I’d passed out listening to the horrifying screams of a scared woman. I woke up to the soft whimpering of a scared woman.
I forced my eyes open and they immediately met the top of my mother’s head. She was bent over my hand; I could feel the rosary beads pressing into my skin, a glorious reminder that whatever prayers she sent upward had been answered.
My fingers twitched under hers and with that action her head snapped up. Her warm brown eyes were rimmed red and she looked haunted.
“Ma,” I croaked out.
“Oh, Nicky.” She quickly glanced heavenward and crossed herself, murmuring her thanks, before bringing her full attention back to me. One of her hands came up and cupped my cheek.
I tried to smile, but my dry lips cracked, protesting the movement. “It must be bad if you’re not going to give me grief for not shaving.”
My ma chuckled. “Hush. I was getting to it.” She clucked her tongue, but didn’t say anything else.
Flipping my hand over, I wrapped my fingers around her wrist. “What happened? It’s pretty foggy.”
“You were in a car accident.”
“Bad?”
Ma nodded. “Almost.” She smiled as she brought her rosary beads up to her mouth and kissed the cross. “The Lord saved you. He sent us an angel.”
I gave her a genuine smile, not daring to mock her like I normally might. We were both devout Catholics, but her faith ran deeper than mine. She felt it in every single atom of her being. It ran through her, like the blood pumping in her veins, involuntary and necessary to her survival. Her belief and trust in our God was unwavering; she believed he sent miracles and that everything happened for a reason.
My faith was a little shakier. Where hers was analogous to blood, mine was more like skin. It provided me with a tremendous amount of protection, but there were layers to it, and it was constantly changing and regenerating. And in some places, there were scars. Permanent, damaged, ugly reminders that while God was great and protective, he couldn’t solve everything.
I believed in God as much as my ma, but I also believed in humans, and the horrible lengths they could go to destroy the heavenly things God gave them. Ma said I needed to trust God’s grace above everything else, but it was always a struggle for me. I tried to keep my cynicism at bay in front of her. It never worked; she was a smart woman and not much got by her.
“An angel, huh?” I asked. “Was it some killer surgeon who saved me?”
She shook her head. “No, dear.” She was practically vibrating in her seat as she relayed everything.
No-contact car accident.
Other driver fled the scene.
Left to die.
Critical condition.
Damaged both kidneys.
Dialysis.
Ma crying in a chapel.
A miracle.
A savior.
“Wait, wait,” I rushed out as I tried to sit up, seemingly more aware of the pain in my midsection now that I knew everything. “You can’t let some random woman give me her kidney…”
“What choice do we have? You need a kidney, Nick.” Her bottom lip trembled before she looked down at her lap where she had folded her fidgeting hands. I immediately knew my ma wouldn’t be able to donate since we had different blood types. No tests were needed. But to ask a stranger? To trust a stranger?
I looked away from her tears, feeling like an asshole. “I know, Ma. But like the doctor said, we have time. It’s not life or death right now. If I take this woman’s kidney she’s gonna be linked to us forever. What if she expects something? What if she—”
“She won’t,” my mother said resolutely. The tight grip she had on her cross was probably making an indent on her palm. “You haven’t met her. She’s a good one. A kind soul, Nicholas.”
My mother thought that about everyone. That was the flaw in thinking God touched everything; she thought everyone had a bit of good in them.
She grabbed my hand with both of hers and pressed a kiss to my knuckles.
Closing my eyes, I tilted my head back against the pillow and thought about what she was asking of me: to trust a complete stranger. The idea was so terrifying it brought forth a question about a person I’d never wanted to think about again.
“Have you thought about asking Dad?” The words tasted bitter on my tongue. I hated that I called him Dad—I hadn’t in years. Ma and I had only talked about him a handful of times, but he was always Tyson. Never Dad.
Regardless, there was something about lying in a hospital bed, discussing my need for one of his vital organs, that made calling him anything else impossible. He was forever linked to me whether I wanted him to be or not.
My ma hesitated; the grip she had on my hand loosened as she slowly started rubbing my fingers. “I have,” she finally whispered. “It’s been a few years, but I think I still have his number. I just don’t know…”
She didn’t have to say it. The fact that I let it slip past my lips and give tangible proof to his absence when I spent so long pretending he never even existed was painful enough. I didn’t need her to confirm what I knew before I asked: he wouldn’t give me one of his kidneys.
It was ridiculous to think a man who couldn’t spare an afternoon for one of my cooking competitions would part with a kidney. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since he left twenty years ago. Ma kept in contact so he could pay child support, but other than that he wasn’t a part of our lives.
Lifting my head, I opened my eyes and met hers. “Never mind. It was a stupid thought.” I shook my head to highlight my foolishness.
I hadn’t actively brought up my father in years and I knew my mother always struggled with how to broach the subject. She wanted to protect me from him, but she also wished for me to know him if he was ever interested. How could you let someone spread their wings and soar, and protect them at the same time?
