The Donor

                                                  THE DONOR

         Michael Bartholomew jumped when the door bell shattered the peace and quiet of his solitude.  The soft notes of The Blue Danube were replaced by the discordant clanging of the doorbell he had fully planned to replace, but had never gotten around to it.  It was something he was definitely going to get to at his earliest opportunity.

         The irritating jangle ripped through the air again, demanding his attention.  His hand was actually shaking as he put down his worn and dog-eared book, How to Make Your Second Million, and reached for the volume button on the remote control of his custom-built sound system.  Nerves frayed, he attempted to quiet his now cavitating heart by meticulously smoothing the wrinkles out of the lap of his silk lounging jacket.  He straightened his cravat, stroked his neatly trimmed beard, and tugged at the ends of his mustache.

         “Who in the hell could be at my door at this time of night?”  He cursed softly, but clearly enough for the intruder to hear him –- he hoped, at least.  He walked impatiently across the ostentatious Oriental rug and polished wood flooring to the solid, ornately carved oak front door.

          “Yes,” Michael growled as he yanked the heavy door open, nearly pulling his shoulder out of the socket.  He cleared his throat, however, when he laid eyes on two men in dark blue police uniforms standing on the veranda.  One man was tall and thin.  Blond hair peeked out from under his hat.  He wore a pathetic hangdog look on his face.  Not the type to be a lawman.  More like a checker in a supermarket, he thought cynically. 

          The other man was shorter, stockier, and his expression was somber to the point of being downright funereal.  His black hair was in a severe buzz cut, conveying an all-business persona, more befitting a cop, Michael noted.  He wore sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves and was clearly the one in charge. 

          Michael motioned for them to enter, feeling pride that they were looking over the elegantly appointed room with obvious admiration.  From the hand-finished oak paneling to the original paintings that graced the walls, the entire house was a reflection of his natural creative instinct.  Just about perfect, in Michael’s way of thinking, except for that damn doorbell, of course.
         
          “Hello,” the senior officer said in a mellow voice that still commanded his attention.  “I’m Sergeant Mankowicz, of the Shady Palms police department.  Are you Mr. Michael Bartholomew?”
         
          “I am,” Michael said in a more tempered, although somewhat condescending tone, “we’ve already given sufficiently to the Police Benevolent Fund, I can assure you.  If you would just check….”

         “No, no Mr. Bartholomew.  I we are here to inform you that there has been an automobile accident.”

         “An accident?”

         “Your wife and sister-in-law.”

         “Oh yes, they went out to a fund-raiser earlier.  My sister-in-law never was much of a driver.  Did she put her car in the ditch again?  But my wife belongs to AAA.  Why didn’t she just…?

         “This was a horrible accident, Mr. Bartholomew!”  He noticed the officers were beginning to look at him incredulously.  Perhaps it was time to display a new personality type.

          “The car?”  Michael was now presenting an entirely different persona.  “Are they all right?

          Michael abruptly shifted to an outward manifestation of disbelief.  His eyes were wide as he feigned (quite believably, he thought) the more appropriate emotions of shock and even concern.
         
          “I’m afraid not, sir.  They were both badly banged up.    Your sister-in-law, I’m sorry to say, died shortly after reaching the hospital from massive trauma.  A real basket case.  Your wife is in critical condition with a serious head injury and, according to the last report, is barely hanging on.  We must tell you to go to Saint Mark’s Hospital right away.  To the emergency room.  You need to contact a,” he glanced at his notebook, flipping to the correct page, “Doctor Feldsmith….”

          “Oh my God, of course.  Right away,” is what he said with a somber countenance that he felt fit the circumstances nicely.  But, in his heart, he felt an anticipatory tingling.  Michael had heard of this doctor Feldsmith.  He was a transplant surgeon.  He thought, “Is it possible?  It was hard to mask the depth of his feelings, but ever the consummate actor, he somehow managed.
                                                 *          *          *
          On the way to the hospital, Michael’s thoughts were in overdrive.  The possible ramifications of this situation were incalculable.          
         
         He had spent so many years trying to figure out ways to separate himself from Joan without doing the same with her personal fortune.  He thought about all the work he had done trying to keep her entertained.  He laughed at her sometimes appalling jokes, pretending to enjoy the company of her stuffy family.  He even put up with her sometimes nauseating altruistic behavior.  And, through it all, he was able to keep up a façade so she really believed he loved her. 
         
