Things We Know by Heart

  DEDICATION

  For my sisters, whose hearts are brave and beautiful

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ad

  About the Author

  Books by Jessi Kirby

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  heart (n):

  a hollow muscular organ that pumps the blood through the circulatory system by rhythmic contraction and dilation;

  the center of the total personality, especially with reference to intuition, feeling, or emotion

  the central, innermost, or vital part of something

  —definition of the word heart

  I DON’T KNOW how I knew, when the sirens woke me just before dawn, that they were for him.

  I don’t remember jumping out of bed, or tying the laces of my shoes. I don’t remember my legs carrying me down the driveway, onto the winding stretch of road between our houses. I don’t remember the feel of my feet hitting the ground, or my lungs taking in air, or my body racing to catch up with what I already knew in my heart was true.

  But I remember every detail after that.

  I can see the blue and red lights, swirling garishly against the pale sunrise sky. Hear the clipped voices of the medics. The words head trauma repeated over the loud jumble of their radios in the background.

  I remember the deep, choking sobs of a woman I didn’t know and still don’t, even now. The odd angle of her white SUV, its hood hidden by the broken stalks and scattered blooms of the sunflowers that grew along the side of the road. The fence, splintered and broken.

  I remember glass like gravel, all over the asphalt.

  Blood. Too much.

  And his sneaker, lying on its side in the middle of it all. The heart I’d drawn in black Sharpie on the bottom.

  I can still feel the emptiness of his shoe when I picked it up, and the way the absence of weight brought me to my knees. I can feel the strong grip of the gloved hands that lifted me and then held me back when I tried to run to him.

  They wouldn’t let me. Didn’t want me to see him. And so what I remember most about that morning is standing on the side of the road, alone, darkness closing in around me as the day was unfolding. Morning sunlight on the vibrant gold petals, scattered where he lay dying.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Communicating with the transplant recipients may help donor families in their grief. . . . Overall, donor families and recipients, as well as their relatives and friends, may benefit from exchanging thoughts and emotions about their experiences with donation . . . the gift of life. . . . It may take months and even years before someone is ready to send and/or receive correspondence, or you may never hear from them.”

  —Life Alliance Donor Family Services Program

  FOUR HUNDRED DAYS.

  I repeat the number in my head. Let it take over the hollow feeling as I grip the steering wheel. I can’t let it go by like any other day without doing this. Four hundred deserves something, some sort of acknowledgment. Like 365, when I brought flowers to his mom but not to his grave because I knew he would’ve wanted her to have them. Or like his birthday, when it passed. That was four months, three weeks, and one day after. Day 142.

  I’d spent it alone, because I couldn’t handle seeing his parents that day, and because a tiny, secret part of me actually believed that if I was alone, then maybe somehow there was still a chance he could come back, turn eighteen, and pick up where we’d left off. Be a senior with me, apply to the same colleges, go to our last homecoming and prom, throw our caps into the sky at graduation and kiss in the sunshine before they hit the ground.

  When he hadn’t come back, I’d wrapped myself in the sweatshirt that still held the faintest hint of his smell, or maybe it was my imagination. I pulled it tight around me, and I made a wish. I wished, so hard, that I didn’t have to do any of those things without him. And my wish came true. Senior year became a fog. I didn’t mail my college applications. Didn’t go dress shopping. Forgot there was even a sky or sunlight to kiss under.

  The days passed, one after another, measured out in an unbroken, never-ending rhythm. Seemingly infinite, but gone in the blink of an eye—like waves crashing on the shore, or the seasons passing.

  Or the beating of a heart.

  Trent had an athlete’s heart: strong, steady, ten beats slower than mine. Before, we’d lie there chest to chest, and I’d slow my breathing to match his, try to trick my pulse into doing the same; but it never worked. Even after three years, my pulse sped up just being near him. But we found our own synchronicity together, his heart thumping out a slow, steady beat and mine filling in the spaces between.

  Four hundred days and too many heartbeats to count.

  Four hundred days and too many places and moments where Trent no longer exists. And still no answer from one of the only places he does.

  A horn blares from behind, yanking me from my thoughts and the nervous-sick feeling in my stomach. In the rearview mirror I can see the driver cursing as he swerves around me—angry hand raised in the air, lips spitting a question through his windshield: What the hell are you doing?

  I asked myself the same thing when I got in the car. I’m not sure of what I’m doing, only that I have to do it because I have to see him for myself. Because of the way it felt to see the others.

  Norah Walker was the first recipient to make contact with Trent’s family, though they didn’t learn her name until later. Recipients can reach out to the families of their donors at any time through the transplant coordinator and vice versa, but the letter still came as a surprise to us all. Trent’s mom called the day after she got it and asked me to come over; and we sat there in the bright living room together, in the house that held so many memories, beginning with the day I’d run past it for the fifth time, hoping he’d notice me.

