Change of Heart by Sally Mandel Page A

print with lots of maroon that clashed with his pale-peach-colored shirt. She had asked him once how he picked out his clothes each day, and he said he just put on a favorite-colored shirt and a favorite-colored tie. If he liked both colors, it had to work, right? Sharlie had looked unconvinced, and he confessed that one day Barbara had stood him in front of her full-length office mirror and said, “There, look. Don’t you hear anything?” He had shaken his head, and Barbara told him that his shirt and pants were screaming bloody murder where they met at his waistline. Sharlie had wanted to know what he was wearing, and he told her—his rust-colored suit and pink shirt. They looked fine to him.
    â€œAll right,” Sharlie said, forcing her eyes off his tie and pulling herself up straight. “It all comes down to this. I’m sick. My relationship with you makes me sicker. I have to choose between you and a longer life. So I’m choosing life.”
    He stared at her.
    â€œEmily Brontë would not have approved, but I can’t help it”
    He sat thinking for a moment and finally he said, “If this is what you really believe, I can’t blame you for taking a walk. But I’m telling you, you look better every day. You’re stronger now than when you got out of the hospital.”
    â€œI have my good days. But there are things I haven’t told you.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike what happened the night we … the Swept Away night. It’s not just virgin modesty that keeps me from your bed, Brian. It’s fear.”
    â€œYou got sick.”
    She nodded.
    â€œSo we won’t mess around.”
    â€œOh, Brian, don’t be ridiculous. The instant I see you, I want to start peeling off my clothes. It’s practically Pavlovian.” He was silent. “As a matter of fact,” she went on in a desperately chatty voice, “that’s how I can tell you’re around. Suddenly I get this compulsion to unbutton my dress, and I say, ‘Hmm, Brian must be about to walk through the door.’ It could be very embarrassing at a cocktail party.”
    â€œI want to show you something,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a newspaper clipping and flattened it on her knees: A D ECADE OF H EART T RANSPLANTS: T HE F ANFARE’S O VER B UT AT L EAST 85 L IVE .
    A gray-uniformed guard sauntered over to them, his feet scraping abrasively. From her vantage point on the steps Sharlie noticed that his shoes were scuffed. One of the laces had broken and been knotted halfway up.
    â€œCan’t sit here.”
    â€œWhy not?” Brian asked affably.
    â€œRules.”
    Brian said, “Can’t you see the young lady is ill?”
    The guard shook his head. “Looks fine to me.”
    Brian shot Sharlie a quick glance that said, See? But he went on to the guard in a firm voice, “If she stands up, she will throw up.”
    The guard thought this over, then scraped his feet back to the entrance and remarked sullenly, “Ten minutes.”
    â€œI might,” Sharlie said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThrow up.”
    He gave her a puzzled look and she held the article out to him.
    â€œI’ve read this before. Makes my stomach go all revolted.”
    â€œI bet you feel the same way about having a tooth pulled.”
    She rolled her eyes at him.
    â€œLook,” he said, “we could go see somebody. At least find out about it.”
    â€œI already know about it.”
    â€œThat was a long time ago. Techniques have changed. The odds have changed. Oh, come on, Sharlie, maybe you can have it all. Life. Me. Babies …”
    She closed her eyes and held up her hand. “Stop. I don’t want to hear about it.”
    â€œJust to find out? Where’s your grit?”
    â€œI’ve run out. I don’t have any more. I used to keep it under my fingernails.” She held out a hand to him,