Chapter 14 #3
“Oh.” His expression flickers with something like pity, but also something like judgment. “That must be hard. Doing this alone.”
I want to say something sharp, but I don’t have the energy.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, and walk away.
I don’t sleep that night, though I try. I curl up in the plastic chair, close my eyes, and beg my body to rest. But every time I start to drift off, a sound jerks me awake. The baby crying. A nurse’s shoes squeaking on linoleum. The beep of a monitor.
By Thursday morning, I’ve been awake for something like sixty hours straight, with only a few stretches of accidental unconsciousness.
My hands shake when I try to hold the coffee cup.
My vision blurs if I stare at anything too long.
I feel like I’m moving through water, everything slow and distant and not quite real.
Leon is still asleep.
He was restless and whimpering in the early hours of the morning, not quite himself despite the improvement in his test results. I told myself he was just tired and adjusting to the steroids. But now it’s nearly eight o’clock in the morning, and he hasn’t stirred.
“Leon? Baby, wake up.”
He mumbles something. His eyes flutter open, then close again.
“Leon. It’s morning. Time to wake up.”
“Tired, Mama.” He opens his eyes again, and for a moment, he looks at me like he doesn’t recognize me. “Auntie Rosa?”
“Rosa’s not here. It’s Mama. I’m right here.”
He blinks, confused, and then his eyes drift closed again.
My heart is pounding.
I press the call button.
Nothing happens.
I press it again, holding it down, watching the little light blink.
One minute. Two minutes.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come on, someone please come.”
Three minutes. Four.
I’m about to leave Leon and run into the hallway screaming when a nurse finally appears. She looks harried, impatient.
“What’s the problem?”
“Something’s wrong with my son. He’s confused. He didn’t recognize me, and he’s hard to wake up.”
She glances at Leon, who’s drifted off again. “Kids get sleepy when they’re sick. It’s normal.”
“It’s not normal. He was better yesterday. He was talking yesterday. Now he’s— Look at him!”
The nurse sighs, like I’m being hysterical, but she checks his vitals anyway. Her expression doesn’t change.
“I’ll let the doctor know,” she says. “Someone will be by to do blood work soon.”
“Soon? How soon?”
“Ma’am, we have a lot of patients. Someone will be with you as soon as possible.”
And she leaves.
I sink into the plastic chair, shaking, and I hold Leon’s limp hand. And I wait.
A nurse comes to collect more blood to test, but she can’t get a good sample from his IV this time.
Leon barely responds to the needle when she has to stick it in him again.
He cries, but weakly, like he doesn’t have the energy for real tears.
He doesn’t fight. He just lies there, letting them hurt him, and that’s somehow more terrifying than the screaming.
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper, stroking his hair. “It’s almost over. You’re being so brave.”
He doesn’t answer.
When the nurse leaves, I curl around my son and press my face into his hair and try not to fall apart.
I text Mom and Rosa: I don’t know what’s happening. Leon seems to be getting worse.
Mom: I’ll come as soon as I’ve finished work. Stay strong, sweetheart. Everything will be all right.
Gratitude washes through me. Right now, I need Mom more than I’m afraid of Cristiano turning up here.
Dr. Raynor appears just after noon. She doesn’t sit or pull the curtain closed. She just stands at the foot of Leon’s bed with her clipboard, glancing between her notes and my son like he’s a problem to be solved.
“Ms. Santoro. As I’m sure Dr. Hardy explained this morning, your son’s liver function has deteriorated significantly overnight.”
I stare at her. “No one’s explained anything to me.”
A flicker of irritation crosses her face. “The night team should have spoken with you.” She sighs, like I’m the one wasting her time. “The steroids aren’t working. His liver is failing. He needs a transplant.”
She speaks so offhandedly, but the word hits me hard.
“A…transplant?”
“A liver transplant, yes.” She’s already scribbling something on her clipboard. “We’ll put him on the waiting list, but I have to be frank with you. The wait for a pediatric donor can be weeks. Months. Which is incompatible with his condition.” She trails off, checking her pager.
“Incompatible?” My voice is rising. “What are you saying?”
She looks up like she’s forgotten I’m there.
“I’m saying we may not have that kind of time.
A living donor would be faster. For a child Leon’s age, we only need a portion of an adult liver, as the organ will regenerate.
But the donor has to be compatible. Blood type, tissue matching, overall health.
Family members are the best candidates. Parents, especially. ”
“Please test me. I’ll donate as much liver as you need.”
“Is his father available to be tested?”
My heart stops. The question I’ve been dreading for four years, in some form. The demand that I produce Leon’s father. And now here it is, while my son sleeps deeply beside me, his skin the color of old paper and his body failing.
“He’s not in the picture,” I hear myself say. “I’ll be a match. I know I will. Leon and I have the same blood type.”
Dr. Raynor’s eyebrows rise. “Ms. Santoro, if there’s a biological father, we need to know. This isn’t the time for—” She stops herself, but I hear what she doesn’t say. For whatever mess you’ve made of your personal life.
“I can do this without him. Test me. Please. I’ll donate whatever he needs.”
Dr. Raynor sighs. “Fine. We’ll start the testing process.” She makes a note on her clipboard, her pen scratching against the paper.
“How long?”
“A few hours for the initial results. Is there anyone else? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”
Mom is on blood thinners and statins. Rosa has the wrong blood type. There’s no one else.
“Just me,” I whisper. “There’s just me.”
Her pager buzzes again. She glances at it, already stepping back. “A nurse will be by for the blood draw. If you think of anyone on the paternal side, let us know.”
And she’s gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my past decisions.
They take my blood in a small room down the hall.
I watch the needle slide into my vein, watch the dark red liquid fill the vial, and I think about all the choices that led me here.
Running from Cristiano. Hiding my pregnancy from him. Lying about Leon’s age, concealing his eyes with brown contacts. Building a life on secrets and fear, convinced I was protecting my son. Now my son is dying, and I might not be able to save him.
The nurse labels the vial and tells me someone will come by with the results.
I walk back to Leon’s bedside. He’s still sleeping. Still yellow. Still slipping away from me. I take his hand and close my eyes.
Please let me be a match. Please.