You couldn’t. Living meant hurting.
“Maybe he’s changed,” she said, a bit of hope in her eyes. “He’s older, he could have—”
“No, Ma. Your initial reaction was right. He probably wouldn’t donate one, and even if he was interested, I wouldn’t want it. It’d probably be out of guilt.”
I came to peace with his absence a long time ago. At least as much as I could.
My mother shook her head, a sad smile on her lips. “You can’t let your pain—or your pride—rule your life.”
“It’s not.” But even as I said it, I felt a weight on my chest from all the painful memories and how I let them change who I once was. With a sigh, I leaned back again. “I’m kinda tired, Ma. Can we talk about this later?”
“Of course,” was her immediate response. “Please think about this. The doctors still need to test her compatibility. She’s having the tests done this week, but if she is a match…” She shook her head, tears welling again. “Our lives have already changed, and dialysis is an uncertain future. It’s like a hold, a pause, while we wait and hope for a kidney. If you take this one being offered to you, you’ll be able to start living again now. You can get used to your new life, make plans and start getting better. Please, Nicky. Do this for me,” she begged.
When I was a kid I got called a mama’s boy, and it was always said with disdain. I didn’t get it then or now.
Was it because I respected her?
Loved her?
Wanted to talk to her every day?
Maybe. But I never felt any shame in it. My ma did more than give birth to me. She was the only family I had. She was a mother and a father, and she made sure I never felt like I was missing out on anything.
I’d do anything for her.
So with a reluctant smile, I said, “Okay.”
Her eyes closed and she let out a breath of relief. “Thank you, dear.” She leaned forward, kissed both cheeks, and pulled me into a hug.
Maybe if those kids who made fun of me took half a second to think about all the amazing things their mothers did for them, they’d have done the same.
Despite my love and respect for her, I couldn’t rid myself of my suspicions. Randomly donating a kidney, to a stranger no less, was not normal. There was zero chance this woman was doing this out of the goodness of her heart. I understood my mother’s desperation, but my guard would definitely stay up.
The fact that we knew my own father wouldn’t even consider giving me a kidney made trusting a stranger’s decision to do it ten times harder.
I smiled and found genuine ease in her happiness, assuaging her worries and giving her peace of mind, but I secretly vowed to figure out what this woman could want, and to make sure she didn’t get it.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid. That was how I had to treat this.
I had been toying with the idea of becoming a living kidney donor for over six months. When I first told my family they were relatively supportive, but somewhere in the back of their minds, I was sure they’d thought they could talk me out of it. Maybe given enough time and persuasion they could have, but not after I met Catherine Blake in that chapel.
I was a believer in signs. And that was most definitely a sign. A large, flashing, neon sign that I was meant to do this.
As I got out of my car, I straightened my dress and tucked my long, chestnut brown hair behind my ears before making my way up the driveway. I cut across the perfectly manicured lawn and knocked once on the large wooden door, stepping through without waiting for an answer.
“Mom? Dad?” I called out, shrugging off my light jacket and hanging it on the coatrack. It was mid-May in Boston but some of the bitter cold was still hanging on.
After I left Dr. Moore a week and a half ago, I grabbed my sister’s things and hightailed it to her room, almost an hour after I was supposed to arrive. No one noticed; everyone was too wrapped up in Calla and Mirielle. I didn’t bring it up, letting Calla and Kent have their moment.
The doctor called the next morning so we could begin setting up appointments, and within a week the tests were done. When Dr. Moore called yesterday morning and told me I was a match, I knew I had to come clean to my family.
My sister had been discharged a couple of days after delivering. Thankfully Kent worked for an awesome company that granted new fathers two weeks paternity leave. I knew my parents were dying to go over and hover, but Kent made it clear they wanted some time to themselves. Besides, we all knew Calla would call if something was really wrong. There was no way she’d risk her child for anything.
I walked into the kitchen and found my brother, Aster, sitting at the counter, shoveling cereal into his mouth. He may be a couple months short of thirty, but he had no trouble reverting into a teenager. Aster lived in New York City and had come up once Calla went into labor. He had been saving to take two weeks off, and was staying with our parents until he left in a couple days.
“What’s up?” he mumbled.
“Nothing. Just needed to talk to Mom and Dad about something.”
He sat up straight, a suspicious glint in his eyes. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“I know that look,” he said, pointing his spoon my way. “Nothing good ever comes from it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“So where are they?” I asked.
“Don’t know about Dad, but one guess where Mom is.” Aster tilted his head toward the backyard. Chuckling, I smacked a kiss on his cheek before heading outside.
My mom lived for her garden. She loved growing fruits, vegetables, herbs, and pretty much anything she could. But nothing surpassed her love for flowers. It was no coincidence that me and my siblings were named after flowers. Well, actually, mine was a coincidence.
