CHAPTER 23
HOLLY
“Has anyone offered to pay you for your kidney?” Dr. Carmine keeps his expression passive while he kindly interrogates me.
“Seriously? Don’t you get tired of asking me that every time we’re here?”
He just waits, pen poised over his pad of paper.
I sigh and avoid the urge to roll my eyes. “No. No one is paying me for my kidney.”
A little voice in the back of my head whispers to me.
What about your rent? Ben’s going to pay for that, isn’t he? Rule breaker.
I shift in my seat. Maybe I should talk to him again. Tell him I don’t need his financial help.
“Do you feel coerced in any way to go through with this donation?”
If he means threatened, then sure. I feel threatened by death with its scaly fingers wrapped around my brother’s throat.
But I doubt that’s what he’s getting at.
“No one has coerced or bribed me.”
“And you understand the risks of this surgery? You will be put under anesthesia, which can be very disconcerting for people.”
Losing consciousness isn’t high on my list of fun times, but I can deal with it. If anything about this process gets me sweating, it’s the needles they’ll be plugging into my veins. Best not think of it. And I have no plans to share my phobia with my temporary psychiatrist. I’m not sure if he’d call off the surgery because of it but better to err on the side of caution.
“I understand that. And I’m ready. I want my brother to be healthy. I want Ben to be healthy. I’d put up with a lot more pain and discomfort than this to make that happen.”
Normally, as Dr. Carmine goes through his list of questions, he wears his classic therapist face. No emotions other than polite interest. But my last statement actually receives a small flicker of curiosity.
“So, you’ve had more contact with Ben?”
With great effort, I keep from shifting in my chair, a twinge of guilt rising in my chest.
Why though? Do I feel bad about dating the guy I plan to donate my kidney to? Or am I uncomfortable because I’m going to withhold the information?
Right now isn’t the moment to dwell on it.
In theory, these sessions are meant to protect my interests, but every time I come in here, I’m on edge. If I give any indication I’m not completely for this exchange, they can call it off.
No way I’ll let that happen.
“Yep. We talk sometimes. I’m looking forward to giving him my kidney. He deserves to be healthy again.”
My answer is pleasantly bland and seems to satisfy Dr. Carmine.
Some of the tension eases out of my shoulders, but I know I won’t fully relax until I wake up from surgery, short one kidney, with the nurse telling me that Marcus’s procedure went just as smoothly as mine.
“I hope you don’t plan on being on your phone this entire trip.” My mom gives me one of her classic chiding stares she used all through my childhood.
When I was a kid, they’d fill me with guilt, but now, I just give her my most innocent grin.
“Who me? I was just checking the time.”
“That’s what watches are for.” She reaches across the table to tap my wrist.
I’ve got on the chunky silver one my parents gave me for my last birthday. It’s probably expensive. Mom said something about it being Swiss-made when I pulled it out of the box, but I’ve never looked it up. The thing that makes it priceless to me is the inscription on the back side.
Our best times are with you. Love, Mom )
Hell, I already miss her.
Pops’s kitchen has never smelled so good. Just because there are only three of us doesn’t keep me from pulling out all the stops. I run through my list again.
1. Turkey
2. Mashed potatoes
3. Green beans
4. Cranberry sauce
5. Sweet potato casserole
6. Dinner rolls
7. Corn on the cob
8. Gravy
9. Applesauce
“Marcus, are the rolls done?” I call out.
“Am I allowed back in the kitchen?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course. I never said you weren’t.”
My big brother walks through the doorway, a wary look on his face. “You didn’t have to. Made it pretty obvious when you tried to dump a pot of boiling potatoes on my head.”
A chuckle drifts from the living room, and I glare at the wall, as if Pops might experience the burn of my gaze through the plaster.
“I didn’t try to dump it on you. You were in my way, so I told you to move.”
He crosses the kitchen to pick up a timer I didn’t notice on the counter. “You and I have different definitions of told.” He holds the timer up for me to see. “The rolls have three more minutes. Are they the last thing?”
“Yeah. Help me move all this.”
We both slip on oven mitts and carry the dishes into the dining room.
“Am I allowed in the kitchen?” Pops strolls into the room and grins when I throw my hands up at how dramatic they’re being.
“Yes! Everyone is allowed in the kitchen! You’d think I’d put a sign up that said, No Boys Allowed, or something.” I huff and go to grab the bowl of green beans.
Pops opens the fridge and pulls out two pies. My mouth waters at just the memory of that recipe. One I’ve never been able to master.
“Grams’s blueberry pies. Thought I’d put them in to bake now, so they’ll be ready for later.”
Picking up the last few food items, I leave the two of them to work out the oven.
In the past few years, this has become our tradition. I’m in charge of most of the cooking, Marcus does the bread, and Pops does the dessert. Then, they handle cleanup duty, although I usually sneak back in to help dry some dishes.
My brother loves making dough from scratch, so I don’t mind him covering that job. And every dessert I’ve ever tried to bake somehow goes to crap. Sweets are my kryptonite, so I finally gave up and passed the responsibility on to my dad. He’s almost as good as Grams was.
Once the three of us are sitting around the table, Pops clears his throat. “I’m thankful for having you two in my life.”
My throat gets tight when a sudden rush of emotion clogs it.
Marcus goes next. “I’m thankful that, even though I live in New York, I still get to visit plenty. And I’m thankful that I have a stubborn sister who’s hell-bent on saving me.”
He grins, and I take a deep, shuddering breath to keep from getting weepy.
“I’m thankful for the both of you and for paired kidney donations.” My voice quivers.
Pops pats my shoulder. “There’s a good girl. This looks delicious. Grams would’ve been proud.”
As we dig in, my whole body aches with a strange mixture of happiness and loss. I can’t help remembering all the Thanksgiving dinners from my childhood where there were five of us at the table. Back when Mom was clean and a part of my life. The days when I was my grandmother’s helper in the kitchen. She’d have me read all the ingredients out loud from her handwritten recipe cards as she cooked. Now, I realize she probably had them all memorized but still wanted to give me a job.
Grams always made sure I felt useful. I was her ingredients reader, her wet-dishes drier, her dress-zipper-upper, and most importantly, her grocery list-maker. She was the one who gave me my first notebook, asking me to write down all the things we’d need to pick up at the store. And not just for holiday meals. Every day, she’d call out things that needed to go on the shopping list, and I’d pull out my handy notebook to write them down, so we’d be ready when it was time for a trip to the supermarket.
Now, with her gone, I find the practice of creating lists soothing. Because it gives me focus and reminds me of her.
My brother and dad are too busy stuffing their faces to make conversation, but they make plenty of approving noises. I beam at the both of them, loving my family even though it’s smaller than it used to be.
I hope Ben is having a good Thanksgiving. We’ve been texting sporadically ever since he left, talking on the phone a few lucky times, and I’m surprised at how much I miss him. Normally, Thursdays are full of Ben—the two of us reading and talking during his morning treatment. But, with the holiday and his trip, I won’t get to see him again till next week.
The chair next to me is empty. I wish it weren’t. I want him here, getting to know my family, cracking jokes that would help take my mind off the pain of the past. If he were here, I’d reach for his hand under the table, just so I could hold on to him.
When did Ben become the person I most want to turn to when I’m feeling unsteady?