67. Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door #2
The nurse’s attention slips to me. “Sorry.” She offers a tight smile, sucking air through her teeth. “Immediate family only for now. Two at a time.”
I lift my hand. “It’s cool.
“I don’t mind waiting out here.”
“Nah,” Andrew says.
“She stays with me.”
The nurse opens her mouth—
But Andrew’s already in front of me,
grabbing my coffee,
then grabbing my hand.
“C’mon.” He tugs me from the chair,
his thumb smoothing over my knuckles.
He flashes the same smile, then shrugs.
“We’re basically one person.”
When we enter the room,
Maria’s under a warm blanket,
smiling like it's the best day of her life.
The doctor’s already in the room, standing at the foot of her bed, folder tucked under his arm. Beside him stands a tall brunette named Dana, a coordinator from the transplant team.
Her smile goes pussy-soft around Drew as he crosses the room.
I watch her gaze stick to him,
and my brain lights a cigarette,
kicks his feet up, and says,
First the nurse, now the coordinator? Oh, he absolutely ate his way to a fuckin’ liver.
“We’re optimistic,” the doctor says. “But I want to be clear. This is not guaranteed yet.”
My eyes flick to Andrew.
He doesn’t react. He keeps listening from the chair in the corner of the room, elbows digging into his thighs.
The doctor keeps talking.
They still need to get Maria’s labs back.
Anesthesia still needs to clear her.
The transplant team still needs to accept the liver. They still need to make sure Maria’s body can survive the surgery, which is fucking crazy ‘cause it’s guaranteed to not survive without the surgery.
“The offer is promising,” the transplant coordinator adds soft, almost reassuring. “That’s why we moved quickly. But if the organ isn’t suitable, or if Maria isn’t safe to proceed, we’ll have to cancel.”
Paola’s expression shatters.
She’s standing next to Andrew, her hand landing on his shoulder, tears resuscitating in her eyes at the thought this could be ripped away.
Andrew ignores her, reaching for the paperwork. “Okay,” he says, eyes on the clipboard as he starts filling it out.
Consent.
Proxy verification.
Surgical consent.
Blood transfusion.
Medication list.
Allergy history.
“But how could this be?” Maria asks the doctor. “I was inactive.”
Andrew’s pen stops for a beat.
Then it starts moving again.
“You’re active,” he says, flicking a look over at her. It’s a miracle, Ma. Let the doctor talk.”
The doctor confirms with a nod,
and Andrew flips to the next page,
signing for his mother’s life.
“Okay,” Maria finally says after another hour of waiting in mostly silence. “What happened?”
She has a warm blanket pulled up to her neck, an IV hooked to her hand, tape pulling each time she tugs.
Andrew looks up from his phone.
“What?”
“You two.” Her finger moves between Andrew and me, sitting across the room from each other—me, at one end of the couch against the window, and him, isolated in the chair against the opposite wall, putting painfully obvious distance between us.
One second he’s staring at me,
knee bouncing under his hand,
knuckles pressed against his mouth,
hating the distance he’s created.
The next, he’s looking down at his phone in his lap, staring at the dark screen, waiting for it to light up.
It’s creeping me the fuck out.
Andrew looks at his ma,
then at me,
then down at his phone.
“Nothin’ happened.”
Maria turns her head on the pillow.
“Andrew.”
But he shuts it down fast. “No, Ma.”
“No?” Maria repeats, offended. Then scoffs. “I’m sorry. You tellin’ your sick mother no?”
His head snaps up to her.
“Don’t start that shit.”
“So tell me.” She lifts her hand as if she’s a hundred years old, forcing it to tremble. “It’s my dying wish, tesoro mio.”
Paola laughs. “Maria.”
Her hand drops onto the blanket. “Andrew. Dimmi la verità. What happened?” Maria demands.
Andrew keeps his eyes on his phone.
“Niente.”
“Niente,” she mocks.
Paola rolls her eyes.
“Niente. What niente?”
“Niente niente,” Andrew says, slinging his phone farther up his lap, near his zipper, then he leans forward, elbows on his thighs as he rakes down the back of his neck.
Maria nods. “Ah. Niente niente. That means big something.”
Andrew lifts his head, squinting at Ma with a warning. “Non è niente di cui dovete preoccuparvi.”
I grumble under my breath, “I wouldn’t say it’s niente.” My gaze drifts to the wall with a shrug, muttering, “But I get why you would. You’re familiar with the concept.”
Andrew drops his chin,
looks at the floor,
then over at me.
“Keep it comin’. I’ll fuckin’ take it.”
“So this is the niente,” Maria says, nodding. “She do something, and you pretend you are dead.”
Andrew’s eyes lift back to her, and he cocks his head. “When I say niente, I’m sayin’ none’a your business, aight? Just lay there. Smile. And pray your labs come back clean.”
Maria stares at him for one long second,
eyes slowly narrowing.
“Allison, amore mio,” she says, eyes never leaving Andrew.