         Even so, he had to admit that Joan was an exceptional woman.  As their time together turned into years, Michael actually became rather attached to her, maybe not to the point of undying devotion or anything like that, but in a comfortable, mutually reliant, if somewhat masochistic, way.  He had married her for no other reason than to steal her blind.  In return, though she gave him love and genuinely cared about him. 

         From the beginning, it was obvious that Joan needed him, but she also trusted him and, at first, that was a little unnerving.  Even though she was rich, she didn't act the part of the overbearing guardian of the purse strings.  She treated him like he was special, making him feel like no one else ever had, like a partner in a valued relationship. 

         He never got that.  It was ironic to the point of being comical.
                                                 *          *          *          
          By the time Michael walked into the hospital emergency room he had managed to contain himself and had wiped the last vestiges of his smile from his face.

         A tall man in an immaculate, long white coat walked into the waiting room through the wide double doors marked “Surgery -- Staff Only.”  Michael observed that coat went well with his neatly cut mane of white hair.  The doctor did, however, sport a five-o’clock shadow, also white, something that was noticeably missing from the picture on his ID badge, Michael saw as the doctor drew near. 

         As Michael suspected, the badge said he was attached to the organ transplant team.  The doctor wore a grave expression on his face.

         “You are Mr. Bartholomew, I presume” he said, his eyes looking Michael over carefully as though he were sizing him up.

         “I am,” Michael replied, a hint of a question mark in his voice.   

         “I'm Dr. Feldsmith, the Chief of Transplant Surgery here.  I'm sorry.  I have some terrible news for you.”  He gestured toward the long hallway with office doors on either side. 

         Opening one of the doors, the doctor motioned for Michael to enter a small cubbyhole of an office.  Indicating one of the chairs in front of a desk that was reminiscent of a small landfill laden barge, he said, “Please, sit down.”

         Michael looked around the room with amazement.  Books were stuffed onto shelves haphazardly.  A lamp on the corner of the desk teetered precariously on a mound of loose papers.  Stacked along the wall were hundreds of journals, pamphlets and even more books.  The place looked as though it might have been struck by a tornado recently.

         Michael stifled a sneer.  I hope he is a better surgeon than he is a housekeeper, he thought.  I can’t even imagine what might be carelessly left inside a poor patient if his operating room is anything like his office. 

         The two men took chairs on opposite sides of the desk.  Dr. Feldsmith hesitated for a moment, apparently searching for the right words.  “I'm afraid your wife sustained severe head injuries in her accident.  I just came from a discussion of her case with the other staff physicians here at the hospital, including my backup transplant surgeon and our Neurologist, who is one of the most notable nervous system specialists in the country, with the exception of my good friend Dr. Elmont Wilson, of course.”  Even Michael recognized the name of the prominent award-winning specialist. 

         An interesting sidelight, Michael remembered, Dr. Wilson was awaiting a heart transplant as they spoke.  And at this very hospital.  This peaked his interest. 

         “The consensus is that her prognosis is not good,” Dr. Feldsmith continued, “not good at all.”

         “Is she going to die?”

         Again, after a slight pause, the Doctor spoke.  “Yes.  I regret to say it seems quite unlikely that she will even survive through the night.  Without life support, she would be gone already.  That's one reason I wanted to talk to you right away.”

           The doctor’s eyes nervously darted around the room.  Then, gazing into Michael's eyes, he continued, “I can assure you that even out of the darkest tragedy can come some good.  Your wife was in excellent health before the accident.  What I'm leading up to, Mr. Bartholomew, is that she would be an excellent candidate as an organ donor.  Have you ever discussed such a possibility with her?”

         Michael reflected for a moment. “Well, she had talked about what an unselfish an act being a donor was.  She was that kind of woman.  You know, giving to a fault.”  He believed he had actually interjected a note of regret into his voice.

         “That’s very encouraging.  Sadly, few people have considered giving the ultimate gift of life to others in the event of their premature death; the possibility of dying seems so remote when they are young and healthy.  But, unfortunately, people do die young and it is a terrible waste to bury viable organs when they could be put to such good use.”

         It was apparent to Michael what the Doctor was driving at.  He thought of Dr. Wilson again; Joan must be a match for a transplant.  “What are you saying?  You want to pull the plug on her?”  Michael was tingling with anticipation.

