Chapter 17 Elias
ELIAS
“Dr. Carrington, I received your test results, and you are a match for your father. I haven’t told him yet. I figured you’d want to.” Dr. Washington stands in front of me, professional, a streak of gray hair framing her face. Even cloaked in professionalism, I see the hesitancy in her eyes.
I was having a good day. No, that’s terrible. That sounds like I don’t want to help my father or that I’m upset that I’m a match. I’m not. I figured I would be, but yes, there was a small part, the tiniest darkest part of me, that wondered if I’d be able to breathe easier if he was gone. For good.
It’s dark. It’s a twisted, fucked-up thought, but I’m so fucking exhausted of saving him when he never wants to save himself.
So tired of his constant abuse. Even though I’m a grown fucking man in my forties, every time he comes around, the child inside me rises, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him.
I need this relationship to be done. To be over.
“I’ll tell him. It would be best if it came from me. Thanks for telling me, Dr. Washington.” My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I want nothing more than to check it to see if it’s her.
I sent my package, no pun intended, to her today, and I’m curious what her reaction will be. She’s probably at work.
It hits me then—I don’t really know what she does. But I don’t care in the slightest.
“If you’re sure.” Dr. Washington’s voice pulls me from the wandering thoughts again. “It’s really no problem. I understand the relationship between you and your father isn’t…ideal.”
“It’s okay. It’s best if I talk to him.”
She purses her lips in concentration, the wheels spinning in her head. I know she thinks her speaking to him would be better, considering how she was a witness to the last conversation I had with my father.
It didn’t go very well.
“I’m sure. We can go ahead and schedule the surgery. I want to get it done and over with.” Annoyance wells up in my chest again. The same feeling I always get when it comes to my father.
“Do you have a support system for this surgery, Dr. Carrington? You can’t be by yourself. You’ll need help after a massive surgery like this.”
“I know. I do. I’ll be fine.”
She doesn’t believe me, given how her eyes narrow. She clicks her pen. “I don’t know why, but I don’t believe you, and until I know for sure you have a support system for this surgery, I’m not scheduling anything.”
“What? You can’t do that. He needs a liver.”
She peers into my father’s room, nodding in agreement. “He does. Luckily, he has a little time, which gives you the time to find a support system.”
“Oh, come on, Dr. Washington. I’m a doctor. The support system I have are the people here. My friends are here. They’ll take care of me.”
“My answer is no,” she says with finality. “Until you can answer with certainty.”
“I am certain. I have a support system. Schedule the surgery, Dr. Washington. Really.”
“Who?”
“What?”
“Who is going to take care of you after the surgery?”
I rack my brain, knowing I could say Winston, but I don’t want to throw him and his wife under the bus and force them to take care of me without a conversation first. The silence between us is answer enough.
Dr. Washington isn’t a smug person, but she allows it to show on her face. “You have some time to figure it out. When you do, please tell me, okay?” With a forced, close-lipped smile on her face, she turns around and walks away, disappearing into another patient’s room.
I never thought being a loner would matter. I didn’t expect a situation like this. Never did I think I’d have to save my father’s life and need to give a lobe of my liver to him. Transplants are hard on the body. It’s a high-risk procedure for both the donor and the recipient.
“Fuck,” I whisper harshly to myself.
The downside of putting myself in isolation for so many years is this. It’s an easy fix—I think. It should be easy. But I can’t expect anyone, not even Winston, to take care of me when he barely knows me. That isn’t fair.
Sighing, I nearly collide with a nurse when I step forward to enter my father’s room.
“So sorry about that.” I give a curt nod and forced smile.
She doesn’t notice. Her attention is glued to the patient chart she’s reading.
My knuckles tap on the door.
He turns his head and it’s a blow to the gut to see him like this. He’s gaunt, thin, and I know he’s been going through alcohol withdrawals. He also has to beat those in his condition which I’m sure is taking its toll on him. His chart indicates that even with all of his issues, he’s managing.
“Son, come in. Come in. It’s good to see you.” He pushes himself up by using his hands as leverage against the mattress, lifting himself higher onto the pillow. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you.” He tries to flatten his hair with his fingers next, trying to calm the bedhead.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” I take a few tentative steps into the room, the unsettled feeling in my gut clawing at me. “How are you? Is Dr. Washington treating you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s been fantastic.”
“Good. I’m glad. That’s good.” I have no idea how to carry on a conversation with him. It’s been too long. He isn’t a father to me anymore. He’s a stranger.
“Come. Sit. Tell me about yourself. I want to know.”
“Do you? Or do you just want to know if I’m a match?”
He flinches as if I slapped him. “Of course I care, Elias. I haven’t seen you in ages—”
“And whose fault is that?” I snap, then pinch the bridge of my nose to take a deep breath.
The machines hiss and the heart rate monitor beeps, signaling a change in the rhythm.
“I know. I know I haven’t been there. I haven’t been the best father.”
