67. Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door
GUNS N’ ROSES
“Nah. Don’t call Ma. Call me. She won’t answer. Always call me.”
Andrew drives with one hand on the wheel of my Mercedes, the other gripping his phone, talking to the hospital as we leave the waking brownstones of the Upper East Side.
It’s a little after five in the morning, and night still has the city trapped in noir—one long black trench coat with frost on its shoulders.
“No, she’s home in Union City. Asleep.
“I gotta wake her up.”
“She hasn’t eaten since dinner.”
“Around seven-thirty.
“Soup and half a roll.”
“No food, no water.
“I know the drill. I’ll make sure.”
“No fever. Nah.
“No infection symptoms.”
“She’s been tired,
“but she’s always tired.”
“She took her meds. I got the list.”
“Tell me if this is a backup offer.”
A long pause.
“You sayin’ she’s primary?”
“Okay. Yeah. Blood type O positive—
“you said deceased donor?”
“This liver got the green light,
“or somebody still gotta get eyes on it?”
“No, I understand.”
“I’m not sayin’ no.
“I’m askin’ what I’m walkin’ her into.”
“So we get there, labs, EKG, chest X-ray, anesthesia, then wait.” His throat works. “I know it can still fall through.”
He glances at me,
then back to the road.
“Yeah, I know all of it.”
“If anything changes,
“call me before you call anybody else.”
Andrew hangs up and drops his phone into the cupholder, eyes ahead as the blurred headlights of the Lincoln Tunnel approach, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as the car falls silent.
His mother’s getting a liver.
It’s the kind of phone call people drop to their knees over.
But he doesn’t seem happy,
hasn’t smiled once.
I keep waiting for it to hit him.
A tear. A laugh.
A fucking sigh of relief.
But no, he flinches,
then frantically pats down his pockets,
his jeans,
his jacket.
“Son of a bitch,” he groans,
his fist coming down on the wheel.
I glance over at him. “What?”
“My wallet.
“Left my fuckin’ wallet on the counter.”
He curses under his breath.
“We gotta turn around.”
Before his panic takes the wheel, I reach into my bag, pull out his wallet, and hold it out for him.
His eyes snap to the wallet,
then to me.
I want to comfort him, to get him to relax, but I don't know where the fuck we stand.
“This is good news, Drew,” I finally say.
He nods as he takes it
and drops it into his lap.
Eyes back on the road,
he pushes his palm up his forehead.
“Andrew—”
I want to tell him it’s going to be okay.
But one: I don’t know that.
Two: feels too empty.
“Tell me what you need, alright?”
I keep my eyes on the road.
It's taking me a lot to agree to go,
but I can't abandon him.
Not with this.
“I’m here, but if you change your mind and need me gone when we get there? I’ll go. No scene or nothing. But until then…” I shrug. “You take care of your mom. Let me take care of you.”
His eyes stay on the road, his right hand on the wheel, while he reaches across the console with the other, and takes my hand in his.
We hit the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel fast, the yellow tiles flying by as he weaves past delivery trucks. And as soon as we spill out onto the other side, he climbs the winding Union City streets before the tires slam to a stop in front of his place a few minutes later.
He throws the gear into park,
the car still rocking before he jumps out.
“Allison, stay in the car.
“Lock the doors. Keep the heat on.
“I’m grabbin’ Ma, Momma, the bag.
“Five minutes. Don’t move.”
Then he sprints up the porch steps and disappears inside.
I sit back in the passenger seat, heat blasting my legs, not even knowing if I belong in this moment, and even more ashamed that liquor’s still slugging in my blood.
I look down at myself.
Hoodie under my jacket.
Sweatpants yanked over tiny spandex shorts. UGGs I shoved on in the dark.
One brown.
One black.
I close my eyes, ‘cause… Perfect.
Nothing says stable emotional support system for a mother’s liver transplant like a drunk tagging along in mismatched UGGs.
I glance out the window and back toward the house. The street is criminally dark and quiet, the five-in-the-morning freeze sticking to the glass.
Inside, Andrew’s house wakes up one window at a time.
A hallway light.
The kitchen light.
A bedroom light.
Then Paola’s scream splits the house open from inside, happy and crying, the warmth of it hitting me right in the chest.
Four minutes later,
the front door swings open.
The three of them pile out, Maria—bundled inside a mountain of sweats and winter coats—glued to Andrew’s side as he helps her down the porch steps.
Paola follows, clutching a rosary and crying-laughing, her hands in the air as she prays and talks a mile a minute.
Maria’s rambling rapid-fire Italian as she digs into her pockets, pulling out a breakfast bar, and Andrew snatches it right out of her fingers.
“Ma, che cazzo…
“I told you. No food,” he snaps.
When she groans,
he looks at her like—
you-gotta-be-kiddin’-me.
“They’re about to cut you open, and you’re tryin’ to sneak a fuckin’ breakfast bar?”
