Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MAEVE
St. Joseph Medical Center is positioned right near Mount Rainer, and even from this far, it’s one of the most amazing views I’ve ever seen.
I don’t know what I thought Washington would look like, but it’s more beautiful than I expected it to be.
I’d never traveled this far up the West Coast before, and now I’m disappointed I haven’t.
But I only get a tiny glimpse before I follow Tate into the hospital, where the views get much more bland and much more…
unsettling. Medical personnel bustle around every corner and every hallway, donning blue scrubs and some wearing white coats.
I haven’t been in many hospitals, only when Gran had a fall three summers ago, and even then, I had this awful pit in my stomach.
There’s something about the white walls and checkered linoleum floors and the smell that sends off warning signals in my brain.
And to think this is what I’m choosing for a career. But that’s why I wanted to be in the baby wing. If I was going to be in a cesspool of doom, I wanted to be around the babies. The moms. The joy.
He wanted to get to the hospital the moment we crossed the state line, didn’t even care to check into a hotel first and drop off our things, but I was okay with it.
I was okay with whatever made him feel better, or as better as he could feel.
Really, it just seems like he wants to get this over with, and I don’t blame him.
His hand ends up finding mine as we make our way to the front desk, and I immediately notice how clammy he feels. I peek hesitantly up at him as he talks to the lady manning check-in, chewing at my lip as I observe how rigid he looks.
He looks scared, anxious, and angry all at once.
There’s this strange feeling in my gut, a defensive one almost, like I feel the need to protect him from what’s about to happen.
Even though I don’t fully know what’s going to happen yet.
The unknown has me throwing my guard up.
I’m ready to tug him out of this hospital the second things go haywire.
I’m planning our escape in my head as he figures out what room his mother is in, before he’s pulling me down the nearest hall and ripping me from my thoughts.
“I could stay in the waiting room—”
“Maeve,” he cuts me off, stopping abruptly, and I almost run into him, before he’s turning slightly to look down at me, “that is the very last thing I want right now. I’m freaking out. I don’t know if I c-can do this, and I need your help—”
“I’m right here,” I say, cutting him off right back. “I am right here with you. I won’t go anywhere, not if you don’t want me to.”
Even if the thought of being in the same room as Tate and his mom for their first reunion in years has me absolutely shitting myself, I know this is a huge deal for him. And if he wants me there, I’m there. Nerves aside.
“I don’t want you to go anywhere,” he manages to say, taking a deep breath, “do you want to go anywhere?”
“If I wanted to, I—”
“You would, right.” He nods, giving himself the reassurance as he straightens his shoulders and turns to continue walking, pulling me behind him once more.
When we reach her hospital room, the door wide open, Tate stops just before we step into view.
I watch his burly shoulders rise and fall from behind, giving his hand a squeeze for encouragement.
That must do the trick because we continue walking not even a second later, and stepping into the room feels like stepping into some sort of black hole.
All hospital rooms look the same, really.
White walls, white bed, white sheets. Except there’s a frail woman sitting in the bed in this room, her eyes a spitting image of Tate’s and her hair the same shade of brown.
I hold back my gasp as I take her in. She’s Tate’s mother, alright.
They’re twins. Even as sickly as she looks, I can see him in her face, the little features and quirks I’ve grown fond of over the past few weeks.
She’s sicker than I expected her to be. It looks like she’s been sick for months, based on the dark yellow tint of her skin.
Tate must not have expected it either, because his entire body goes rigid at the sight of her. She looks up at him like he’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen, her hands coming up to her chest, cradling them there.
I’m feeling like I definitely should have stayed in the waiting area. I should leave them alone, let them have this moment and figure out what they need to figure out, but he squeezes my hand tighter, like he can read my mind.
“Tay,” his mom croaks, and I feel him physically recoil at the nickname.
He needs to have this conversation with her, and he needs to do it alone.
So, I nudge him forward with our intertwined hands, gently pulling mine away as I do.
He immediately looks over his shoulder with his brows knitted down at me, but I just give him my best reassuring smile before standing off to the side. Giving them the space they need.
“I’m so glad you decided to come see me,” she continues, and I don’t miss the way her eyes flicker over at me very briefly before they’re back on him.
Of course, she’s probably wondering who the heck I am and what I’m doing here.
Tate doesn’t speak; he just looks at her, his hands fidgeting by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. I know he doesn’t. He’s struggling, I can see it. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his throat bobs with a swallow every few seconds. Is he panicking?
“I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice,” he finally says.
“You had a choice.” Her eyes look sad, but what do I know? I don’t know her like he does. She could be acting, for all I know.
He cocks his head skeptically down at her before he relaxes just a smidge. I can see him working through his emotions in real time, trying to figure out a way not to explode on her like I’m sure he wants to after all these years.
“Did I?” Tate counters, and I wonder if she catches the hint of sarcasm in his tone. She has to. “That’s a first.”
Her blinks are slow as she looks up at him for a minute before saying, “I deserve that.”
“Did you call me because you actually wanted to see me, or did you call me because I’m your one possible ticket to live?” he asks bluntly, not even an ounce of stutter in his voice.
There’s a confidence there that I haven’t seen before, an…authority. It makes my spine straighten like he’s talking to me, and something about that has me fighting a proud smirk. He’s standing up for himself, and it’s about damn time.
“I called you because…” she shakes her head, searching for the right words, “I wanted to see you. Of course I want to see you. I want to keep seeing you, Tatum. I want to live long enough to fix this. To fix what I’ve done.”
“Just convenient timing, is all,” he mutters back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m sorry,” his mom croaks out, swallowing thickly, “I know that doesn’t fix anything. I know I have a lot more making up to do, but it’s a start. Right? It could be.”
The death stare he gives her has me dropping my head to my chest as I stare at the ground.
