Eden's Eyes by Sean Costello

Author:Sean Costello [Costello, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Canada
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

"Directory assistance," a bored voice said. "For what place?"

"Sudbury," Karen said into the phone. "A Mr. Bertrand Crowell."

"Do you have an address?"

"Four-forty-four Copper Street," Karen said, recalling the address from the donor's obituary.

"One moment please."

In the hissing quiet, Karen's mind ran a headlong race with her heart. The idea of calling the donor's parents had struck her this afternoon, in a flash both brilliant and darkly foreboding. In its brilliance, the notion had cast light on the root of her preoccupation: she wanted to thank someone. The most wondrous gift she could imagine had been anonymously bestowed on her, and there was no one to thank. It didn't seem right. She had thanked the doctors, but all they had provided was their skills. She had thanked God. . . but it wasn't enough. She wanted to get closer.

But the shadow of doubt was vast. She'd been battling beneath it all day, battled there even now, as she waited for that bored voice to recite the number. She could hang up this instant and put an end to it. . . but that would leave her where she was, unable to shake herself free of this imagined indebtedness. And the crazy part was, she knew that her debt wasn't real. The donor's parents had no idea who she was, nor, she felt certain, did they care to. They had received their thanks from the doctors who had taken their son's organs. For them, it was time to go on, to forget.

So what in hell was she doing?

The voice droned off the number. Karen committed it to memory. Before her disbelieving eyes, her finger dialed it. It rang once. . .

And she cradled the receiver with a slam.

Then picked it up again, and dialed. By the fourth ring, she had changed her mind twice that many times.

Her finger diddled the hook—

"Hello?"

The voice was a woman's. Flat, suspicious, unwelcoming.

(Hang up!)

"I. . . I'm sorry, my name is Karen, Karen Lockhart? and. . . is this Mrs. Crowell?"

"Yes." A hiss of cold steam. "This is she."

"I'm calling about. . . your son—"

"What?" Very suspicious now.

(Stop this!)

"I just wanted to offer my condolences," Karen blurted, her voice suddenly shrill. "It was a brave thing your son did, a very unselfish thing. I realize that you still must be grieving his death, but—"

"Are you sure you've got the right number?" the voice interrupted, still flat, still arctic. "It's true, my son was very ill. Some even thought he had died. But he didn't die. My son is alive and well, Miss, Lockhart. He's not feeling himself just yet, but he will. He's already up and around. . ."

"I'm sorry," Karen said, her palms slippery with sweat. "You're right. I must have misdialed. I—"

She was talking to the dial tone.

Why had she lied? Even if her son had not been Karen's donor—which Karen did not believe—he was dead, it was in the newspaper.

Was it denial? Had the shock of her son's death shattered her mind? Karen had heard of that happening.

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