The Heart Does Not Grow Back: A Novel (22 page)

“Just relax, then,” Tracy said. “Make yourself at home.”

I trudged through all the congratulations and found a comfy place on her sofa next to Dr. Reynolds. He was definitely not a “doc” type. Smooth and good-looking, his ambition was never hidden. For him, this series was about becoming the expert on my condition, getting the assist for saving lives, building his legacy, not as a doctor but as a television personality. A guy who could stamp his approval on foods and diets and sell trendy health books. I could feel the memoir notes collecting in his little head. His contract even stated that at least one episode had to portray him saving me and the recipient from certain death. A few legal things had to be hashed out, but I was on board with it.

The first segment of episode one followed that winning formula, the time-tested showbiz axiom of “Give me the same, but different.”

The first act of the show introduced the recipient, their family, their situation. The longer the odds, the better. The more tragic the story, the bigger the impact. Seeing Hollie on television, so long after I had first met her at home in Van Nuys, made me realize that I was a total fucking moron. Part of it was my longing and regret, but she looked beautiful, even at her sickest, which she was at the time of the taping.

In a tearful testimonial, on camera, Hollie described getting that phone call, the one where the Samaritan was going to ride to her rescue. Pictures of Hollie and Melissa, a mother struggling to raise her girl alone. A mother who struggled with diabetes that had turned into full-fledged end-stage renal disease, landing her on the transplant list. The average wait time? Ranging from a year or until death. In America, death usually comes first.

Commercial break. Silence in Tracy’s living room. A sniffle or two. “Holy shit,” Mack whispered. “This is fucking gold.”

In the second act of the episode, I meet Hollie. I watched myself on television, a surreal feeling, the incisions flanking my rib cage still hot with pain days after my final surgeries of the season. Lots of silence in the room. Most of the people there, even the crew, hadn’t seen the full episode yet. Maybe they snuck a peek at the sizzle reel—the six-minute teaser of this pilot episode that had kept the funding coming and the execs buzzing—but never this. Never my lack of charisma, my stone-cold and unemotional looks and tone, my inability to shed a tear, the awkwardness of my hugs when Hollie hugged me, sobbing, thanking me for a miracle. She said I was sent from God.

I believed that assessment to be wrong, and I was the only one in the room who realized she was putting everyone on by acting relieved. Only I knew that she’d wanted to die. I should have told her about the gun, about how much I wanted to do the same thing, but for no noble cause. Not for a daughter, but for pure cowardice, for pure exhaustion with a world that had no place for a freak like me.

The third act covered the surgery. Enter Dr. Reynolds, who clearly explains the procedure, and the drama heightens, thanks to the craftsmanship of the story editors.

The story editors, edit producers, and post-producers were by far the most important elements of the show, the overlords of manufactured tension, logging hours of interviews with the surgical team to mine the best quotes to splice into the broadcast. Their descriptions of dangers and complications could be sprinkled into the action, creating drama where there really wasn’t any to begin with. If I gave you a picture of a focused doctor working steadily on his patient, and a voiceover doctor said, “This surgery has never been done like this. We’re treading new ground. And it’s not a matter of
if
something will go wrong, it’s
when
”—cue dramatic music and cut to commercial, and you’re done. Simple.

We glazed over the surgery, since kidney transplants are basic and frequent. The last ten minutes chronicled Hollie’s recovery. She smiled during this part of the show. She spoke with relief and better skin color during the episode’s final moments, Melissa playing at her feet. Melissa, whom I had yet to meet, but could have met. If I’d just made a phone call or two. If I could just move on from the twins.

Then, a strong focus on my recovery. As Tracy put it, showing me in healing mode drove home the fact that I could regrow these organs, and highlighted the extent of my sacrifice.

When the episode ended, the party remained silent. These were folks who had been in the trenches with us. Maybe it was the emotion of seeing how lives had changed, or the relief of seeing a glossy final product, the fruits of many hours of work. Who the fuck knows?

I just know that I didn’t cry, I didn’t know what the big deal was. What exactly had I given up other than a few days of pain? Days I would be well paid for?