My parents had been content with Calla and Aster; they’d always longed for one boy and one girl. But for some reason, one day, my mother decided she wanted to have a third child, and she wanted to adopt him or her. I was nine years old when they found me.
Dad said it was love at first sight for him. Mom didn’t deny the feeling either. She said when she found out my name was Iris, it felt like a sign. I suppose I got my love of signs from her. I was hoping that meant she would understand why I had to do this.
I believed in miracles and destiny; I believed the Chamberlains were always meant to be my parents. My birth parents never really felt like mine. They belonged to each other more than me. I wasn’t bitter about it. Maybe God knew their time here would be short and I was simply proof of their love; I was the reminder that a great love could be had in a short and sometimes difficult life. I didn’t really know, to be honest, but I’d always felt like I belonged with the Chamberlains.
The two of them took me in when they didn’t have to. They gave me my life back, and I’d always wanted to be able to change someone’s life in some meaningful way too. To give them another chance when they thought they weren’t getting one. That was the reason I’d already looked into becoming a living donor, and even though Nick’s situation wasn’t dire, meeting Catherine made me feel like I was meant to help him. Like my interest was always meant to lead me here.
Aster would no doubt roll his eyes, but I knew my parents wouldn’t. They always supported their children.
My mom’s bright yellow sun hat stood out like a beacon the second I shut the door. “Hey,” I called out as I walked toward her.
“Iris, honey, what brings you by?” She smiled for a second before it quickly dropped. “Is it your sister? Have you heard something?”
“No, Mom. Relax.” She let out a breath. “You and Dad need to stop worrying so much.”
“Impossible. It’s a parent’s job to worry. Besides, with the complications and Mirielle almost not making it…” she trailed off and shook her head, like she couldn’t even entertain the idea.
“I understand. But they’re okay now, and shouldn’t it be a comfort that trained medical professionals felt they were both well enough to be discharged?” I asked softly. My mom stood up, brushing dirt off her jean capris, giving me a dubious look. I held up my hands in surrender. “Fine. Worry.”
She smiled and linked her arm through mine, steering me back up to the house.
“So what brings you by then?” she asked again once we were inside, patting Aster on the back before heading to the sink to wash her hands.
Some people had the amazing ability to articulate exactly what they were feeling. To lay everything out in a poignant way and speak with power and conviction.
I was not one of those people. It all sounded great in my head, but once I opened my mouth, especially if I was nervous or excited, word vomit was all I was capable of.
My mom and brother stared at me as I told them everything. They were used to making sense of my disjointed monologues, so they kept up. I could tell by my mother’s worried—what a shock—expression, as well as my brother’s disapproving one, that this might be a harder sell than I originally thought.
“Iris,” my mother began, her voice soft and hesitant. “I love how much you care about other people, I do. But—”
“There’s no buts, Mom. This man will die if he doesn’t get a kidney.”
Aster rolled his eyes. “Stop being so dramatic. He has months, if not years. You don’t need to fork over a kidney for a stranger. If you’re in need of feeling good about yourself just go volunteer at a homeless shelter or something.”
A glare to the back of his head was all the response I gave my brother. I focused my attention solely on Mom.
“They’ve already run my tests, and Dr. Moore is sitting down with Catherine and Nick today to tell them I’m a match. I’m going back in a few days to discuss setting up the surgery and to meet Nick. It—”
“You’re crazy,” my brother muttered. I’d tried to ignore my brother’s mumblings, but after that comment I couldn’t.
“You don’t understand, fine. But that doesn’t make me crazy—” His scoff interrupted me and my mom shot him a withering glare. She was the sweetest, but you did not want to be caught in her crosshairs.
“Actually the fact that you’re crazy makes you crazy,” Aster said, clearly not caring about upsetting our mom. He lifted his hands when he noticed our narrowed eyes.
“Won’t this affect your health? I’d hate to come back and say I told you so.”
No, you wouldn’t.
“It’s not like I’m giving him my heart, Aster. I’m going to live a normal life.”
“There’s always risk—”
“You’re right. Just like there’s always a risk when I get in a car, so should I stop driving?” He rolled his eyes again, his patent move. “You’re being ridiculous,” I added for good measure.
Aster dropped his attitude. “I want to make sure you’re gonna be okay. You’re still my baby sister.”
I let down my defenses too. “I know. But I… I have to do this. I’m going to help him.” My mom was now smiling as she leaned over and brushed a stray wisp of my hair behind my ear.
“Of course you are, sweetheart. That’s what you do. I just want you to be sure. This is a big deal.”
I nodded. “I know. But you weren’t there… seeing her, speaking to her… I felt…”
“Like you were in the right place at the right time?” she guessed.
“Yes! Exactly.”
My mom smiled. “Okay, well of course we’ll support you. Whatever decision you make.”
I knew that despite his reassuring words, my brother still thought this was over the top and insane. And even though I loved him, I didn’t care what Aster thought. If the worst thing about me was that I was too nice, too giving, too caring… I’d wear those labels proudly.