Paola spots the Mercedes waiting on the curb first. Sees me sitting inside of it next.
“Allison!” she shrieks, yanking the back door open to sit behind the driver’s seat.
I barely have time to turn before she’s leaning between the front seats, both hands grabbing my face, kissing my forehead.
Then my cheek. Then the other one. “Lemme look at you, sweetheart,” she says, grabbing my chin.
“Pale, drunk, sad. Just like the last time I saw you.”
My jaw falls open,
a half-laugh slipping out.
“Damn. Good to see you too.”
“Glad you’re here.” She pats my cheek, eyes lit up. “Andrew needs you. We all do.”
The cold air rushes in when Andrew opens the back door behind me, the car filling with the scent of Vicks and old perfume as he helps Maria into the backseat.
When she sees me, she leans forward with a whisper. “Allison, amore mio, se mi vuoi bene, if you really love me, you go to the vending machine when we get there.”
As Andrew’s sliding on her seatbelt,
his head snaps up. “Ma.”
Maria settles back in the seat,
not looking at him.
Soon as he shuts the car door,
Maria snaps forward again.
“Peanut M&M’s,” she whispers fast.
“Yellow bag.
“Don’t tell Andrew.”
The driver’s side door swings open, and Maria throws herself back into the seat behind me.
He slides in, offering me a steaming travel mug. “For my girl,” he says, eyes flicking to mine. “Can’t have you lookin’ like some asshole broke your heart.”
Paola slides on her seatbelt and claps loud. “Let’s go get a fuckin’ liver!”
// 5:09 AM - HOPEFIELD MEDICAL HOSPITAL - WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, NYC //
Once we arrive at Hopefield Medical Hospital, and Andrew says ‘liver,’ everything moves at hyperspeed:
one nurse is getting her into a wheelchair, another’s taking her name, another’s asking Andrew to confirm date of birth before snapping a band around her wrist.
Andrew’s signing her in while answering the list of questions as if he’s been waiting a decade to get them off his back.
I stand at the back of the chaos, holding my coffee and Andrew’s binder, the room bright white and piercing my eyes.
Paola’s hand stays in Maria’s, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. “Lisa! Wake your ass up and call me back.”
Andrew turns and reaches back to confiscate Paola’s phone.
Paola holds it away from him.
“The family should know.”
Andrew moves closer to say, “Not yet. I’m serious.” But then when her face hardens, his softens. “Please don’t make me be the bad guy right now. Ain’t havin’ everybody cryin’ and prayin’ over somethin’ that can still fall apart, aight? Just wait until we get confirmation. Deal?”
“Fine,” she grumbles, shoving her phone back into her purse.
The heavy doors split open, and a woman in blue scrubs appears. “We’re going straight to pre-op,” she says, taking the handles of the wheelchair.
One second Maria’s next to us, and the next she’s being rolled away down the bright corridor, the badge-guarded doors automatically shutting behind them.
Paola’s face breaks.
‘Cause this is actually happening.
And it’s happening fast.
Until it’s not.
Until we’re left behind in the waiting room, where it feels like being stranded in a train station. One where no trains are coming or going.
An hour passes,
and Andrew hasn’t sat once.
He’s on his third cup of coffee,
pacing the wall,
checking his phone every two seconds.
Next to me,
Paola drifts closer in her chair.
“Stare at them.”
My brows jump. “What?”
“The girls behind the counter.
“Stare at them hard, no blinking.”
A half-laugh kicks through my nose.
“Why?”
“I been staring for half an hour. They’re used to me. This needs both our eyes on ‘em. They’ll feel the heat, then they’ll rush. Then somebody opens that door and says, ‘family can come back now.’”
She looks at me from the corner of her eye. “Trust me. Works every time.”
I roll my eyes and stare.
The second Paola turns her gaze back to them, mine returns to the TV in the corner of the room. The volume’s low, closed captions scrolling across the screen under the news anchor:
“Police are investigating after a twenty-six-year-old man was found unresponsive in an alley behind a West Village bar early this morning. Sources say the man had visible injuries, though investigators are also looking into a possible overdose. The medical examiner has not yet ruled on the cause of death.”
To my left, Andrew’s stopped pacing.
His eyes are locked on the TV,
when the door finally swings open.
Paola slaps my knee as she stands. “Look at that. Cuban girl stares, doors open.”
The nurse steps into the waiting room,
clipboard against her chest. “Andrew?”
Andrew’s brows jump, head turning, his hand leaving his pocket as he glances back at me, then at the blonde nurse.
Her attention slides right to him.
And she looks at him.
And keeps looking at him,
gaze falling down his body,
then back up.
I clear my throat.
Her eyes drop to the clipboard. “Maria’s in a room,” she says, professional. “The coordinator wants to speak with you and Paola at bedside.”
Paola reaches back blindly for me.
“She comes.”