Harvesting the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

this month, and a little after four o'clock, a Hispanic
girl—Rosita—had been brought in, bleeding all over, a
miscarriage. When he saw her history he had been shocked: thirteen
years old. He had done a D&C and held her hand afterward as long
as he could, listening to her murmur, over and over, Mi
hija, mi hija.
    And
then this other girl, this waitress, had drawn a picture of him that
was absolutely amazing. Anyone would be able to copy his features,
but she had got something other than that. His patrician bearing, the
tired lines of his mouth. Most important, there, shining back from
his own eyes, was the fear. And in the corner, that kid— it had
made a chill run down his spine. After all, she had no way of knowing
that Nicholas, as a child, would climb the trees in his parents'
backyard, hoping to rope in the sun and always believing that it was
within his power to do so.
    He
had stared at the picture and caught the casual way she accepted
his compliment, and suddenly he realized that even if he had not been
Nicholas Prescott, even if he had worked the swing shift at the
doughnut shop or hauled trash for a living, it was quite possible
that this girl would still have drawn his portrait and still have
known more about him than he cared to admit. It was the first time in
his life that Nicholas had met someone who was surprised by what she
saw in him; who did not know his reputation; who would have been
happy with a dollar bill, or a smile, whatever he was able to spare.
    He
pictured, for the space of a heartbeat, what his life might have been
like if he had been born someone else. His father knew, but it was
not something they'd ever discuss, so Nicholas was left to
speculate. What if he lived in the Deep South, say, and worked
on a factory assembly line and watched the sun set every night over
the muck of the bayou from a creaking porch swing? Without intending
to be vain, he wondered what it would be like to walk down a street
without attracting attention. He would have traded it all—the
trust fund and the privilege and the connections—for five
minutes out of the spotlight. Not with his parents, not even with
Rachel, had he ever been given the luxury of forgetting himself. When
he laughed it was never too loud. When he smiled he could measure the
effect on the people around him. Even when he relaxed, kicking off
his shoes and stretching out on the couch, he was always a little bit
guarded, as if he might be required to justify his leisure time. He
rationalized that people always wanted what they did not have, but he
still would have liked to try it: a row house, a patched armchair, a
girl who could hold the world in her eyes and who bought his white
shirts at five-and-dimes and who loved him not because he was
Nicholas Prescott but because he was himself.
    He
did not know what made him kiss the waitress before he left. He had
breathed in the smell of her neck, still milky and powdered, like a
child's. Hours later, when he let himself into his room and saw
Rachel wrapped like a mummy in his sheets, he undressed and curled
himself around her. As he cupped Rachel's breast and watched her
fingers wrap around his wrist, he was still thinking of that other
kiss and wondering why he never had asked for her name.

    "Hi,"
Nicholas said. She swung open the door to Mercy and propped it with a
stone. She flipped over the Closed sign with a natural grace.
    "You
may not want to come in," she said. "The AC's broken."
She lifted her hair off the back of her neck, fanning herself, as if
to emphasize the point.
    "I
don't want to come in," Nicholas said. "I've got to get to
the hospital. But I didn't know your name." He stood and stepped
forward. "I wanted," he said, "to know your
name."
    "Paige,"
she said quietly. She twisted her fingers as if she did not know what
to make of her hands. "Paige O'Toole."
    "Paige,"
Nicholas repeated. "Well." He smiled and stepped off into
the street. He tried to read the Globe