8. Positive?
8
POSITIVE?
VIVIAN
“A little higher?” Richard asked from atop a chair.
“Yes, please,” I replied. He reached up to pull more rope through a ceiling hook, threading it into the drop ceiling grid. “Stop. Perfect.”
Several drop cloths with grommets had been strung up with the ropes, forming a teepee-like fort in the corner of our spacious room.
Nurse Kimmie Patrico, our nurse of the day, popped in. “This has to be the best blanket fort ever built in a hospital room,” she spoke with a Jersey-influenced drawl.
“Richard made it for me,” Paris chimed in, bouncing and clapping excitedly as she readied herself to move in, already collecting her stuffed animals and books into a pile. She was having a great day so far, as if the magic of Richard’s blood inside of her gave her new life. A part of me fantasized the doctors would burst in at any moment and tell me she was healed and we could go home.
Kimmie observed, “Hm. We’d better keep the other children from seeing it—they’ll be jealous.”
“They can visit my fort,” Paris offered cheerfully.
“It was easy, using just a few things I picked up at the hardware store down the road.” Richard stepped down from the chair and admired his handiwork. I knew that normally this wouldn’t have been allowed at the hospital, but for him and his VIP status, anything seemed possible. Then his phone rang, and as he headed out to take the call, he passed by me. He circled my wrist with his fingers, giving it a light squeeze, and whispered, “Be right back. Don’t let her move in without me. I don’t want to miss a thing.”
Kimmie must have overheard and, after he left, she teased, “I think some of the other mothers might be jealous that you have Richard around, too.”
Paris added, “ Everyone needs a Richard.” We shared a laugh.
“Well, whoever he’s dating must be one lucky woman,” Kimmie sighed on her way out.
Was she fishing for gossip about him? About us, er, not that there was an us? I wouldn’t be the one to divulge any details.
Richard had quickly made friends among the parents once word spread that he was covering their hospital bills—a detail I was certain he intended to be anonymous. I suspected the nurses were gossiping and let the word out, and while I was irritated by it, he took it all in stride.
Later that afternoon, with the test results in hand, the doctor pulled me aside.
“I have some results from our tests,” he started. Paris was napping, but Richard was reading something on his phone, close enough to hear, but respectfully at a distance based on our conversation yesterday.
I braced myself. “Go on.”
“We’ve confirmed the cause of Paris’s anemia. She’s in early-stage kidney failure. One kidney is already underperforming and the other is deteriorating. She’s at high risk of needing a transplant.”
I nearly collapsed under the weight of the news, but Richard had rushed over and caught me in his supportive arms before I could hit the floor. Choked up, I fumbled with my words.
He gently asked, “May I speak for us, Vivian?” I could only nod in reply, grateful for his respect of my wishes. “Failure, doctor? What does that mean exactly? How serious is it?” he pressed.
Dr. Ferguson continued, “Paris has chronic kidney disease. One kidney has almost completely shut down, and the other is functioning at thirty percent. We need to put her on the transplant list immediately.”
Panicked, I shook my head and found my voice, pleading, “Are there no other options?”
“Can she manage with just one kidney?” Richard inquired.
“Normally, that might work,” the doctor explained sympathetically, “but because her remaining kidney is compromised, it won’t, in this case. She needs a transplant.”
Richard’s tone became resolute as he asked, “How much time do we have?”
“It’s hard to say. We can control her symptoms with medication and dialysis for a while, but the sooner we find a match, the better,” the doctor replied.
A surge of desperation took over me as I pulled myself away from Richard’s embrace, regaining my determination despite my shaky voice. “I’m her mother—take my kidney. I’d gladly donate it.”
The doctor shook his head. “Vivian, your blood is A positive which immediately rules you out because of Rh incompatibility. If we put your kidney into her body it would reject it. You cannot donate to her. However, Richard, you’re AB negative, a perfect match. You’re the strongest candidate for donation. We could test for compatibility and?—”
“No,” I interrupted firmly. “H-he’s already done so much. I can’t ask that of him.”
Richard regarded me, perplexed. “What are you talking about? This is your daughter’s life. If I’m a match and can help, I’d gladly give a kidney.”
Shocked at his willingness, I quickly turned to the doctor. “What about her father? I’ll call him in France and see if he can be tested for a match.”
“Vivian, don’t call him.” Richard’s eyes implored me.
“He’s her father. I can’t just leave him out of this.”
Clutching my phone as I left the room, I overheard him ask the doctor, “What does it take to be tested?”
