Let Him Live

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “Not talking, that’s for sure,” Alana said with a saucy flip of her head.

  Donovan glanced at Clark. Clark shrugged, spun Alana around, and kissed her firmly. When he pulled away, he said, “It’s the only way I can shut her up.”

  “Shut me up!” Alana squealed.

  “See you guys,” Clark called over his shoulder, and darted across the moonlit deck. Alana followed, promising dire repercussions.

  Watching them flee, Meg felt a wave of sadness come over her. She didn’t want to feel sad. No matter what happened tomorrow, what became of her and Donovan, now it was safe and lovely. She turned back toward Donovan. “Do you suppose it’s okay for best friends to give each other a kiss?”

  He put his arms around her and drew her close. “I think it’s required,” he said. “Only for the sake of making the friendship stronger.”

  She slid her arms around him. “And only because we’re best friends,” she whispered, lifting her mouth to his. “And only to get Alana off our case.”

  He ducked his head downward. “Absolutely. That Alana can be so testy.” His lips brushed hers, soft as a summer breeze.

  Eighteen

  “THE FINAL TALLY is in, and we raised a bundle on the cruise last Saturday night,” Meg’s mother said as she hung up the phone in the kitchen. “That was the treasurer of our board, and she’s very pleased. This, coupled with the letter you helped write, is really going to get us off to a fantastic start.”

  On her way out, Meg paused to hear her mother’s enthusiastic report. “I’m glad. I know I had a wonderful time on the cruise.”

  “We’ll have other fund-raisers. Right now, we’re discussing a possible charity softball game. Initial inquiries to several big-name stars have been encouraging.” She eyed Meg, who stood jangling her car keys. “I thought you had the morning off.”

  “I do. I’m taking Donovan and his mother someplace.”

  “Oh.” Meg’s mother started clearing off the kitchen counter. “I was hoping we could do something together. Shopping, lunch—we haven’t done that once this summer.”

  Momentarily surprised by the wistful tone in her mother’s voice, Meg stepped closer to the counter. “I already promised them,” she said. This was the day that Donovan had chosen to take his mom to the house and tell her about the Wish money and how he’d spent it. Meg felt an edge of excitement. People had worked hard to get it ready. She wanted to tell her mom what was going on, but thought it best to keep Donovan’s secret for a little while longer. Besides, the news would bring a barrage of questions from her mother, and she didn’t have time to answer them. “Maybe we can go shopping tomorrow after I get off work,” Meg suggested.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Meg came around the counter and kissed her mother’s cheek, causing her mother to glance at her with surprise.

  “I just felt like it.” Ever since the night of the cruise, she’d felt an affection for her parents she’d not experienced in a long time, and she was determined to make up to them for the strain her personal problems had caused her family. Now more than ever, Meg appreciated how they’d stood by her over the past months since Cindy’s death and her difficult adjustment to it.

  “Well, thank you. Anytime you feel like it is fine with me.” She reached out and touched Meg. “You’re doing better, aren’t you?”

  “You mean about Cindy? Yes, I think the worst is over.”

  “I’m glad. I’ve missed having my daughter around.”

  Meg gave her a quick hug and hurried out the door.

  By the time Meg stopped her car in front of the old Victorian house, her palms were damp with nervous perspiration. From the backseat, she heard Mrs. Jacoby ask, “Donovan, what is going on? The two of you have been acting strange all morning.”

  Meg and Donovan exchanged glances in the front seat. “Just a little surprise Meg and I cooked up for you.” Meg couldn’t help noticing how tired and thin Donovan looked. A slight yellow cast tinged his skin. This was a moment he had been looking forward to for weeks, and she didn’t want anything to ruin it for him.

  “Where are we anyway?” Mrs. Jacoby asked, peering out the window. “My, what a lovely old house.”

  Donovan went around to his mother’s door and offered his hand. “Come on. I want to show you the inside.”

  “Do you have permission? Is the owner home?”