“We have a hit on our hands,” Tracy said, finally, breaking up the tension. Silence turned to cheers and applause. “I feel it in my bones. This just … lands inside of you.”

The party regained momentum. Music fired up. People drank. They danced. Mack danced with Tracy, who looked to be drunk. She was in trouble, I knew that much. Both of them were drunk with fantasies of overnight ratings. And also, Champagne.

Nothing for me. I half expected Hollie to be at the party. Tracy told me she was invited, but she didn’t show up. Too much of my life involved waiting for girls to show up at parties. She had her piece of me, but over the last few months, I basically told her through an uninterrupted, awkward silence that I wanted no piece of her. That wasn’t the real truth, but I just wasn’t strong enough to be that guy yet.

With the show over, I picked up the remote control and turned on one of the projector screens and found some of my favorite reruns on an obscure cable channel. Nobody objected. Nobody even seemed to notice.

*   *   *

The overnights for the first episode were strong, encouraging, but by no means explosive. Eight million or so viewers.

I could walk the streets of Los Angeles without much notice. I would walk with my eyes down, directly in front of me, avoiding cracks when I could, slicing through the throngs of people with a quick turn of the shoulders.

I had no agent, but I had Mack, who I think had an agent, but Mack worked directly with Tracy. He wouldn’t say as much, but she would filter her advice to me through him, and he would regurgitate it to me as if it were something he discovered on his own, as if the credentials and clout and knowledge and legal acumen were gifted upon him in a dream.

I stayed in the apartment and did not watch the second episode, which drew ten million viewers. According to Mack, this upward tick in viewership was a huge sign, and we were one step closer to a fat contract for the second season, which would guarantee us houses “so fucking hot there’s a basket near the door for chicks to leave their panties in.”

Viewership climbed in week three and week four. Buzz built up like plaque. We were the number-two show on television. A second season lurked on the horizon. My likeness was featured on magazine covers. The legitimacy of my ability was debated on talk shows. Interview requests piled up, none of them granted.

I waited for them to ask me about season two, and it didn’t take long before they wanted more from me.

*   *   *

Mack invited me to a steak dinner he insisted on paying for. This wasn’t our typical McSteakhouse. The waiters were better dressed than we were. Crumbs and half-empty water glasses were not allowed. The lighting was low, or as he put it, “If I were gay this would be romantic as fuck.”

Tracy was supposed to meet us, but later. We ordered some beers.

“That’s okay, right? You feeling nice and recovered? One hundred percent?”

“Good to go,” I said.

He kicked back the first one faster than usual. Something was up.

“You having marital problems or something?” I asked.

“What marriage?” he said, still wearing his ring. “I imagine her hanging out somewhere, just waiting for me to make enough money to bother with divorce papers. I’m not too worried about it. No worries, man. No regrets.” He said that like a man with regrets.

We asked if they had one of those big fried-onion things. They didn’t. So Mack told the waiter to bring more bread.

“Tracy isn’t going to be here for another hour,” he announced. “She’s got the framework for a season-two contract.”

“And?”

“And I want to know if you’re on board.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I’m asking, you socially backwards prick. If Tracy asked, you couldn’t tell her no. You’d just nod and off we would go into the wild blue yonder. You ever wonder why you’re not allowed to do interviews? You depress the fuck out of me sometimes.”

He flashed two fingers at the waiter, who had fresh glasses of beer at the table before Mack mustered the words to continue.

“I think I’m sort of famous. And Rae still hasn’t called.”

“Fuck her and fuck Hollie. Look, bro, you fucked up the Hollie thing on your own, and I call that progress. But I’m glad that shit’s all over. I told you, that Hollie thing had ‘busted’ written all over it. I’m not sure if you can handle real heartbreak, kid. It sucks. Having your sort-of-true-love blown away is a great goddamn tragedy, but let me ask you something—what if the thing Regina wanted to tell you at that party was to leave her alone? That she wanted no part of you? No puppy-dog looks, no more bullshit. How would that have fit? You dodged heartbreak by dodging Hollie. Trust me.”

“Maybe heartbreak is exactly what I need,” I said.

“Well, if you knew what was good for you, we wouldn’t be here having this conversation.”

