58
Lisa
I open my eyes, surrounded by drool and David Schwimmer’s voice.
For a split second, I think my dream’s come true. My man has finally arrived—and not just any man, a celebrity, albeit one
who makes neurosis look like an Olympic sport. Then, in a delicious rush, I remember: I’m with Frank. Wonderful, non-neurotic
Frank.
I try to sit up, but something cold and sticky tugs at my cheek. Ice cream. Right—my grand evening of zoning out on the couch,
face-deep in Friends and Ben he always kept everything.
Coffee in hand, I head to the garage, where I dumped three boxes after clearing out his house before it was sold.
I lift down the one marked Paperwork in bold letters.
The masking tape peels away reluctantly.
Inside sit several folders lined up with military precision, every
label underlined.
Legal
Warranties
Certificates
Mum
I slide the last one free. It’s thick, overstuffed: receipts, scans, a fading pathology request. I flip through slowly, skimming
dates, looking for something useful. Near the back, folded in thirds and wedged between a blood-test printout and a health
insurance form, something catches my eye: a letterhead, “Mercy East Hospital.” I ease it out.
July 1998
Dear Mr. Barlow,
Following your recent tissue-typing, we can confirm that you are a viable living kidney donor match for Lorraine Barlow . . .
A buzzing fills my ears. For a second I genuinely wonder if I’ve misread it—if it’s a clerical error or a different Lorraine.
But the date of birth and name are right. When Dad left, Mum changed our surnames back to Barlow, said it would be simpler
for us all to be the same.
I read out loud this time, my voice barely a whisper. “Viable living kidney donor match.”
Cold sweat breaks out along my neck.
I read on. Strong compatibility . . . low risk of rejection . . .
I cover my eyes, like that might rewrite the paper in front of me.
I’m not standing anymore. I don’t remember sitting, but I’m on the floor, the folder limp in my lap.
I shuffle the pages with trembling fingers.
Beneath the letter is a chart: two columns of tissue markers.
His. Mum’s. Clean, efficient rows. Checkmarks where there should be crosses.
A match that should’ve meant something, that could have changed everything.
I turn to another document behind it with the same letterhead.
As per your call on 3 August, we have withdrawn you from the donor pathway.
That’s it. Hidden. Folded away. Jammed in a file where he thought no one would find it. No note or justification. Just proof.
Griff was a match for Mum. He could have saved her. And he didn’t. And I’ll never know why.
I want to yell, demand answers—but there’s no one to shout at. Only this awful, rising heat in my chest and a truth I never
asked for.
And then, as it hits, a chill runs down my spine. If he was a match for her, he’s a match for me.
The irony slaps me in the face. A compatible kidney—right there, inside the body of a man who couldn’t bring himself to help
his own mother. So why on earth would he help me? And now, even if he wanted to, he can’t consent. Locked inside his own mind.
Unable to say yes. Unable to say no.
A good kidney. Close enough to imagine. Too far to reach.
I press my forehead to my knees and scream until my throat burns.
Could Beau have known? The thought slices through me, sharp and unwelcome. He was Griff’s heart. If anyone knew the truth,
it would’ve been him. And maybe he tried to tell me, back then, when the words were slipping from his reach.