Michael F. Stewart - Heart Sister

Six weeks following my sisters death, I find her hearts location.

Theres an envelope on my mothers dresser from the National Transplant Organization. Inside is a letter written in flowing script and pink ink.

When did this come? I ask my mom, wandering back through the kitchen with the letter and the reading glasses Id gone searching for. I hesitate. Is she ready for this? Shes been on bereavement leave since the accident, but I dont think her lying around all day is normal. Tissues litter a coffee table cluttered with cups of unfinished tea. Blinds let slip a thin ladder of light across the far wall. Plants droop at the windowsill.

I turn the lights on, awakening the room.

My mom waves me off from where shes stretched out on the couch, staring at a daytime game show and patting our dog, Sirius, with slow strokes, his marble eyes unblinking. Im expecting more from her, but I dont know why.

This is a letter from the person who received Minnies heart!

For one thousand dollarswhat pyramid retains a limestone cap? the television host interjects.

Have you even read it? I ask.

She winces, drawing her knees to her chest and curling into a fetal position. Quick, sharp breaths whistle out from her and then the spasm ends. She unfolds. I shut the lights back off.

My sister would have known what to say. She finished half of my sentences. Shed have known what to do. I find myself looking around for her, even though I know shes gone.

My mom nods but ignores the letter, just as she ignores the glasses she asked me to find that I set on the sofa arm.

I gotta get her off the couch.

Mom, you cant just I jerk a thumb at the television. She clutches the remote to her chest.

The post date on the envelope says the letter was sent two weeks ago. It occurs to me that there might be more. I jog to the front door and open it to a cool-for-August day. Across the street a neighbor nods uncertainly at me as he sweeps his porch. The tightly packed, identical townhouses seem to lean away from ours. They are all somehow more colorful than ours with its bruised siding.

A dead squirrel lies twisted in the middle of the street, and I think Ive got to tell Minnie about it. But then I remember. Again.

The mailbox is stuffed with several envelopes and a couple of community newspapers. I gather it all up and head back into the house. I dump the pile on the dark burl of the dining room table and sort through it. I spot another envelope with the same transplant-organization logo.

Now, guessing what could be inside, I wonder if I should open it. Who wrote it? Who else has my twin sister inside them? What if I hate them? It feels a little like Im picking at the scabs of Minnies death. But wouldnt knowing more about the people Minnie has saved help my mom find a way to feel that her daughter lives on? I need to be strong for her. Maybe I can decide if its something she should see.

I slip a fingernail along the edge and carefully pry open the seal.

Hi!

Thanks for the corneas. The transplanters wont let me say anything personal. Nothing that will allow you to draw any connections to me. I am a man who couldnt see. And now I can. Thanks. It means a bunch.

See you. Off to catch butterflies.

A small child has scrawled a butterfly and a crayon-lettered note in the corner.

Grandpa helps me ride my bike.

The note is signed with an eyeball beside the butterfly.

I look at the envelope again. The return address is the transplant organizations. Someone there functions as a go-between. But I grin at the note, because they missed something.

To me, this writer is asking to be found. He highlighted the rules and then gave me a personal clue. Id give anything to have another minute with my sister. Even just a small part of her.

Mom, check this out, I say, waggling the note. Its from the guy who received Minnies eyes. I stand in the doorway to the living room and wait for her response. The game-show host drones on. The refrigerator compressor rattles to life. It sounds an awful lot like a hospital room.

If my mother hears me, she gives no sign. Like she has every day since Minnies death, she just lies there, cradling the remote control and patting Sirius. Patches of his fur have been loved away.

Shes worse in the mornings. By the afternoon she usually gets up to brush her teeth, at least. But Ive noticed shes been getting off the couch later and later. And she seems very confused at times. Once I caught her just standing in the bathroom, holding a vase, clearly not sure how she or the vase got there.

Maybe she just needs proper nutrition. Mom, do you want something to eat?

Nothing. I swallow my irritation.

Sometimes Ill make her toast and eggs, or even a complete meal like spaghetti. And theres all the freezer food. Thats one good thing about a funeral. But it can be a bit like Russian roulette. You never really know what youll find in there, especially when your dad is the vegetarian butcher. People line up at his store, Slaughterhouse-Chive, every morning to buy vegetables that look exactly like meat, and so I guess a lot of people think everything they make for us has to be vegetarian.

I send my dad a text. I know hes working on a big order for a weddingincluding one hundred vegan lamb-like chops. The hundreds of brief text bubbles on my screen are the only real evidence of our current relationship. Minnies corneas went to a guy who loves butterflies, I text. He wrote us.

A minute later I get a reply. I miss your sisters eyes.

They were green.

He doesnt use her name. Ever.