“I thought this is what you wanted?”

“Yeah, for me. Not for you.”

“I never thought there would need to be a season two,” I said.

“Right. You become famous, Rae shows up at your doorstep and you live happily ever after. But in the real world, where this is about business, I gotta tell you—season one only writes the check, motherfucker. Season two cashes it. But I’m not here to convince you to do it. I’m just here to ask you about it.”

I ate bread instead of answering.

“And what would you have me do, best friend?” I asked.

“Honestly, Dale? We don’t have to do this,” Mack said. “I thought about it. I mean, really did, and there’s money and bright lights out there for us, but I wonder if you’ll wear down like a battery one day. My agent says we can get work off the steam of season one. Make bank in other ways, ways that aren’t cutting you open. I even offered up another angle for the show, a way to transition you out but keep the concept. I wanted to try a different kind of episode, but we don’t have the capital for my episode request. So no season two. I can’t believe I’m saying it, there’s some real money here and we have all the leverage, but I’m saying no.”

This hit me, a cold jolt of wind blasting into the nerve of a sensitive tooth, the ice of the truth seeping into me. This was the grade-school Mack on that playground who’d spurned the girls to pick me up off the blacktop.

“I’m not saying no,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Do it only if it’s what you want. Not for Raeanna. Please, sweet Jesus, not because of her. You haven’t talked in a year for God’s sakes. Fuck, man, you make me sick. Do you realize I could have your virginity cashed in tonight? With hot chicks, too. Not skanks. You have to ride this wave, brother. Let her live her little self-destructive existence and go about your fucking business.”

“I’m still me,” I said. “I went through all of this for nothing.”

“Nothing?” Mack said. “Those people you helped would be dead by now, and you can’t even let yourself feel good about it?”

“We could do whatever we wanted in season two,” I said. “I don’t need to find Raeanna to talk to her, and if I talk to her, maybe that loop closes. Then maybe there’s something with Hollie, or someone else, even. Maybe I’ll be who I have to be for once—strong enough to find what I need to find.”

“It’s your decision, brother. I don’t think it’s the right one, but I got your back.” He raised his glass. “To season two.”

Our glasses clinked and we guzzled our beers until our eyes watered, the waiters hovering over us, ready to refill them instantly. We let them.

*   *   *

We were half-drunk when Tracy got there, dressed a little too sexy for a business dinner. She sat down next to Mack. She had a briefcase stuffed with notes and paperwork and parameters for a season-two agreement.

“You’re going to need new paperwork,” I said. “I’m doing an interview this season. At least one. It doesn’t have to be on a talk show or anything, we can even make it an episode so there’s some measure of control, but it’s got to be live.”

“You really think the government acronyms that are up our asses are going to approve that? Get real. And I’ve been more than happy keeping you out of interviews because you have the social skills of roadkill. Nothing you can say comes across as likable. It’s what you do that matters. What you say can only screw things up. The answer is no.”

She ordered a Chardonnay. I sensed Mack’s hand on her leg under the table. He winked at me.

“I’ll get Hayes to budge,” I said. “If he doesn’t, you can find another fully regenerating human to take my place. And maybe the next one will even have some social skills.”

“Fine,” she said. “You get Hayes to budge, I’ll sign off on it. One interview, our episode. I approve the questions in advance.”

I was fine with that.

She looked at Mack. “You tell him yet?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I told you I knew the answer. But fuck it, hear it from him. Sampsonite, what’s your stance on religious partnership? You care to sign up as, say, a walking messiah for your local Christian megachurch?”

“Pass,” I said.

“You should think about it,” Tracy said. “It’s not different than endorsing a brand of sneakers. You just show up for a few Sunday services, we put out a press release, nothing huge. It’d boost the show and you would get some positive publicity out of it.”

“If I could make water into wine, I’d get into the liquor business, not the religion business.”

“They’re willing to pay,” Tracy said. “More than your show salary. It would shut up the ethicists out there, the ones that think this whole show concept is immoral, that we’re taking fame in return for saving people. They don’t think it’s something Jesus would do, so you could use a little Jesus on your side.”