         “Now, now, Mr. Bartholomew, please.  Let's keep this in the proper perspective.  Your wife has entered an irreversible coma and, according to our instrumentation, her brain wave activity has ceased entirely.  For all practical purposes, she is dead.”  The doctor paused, allowing Michael to grasp the severity of the situation.  “Continuing to keep her body functioning by artificial means indefinitely is cruel and dehumanizing to her, as the patient, and can cause permanent damage to the psychological well-being of the entire family, as well.”

           Dr. Feldsmith placed his hand on Michael's shoulder.  “Can you make this decision for your wife?  Will you turn this tragedy into a ray of hope for someone who is in desperate need of lifesaving organ?  Under the circumstances, I'm sure she would agree that it is the right thing to do.”

         Michael held the consent forms, in effect his emancipation papers, in his trembling hands as Dr. Feldsmith looked over his shoulder in encouragement.

         “Mr. Bartholomew, please,” the Doctor was saying in his ear.  “By signing these papers, you can place your mind at ease.  You can turn this great sorrow into something worthwhile.”

         Michael placed his pen on the line indicated for the consent signature of the next of kin and signed with a flourish.
                                                 *          *          *
         The alien sounds of life support filled the sterile, dimly-lit room; the wheezing push and pull of artificial respiration blending with the rhythmic staccato beep that announced each heartbeat, the faint high-pitched hum of electronic instruments joining in a whispered harmony.  Michael absentmindedly fingered the rubber bulb of the sphygmomanometer, the blood pressure instrument, completely lost in thought.

         Free!  What an interesting turn of events.  At times he had envisioned himself a caged animal, pacing at the bars relentlessly, examining his prison for any point of weakness so he could make good his escape.  Now, he was free and, ironically, he had nothing to do with it at all.  After all his nefarious planning, fate had intervened.  This had come about so suddenly, so unexpectedly, he wasn't quite sure how to react. 

         Now he could lay his poor, unfortunate wife to rest, simply wait for her will to be read, and pocket his long sought after inheritance without further ado.  God had surely been smiling down on him for everything to work out so neatly, without any nasty loose ends.  He was even being encouraged to hurry things along as much as possible.

         He looked down at what had been just hours before a youthful, vibrant and living human being.  A pity.  He was actually finding himself feeling sorry for her, the ultimate do-gooder.  He shook his head.  Enough of this sentimental claptrap….

          Notwithstanding Joan’s gently persuasive influence, he was a shark in the shadowy world of survival of the fittest.  He was not about to let a little sentimentality derail him at this providential juncture in his life.
         
         His reverie was broken up by what seemed like a sigh from the comatose Joan.  She looked so at peace, even as banged up as she was, head bandaged, tubes protruding from her mouth.  He felt an overwhelming urge to touch her broken face, tender thoughts so unlike him.  He felt his hand reach out, tentatively, probingly.  His touch was met with an extraordinary jolt, like an electric shock.

         An odd sensation overtook him.  Words creeped uninvited into his head like unconscious thoughts.  A foreignness was attached to these thoughts, Michael realized, but there was also a definite familiarity.  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

         Michael, my love, please help me.

         He glanced quickly around the room, looking for some sign of a hidden intruder.  He saw no one except for Joan.  His ears strained to hear the slightest sound, but he could hear nothing but hospital sounds.  A puzzled look crossed his face.

         Michael, please.  I'm not really dead.  Again, words as tangible as the rubber bulb in his hand, and yet….  Michael, listen to me.  I know what they are planning to do.  Please, please, don't let them kill me!

         The voice penetrated him like a dagger.  It wasn't made of sound vibrations; it was internal, something inexplicable.  It was like a worm boring directly into the deepest reaches of his brain.  His eyes widened as he stared at Joan lying before him.
                                                 *          *          *
         “This is crazy,” he said loudly to himself.  “I'm imagining this.  Hallucinating.”

         I can't explain it either, but I do know I am somehow getting through to you.  We can communicate.  It's me, honey, your Joan.

         Michael's face took on the appearance of genuine astonishment, his mouth opening wide.  He tried to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth.

         You have to tell them I'm not dying.  No matter how you feel about me -- and by the way, I can tell you that I'm shocked by your attitude -- you must save me from this horrible situation.