  The sound of his footsteps trying to catch mine had slowed me down just enough to let them. His voice, unfamiliar to me then, worked to fit his words between breaths.

  “Hey!”

  Breath.

  “Wait!”

  Breath.

  We were fourteen. Strangers until that moment. Until those two words.

  As I sat in Trent’s house with his mom, on the couch where he and I used to watch movies and eat popcorn out of the same bowl, it was a stranger’s words, and the gratitude within them, that shook me out of the dark, lonely place I’d inhabited for so long. Her letter, written in a shaky hand on beautiful paper, lifted something in me that day. It was humble. Deeply sorry for Trent’s death. Profoundly
grateful for the life he’d given her.

  I’d gone home that night and written her back, my own thank-you for the moment of lightness she’d granted me with her words. And the night after, I wrote to another recipient, and another—five in all. Anonymous letters to anonymous people I wanted to know. And when I sent them to the transplant coordinator to forward on, it was with the tenuous hope that those people would write me back. That they would notice me like he did.

  I glance over my shoulder and he’s there, smiling, gripping a sunflower that’s taller than me, its stem trailing behind him, roots and all.

  “I’m Trent,” he says. “Just moved in back down the road a little ways. You must live close, right? I’ve seen you run by every morning this week. You’re fast.”

  I bite my bottom lip as we walk. Smile inside. Try not to confess that I’ve saved my speed for the stretch of road in front of his house every day since the moving truck pulled into the driveway and he stepped out.

  “I’m Quinn,” I say.

  Breath.

  Writing the letters made me feel like I could breathe again. I wrote about Trent and all the things he’d given me when he was alive. The feeling I could do anything. Happiness. Love. The letters were a way to honor him, and a hope for something more. An anonymous hand reaching out into the emptiness, looking for a connection. An answer.

  I laugh, because he’s still out of breath, and because he doesn’t seem to remember the giant sunflower dangling from his hand.

  “Oh,” he says, following my glance, “this was supposed to be for you. I . . .” He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “I, um, I got it over there, near that fence.”

  He holds it out to me and laughs. It’s a sound I want to keep hearing.

  “Thank you,” I answer. And I reach out to take it. The first thing he ever gave me.

  I got four answers from the people he gave to.

  After 282 days, multiple letters back and forth, consent forms, and premeeting counseling, his mom and I drove to the Donor Family Services office together and sat side by side as we waited for them to arrive. To meet them face-to-face.

  Just as Norah had been the first to reach out with words, she was the first to reach out her hand, and in spite of all the times I’d imagined meeting her, nothing could’ve prepared me for the way it made me feel to take that hand in mine, and to look in her eyes and know that there was a part of Trent there too. A part that had saved her life and given her a chance to be a mother to the curly-haired little girl who peeked out from behind her legs and a wife to the man who stood crying beside her.

  When she took a deep breath with Trent’s lungs and brought my hand to her chest so I could feel them fill and expand, my heart filled right along with them.

  It was the same with the others I met—Luke Palmer, seven years older than me, who played us a song on his guitar, and who could do that now because Trent had given him a kidney. There was John Williamson, a quiet but warm man in his fifties, who wrote beautifully poetic letters about how his life had changed since receiving his liver transplant but who fumbled to find the right words to speak to us in that little reception room. And then there was Ingrid Stone, a woman with pale-blue eyes so different from Trent’s brown ones but who could see the world again, and paint it in vibrant colors on her canvases, because of them.

  They say time heals all wounds, but meeting those people that afternoon—a makeshift family of strangers brought together by one person—healed more in me than all the time that passed in the days that had come before.

  It’s why, when day after day went by with no reply from the last recipient, I started looking for him. It’s the reason I searched—matched up dates with news stories and hospitals—until I found him so easily, I almost didn’t trust it. It’s also why, around anyone else, I’ve pretended like I understand the reasons he hasn’t responded. That, like the woman at Donor Family Services told us, some people never do, and that’s their choice.

  I’ve acted like I don’t think about him every day and wonder about that choice. Like I’ve made peace with it. But alone, in those endless hours that stretch to eternity before the morning, I always come back to the truth: that I haven’t at all. And I don’t know if I can unless I do this.

  I don’t know what Trent would think if he knew. What he would say if he could somehow see. But it’s been four hundred days. I hope he would understand. For so long, I was the one with his heart. I just need to see where it is now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing: we know this in countless ways.”

  —Blaise Pascal

  THERE ISN’T A place to turn around on this road, even if I wanted to. Just a steep drop down a hillside of moss-covered oak trees that rise up out of the tall, summer-gold grass. The road goes on for miles like that, winding its way all the way to the coast, where he’s been all nineteen years of his life. Thirty-six miles away.

