Whistle-Stop

When "thank you" will never be enough. Writer's Cramp Entry 953 words

Dear Mom and Dad –

Wait! Don’t. I know you want to tear this up; throw it away. Not before you read this all the way through. What you do with it after that—that’s up to you. But please. Just…please.

You’ll think me presumptuous, a sadist, to start this letter as I do. But no. It’s just that I know you now. As if you were my own parents.

I don’t know your child’s name. The child whose heart beats in my chest, the thump, thump. thump reassuring me when I wake from a terrifying nightmare. Like, every-night nightmare. The one where the doctors tell me that my heart is failing right along with my kidneys. That the dialysis machine that whirs incessantly at my bedside is no longer filtering my blood adequately. That it doesn’t matter because my heart is betraying me, too. All the blood filtering in the world isn’t enough to help my heart pump blood, dirty or not.

Oh wait. That wasn’t a nightmare. That was my life. Or the end of it. Damn near.

Mom. Dad. I call her Celine. The child of yours who lives on in me.

They didn’t tell me her name. Not anything about you. Where you came from. How you lost your child that day and instead got me. No. I got her. You. I got you.

When I woke up? After the surgery. Surgeries. I’ve forgotten what they told me. How long I was under while the surgeons waited for the helicopter carrying my chance at life. From across the state. Across the river. Across to that distant town, the kind that exists only to serve as a railroad stop. A whistle-stop, they used to call them.

She didn’t hear the train whistle that day. Her. Me, now. Too stuck in her own head, foolishly playing along the tracks. It’s what whistle-stop town kids do. Not much else, unless you wanted to be helping your folks on a Saturday morning. Chores. Vacuuming, most likely, is what she was getting away from. Or dusting. Who wants to do chores when you could be outside? Much more fun to play dumb games near the tracks. Stupid games that mean nothing when there’s no train near. But daring and even more stupid when there was. Deadly.

She was waiting for her friends to join her. I know. I can’t know that. Sunshine-y Saturday morning. Bored. Skipping out the back door before you could nag her into helping you, Mom. It wasn’t the first time. But it was the last.

How do I know? It’s what I dream, sometimes. Instead of the usual I’m-dying-for-real nightmares. It’s a nightmare of its own, believe you me, but it starts out so nice. Bucolic. Ha. That’s a word straight out of an old-fashioned girl's book. Little House on the Prairie, maybe. Anne of Green Gables. All things a city kid like me would know nothing about. Except I do. I wake up shouting BUCOLIC at times. Causes quite the ruckus even if it’s just me that gets stirred up.

I like her other dreams, though. She has good dreams, this girl of yours. Dreaming of prom coming up. The pink sequined dress she had her eye on and was going to get with a little sweet talk and the offer to pitch in her chore money she saved up. And Johnny was going to ask her to go. She just knew he was, even if he did act like a big goofball at school in front of her. She thought that was cute.

How she practiced kissing her pillow at night, so when Johnny wanted to kiss her after the dance she would know how. Maybe more. Oops. You don’t want to know about that. Or maybe you do. Maybe the only way you’ll know is if you ask me to dream for her one more time.

I imagine that, too. We both do. In our dreams. Of you getting this letter and holding each other, Mom quietly sobbing into Dad’s shoulder. You’re sad. Sadder than sad. You lost your baby girl, but she’s not gone. She’s right here. In me. I could send you a recording of our heart beating. Proof that she’s not gone.

We could come to your house. I can run now, just fine, on one kidney. I could even rent a car. Or borrow one if I need to. Luke said he’d drive me, but I want to drive myself because I don’t want anyone around but the three of us. Three and a half, almost, if you count what she gave me. What you gave me.

This is a crazy letter. You think I’m crazy. But I know what your house looks like. The dreams, remember? I could find your house no problem because it would be like coming home.

But don’t worry. I won’t show up unannounced. Because that WOULD be crazy and I’m not. Not really. Just crazy grateful, maybe. Crazy enough to want to meet you. I’d say something stupid though, and you’d freak out. Like how I liked when mom brushed my hair when I was a little girl. Like how dad would always kiss me on the forehead last thing before going into your bedroom and closing the door. How he left my door open because I would get scared if it wasn’t. If it was closed. I mean she. She’d get scared.

So that’s that. I just wanted to say thanks. A million letters of thanks won’t cover it, so I’ll stick with this one.

My name’s on the envelope. My address, too. If you write back and give me your phone number, I’ll call.

I promise.

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953 words

Prompt: A year after a heart and kidney transplant (from the same person), you are invited to write a letter to the family of your donor. For your entry today, using the format of a letter, write to this family.