The Missing Heart

The steady beeping of the Heart Monitor and the forced breathes of my sister, Jane Johnson, in the bed next to me set the tone of the blindingly white hospital room. I sat there fondling the heart-shaped keychain she gave me when I was only three-years-old and wondering if she was going to make it, my mind incapable from moving away from the inevitable. She had always stood beside me whether the decisions I made were good or bad and always kept me away from the wrong crowds. She kept me out of the streets and away from drugs, yet here I was, watching her chest heave and hands shiver while the scars on her arm where prominent in the pale hospital gown. But I couldn't help but find it hypocritical that the woman who had always discouraged such behavior would go against her frequently taught philosophy.


The door opened and a man in blue scrubs and a clipboard walked into the room. He walked with confidence yet at the same time his body language and facial expression read bad news. “What’s wrong with her?” I asked intently while standing up.


The presumed doctor bowed his head and spoke solemnly, “Your sister has overdosed on Heroin and,” he paused as a bracing for the quickly upcoming tragic news, “and there is very little chance she will make it.”


Trepidation and disbelief overcame me as I choked out, “What’s going to happen?”


“Well, she’ll need a heart transplant, but even then it’s iffy. There is, however, a very risky and expensive operation your insurance probably wouldn't cover that we could try” the man said, almost ruthlessly, “It would probably be her only chance”.


I knew I didn't have any money, yet not even that knowledge could keep the words from blustering out, “I’ll do anything, how much is it?”

.
The doctor, as if he’d won some great battle, chimed, “fifty-thousand dollars”.


My face froze, the massive amount of money echoing in my ears. How could I make that much money in such a short time? But I had to do something; I couldn’t just let my sister die without even trying to help. After all she had done for me, I owed her this.


The doctor, seeing my face, added, “You have a week, if you can’t come up with the money, I’m sorry to say…”


“I’ll have the money”, I interrupted, having no control over the words spluttering out of my mouth.


“Great”, the doctor replied with a malevolent smirk as he turned and strode out of the room.


Later that day, while still pondering how to obtain this seemingly incalculable amount of money, I started looking through my sister’s possessions, reminiscing about the day she took me off the streets after our mom abandoned me.


I picked up the book No More Secrets by Robert by Petterson with the intent of merely throwing it onto the couch when a folded up piece of paper slipped out and glided to the floor.



I instinctively bent over, picked it up and noticed, “To: Jane” written in almost illegible handwriting on the front. I began to unfold it in a fit of built-up curiosity until it was fully unraveled and my eyes began frantically searching the paper for answers. Yet all that was written on the crumpled page was, “Behind the orphanage on ninth at 10:00p.m. Friday, have the money”.


I knew what it meant but I didn’t know what to do with the newly acquired information. Should I go there on Friday, if it was even that resent, or do I bring it to the police for investigation? That was when my mind started going down a dark path.
I could go down to the orphanage and if this person was there maybe I could make some money rather than give it away. If I could get him to give me the product for free then I could make a portion of the money I so desperately needed to save my sister. I didn’t have any money to sponsor a complex plan or anything of that sort but it wouldn’t keep me from trying.


The next day I was crouching behind a dumpster at 9:59p.m., once again fondling my precious, heart-shaped keychain with nothing but a marker and a phone in my pockets, but I planned to walk away with much more. Heavy footsteps alerted me of someone else’s presence, and I silently slipped out the marker and evaded the man’s line of sight.


He passed by me without noticing a thing, he was wearing a brown hoodie that barely covered his bulging stomach and was holding a matching briefcase which I could only imagine contained the product, and the key to my success. Seizing my opportunity I sprang out from out from my crouched position and pressed the marker up against the back of his neck and spoke sharply to disguise my desperation and nervousness, “give me the bag and we won’t have any trouble”.


The man, frozen by terror of what he believed was a gun, didn’t object when I slipped the briefcase out of his hands. I ran quickly around the corner, into my car and then drove home without a backwards glance at the beginning of my trail of mistakes.


Not until I was secure inside my room did I dare open the briefcase, and the sight was not only a blessing but a curse as well. It was full of bags which I could only presume were full of the same thing that was killing my sister, and on each bag was a slip of paper with a time, date, place and an amount of money. This could be my chance! I could save my sister with the only side-affect being a guilty conscience.


The next couple of days I carried out the duties of the man I’d stolen the briefcase from, each day becoming better and better at the transactions. To maximize income I’d been raising the prices gradually, hoping none of the customers would get suspicious. The money I made increased daily and I only needed to make a couple more deals and I would be done with this for the rest of my life. It was one of the best feelings in the world to know that I might be able to save my beloved sister, and still be alive myself.


The next day, at the potential final transaction, I stood there waiting anxiously for my client, hoping that this might be the last one of these horrors I would have to endure. A man came around the corner with a black sweatshirt and his hands in his pockets. He came up and stopped about half a meter in front of me and said, “How much?”


“Two-thousand”, I said inconspicuously, the heart-shaped keychain clenched tightly in my right hand.


The man looked taken aback and I wondered if I’d pushed the price too far, “That’s too much, lower it”, he said roughly.


“I’m sorry, I can’t”, I said stubbornly, then before I knew what was happening there was a flash of silver and crimson and I was lying on the floor, bleeding profusely from my abdomen as the man retreated quickly, dropping his weapon. The pain grew to be unbearable and conciseness was lost.


Consciousness returned in a hospital room, my vision blurred, tall figures stood around the bed, unaware of my regained consciousness. One fancily dressed man said in a hushed tone, “There’s no way he’s going to make it”.

My brain was incapable of comprehending what was going on, I wasn’t even sure if I was dreaming or not.

“But his sister, Jane, his heart is a perfect match” a different man in a white coat said. My mind was still dormant, but my ears were wide awake, listening to every word, but not fully understanding them.

“His ID says he’s willing to be an organ donor” the other man responded

“Well, one of them will live through the night” The second man said, as they both left the room. Once again I found myself clenching the heart my sister generously gave to me knowing that mine wound soon be with her, which gave me the courage to close my eyes, and drift off into a sleep like no other