With Every Beat of My Heart

Summary: Two men recovering from different wounds.

Six months later:

Remy’s hamstrings burned, but it was a good burn.

He listened to the cadence of his footsteps as they slapped the pavement, synching easily to the beat of his tiny MP3. The afternoon was perfect, past the sun’s peak hours with a light breeze at his back.

He almost didn’t want to go home. Mattie waiting for him, though, and he still needed to pick up a cake.

In the back of his mind, Remy still listened to that niggling voice that he didn’t deserve to feel this good.

Sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades and pecs. His handsome, young face was ruddy and glowing from his exertions, and he looked every inch the picture of health. No one seeing him striding through the park, limbs fluid and strong, would believe he was clinging to life the winter before.

Remy glowed, in every way.

He left the park and headed down Main Street, eager to complete his errand while he was still in the mood. The bakery wasn’t crowded, since he was already past the morning rush of commuters buying donuts and rolls to go with their coffee. He slowed to a panting stop outside the door, pacing slightly to cool down.

Passerby admired him; women shot him longing glances as they took in his broad shoulders, narrow waist and high, round glutes. Remy’s thick, wavy auburn hair was windblown, damp and clinging to his nape. He leaned his backside against the ledge of the window while he caught his breath.

The labored, long breaths of air tasted good. The scents emanating from inside smelled even better. The bell over the door jangled as he strode inside.

“How can I help you?”

“Need a birthday cake.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever ya’ve got, petit.” The counter girl’s name tag introduced her as Jubilation. She was tiny and slender, not looking a day over twelve, even though her voice put her closer to seventeen. She cracked her gum.

“What do you like? Vanilla, chocolate, lemon…?” Her voice was expectant. “Want a sample?”

“Now yer speakin’ my language, petit,” he agreed, flashing a dimpled smile. Inwardly, she swooned. Jubilation headed to a glass case and withdrew four different squares of cake and some tiny plastic forks.

“My favorite’s the rum custard, but everyone’s different. Italian rum cake. It has slivered almonds…you’re not allergic to nuts?” She continued to run off a list of goodies that exhausted him with too many choices. He nodded as he listened, glad she wasn’t letting him get a word in edgewise, so he could simply taste each selection without worrying about talking with his mouth full.

“The lemon cream,” he announced easily, licking a fleck of the icing from his upper lip.

“You said it’s a birthday cake. We talking big party, after dinner? Do we need a name on it?”

“Mattie.”

“Oh. Okay.” She looked slightly crestfallen at the sound of the female name. Remy wanted to chuckle but suppressed it.

“My tante loves ‘lemon’ anyt’in. She’ll love this.” She looked puzzled. “My auntie. She helped raise me.”

“Ohhh, oh, oh,” she nodded, suddenly hopeful. Remy merely smiled as she wrote up the ticket and the spelling of the name. “Want something pretty on the top?”

“Pink roses?”

“Of course.”

She bustled off to fill his order. Remy spent those remaining minutes browsing the mouthwatering pastries in the cases and enjoying the smells. He tasted the sample of chocolate truffle cake, decadent and rich, and decided it was his favorite.

The shop was cute, slightly feminine in its décor. The walls featured black and white framed photos of the store’s owner from about three decades prior. Old-fashioned Tiffany lamps hovered over the door and in the windows, lending the interior a warmth Remy could appreciate.

Ever since his procedure, he appreciated beauty in its different forms.

The greatest gift he’d received six months ago was time.

Shortly he arrived home with the pink cardboard square box. He heard the television blaring from the foyer as he keyed his way inside. He could hear Mattie’s soap operas as he headed toward the kitchen.

“Tante!” he called out. He set down the box and tossed his keys onto the table. “Mattie!”

It was odd. She was usually in the living room; he didn’t see her as he cruised past it to head upstairs. Remy grimaced at the feel of the air conditioning against his sweat-dampened skin and couldn’t wait to get out of his funky clothes.

“Mattie!” he called again. He wondered where in the house she was that she’d turned up her show to be able to still hear it. Remy trotted upstairs to his room. He shucked his rank tank top and tossed it in the overflowing wicker hamper; Mattie would accuse him soon enough of laying down with the hogs, since he was living in a pigsty.

He hopped into the shower briefly, taking only the minute it lasted to rub on and rinse off some soap and soak his hair. This time, the cool air of his room felt good against his damp skin, at least he felt fresh. He changed into a black tank top and khakis, wanting to be presentable for his foster aunt’s birthday dinner.

The television was still blaring, telling him she hadn’t returned to the living room.