         “Joan, dear, this is crazy.  You’re dead.  Dr. Feldsmith couldn’t, wouldn’t make such a mistake.  He has told me you are gone.”  A sudden realization too bizarre to imagine crept into his befuddled mind.  Would he?  Is it possible Dr. Feldsmith was lying about Joan being dead?

         What about Dr. Wilson?  Was Joan his tissue match?  Was that a possibility?

         You can’t leave me like this.  I am helpless.  Please, after all these years, you must think enough of me to save me from this appalling situation.

         Michael shook his head.  This isn’t real.  I must be asleep.  A nightmare!  That’s it.  Either that or I’m losing my mind.  “Joan, you are not alive!  You can’t be.  And even if you were, how in the world could you be communicating with me?  By telepathy?  Give me a break.”

         Real fear was rapidly replacing astonishment.  He felt strangely energized, and not in a good way.  He realized this was an impossible situation, but he could not shake the feeling of terror he felt.  My God, if Joan were alive, all his hopes would be dashed.  Not only that, but she would now know his true feelings about her.  She would divorce him, leave him high and dry.

         Michael, I love you.  No matter what you think, I will always love you.  Please believe me.  I will not leave you.  Just save me.  Stop Dr. Feldsmith.  He knows I am still alive.  He doesn’t care.  This transplant thing, he needs a heart so save someone else.  I don’t matter.  Can’t you see that?

         Michael was beginning to believe, despite his reservations.  As far-fetched as it might seem, he somehow knew Joan was alive.  This realization hit him so hard, he felt physically sick.

         Joan’s protests aside, he found it hard to believe she wouldn’t drop him as soon as she had the chance, once she was well.  It didn’t compute that she would overlook, much less forgive him, for his being happy at her imminent demise.

         He couldn’t let that happen.  After all, the doctor has assured him that Joan was beyond help.  That what they proposed to do was ultimately the most humanitarian thing to do.  And, it was all legal!  All he had to do was -- nothing.

         He was not going to let this opportunity pass.  Once it had presented itself, it became his only acceptable course of action.  He would certainly not have had the nerve to kill Joan, but he could let her die under the given circumstances.  Yes, it was fate.  This crazy notion that Joan was contacting him from her comatose state was simply some manifestation of his guilty conscience.  He had never had a guilty conscience before.

         Michael!  I won’t let you go.  My love for you transcends all.  You must not leave me like this.  I won’t let you! 

         But, could she stop him?  She was helpless, for God’s sake.  Besides, in a few minutes, it would all be over.  If she were indeed alive now, she wouldn’t be as soon as she was relieved of her beating heart.  The consciousness she was enjoying right now, would cease immediately, and Michael would be, once again, back on track.  Wealth.  Position.  Freedom!  All that would be his simply by turning his back on this apparition.

         He had made up his mind.  He shut his mind to the unwanted conversation.  Closed the door on his role as a possible savior.  Slammed the door, really.

          He smiled to himself.  The means, in this case, justifies the end.

         The air grew colder.  An eerie sensation began to overtake Michael's tactile senses.  He consciously wrinkled his brow in wonder.  But the air did feel frigid.  He noticed a slight shiver travel down his spine -- gooseflesh raised on his arms.

         Beside Joan's bed, just a few feet from her body, a faintly opaque cloud began to form.  First translucent, the becoming more tangible, a dark form -- slightly human in shape -- began to coalesce.  The form didn't look like anybody, but Michael determined there was definitely something familiar about it.  Mannerisms?  Peculiar Characteristics?

         Michael was reminded of an endearing habit Joan had always exhibited.  When she talked, really talked seriously, trying to communicate, she would gesture grandiosely with her hands as if to emphasize the importance of what she was trying to get across.  Hands cupped upwardly, holding concepts like puddles of water, she would deliver ideas carefully, lovingly to the listener.  Beseeching her listener to pay attention.

         The specter looked into Michael's direction and imploringly inverted its hands, cup-like.

         Michael's eyes grew wide -- his face lit up as realization flashed across it, his mouth forming an enormous "O."  The blood rushed to his chest like a tidal wave, leaving behind the bleached, drawn flesh of his face looking like a skeletal mask.

         "My God, Joan!"

         My dear.  I told you.  You can't leave me like this.  If you turn your back on me, I’ll…

         The dark figure peered into Michael's eyes.  He could feel the incredible intensity of Joan's mind encroaching on his, ever advancing, taking center stage.  His will was weak.  He had always figured she was the follower -- he was the leader.  He was her mental superior.

