The Donor (7 page)

Mom gently closed the door between us and repeated the same things into my ear as we hugged goodbye, only adding, “Come back as soon as you can.”

I stood inside the lobby and watched through the window as the old rusty car pulled away. It took me a long time to look down at my ticket to figure out where my gate was. It took me longer to move from that spot in front of the window.

***

I went back to the same aquarium the year I turned eighteen, only that time, I was alone. Mom had to work a double and Dad had just had surgery so they couldn’t come. I thought about staying home and just watching TV with Dad, but something pulled at me, deep in my gut, guiding me past the jellyfish and reptile exhibits through the tunnel of sharks, and straight to where I remembered the octopus being. Every year I knew there was a possibility that it wasn’t the same animal. The one I saw when I was six was probably replaced every few years, but I still referred to it as “Dolly”, knowing with absolute certainty that they had recycled the name at least three or four times.

But when I got to the wall that housed the small tank, I couldn’t find Dolly. There was bright pink coral in the white sand, there was dark green and brown seaweed swaying back and forth gently with the current of the filter. Under the tank, the plaque had a picture of the octopus next to the same information I had read from the time I was able, but next to that, where there was usually a separate plaque that read “Dolly”, there was a new tag:

Reserved.

We are currently awaiting our newest underwater friend

A picture of a seahorse was taped to the outside of the tag, possibly hinting at the “new arrival”. It did nothing to comfort me. Dolly was gone. Not only that, but she had been
replaced
.

***

We spend most of the day talking. Jonah only leaves to make lunch and dinner, insisting we eat upstairs. I think he likes having me in his room, even if it’s not in the “sexy” way I was expecting. I like it too. Together, we talk about aquariums, fish, and what our favorites are. I don’t tell him about Dolly, too embarrassed at my childlike hope in believing she would always be there. As the light fades from bright to orange to dark, I think Jonah starts to feel better, smiling whenever I speak.

Unaware, we both fall asleep, our hands intertwined between us.

And I dream. I am deep-sea diving and swimming through a coral reef. There are brightly colored fish and seahorses gathered in various areas, but every time I get close enough to touch one, they skitter away, afraid of my presence or the shadow I cast onto the ocean floor. For a second, I worry about air. How long I can hold my breath before I run out of oxygen, but there's a tube up my nose, helping me breathe.

It's warm where I am. So warm that I don't mind the fish swimming away from me. I'm content closing my eyes, just staying where I am, letting the waves of light wash over me.

A jolt to my chest props my eyes open. I can still see the seahorses, one with its tail curled onto a piece of coral. But then the image around it blurs and blackens. I realize I can't breathe, that I'm drowning. I cough and a burst of bubbles leaves my mouth before the water is sucked into my lungs, before everything starts shaking.

Why is everything moving so fast? Where are the fish? Where are the seahorses?

And Jonah...where is Jonah?

***

Although I refused to go back to the doctor, I couldn’t help looking up symptoms of my diagnosis. Most websites said basically the same thing: that everyone was different and no two tumors grew the same way. There were only two stages, and neither was better to have than the other. Some people would experience nothing but slight nausea once in a while and some would have extreme symptoms. Like grinding headaches and nosebleeds.

However, not many varied on the life expectancy issue. Once diagnosed, patients with an advanced stage of Oligodendroglioma that could not be removed had even less time than the doctor had given me.

But I couldn’t help my fingers typing against the keys. I couldn’t stop looking for something that wasn’t bad news. More symptoms popped up like the first daisies of spring: hearing and vision loss, weakness in limbs, memory loss or black outs, seizures in rare cases. It seemed that the more I searched, the less hope I found. I still began each night looking up the incredibly long and unpronounceable name. Sometimes I would only search a few seconds, sometimes I would search up until my and Jonah’s late night chats, using the research as fuel to convince me further that going to meet a complete stranger who would pay me for sex and blood was a good idea.

He’d ask how my day was and I’d say something like, “Fine. Uneventful.” All the while, fear blossomed behind my skull. Not because of my growing feelings for Jonah, but because of what was growing inside of me.

***

I wake up and Jonah is standing above me, hands on either side of my face. There's a ringing in my ears and my arms and legs are tingling, like they've just fallen asleep.

“Casey,” he says. His voice is loud and my head is humming. “Can you hear me?”

My mouth is so dry. I can't talk right now, but I nod.

Jonah stares into my eyes for a long time before he helps me sit up. The room tilts and folds in on itself, windows collapsing, floor breaking apart until eventually, all I see is one big mass of white. His hands on my shoulders keeps me steady and everything comes back into focus. Jonah hands me a glass of water and I try to grab it, but my fingers won't grip firmly enough. Tears sting my eyes and fear eats at my stomach. Panic gets stuck in my throat.

“It's okay,” he says, his voice back to its normal volume and soft calmness. “Let me.”

My arms drop to the blankets and he feeds me the water. It's enough to clear my throat of whatever was blocking my speech. “What happened?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

The tingling is still in my head, traveling around my eyelids and down my cheeks, threatening to turn everything white once more. My tongue feels thick, and when I talk, my words sound heavy. I try to sit all the way up, but I can't. My body is heavy too.

"I think you just had a seizure," he says, sounding as surprised as I am.

I blink a few times.

“Does that happen a lot?” Jonah asks. It's hard to ignore the fact that he hasn't looked away from me this entire time.

I try to speak again but my throat is too dry. Jonah grabs the glass of water from the nightstand and I try to take it from him, but again, my fingers just won't latch on. My wrists hurt, my elbows ache. I feel like I ran a marathon and passed out from dehydration.