Remy had a nagging sense of unease; it crept over the nape of his neck as he descended the stairs.

“I called ya when I came in, Tante,” he told her briskly as he made his way back to the kitchen. She still wasn’t there.

She wasn’t in the living room. She wasn’t in the laundry room. Her sewing room was empty. That quickened his steps.

“Mattie.”

He tingled. A strange sixth sense told him she might not be in the house.

The television was distracting. He turned off General Hospital and walked out into the yard.

His blood ran cold at the sight of her limp form in the grass. He nearly stumbled off the deck as he ran to her.

“MATTIE!”

*


The paramedics were familiar to Remy. He recognized some of them before from his own trips to the ER. He listened to their usual battery of questions stoically as he held his aunt’s hand.

Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your full name, ma’am? What year is this? When were you born? How long ago did you start not feeling well?

The hospital still smelled antiseptic and stale to Remy, despite a citrus air freshener coming from the rest rooms.

Mattie’s fingers felt cold and wizened in his grip. Despite her sable complexion, her face was wan.

“M’sorry,” she mumbled feebly. He squeezed her hand and stroked her short, soft hair. Its kinky texture was comforting to touch. She leaned into the caress, grateful that he was there for her. They’d come full circle. It was Remy’s turn to take care of her.

“Don’ worry about it, Tante,” he soothed. “Scared me a little.”

“Ya look shook up, mon fils,” she pointed out.

“I’ll live,” he muttered.

“M’not…leavin’ quite yet.”

“Mattie!”

“G’wan, now. What? I’m not gonna talk about the inevitable wit’ my nephew? Won’t ever happen cuz Tante won’t say it out loud?” Remy’s mouth was dry, but his eyes filled. “Non, petit, don’ look like dat.”

“Just don’ like thinkin’ ‘bout not havin’ my favorite person runnin’ my ranch, is all. Ain’t no one’s comp’ny I like more, Tante. Ya’ve spoiled me. How can I settle fer less?”

She chuckled weakly. “Den don’t. Find someone who’s comp’ny strikes ya just as well, if not more. Yer a young man, grown and needin’ t’settle down, Remy.”

Her physician came by and spoke to them in careful terms, announcing that Mattie suffered a very mild stroke. They decided to hold her overnight. Remy spent the next hour filling out a battery of paperwork and answering questions until he was hoarse. Numbly he thought back to the birthday cake he’d left behind. He wondered if he could bring back a slice of it once she got settled in.

“Dis ain’t de way I wanted ta celebrate yer birthday, Tante.”

“Ain’t what I planned, neither, sweetie.”

“Maybe we’ll get it right next year.” He hoped that wish would come true. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.


*

Logan keyed his way into his empty house, rifling through his evening mail. There were the usual bills, credit card offers, coupons and fundraiser requests, and one beige envelope from the hospital. He hoped it wasn’t another bill.

He was drained. He couldn’t look at the familiar stationery without thinking about that night, or the day he put Jeannie in the ground.

Familiar objects and scents in the house still mocked him. Daisy looked up at him and thumped her tail at his arrival. She was three, well out of her puppyhood, and he looked forward to taking her for a walk. Anything to get out of the house and its memories.

He scooped out a serving of dog chow from a can and watched his best girl wolf it down. Logan fetched himself a beer and sat down to enjoy it while his frozen dinner rotated in the microwave. He found himself turning on the news and tugging off his hard leather work shoes, relieved to be in stocking feet.

His dinner consisted of a flavorless Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with watery-tasting string beans. He finished it with little enthusiasm, admitting to himself that one day, he would do himself a favor and take a cooking class.

Once Logan had the chance to unwind properly, he sat down at his desk and reviewed his mail in more detail.

He set the bills neatly in one stack and ripped open all of the other miscellaneous envelopes, skimming their contents before throwing them into his shredder bin. The last one from the hospital gave him pause. He took a breath and opened it.

It surprised him; it didn’t have a detachable stub, so it wasn’t a bill.

The newsletter he unfolded was almost festive, printed with a photo collage of happy people of varying demographics.

“What do all of these people have in common? They were given the gift of life via organ donor transplant.” He grew pensive and sad as he read the rest.

It was an invitation. Black tie. A thank-you banquet coordinated by the hospital and the state organ transplant board was happening on July 1st.

Following the speeches by the hospital administrators and the surgeons they were honoring at the event, there was going to be a thank-you ceremony to the families whose loved ones provided the organs necessary to save lives. Several recipients were also attending the dinner.

Closure. Logan knew he’d never have it. He slumped back in his chair and smoothed the letter flat on his blotter, musing.