The doctor explained methodically, “The process involves blood tests, genetic compatibility, and immune system screening. We look at six key HLA markers—ideally, a donor and child should share at least three or four. The closer the HLA match, the lower the risk of rejection…”
His words swirled in my mind, much like an intricate recipe. I had mastered making Chouquette Saint Honoré Cake during my culinary training, a complex process requiring time, precision, and a blend of choux pastry, caramelized sugar, and Chantilly cream. But the doctor’s medical jargon left me utterly confused.
How could Paris be so ill? I berated myself for missing any signs of this; that guilt would haunt me for years, especially if my dear little Paris didn’t pull through.
“Don’t think like that,” I muttered under my breath as I paced the hall, my hands trembling as I dialed Adrien in France.
When he answered, I launched straight into the matter—no time for pleasantries.
“Paris is sick. She needs a kidney transplant. Please, can you arrange for tests with your doctor to determine if you're a kidney match?”
“What do you mean?” he grumbled. I took a deep breath, explaining slowly; although he understood English very well, his tone was dismissive. By the end of my explanation, his French accent thickened with irritation. “It’s not enough I send you money? Now you want a piece of mon corps, my kidney?”
Frustration surged through me, and I snapped, “You only send money when it’s convenient for you. Your daughter’s kidneys are failing and you could save her life. We need to know if you’re compatible. What’s your blood type?”
Dismissively, he said, “ Je ne sais pas. O positif? I don’t know.”
I pressed further, rubbing a hand across my forehead. Dealing with him was like having my personal migraine—total hell. “How soon can you have tests done?”
With a bitter reply, he cut off the conversation. “Look, I’m busy. This is the last thing I needed to deal with right now.” He hung up.
“What?” If I could reach through the phone and strangle him, I would—for all the times he’d let us down. I tried calling and texting again, but, as always, we were never convenient for him.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t new. Ever since we’d moved back to the States, it felt as though Paris and I no longer existed to him. Perhaps I should have stayed in France so Paris could have some connection with him, but I had to get as far from his clutches as possible.
Downhearted by the weight of it all, my shoulders fell, and I returned to the room. There, I found the doctor and Richard wrapping up their conversation in the doorway while Paris seemed to have dozed off.
“Doctor, I contacted Paris’ father in France. He’s willing to be tested, but it might take some time,” I informed them.
He nodded. “Every potential donor increases the chances of finding a match.”
I added nervously, “He mentioned his blood type might be O positive.”
He eyed me skeptically. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll push him to get the tests done so we know for certain.” I wasn’t expecting Adrien to follow through, though.
Before more could be said, a nurse called the doctor from across the hall. Over his shoulder, he hurried away, adding, “Yes, get the tests. Mr. Bardeaux must be mistaken—there’s no way a father with O positive and a mother with your blood type could have produced a child with Paris’s blood type.”
Richard and I exchanged stunned looks. “Uh… did he just say…?” Richard shook his head, trying to comprehend it all.
I quickly reassured him, “No. No, that can’t be. Of course she’s Adrien’s. I’m sure he just forgot his blood type is all.”
As Paris woke and called for Richard, he returned to her, and I watched her tiny hand slip into his. She had him wrapped around her little finger, and he was equally enchanted by her.
“Have you been on a safari?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.
“Why yes, two years ago,” he replied with a smile, softly launching into another story about his adventures. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes—of course, Richard had been on one.
Yet, I was more grateful than ever for his presence. He was calm and kind with Paris, holding her attention and shielding her from worries over needles and tests.
Without him, I’d have had her glued to my phone, playing games or watching videos while I agonized over everything. Richard made this ordeal bearable. I’d thank Chelsea and Rex for sending him my way.
I would thank Richard too—somehow. Would cupcakes be enough as repayment for all he’d done? Or… would he take me?
I shook my head, not thinking clearly as I observed my daughter with him. What if the doctor was right about her paternity? With a sinking feeling, I remembered the moment I told Adrien I was pregnant, so sure at the time that the baby was his. Besides, the night I spent with Richard, we had used condoms—even though I wasn’t on the pill then, struggling to access medication abroad.
The timing between my night with Richard and my reunion with Adrien was so close. I had clung to the hope that the baby was Adrien’s—the man I believed I loved and had forgiven for his past behavior. But what if I was wrong and the baby was Richard’s?
What if all that wasted time, all the heartbreak over Adrien, meant that poor Paris spent six years not knowing her true father?
No. It couldn’t be? I almost blurted out my doubts, but I kept them in. Stepping out of the room again, I called Adrien once more.
After getting no response, I wandered down the hall in a daze until I found a quiet little waiting room at the end. I closed the door, switched off the lights, and allowed silent tears to stream down my face—even though what I really needed was a loud, anguished cry.