  Meg walked with them up onto the porch, trying to see the house through Mrs. Jacoby’s eyes. The front door with its leaded-glass panels sparkled in the morning sunlight. She remembered polishing each pane.

  Donovan put the key into the lock, turned it, and swung open the door. “Come on, Mom. Look around and tell me if you like it.”

  “Donovan, are you sure—”

  He pulled her in. “I’m sure.”

  The smell of fresh paint and lemon oil hung in the air, and sunlight streamed through the freshly washed front windows. Echoes sounded when they walked across the floor to the fireplace, now clean and empty of old ashes. Donovan ran his hand over the ornately carved mantel. “What do you think?” he asked.

  His mother’s gaze darted everywhere. “I think it’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. Who owns it?”

  Meg stepped back, lingering near the entrance. She wanted them to have this special moment, yet felt that she would burst if Donovan didn’t tell his mom the truth right away.

  He crossed to his mom and took both her hands in his. “I want you to know how much what you did means to me.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You sold our house and moved us here just so I could be near Memorial and have the chance for a transplant.”

  She shook her head. “It was your best chance, and I never thought twice about it. You’re my son, and I love you. It was much harder on Brett than on me, although I think even he’s adjusted.”

  “Still, I know what our home meant to you.”

  “It was old and needed repairs.” She was obviously flustered by his words.

  “It was our home,” Donovan insisted.

  “Well, if you brought me here to show me how beautiful a house can be, you’ve succeeded. I think this one is exquisite.”

  “You haven’t even seen the upstairs yet,” Meg blurted out.

  Mrs. Donovan turned to her and smiled. Her eyes narrowed. “What have you two cooked up?”

  Meg gave Donovan a helpless shrug, and he held up the house keys, opened his mother’s hand and settled them in her palm. “It’s yours, Mom. This house is yours—ours really. It’s a present.”

  Her bewildered expression turned skeptical. “Now, Donovan, you can’t expect me to believe that someone gave us this house.”

  “Believe it. It’s a long story, and I’m going to sit right here in the middle of the floor and tell you all about it, but first, look at this.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded manila envelope. Meg knew that inside was the deed to the house.

  As Mrs. Jacoby read the legal document, the expression on her face turned from doubt to shock to stunned disbelief. “But how—?” Her voice cracked.

  Donovan said, “I bought it for you and Brett. I want you to have a home again. To make up for the other one.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “In a minute.” He opened his arms. Meg watched as his mother slid into them. Sunlight washed over them, bright and golden like a soft embrace. Meg blinked back tears as she heard Mrs. Jacoby begin to weep softly in her son’s arms. “I love you, Mom,” he said. “I love you.”

  It took over an hour for Donovan and Meg to explain about the One Last Wish Foundation and for Mrs. Jacoby to begin to believe them. She had many questions, most of which neither of them could answer, but Donovan did have the original letter and a copy of the check that Meg had made on the hospital’s copy machine. Those things and the deed to the house were the only proof they could offer. In the end, it was enough.

  Mrs. Jacoby went over every inch of the house, excl
aiming over details that had escaped Meg even though she’d helped paint the whole thing. The size of the house almost overwhelmed Mrs. Jacoby, but she made plans for each room. They might have stayed longer, but Donovan wasn’t feeling well, so Meg drove them back to the apartment.

  Mrs. Jacoby chattered nonstop all the way. “Maybe we can arrange to move next weekend. I’ll give notice to the landlord. I can rent a trailer. Do you think some of the people who helped you fix the place up would help us move? I can’t pay anybody but I could make a big pot of chili …”

  Meg saw that Donovan was pleased, but also tired. He leaned back against the car seat on the long drive and closed his eyes. Meg let them off, promising to call later. “I have my own mother to tell,” she told them. “Once she finds out I worked so hard on your house, she may put me to work on ours.” She made a face that caused Mrs. Jacoby to laugh, and waved good-bye.

  Once she returned home, she found her mother relaxing by the pool. “Back so soon?” her mom asked.

  “Donovan wasn’t feeling well, so we cut it short.”

