May We Be Forgiven

transplant recipient began having terrible nightmares, and ultimately the police were brought in; the girl’s nightmares were accurate and provided the clues that solved the murder.”
    “I think we should go,” Mark says.
    Ashley comes running out with a gift she’s wrapped for Avery. “It was something I made for my mom; I want you to have it.”
    “Thank you,” Avery says, her headache clearly getting worse.
    Mark starts the car and puts it in gear. It lurches forward—we all stand back.
    “I’ve got to go, honey,” she says to Ashley. “Stay in touch. …”
    “I’m not entirely clear what she wanted,” Madeline says, watching the car drive away.
    “I never want to see her again,” Nate says, when we’re all back inside. “It was too weird, like one of those movies you see the trailer for—by M. Night Shyamalan.”

    N ate is up in the night. I hear footsteps and intercept him in the living room. “What’s up?” He doesn’t answer. “Are you sleepwalking?”
    He shakes his head no, and sits on the living-room sofa. “Why did she come? It’s like she wants us to tell her it’s okay that she has Mom’s heart—that we’re sorry she has feelings about it, like we’re supposed to make her feel better? How about it’s not okay, none of it is okay? How about no one thought for one minute about me or Ashley when all this was happening?” He goes on and on. I don’t interrupt. I look at him. I listen. I pat his back. He rocks back and forth, downloading all of it—erupting. Every feeling he’s ever had is coming out of him—at various points he’s crying, or wild-eyed and screaming. Ashley and Ricardo come to the top of the stairs and ask if everything is all right.
    “Yes,” I say. “Nate is very upset, but he’ll be fine.” In truth, I’m not sure. He’s exploding; everything he tried so hard to keep in for so long is coming out.
    Tessie is with us in the living room, helping too. At some point during the night, we start talking about the trip to South Africa—it seems to calm Nate to revisit our adventures. I tell him about the Web page Sofia made for the trip, how she posted pictures and stories about the experience culled from the e-mails and photos I sent, and that strangers had been visiting the site and making donations. I tell him that there’s close to thirty thousand dollars in the account.
    “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
    “Nate, it’s one-thirty in the morning. Why would I lie?”
    I take him to his father’s computer, show him the page and the comments people have made about being so impressed to see such a young person committed to making social change.
    “Is the money real? Do we actually have it?”
    “Yes,” I say, “it’s in a bank account in your name.”
    “Can I call Sofia tomorrow and thank her? I didn’t know how involved she’s been. I mean, it’s really kind of amazing that someone who had nothing to gain was so supportive.”
    “Yes,” I say, “it’s unusual.”
    “And we should make a time to talk with Sakhile about what to do with the money,” Nate says. “Can we e-mail him now?”
    “Sure,” I say, and we do.
    “How about trying to get some sleep?” I suggest. He nods. “Listen, I’m really sorry about today—I wouldn’t have suggested it if I thought it would be so upsetting.”
    “I didn’t know it would be,” Nate says.
    I follow him upstairs and down the hall to his room. “Will you read to me?” he asks.
    “Sure,” I say. He picks a book from when he was younger off his shelf and crawls into bed. I read to him like he’s a little boy, and while I am reading, Ricardo wakes up again and also listens, and when I am done, I kiss Nate good night on the forehead, and then I kiss Ricardo too.
    “Do I have to worry about her?” Nate asks as I’m walking out of the room.
    “No,” I say.
    By morning, Sakhile has e-mailed back several times, wondering when we can talk—anytime is good for him. Wondering how much money is coming their way and when they might get it.
    We schedule a village meeting via Skype, and I leave it to Nate to tell them about the Web site and the donations.
    “How much?” Sakhile asks excitedly via Skype.
    Nate smoothly defers a direct answer. “Quite a bit,” he says. “Enough to make a difference.”
    And quickly the conversation becomes about want. From South Africa we hear that the village should have a car or a bus that would run back and forth to the