“You haven’t been a father,” I correct him, and immediately I know I shouldn’t have said that. I’m punishing him while he’s down. I can’t do that. “I’m sorry,” I relent, taking a small, cushioned seat by the window. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t realize how angry I was until now.”
“I deserve it. It’s okay.” He plays with the hem of the blanket covering him, moments of silence turning into minutes.
“I’m a match. I came here to tell you that. I have to figure out a support system for after the surgery. Once I do that, we can get the surgery scheduled. You’ll be okay.”
“Will we?” he asks. “I don’t care about you being a match. I only want to have a normal conversation with my son.”
I swallow the emotion in my throat. “I don’t know if I can do that with you. I’ve never done that with you. I’ve never been able to confide in you. I’m not saying this to hurt you, I’m not. I’m only stating the obvious.”
He raises a hand to stop me from talking. “I know that. I know. I deserve everything you have to say. Everything you feel.”
“You do. What about you? Who’s your support system after this? Do you have anyone?”
“Don’t worry about me. You’ve done that long enough.”
“You have to have someone helping you, Dad. The recovery isn’t something that can be done alone.”
“I won’t be alone. I have a friend, Matt. I’ve already called him. He’s on his way here, actually.”
“Matt…” I try to think about whether I know him or not.
“You don’t know him. He’s my sponsor.”
I snort. “He’s done one hell of a job.”
“It’s not his fault. I left. I’ve been on my own for a while. He hasn’t heard from me in six months.”
That sounds just like him. That’s what my dad does. He leaves. He’s the best at that, and after years and years and years of this, I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to get this transplant, leave, and go right back to his bad habits.
“I’m going to give you a section of my liver,” I say calmly. “But my decision remains, Dad. After this, we’re done. My life is no longer your concern.”
“Elias, please, don’t do this. Please. I know before when you said you were done, you were mad, and you have every right to be upset with me. You have every right to hate me. I want to work this out. I want to be a father to you. I want to know your life.”
Martin Carrington. Wanting to know about my life.
Those are words I’ll never be used to hearing.
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know if I can do that.”
He reaches out for me, desperation welling in his tired eyes.
“Wait. Don’t go. Not like this. Please. Please, I’m begging you.
I know I haven’t been a good man. I know I haven’t treated you like I should, and I’m not asking for your forgiveness.
I have done and have said unspeakable things.
” His voice wavers with emotion. “And you didn’t kill your mom.
You aren’t the reason why she died.” He breaks, sobbing.
I can’t tell if he means it. I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth.
What do I do? After years of our relationship being beaten into the ground and broken, I’m not sure if I can take a leap of faith.
Believing in him always ends up hurting me or leaving me with a black eye.
Believing in him means months or years of not hearing from him.
Believing in him leads me to wondering if he’s dead or not.
I don’t know if I have any belief left.
“I spent years blaming you,” he says. “I’ve said horrible things that I’m sure have damaged you in ways that can never be fixed. I’m so sorry. I want some type of relationship with you, Elias. Any kind. I’ll take anything.”
“And then what?” I whisper through my own watery eyes. “Then, you leave again? You get drunk again? You barge into my workplace and hit me in front of my coworkers again? You won’t talk to me for years again?”
He shakes his head. “No. No. I’m done with that. I’m done drinking.”
“I’ve heard that before.” I tilt my head back, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve heard all of this before.”
“I know, but this time, I mean it. I’ll go to meetings. I’ll do rehab, if that’s possible after a transplant. I think I can still go when I’m healed, right? I’ll do anything. Anything,” he pleads, his cheeks wet with tears.
The last time I saw him cry was when Mom died.
“I’ll think about it. I have to go check on my patients.” I try to leave when he stops me again.
“Tell me one thing about you, please. Is there anyone in your life? After all this time after your ex-wife? You don’t deserve to be alone, Elias. I do. I deserve to be alone, but not you.”
I glance down at the floor, gripping the door handle for dear life. “There’s someone. It’s new. That’s all I feel comfortable saying.”
He smiles, a real, genuine smile that crinkles his eyes. Dad looks like I just gave him the moon with the vaguest piece of information about me.
“Okay. Okay, that’s good. That’s great. I can’t…I can’t wait to learn more about her. If you allow me.”
“I need to think about it, okay? I meant what I said about being done. I meant it, but there’s still that part of me that wants what you want, and I really need to think about it.”
“I understand. I won’t rush you. I won’t. Just…don’t give up on me yet, okay? Not yet.”
I stare at him for a few seconds and wipe under my eye, fleeing the room as if it caught fire. I want to give up on him, and I’m pissed off at myself because I’m not sure I can.
Pulling out my phone, I send a text to her.
Me: I get off in about two hours. Can I call you?
Miss Wrong Number: Of course. I look forward to it. I can’t wait.
I can’t either.
She’s starting to be the only thing I look forward to at the beginning and end of every single day.