         He had always been wrong!

         Her will was overwhelming his.  He couldn't do anything -- he was powerless to stop her.  Absolutely powerless.

         The heart monitor's steady beep-beep seemed to be echoing off the hard, spare walls, not being muffled even slightly by curtains and drapes.

         Beep-beep.  It finally hit him.

         Joan was trapped like some space traveler between destinations.  And he was the contact -- her contact.  He was her bridge between the other side and the world of the here and now.

         And he was determined not to let her back in.

         He felt her love for him.  A mindboggling feeling he could never comprehend.  He felt this love turn into confusion and then determination all its own.

         Joan must have realized at last that Michael was not going to save her. 

         From out of the in-between world that separates the living from the dead came a phantom hand.  Joan caressed her recalcitrant lover with a gentle touch.  He saw her reach out to him, cold fingers invading his body.  Michael shivered violently at the touch of death.  He realized Joan was reaching out to him and fear buckled his knees.

         He felt an icy chill as she grasped his heart in her hand.  When she caressed his heart, Michel froze in fear and pain.  His heart, repulsed by the touch, began ventricular fibrillation, spasms born of sheer terror.

         Baby, I’m so disappointed in you.  I was counting on you!  That you would let me die like this….

         Michael tried to answer but the words would not form in his throat.  He felt like he was suffocating from the agony of the iron grip around his heart.  Michael felt consciousness start to slip away as he saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
                                                 *          *          *
          Dr. Feldsmith was finalizing the documents for the transplant to go ahead on schedule.  He had already called in the transplant team.  The recipient, a certain Dr. Elmont Wilson, old friend, colleague and mentor, was being prepped at that moment.

         As he stared at the authorization just signed by Michael, he couldn’t help but be pleased.  He had thought he might encounter trouble getting the signature.

         Even though the doctor had not been entirely honest with Michael, the part about Joan being irreversibly brain-dead, he was confident that he was only jumping the gun slightly.  She was terminal if all things were left to nature.  It would require extraordinary measures to bring her back from the dead, so to speak.

         He was not unsympathetic toward Joan Bartholomew.  It was just that he had to make a tough choice.  The fact that he might possess the skills to cheat death in this instance were purely speculative.  On the other hand, he knew he had the ability to repair Dr. Wilson, to return him to fullness again.

         Dr. Wilson had a right to live and it certainly wasn’t his fault that he was a rare tissue type that made him incompatible with every donor heretofore available.  A heart transplant would restore him to full health to continue his mission of scientific discovery, saving countless lives in the process. 

         No, Joan was the correct tissue type.  A one-in-a-hundred chance to save the good doctor with any chance at all for his long-term survival. 

         If Joan were somehow to be saved, she would surely suffer from irreversible brain damage.  Although likely to be more than a vegetable, she would have no real quality of life, not when compared to what she had enjoyed before the accident.  It was a judgment call that no doctor ever wanted to have to make.

         The only difference in this case was that Dr. Feldsmith was not giving her family a choice in the matter.  He was making the decision for them. 

          He was pulling the plug, the Hippocratic oath be damned.  He was playing God and he knew it, but he had made up his mind; there was no stopping him now.  Joan Bartholomew’s viability was rapidly approaching zero, anyway.  Without intervention, the situation was taking care of itself handily.

          Dr. Feldsmith did not notice the cloud forming inside the closed door of his office.  He was oblivious, at first, to the foreign presence materializing just a few feet behind him; he was so engrossed in the task at hand.
         
          There were two intertwined images coalescing in that cloud, two completely different beings, although they had merged into one.  The yin and the yang.
         
         The combined appendages of the apparition reached out to the doctor, softly caressing his brain.  Pure terror, as he became cognizant of the intrusion, flooded over his face.  The Doctor tried to fight, for he was a strong and vital man.  But he was not to survive the moment.  His previously healthy brain, it seemed, suffered an irreversible stroke.

          Dr. Feldsmith fell forward into a stack of papers, scattering pages all over the already messy office.  His face was a distorted mask of uncertainty and fear.

          The rest of the code team arrived. 

          Even though there would still be a transplant tonight, there would be a different donor.  For Joan and Michael knew something that nobody in the world could possibly know, at least not yet.  Dr. Feldsmith was himself a tissue match for Dr. Wilson.