  “Cut what short?”

  Meg dragged a patio chair over and sat down and proceeded to tell her mother the whole story. When she finished, her mother stared at her incredulously. “I can’t believe it,” she said.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t mention the One Last Wish Foundation and the mysterious JWC before, but it was Donovan’s money, and he asked me to keep it a secret until his mom got the house.”

  “Does your father know?”

  “No, not even Daddy.”

  “And the two of you pulled this off all by yourselves?”

  “Yes,” Meg confessed. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Mad? I’m impressed!” Her mother’s face broke out in a generous smile.

  “You are?”

  “Your ingenuity is overwhelming.”

  “It is?”

  “Meg, I think what you did is wonderful. I want you to start at the beginning and tell me the whole story all over again. Every detail—don’t skip a thing. Then, I’m going to begin checking into this One Last Wish Foundation. I’d say they need to be approached for a major donation to the Wayfarer Inn.”

  Meg stared at her mother open-mouthed. “Why, that’s exactly what I wanted to do!” she cried. “They should give to our cause.”

  Her mother smiled more broadly. “Like mother, like daughter,” she quoted, then leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. “Scary, isn’t it?”

  They spent the afternoon talking and laughing as Meg told stories of her adventures as a candy striper. It was after six before her mother realized that they needed to start dinner. “Your father promised to be home tonight.”

  “Maybe we should go out to eat,” Meg suggested. “Daddy hasn’t taken the two of us out to eat in ages.”

  “Good idea. I think we should both dress and pounce on him the minute he comes in the door. I mean, how could he possibly refuse an invitation from two gorgeous women like us?”

  The electronic ring of the phone interrupted Meg’s reply. She tensed. Years of hearing the phone ring at dinnertime meant only one thing. Her father had an emergency and wouldn’t be home for dinner. She tried not to feel resentful. Her mother picked up the receiver. Her smile quickly faded as she spoke to Meg’s father, and when she hung up, Meg braced herself for bad news.

  “It’s Donovan,” her mother said. “He’s just been brought into emergency, and he’s unconscious.”

  Nineteen

  MEG FELT MISPLACED sitting in the familiar surroundings of Memorial. She wasn’t a candy striper this time. She was a visitor. A watcher. One who waited for news about someone who was critically ill. She felt helpless.

  Her mother sat in a corner with Mrs. Jacoby, holding her hand and consoling her. Brett was slumped in another chair, staring down at his lap; his legs dangled, still too short to touch the floor. The sight of him looking so small and lost in the ICU waiting room caused a lump to lodge in her throat. He looked over at her forlornly. “Donovan fell down on the floor,” he said. “There was blood.”

  Meg slid over to sit next to the boy and put her arm around him. “I’m sorry, Brett. The doctors are trying to fix him up right now. Think about him getting better again.”

  “Is your daddy going to get him his new liver now?”

  Sadness almost overwhelmed Meg. She knew that Donovan had been delegated a Status 9—the highest priority for transplantation—but she didn’t know if the nationwide appeal for a liver had been answered. “I know my daddy’s trying his very best,” she told Donovan’s sad little brother.

  “The last time Donovan got real sick, Mommy told me that he might have to go to heaven. But he got better and got to come home. Will he have to go to heaven if your daddy can’t find him a new liver?”

  His questions, his innocence tore at her heart. Yet, his mother had discussed the possibility of Donovan’s dying, so Meg figured that it would be cruel to gloss over the child’s concerns. Still, she could hardly face the thought herself. “I-I don’t know. Maybe.” She turned her head and fought for control.

  “He can have my liver,” Brett said. “I never liked liver much anyway.”

  His cockeyed view of the situation brought Meg a brief smile. “Sorry, but one liver to a customer. You still need yours.”

  She heard someone rush into the room and looked up to see Alana, Clark, and Lonnie. They swiftly surrounded Meg and Brett. “Mrs. Vasquez called and told me. Oh, Meg, I’m so sorry.”

