ever see a pipevine swallowtail caterpillar? Ugliest damn things. But such beautiful butterflies.

  (beat)

  I will look for the beautiful in every ugly thing.

  Gerry’s eyes shine with determination. Minnie grins.

  FADE OUT.

  I think Minnie’s eyes are in the right place.

  After I finish filming, Gerry looks at me. “You going to show me what you’re doing with all that?”

  “At the end,” I say. “When this is over.”

  FOUR

  The phone rings. And rings. I’m holding my mom’s bra. No one else has done the laundry for weeks. Having washed the clothes on delicate, I’m now hanging them to dry on a line that spans the basement ceiling. My dad used to do the laundry. I started doing my own when I ran out of clean clothes to wear. Then I began washing my parents’ after theirs began to reek. Already the line sags with my dad’s underwear. I pick up a green sock—my sister’s—from the basket. It must have been lef
t in the dryer from an old load. I move to toss it into the garbage, stop myself, ball it up and throw it behind the dryer. I pick up another mom-bra. The phone keeps ringing. I drop the bra back into the laundry basket, wipe my hands on my shirt and run up the stairs to grab the kitchen handset.

  It’s a woman named Martha from the National Transplant Organization.

  “We’re looking for Emmitt Highland.”

  “Here,” I say, breathing hard.

  “Hello, Mr. Highland. We received your letter but regret that we are unable to forward it on to the organ recipient. It contains too much personal information. It’s important that the recipient not have any way to contact you.”

  “I was hoping maybe the donor family could make contact if they wanted to.”

  “Sorry, no, the process is entirely anonymous.”

  I frown into the phone. “Even if we both agree that we want to talk?”

  “Under no circumstances will we connect you.”

  “Why?”

  “There are reasons for anonymity.”

  “None that make any sense.”

  Through the kitchen doorway I see my mom prop herself up on her elbows and scowl at me. I have finally found something that makes her listen.

  “Sorry,” I say into the phone, extra loud for my mom. “I guess I understand the whole medical privacy thing.” But I really don’t.

  “You’re welcome to send a new letter, but please keep the details generic.”

  I sigh. The whole reason I wasn’t satisfied with my heart sister’s letter was because it had been so generic. I’ll try again. Or I’ll try to find another way to contact her.

  I hang up. My mom slumps back on the couch. The TV is off, but she still stares at the blank screen.

  “Do you want a snack?” I ask her. “When is Dad getting back?”

  But she ignores me like the ringing phone. I flip the TV on, disturbed by the lack of distraction.