a short story by C. Wrenn Ball
They gathered in the center of the cabin, away from the world, the four of them talking about their family’s heart. She would drive her son South on 321 to Charlotte, early on a Saturday morning. By the time they reached the highway, her husband and daughter would have offered excuses around town. A trip across the country. Some time together, before her son’s wedding. They’d return like nothing had changed, if they were lucky.
The discussion had been short and to the point, her husband and daughter had not argued, despite the danger, the illegality. Her husband was too old to receive the organ, her daughter too young and was, of course, without a lover. The organ was naturally tender, already pressed to its limit, so they were resolved to tradition. Her daughter had not betrayed jealousy, and over the course of the night, her son had not uttered a word.
She had a doctor’s number, passed between pages in a book that was three generations old. Stored in a bedside drawer, a key to her cardiovascular system. She’d been staring at the faded ink for months. Borrowed time, borrowed, borrow. Then freely given, while fear reigned in her body.
Before they cut open her chest cavity, she had to know that her son would not waste the heart. She cornered him on the couch, the night before their drive down the mountain. They sat together, discussing the secrets of the universe and their family’s illicit organ, while she searched his eyes for doubt.