“It's okay,” he repeats.

I watch as he moves closer and I part my lips as he tips the glass for me to drink. I gulp it down and wait for him to move away. He doesn’t.

“It's never happened before,” I say.

We're quiet for a long time. My legs stop feeling so heavy and I shift them under the covers. Something wet is underneath me, around me.

Crap.

Jonah must see it on my face...or worse, he can smell it. He looks at me knowingly, waiting for me to say something.

I pissed the bed and we've been sitting here for at least ten minutes.

Tears sting my eyes, threatening to fall. I don't know what I was expecting. Of course things would get worse. Of course they would get worse in the most embarrassing and mortifying of ways.

“I—I'm so sorry,” I say. At least, that's what I mean to say. Only a few sounds actually come out as I cover my face with my hands.

Jonah is quick to take them away. “It's alright,” he says when I'm looking at him.

He smiles a little, friendly. How can he be so nice to me when I'm basically using him? Using him so I don't have to make my parents go through stuff like this. Using him because I want someone to know, someone to care without treating me like I'm a walking death sentence.

He holds onto my hand on top of the blanket and brushes some hair from my sweaty face. “Really,” he says.

I shake my head. None of this is okay. Not my situation or
our
situation or why I'm doing this. I should be in a hospital with my mom and dad. I should be on chemo and meds. They should have a chance to adjust to the idea of losing me before I'm gone.

“Can you stand up?” he asks.

I try moving my legs, but once I have them bent, they immediately straighten again, like the hinge of a door swung open.

I shake my head but say, “I can do it, just give me a minute.”

Jonah waits. I can't stand. Without saying anything else, he uncovers me. I’m too afraid to look at what I've done so I stare at him; he also doesn't look, only watching me. “Put your arms around my neck,” he says. “I'll carry you.”

When I hesitate, he straightens his posture slightly. “Remember what we talked about?” he asks. “You have to let me take care of you, okay?”

He smiles, but he doesn't wait for an answer. I wrap my arms around his neck and he slips his arms under my legs.

My breath catches and my cheeks flare up, no doubt turning bright red. Before I can apologize again, Jonah is lifting me up, and I carefully tuck my head under his chin, testing out how it feels. If this were a different situation, I would maybe like this, enjoy whatever contact I could get from him. But under the circumstances, this is just plain awful.

“There's nothing to be embarrassed about,” Jonah says as he sits me down on the closed toilet seat.

I snort and it sends a painful vibration through my sinuses. I wince before looking back at him. “Right,” I say.

Jonah turns on the water in the tub and plugs the drain. “You do realize the first night you were here you vomited and passed out, right?” I imagine he would say something like this with harshness in his tone, but he smiles. He’s trying to joke.

I let out a small laugh, unable to look him directly in the eye. “Okay, you've got me there,” I say. “But this probably tops that.”

He raises his eyebrows in mock-surprise. “If you're trying to top yourself, you'll have to do better than
this
next time?”

I know he's joking, but I can't help the small pang of fear that hits me in the stomach. “That’s me,” I say. “I set records and break them.”

Jonah cuts the water and turns toward me. “Do you need help?” he asks, looking down at my legs.

I hesitate for a minute. No one besides my parents has ever seen me naked before. I don't know why it even matters, but the thought pops into my head all the same. “Let me try first?” I ask.

He nods. “I'll go get you some clean clothes.”

The door shuts silently behind him. I try to lift up my shirt and get as far as my bellybutton before my shoulders ache enough that I have to stop. Next I try my skirt, not even being able to support my weight for a few seconds before slamming my butt back down onto the seat.

Jonah knocks on the door a minute later. “Need help?”

“Yeah,” I admit as the door opens with a tiny squeak.

He sets down my clothes on the sink and comes over to me. He places his hands on the bottom part of my shirt and starts lifting it up. Surprisingly enough, I'm not embarrassed. The sooner I have my clothes off, the sooner I'll be clean and we can move on. I try to lift my arms but he ends up having to do it for me, bending them like a toddler being shrugged out of a heavy winter coat.

I watch as he doesn't concentrate on my body as the shirt hits the floor, just my face. It looks like he's searching for signs of another seizure to come back, but he doesn't say anything about it.

Then he has me wrap my arms around his neck again so my butt is off the seat. My skirt and underwear are shucked off and on the floor within minutes. I cover myself the best I can, but it ultimately doesn't matter. I decided to live the rest of my very short life here; he would be seeing me in the worst ways imaginable. This was probably not as bad as it could get.

Jonah lifts me easily and I'm sitting in the hot bath before I can blink. I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to make the room stop spinning. I think he's going to leave. I don't want him to, but I also think I’ve probably inconvenienced him enough, what with wetting the bed and all.

But he stays. He sits on the edge of the tub. He doesn't ask me any more questions, he doesn't try to figure out what's wrong, he just sits.

It's enough for me to just not be alone, but he silently washes my hair for me, ringing it out when he's done. He helps me dress and combs out the straggly brown strands with a brush he finds in my suitcase I still haven't bothered to unpack.

When I'm clean, he takes a step back and kneels down to look at me. “Do you feel better?” he asks.

My head still has a faint throbbing in the temples, but I think the momentary terror was just that: momentary. The thought crosses my mind that one day it won't be that way. One day, probably not too far from now, the numbness won't go away. I won't be able to walk or feed myself. If I'm lucky, my brain function will be so bad that I won't be aware of it, but if not, I'll be trapped inside my own body. Eighteen years old in the body of a ninety year old.