  When the trees finally give way to the wide blue expanse of ocean and sky at the edge of his town, my hands are shaking so badly, I have to pull into the scenic overlook on the shoulder of the highway. A thin swath of fog clings to the cliff’s edge, melting beneath the morning sunlight that spreads over the water beyond. I turn off the car but don’t get out. Instead I roll down the windows and breathe. Slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm my conscience.

  I’ve been here, to Shelter Cove, lots of times before. Driven past this spot and headed into the little beach town on countless spring and summer days, but today feels different. There’s none of the giddy anticipation that used to bubble between me and my sister, Ryan, in the backseat as we drove over with Mom and Dad, our trunk packed full of beach towels and boogie boards, cooler bursting with all the junk food we were never allowed to eat at home. There’s no thrill of freedom that came when Trent first got his license and we’d drive over in his truck for the day, feeling grown-up and romantic. Today there’s just a grim sort of determination, and the tense feeling that comes along with it.

  I look out over the water, and a startling thought occurs to me. I wonder if, any of those times I’ve been here, I ever saw Colton Thomas. If Trent and I ever walked past him on the street, eyes catching for half a second before moving on without another thought, the way strangers do. Completely unaware that one day there would be this link between us. Before everything. Before Trent’s accident, and writing letters, and meeting the others, and before I spent so many nights hoping to hear back from Colton Thomas and wondering why I never did.

  It’s a small town. Small enough that we could’ve seen each other at some point on one of my trips over. But then again, maybe not. He probably didn’t spend his summers the way the rest of us did. I’ve studied the careful time line his sister kept on her blog, which is what eventually led me to him. Though she didn’t start it until he was put on the transplant list, I know that he was fourteen when his heart began the excruciatingly slow process of failing him. He made the transplant list by the time he was seventeen. And he would’ve died had he not gotten the call in the eleventh hour of his eighteenth year. On the last day of Trent’s seventeenth.

  I push away the thought and the heavy feeling that comes along with it. Take another deep breath and remind myself how careful I need to be with this. I’ve broken too many rules already, written and unwritten, protocols meant to protect both the donor families and the recipients from knowing too much. Or expecting too much.

  But when I found Colton, and his whole story out there for anyone to see, I replaced those rules in my mind with a new set. Rules and promises that I’ve repeated over and over, that have gotten me this far today and that bolster me enough to pull back onto the road as I repeat them: I will respect Colton Thomas’s wish for no contact, though I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. I just want to see him. See who he is in reality. Maybe then I can understand. Or at least make peace with it.

  I won’t interfere with his life. I won’t talk to him, not even to hear
the sound of his voice. He won’t even know I exist.

  I park across the street from Good Clean Fun and shut off my car, but I don’t get out. Instead I take a moment to absorb the details of the shop, like maybe I’ll see something that can tell me more about Colton than all his sister’s posts have. It looks just like it did in the pictures I’ve seen: perfectly stacked paddleboards and kayaks fill the racks on either side of the door, bright splashes of yellow and red against the otherwise gray morning. Behind them I can see through the front window, where an assortment of wet suits and life jackets hangs in neat rows, ready for the day’s adventure-seeking customers. Nothing beyond what I was expecting. Even so, it’s strange to see it now, a shop I must’ve walked by more than once and never paid any attention to. Today it’s a place I feel like I know, with a history made up of so much more than the equipment on the racks.

  The shop’s not open yet, and the street is mostly empty; but up ahead, where the pier juts out into the choppy gray ocean, the locals are out, beginning their days. Surfers dot the water on either side of the mussel-covered supports. A fisherman baits his line before he casts over the railing. Two older ladies in tracksuits walk at a brisk pace along the water, chatting and pumping their arms enthusiastically as they go. And in the parking lot next to the pier, three guys in board shorts and flip-flops lean against the railing, watching the waves as steam curls lazily from the coffee cups in their hands.

  I decide coffee might be a good idea. If nothing else, I could use a cup to hold in my own hands. Maybe that would be enough to steady them. And finding some would give me something to do besides sit across the street from the shop waiting, and becoming less and less sure of myself by the second.

  A few doors down on my side of the street is a sign that looks promising: THE SECRET SPOT. I give the closed rental shop one more quick glance, then get out of the car and head down the sidewalk, trying to look comfortable and relaxed, like I belong here.

  The air is thick with morning fog and the salt smell of the water, and though the day will heat up, it’s still cool enough that goose bumps rise on my arms as I walk. When I push through the door of the café, the smell of coffee wraps around me, along with the mellow notes of acoustic guitar that come from the small speaker over the door. My shoulders relax the tiniest bit. I almost feel like if I wanted to, I could just get a coffee, maybe take a walk on the beach, and leave without crossing any more lines. But I know it’s not true. There’s too much wrapped up in this, and in him, for me to be able to do that.