The Heart Wants What It Wants

The Heart Wants What It Wants

‘So, how long did you work with Ben for?’

I try to avoid eye-contact as the man questions me. His obnoxiously sweet cologne pervades my nostrils. I step back slightly.

‘A few years or so,’ I reply. I look to the left of his face, scanning the crowd. I can’t see her anywhere. The man smiles at me, sadly.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

I knew that sneaking into a funeral wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t expect to feel this level of discomfort. When I saw the date and time in the local newspaper, it seemed achievable. And it was. One tearful smile at the chapel entrance and I was in. But now, I shift uncomfortably in my black dress and continue to avert this man’s gaze. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I can at least blame my excessive perspiration on the humid Townsville air. I tug at my neck scarf, wishing I could take it off. I can’t. Instead, I move it slightly to the left. The man asks me something about Ben, but I don’t register it. I begin to fan my face with my hymn booklet. Men and women mill about outside the chapel, suits and dresses hiding their sad, sagging shoulders. I loiter at the edge of the crowd, anxiously waiting for people to begin moving inside. The man finally wanders off, and I check again that the scar on my chest is covered. Good.

I’ve had Marfan syndrome since I was born. It makes my connective tissues elongated, so my heart valves have difficulty pumping blood. That’s why I got a heart transplant. 5 weeks ago. I never imagined that I’d have a 28-year-old man’s heart inside my chest. I never imagined I’d drive to Townsville to sneak into his funeral, but here I am.

I know it’s dishonest of me to be here, but… sneaking in was really my only option. I didn’t want to ask to attend. I didn’t want to cause Lydia Murphy, my donor’s wife, any more grief. Her husband is dead, and I stole his heart. The one he probably said will always belong to her.

Ben died, and I used his… his remains to sustain myself. I am the last person Lydia would want to see. She’d probably be wondering how this heart saved my life, when it couldn’t save his.

But…

I have to say goodbye to the person who saved my life, even though I didn’t know him. Even though I’m almost certain he didn’t want to. I swipe angrily at my wet eyes. I have to say thank you, even though I have no right to be here. No right to cry.

My body is an unfamiliar land for Ben’s heart. A foreign battlefield. A lonely place to slowly die. I can’t help but wonder, how many more are there? How many other battlefields did Ben send his other organs to? Will they be here, all stitched up and broken, like me? Traumatised from the war raging within, the war between organ and immune system? Scarred from memories of hospital wards and blood?

Ben sacrificed himself so we can live. I imagine him, his soul, scattered and unhappy. We, the organ recipients, are the soils of many different lands; Ben’s ashes have been spread too far and too wide. He may never get to rest in peace… but, after I’ve said goodbye, I hope I’ll be able to.

I don’t know what any of Ben’s family members look like, which makes them hard to avoid. There was, however, a blurry picture of Lydia Murphy in the newspaper, so I can at least avoid her. So far, though, I haven’t spotted her.

It’s 8:58am now, so the funeral should be starting in two minutes. I feel my shoulders relax a little bit.

Almost there.

I turn to walk into the chapel when I see her, and she looks at me. The striking softness of Lydia’s gunmetal grey eyes was not at all captured by the newspaper photograph. She approaches me, and I try to quell the rising panic in my chest.

Ben’s, no, my heart patters, beats, thumps in my chest and I swear Lydia can sense the truth dying to rip free from my body.

I never should have come here.

I never should have stolen a glance at the doctor’s files that day.

I never should have seen my donor’s name.

I never should have seen that newspaper.

I never should have come here.

I swallow.

‘Hi, Lydia, how are you?’

She looks at me, and she knows. Oh my good god she knows.

But… oh. No. She doesn’t. She says she is ‘Good, thank you,’ which, she isn’t, how can she be, when her husband has just died? And I say ‘That’s good,’ when, it’s not, because how can it be, when I am lying to a grieving woman and she is lying to herself?

Dark crescent moons sink under Lydia’s eyes, gunmetal grey growing heavy and black.

‘I’m sorry about Ben,’ I say. Pathetic.

But, then, something changes in her face. And I realise, no, no, no, she’s seen it. She has seen my scar. I yank my neck scarf to the left, but it’s too late. She’s seen the truth hidden under this shadow cloth. I grimace, bracing myself for a barrage of anger and hatred, but then-

‘This is why I loved, still love, Ben. He was such a generous person.’

I see my reflection doubled in Lydia’s pools of silver tears. Tentatively, I place her hand on my chest, and let her feel the warmth of Ben’s generous heart one last time.

She kisses her fingertips, then places them back on my rough slash of skin. She laughs, once, before it morphs into a sob. Lydia collapses into me, and I hold her, and I can feel how much he loves her. We stayed like that for a long time. How long exactly, I’m not sure. All I know for sure is that the heart wants what it wants.

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