It was too much. It would hurt too much, meeting the person who received her gift, too stark a reminder that she was really gone.

He still had conversations with her, sometimes. He still craved her warmth on the other side of the bed. Many of her personal items were still in his medicine cabinet and in the kitchen.

Jeannie had been in excellent health. She’d lived clean, hardly ever touched alcohol if it wasn’t a holiday. Never smoked. Hated fried food. Her only weaknesses were late night chick flicks when she couldn’t sleep or a good chocolate chip cookie with her morning (nonfat) latte. Her injuries were devastating, but her organs were perfect. The advocate who approached him at the hospital couldn’t realize that it was no comfort to him.

He’d made his decision with a grave flick of his hand.

“Take them. If…if I can’t have her…” His voice was choked. He was drained and ruined. His tears had been hot and thick and useless. Endless.

Daisy felt his pain. She never left his side, always occupying the other side of the couch or laying across his feet. Logan was undone at the sight of the dog’s bed populated with some of Jean’s belongings, particularly her knit bedroom slippers.

The dog read his mind again, trotting over and nosing her way into his lap. She bumped his hand until he scratched her behind the ears.

He re-read the letter. His eyes lingered on the faces of the recipients in the photos.

Before he could change his mind, Logan filled out the RSVP card.


Three weeks later:

“How’s she doing?”

“Full of sass.”

“So she’s feelin’ better, then,” Anna chuckled.

“Bit by bit.”

“Hug her for me.”

“Hug her yerself, woman.”

“Ah wanted ta stop by, shoog…”

“Then stop by.”

“Ah know.” Anna Marie looked guilty. “It’s been so busy.”

“Still, she’d be tickled t’see ya, petit.”

“Might be able ta swing by Saturday.”

“I won’t tell her til ya call an’ confirm it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He stirred his strawberry smoothie with a long red straw and took three hungry gulps. “I’m still on my toes. Can’t help askin’ how she is every five minutes. She’s gettin’ sick of Remy.”

“She’s probably enjoyin’ the attention, shoog.”

“She didn’t lose too much, we got here there in plenty of time, thank God,” he told her. “Only thing is her moods. She’s so outta sorts sometimes. Grumpy an’ full of vinegar.”

“That’s just sweet Mattie gettin’ old, Rem.”

“Don’ like thinkin’ ‘bout that if I don’ hafta, Anna.”

“Ah know, sweet. Neither do Ah.” She squeezed his hand. “Ya look good.”

“Likewise.”

“Ya’ve got a glow. Looks good on ya.”

“Everything feels bigger an’ brighter. Remy’s luckier than he deserves, non?”

“Ya deserve the best life has ta offer ya, sugah.”

“Yer biased.”

“Ah know.”
Remy checked his watch. “Shit. Gotta beat feet, baby. Gotta get ta the pharmacy and pick up her pills. Then I’m makin’ dinner so we can have it while her movie comes on tonight.”

“Which one?”

“Cabin in the Sky.”

“All right. Be good, shoog.”


His lunch date with Anna was a rare thing; Mattie insisted she wasn’t in the mood to go out, begging off to stay home and watch her stories. She was still just so out of sorts…

Remy was worried. Mattie had a lot of weakness in her hands and little patience for small, detailed tasks like doing up buttons and opening jars. She was moving more slowly and eating less, despite his creativity in the kitchen and occasional reliance on her own recipes.

He found her on the back deck when he got home. She had on her reading glasses and a comfortable pair of pink plaid pajama pants and slippers. She looked frail and precious to him. Mattie smiled and nodded for him to sit beside her.

“Here.”

“What is it?”

“Open it up!”

“Hope it ain’t a bill.”

“Doesn’t have a little window on the envelope,” she pointed out sagely. Mattie sipped her glass of sweet tea.

She watched his face as he read it. Mix emotions flitted across his features and he leaned back in his seat.

“Ain’t bad, is it, mon fils?”

“Non. It ain’t. It ain’t, Tante.”

“G’wan, then!”

“It’s a dinner. I can bring a guest.” He handed it to her. Her expression became thoughtful as she read it.

“Isn’t that nice. And it’s fancy. Gonna need a suit.”

“Gonna need a fancy dress yerself,” he pointed out. “Wouldn’t be right if ya didn’t come wit’ me, Tante.”

“Silly,” she said dismissively.

“Non. S’true.” He swallowed around a lump. “Yer the other person in my life who helped save it.”

“Why d’ya doubt that I’d do anything else?”

“I’d like ya ta come.”

“Be there with bells on, sweet pea.”