  “It stinks,” Clark mumbled. “We just returned his tux on Monday. He didn’t feel good, but I didn’t think much about it. He never feels really good.”

  “I think he was holding on just so he could get the house finished,” Meg said, realizing that was probably the truth. Any mention of being sick, and he would have been put back into the hospital immediately. “Turning over those keys to his mom was everything to him.”

  “Don’t give up hope,” Lonnie said. “I know what it’s like to lie in a hospital bed and think life’s over, then to get a reprieve. It can happen for Donovan too, if they only find him a donor.”

  Meg hung on to Lonnie’s words as if they were a lifeline. If they only find him a donor. Suddenly, she wanted to see Donovan and touch him. Meg moistened her lips and stood. “Will you all wait here with Brett? I’ll be back soon.”

  Clark eased into her vacated chair. “Hi, Brett, my man. I’m Clark, and I know your brother and we are pals.”

  Meg left the waiting room, went to the elevators, and punched the button that would take her to her dad’s office. She had no reason to even hope that he was there, but she wanted him to be. She wanted to talk to him, wanted to hear straight from him how the search was going.

  Because it was late, the halls were ghostly quiet. She walked swiftly down the long corridor and stopped in front of her dad’s office door. She muttered a quick prayer, turned the knob, and stepped inside. “Daddy?” she said.

  He swiveled the chair slowly to face her. “Hi, Meggie.”

  Again, she felt coldness clutch her heart. “Why aren’t you down prepping for OR?”

  “They just called me from the lab. Donovan’s in kidney failure.”

  Meg’s knees felt wobbly. She crouched in front of her father’s chair and gazed up at him. “So, will you have to do a kidney transplant too?”

  He didn’t answer right away, but took a deep and shuddering breath. “There won’t be any transplant. We’ve run out of time.”

  She heard the sharp intake of her own breath. “Is he—is he—?”

  Her father shook his head. “Not yet. I was just sitting here figuring a way to go down and tell his family.” He looked at her. “And you.”

  It dawned on her that her father was truly sad. What good was all the technology if it couldn’t come through when it was needed? “Does Donovan know?”

  “He’s semiconscious, but I don’t know if he’s aware of what’s happening. I don’t think so. He’ll go to sleep and slide from this wor
ld into the next. I can’t stop him.”

  Meg had passed from acute pain into numbness. The pool of light from the lamp shone directly down on her father’s hands, clasped in his lap. His fingers were long and tapered, spotlessly clean, smelling faintly of antiseptic soap. Surgeon’s hands. Hands that healed. It was as if she were seeing them for the first time.

  His hands were beautiful, and they had the power to transplant life from one human being into another. And yet, now, for all his knowledge, for all his ability and surgical skill, his hands could do nothing. He had the power to sustain life, but not to restore it.

  She stared at her own hands too. Smaller than his, with a few stubborn flecks of paint embedded under her nails. She thought of Alana’s hands, dark and nimble. She thought of all the hands that had reached out, that were still reaching out to Donovan and his family. Human hands, helping, healing, giving. Perhaps in the long run, that’s what life was truly all about—helping one another.

  Meg reached out and covered her father’s hands with hers. “We broke the rules, didn’t we, Daddy? We got too involved.”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid so, Meggie.”

  “Can I see him alone? Just for a minute while you go tell Brett and his mother?”

  He answered by taking her hand and leading her out of his office.

  ICU was quiet and dark except for the lonely vigil of beeping machines and glowing monitors. On the bed, Donovan twitched and tossed restlessly, as if struggling to remain in place. Tubes and wires protruded from every part of his body. Meg stared down at him, thinking, He’s tethered—these lines hold him to the bed. If they weren’t in place, would he float away?

  She felt detached, like an alien seeing something that made no sense in her world of health and wellness. Sickness she had seen, but death? Death wore a different face.

  “Donovan, it’s me, Meg. I-I want you to know I’m here with you.” She had no way of knowing if he heard her, or even remembered her.

  “Cold,” he mumbled. “So cold.”