The tension has me wishing I could disappear into thin air.
As genuine as his mom may seem, there’s still a lot I don’t know.
A lot that he will tell me when he feels ready, and until then, I can’t make any assumptions.
I trust Tate to know what he’s doing. And if he doesn’t forgive her, then we don’t forgive her.
I keep that escape plan in the back of my mind from earlier.
“It could be,” he repeats, “all because you decided so, hmm?”
A knock at the doorframe puts the conversation to a halt, an older gentleman in a white coat entering the room with a clipboard in hand as he gives the three of us a friendly smile.
“Hello, you must be Tatum,” the man says, extending his hand out to shake Tate’s, “I’m Dr. Hammond.”
“Hello,” Tate mumbles.
“I’m so glad you could be here with us in person,” Dr. Hammond says, setting his clipboard down and sticking his hand under the automatic dispenser on the wall, rubbing in the hand sanitizer, “I know we discussed most of this over the phone, but I’d love to go over the tests needed in order to see if you’re a match for a living donor transplant and if you’d even like to move forward with testing. ”
“Okay.” Tate nods.
“First, there will be some paperwork you’ll have to go over and sign before the real tests.
Tests include a physical examination, updated blood work, diagnostic tests such as X-rays and ultrasounds, and an EKG.
Then we have to determine if your liver would even be the correct size for the transplant. ”
“Okay,” Tate says again, “and what is needed in order to be a match?”
“Your blood type has to be a match, you have to pass the crossmatch, which determines if the recipient's antibodies will attack the donor’s cells, and then you have to pass the HLA typing, which tests your antibodies.”
Tate nods again, chewing at the inside of his lip before he scrubs a hand down his face. “And how long does it take to get results?”
“It can take up to two weeks, but in this case…” Dr. Hammond trails off, giving Tate’s mom a sympathetic smile, “it would have to be as soon as possible. Rushed lab work is doable.”
“Can I think on it?”
Dr. Hammond nods. “Of course. I’ll give you some time to think about it. I know it’s a big decision. There are always risks associated with surgery, even if you do end up being a match. We can do the tests as early as tomorrow morning. You can let me know then.”
Tomorrow?
Less than twenty-four hours to make a decision like that?
“Thank you,” Tate tells the doctor, before turning toward me and extending his hand. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if he wants to say anything more to his mom, but he gives me one small shake of his head, so I take his hand and follow him as he guides us out of the room.
I try to catch his attention as we fly down the hallway like he’s running away from someone, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead.
The only thing I can do is hold on for dear life as we hurry down the hallway, past the front desk, and out the front door into the cold drizzle that’s now falling from the grey sky.
He doesn’t stop until we’re at his truck, and even though he hasn’t said a word, he doesn’t hesitate to open up the passenger side door for me to climb in and close it gently behind me.
When he gets into the driver’s side, he doesn’t speak for a while.
The only sounds are the soft rain against the windshield and his heavy breathing.
This must be so overwhelming for him.
“If I let her die without getting tested, there’s a part of me that might always feel guilty,” he finally says. “A part of her that might use that against me. If she dies, and I wasn’t a match, at least I wouldn’t have it on my conscience.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. This is something he needs to get off his chest, weigh his options out loud.
“But a part of me also feels like she doesn’t deserve my help,” his voice falls into a whisper, “a part of me wants to just let her…rot.”
The last word comes out sounding as if it was painful for him to even say, and I bite at my lip as I stare over at him in the driver’s seat. My eyebrows pull together as I watch him fidget with his hands in his lap.
“Is that…awful of me?” he rasps.
“No,” I tell him, “you’re allowed to process this however you need to. Tate…you were a victim. An innocent child. However you decide to go about this is the right thing to do because it’s what you want to do.”
The silence settles in around us once more, but it’s not long before Tatum is crying. The sound breaks my heart, and my eyes water as I peek over at him. He’s angrily tugging his glasses from his nose as he wipes away the tears trailing down his cheeks and his nose.
“Tate,” I coo sadly, sliding over in the seat to wrap my arms around his shaking figure. He buries his face into my chest immediately, and I cradle his head with my hands.
He sobs against me for a while, and I rub his giant back in slow, gentle circles as I hold him through it.
After what feels like minutes, he eventually stops, but he doesn’t lift his head from me, doesn’t look at me.
And I don’t force him to, I just stay there, my arms around him like I’m the only thing holding him together.
“Sorry,” he croaks, “I keep doing that.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him, pressing my cheek to the top of his head.
He wipes his sleeve along his nose before finally lifting his head, sniffling as he tries to crack a joke, even though I can tell how embarrassed he’s feeling. The pink on his cheeks isn’t from crying. “You d-don’t think I’m a crybaby?”
“No, Tate.” My voice is serious.
He doesn’t say anything, but he still doesn’t look me in the eye.
“You don’t have to be scared of showing your feelings to me,” I whisper, lowering my head so he has no choice but to meet my gaze. “I would never judge you.”
After the last two weeks, I’ve noticed he does that a lot, tries to cover up his emotions with a joke or a comment of self-consciousness.
There’s never anything wrong with a guy crying or being in tune with how he’s feeling; if anything, it’s more attractive.
I like that he is sensitive and sweet and cares too much because so do I.
“I’m going to do it,” he says after a moment. “I’m going to get the test.”
I nod once. “Okay.”
“You don’t think that’s stupid?”
“Nothing you do is stupid, Clark,” I murmur, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, to which he closes his eyes, “you have to stop doubting yourself. You’re the boy genius, remember? You have a photographic memory, for Christ’s sake.”
Tate observes me for a second, his dark eyes darting around my face, before he shoots me a warm smile and slowly leans toward me again to kiss the corner of my mouth.
“Thank you.”