“You take a walk for me, si? I need a word with my son.” I glance between the two, standing.
“Just to the end of the hall,” she adds, turning her gaze to me, her eyes doing all the real talking.
“Near the bathrooms. You do arm workout.” She winks. “Then you come back in five minutes.”
Paola covers her laugh with her tissue.
Maria lifts a finger.
“And don’t forget your wallet.”
Andrew falls back into his chair,
staring at her.
“Why she need her wallet?”
Maria’s face deadpans on him. “Niente.”
A laugh escapes me as her room shuts behind me.
By this time, the sunrise pours warmth into the hospital, pure gold bleeding through the buildings outside the window.
At the end of the hall, near the bathrooms, the vending machine sits with a halo around it. I walk toward it, slipping my card from my pocket, eyeing the peanut M&Ms on the third row.
I tap the card against the reader,
press C2.
The bag drops,
and I grab a second just in case,
pocketing them in my jacket,
when Andrew appears in front of me.
He leans a shoulder against the side of the vending machine. “Yo,” he says, gazing down at the yellow bag behind the glass. “What did you just put in your pocket?”
I don’t look at him, turning. “Niente.”
“Nah. Absolutely not,” he catches my arm, pulls me back into him. “She’s NPO. You’re not feedin’ her candy before a transplant.”
I fall back on my heel. “Andrew. I bought them for after the surgery.”
But when he looks back at me, his gaze is doing everything at once—shining, darting, begging, avoiding. I glance down at his hand that’s shoved in his pocket, seeing that it’s in a fist.
He’s not okay. Not at all.
I’ve seen him like this before.
He’s trying to strangle a panic attack,
one that’s refusing to die.
I glance over my shoulder.
Nurses move up and down the hall,
shoes squeaking, badges swinging.
So I take his hand and pull him around the corner, into the small empty space by the service elevator. The second we turn the corner, Andrew backs into the wall and drops his head against it.
“Andrew, c’mon.
“I know when you’re not good.”
He lets go of my hand.
But then grabs it again before it falls,
gripping it tighter.
I stand beside him,
leaning against the wall, facing him.
Now that it’s only us,
the panic finds holes to slip out through.
His breath comes out harsher, jagged,
as if he’s been holding it for hours.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers,
squeezing his eyes shut.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
His throat works once, then again,
as if he’s trying to swallow rocks.
Panic shoots red up his neck,
and he turns into me, a hand to the wall,
caging me in,
needing somewhere to put the storm.
I slide his hand off the wall and bring it to my face. “Hey, I’m right here.”
He hangs his head,
his breath hitting between my brows.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers heavy,
thumb stroking my cheekbone.
“For what?”
His inhale’s shaky and leaves broken.
“All of it. I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
His eyes drop to his other hand, seeing the violent tremor, and he rips his eyes away from it as he tries shaking it gone.
“I—uh—” He finally looks at me,
chest heaving now,
rising fast under his black button-up.
There’s a fight breaking out inside his glassy eyes—troubled, crashing waves.
“Allison, I’m so tired.”
His jaw clenches tight,
angry as hell for saying it.
“I don’t even wanna fuckin’ be here.
“I just wanna take you and go.”
My mouth parts.
That I didn’t expect him to say.
His eyes fill, and he shakes his head.
“Fuck,” and it leaves him broken.
He drags a shaky palm down his face.
“I’m scared. That’s what it is.
“I’m just scared.”
I nod. “It’s real fuckin’ scary shit, Drew.
“I honestly don’t know how you do it.”
I try to catch his gaze. “You know that?
“Like how fuckin’ much you do?”
He shakes his head, looking off.
“Hey.” I grab his chin and bring him back to me. “You’re the strongest, the best man I know. I mean that.”
“Allison, c’mon—”
“No, Drew. This—showing up, knowin’ this shit. What your mom ate for dinner? You weren’t even there.
“Working sixteen-hour days.
“Paying all the bills.
“Even when you’re exhausted with nothing left in you. You take care of everyone without question, without anybody saying thank you, Andrew.”
I hold his face,
thumbs against his cheeks,
looking into his wet eyes…
and he’s looking at me,
so violently loud,
eyes struck, stripped,
and screaming.
It’s love.
I know it.
There’s no other name.
It’s a voiceless love—
a gag in its mouth,
a hand around its throat—
so it shouts from everywhere else,
in the hands, the eyes, the pulse.
So he keeps looking into my eyes, begging me to see that so much of him is me, and if I ever leave, he'll bleed out too.
“But that’s not why I love you,” I say.
And hearing it again,
it fractures his expression.
I nod, and his jaw clenches in my hands, fighting back to keep himself from shattering.
“I do. I love you,” I repeat with a shrug,
still playing it off as casual,
not used to the words leaving my lips.
“Not for what you do. For who you are.
“On the other side of it all.
“When the day’s done.
“You, just like this.
“And I’m not taking that back.
“I’m not asking you to say anything—”
Andrew cuts me off,