by RJ Crayton
Now he looks ashamed for asking. I feel guilty. So guilty. He’s going to realize tomorrow he’s been fooled, and he might even get punished for not realizing I’m a fraud. He offers up a respectful nod. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am” he declares. “I won’t intrude on you anymore then.”
He turns and walks down the grass, to his car. “Be safe, Ma’am,” he says right before hopping in and driving off.
I wait until he’s out of sight, then scurry to the church. The main door is open. A sign at the entry reads, “All welcome in the House of the Lord at all times.” It is, in fact, a 24-hour church. I look around. No one is inside. I need to get to the meeting place.
I walk down the aisle, take a right at the altar, and enter a door labeled, “Staff only.”
Down a flight of stairs, into a dark basement, through another doorway, and finally to a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with metal pots and pans. I pull the entire shelf forward, just as Dr. Grant told me. The shelf, on a hinge, easily pivots out of my way. Behind it, is a door with no knob on my side. Only a keyhole. I knock five times, wait 10 seconds, knock three times, wait 10 seconds and knock five times again.
A moment later, Dr. Grant opens the door.
Chapter 6: Luke’s Law
I smile. Dr. Grant does not. His face is overwhelmingly serious. I notice his left cheek is darkish purple, as if he’s suffered some injury. My insides turn uneasily as the first inkling of something wrong hits me. I’ve only been in the tiny secret room a moment, and things are going downhill.
The room is only about 12 feet by 12 feet, and reminds me of the tiny dorm rooms on campus dubbed “psycho singles” due to their claustrophobic nature. The wall’s contours are curved, uneven, like a cavern. A few feet away, I see a figure sitting on the floor, back to the wall, head tucked down, knees pressed to chest. Even though his face isn’t showing, I’d know that sandy brown mop of hair anywhere.
“Luke,” I say softly, taking a couple of steps toward him. I am afraid that saying it louder or getting any closer means he’ll hear me speak, look up, and confirm the sinking feeling I have. But, in truth, his very posture has already done that. Why would my Luke not get up and greet me? Why wouldn’t he sweep me into his arms and murmur in my ear words of encouragement about tonight, if everything were alright?
Luke doesn’t answer. I’m sure he heard me, and not answering further hammers in what I already know: something is terribly wrong.
I turn back to Dr. Grant. “What’s going on? And what happened to your face?”
Dr. Grant looks away from me, closing the door to the secret room. When he turns back, he sighs and puts his hand to his chin, considering my question. I search his face for any clues about what has gone wrong.
From behind me, Luke speaks. “I hit him.”
Frozen momentarily by what he said, I take my time to slowly turn and face him. “What?” He can’t have said what I thought he did. I wonder if saying the words aloud will help them make sense. “You hit him?”
He doesn’t speak but nods and inclines his head toward the doctor. My lips part slightly, then I stop myself from giving into the jaw-dropping shock I feel. Instead, I take a deep breath and hope a moment of silence will help me compose myself. I don’t want to be angry at Luke. Not now. Not when time is of the essence. Not when I am barely holding it together as is. But I do want answers.
Feeling silly in this ridiculous blonde wig and wanting Luke to see the real me, I pull it off my head, and shove it in my shoulder bag. I do the same with the stocking cap and rubber band that had been holding my hair in a bun. Yanking the shoulder strap over my head, I drop my satchel to the floor and take the few remaining steps to get to Luke, who is blanketed in shadow in the crevice he’s chosen. I kneel and look at his face. His blue eyes are moist at the edges and he appears to be suppressing a deep urge to scream — or perhaps an urge to hit Dr. Grant again.
I whisper, “Why did you hit him?”
He looks past me, at Dr. Grant. “Tell her,” he spits, with more venom than I’ve ever heard him direct at another human being.
“I made a mistake,” Dr. Grant admits, moving closer to us. I stand, doing a 180 to face Dr. Grant and strategically placing myself between the men, afraid Luke might have another outburst.
I dig my toes deep into my shoes, trying to plant myself, steel myself for whatever Dr. Grant must tell me about his mistake. Part of me doesn’t want to hear it, but I know I must find out because it clearly is going to affect my escape. And it clearly isn’t good.
“Is it something we can fix?” I ask, hopefully.
He shakes his head, still looking severe. After a moment, he puts a hand on my shoulder, then sets his amber-eyed gaze on me. “Do you remember when I asked you if you had your original LMS?”
I nod, though I am confused. This is irrelevant. “Yes, I remember. I still have the original.”
He looks at the dirt floor briefly, then back at me and shakes his head.
“You should have checked sooner,” Luke mutters from behind me.
The doctor ignores me, instead eyeing Luke. “I know,” he says remorsefully.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, still confused. “I have my original LMS. It’s never been replaced. I would know if it had been replaced.”
Both men are silent a moment. Then, Dr. Grant turns his attention to me again. “Did you break your arm when you were six?”
My knees suddenly feel weak, and gravity’s force seems to have gained extra pull. I nod, as I can’t muster any sound from my throat. Knowing I can’t stand anymore, that my legs won’t support me, that they will succumb to this overwhelming urge to sink into a hole, I lower myself down, landing not far from Luke. The ground is cold and hard, just like the new reality settling around me. I feel Luke’s hand on my back, rubbing lightly.
“Well, according to the medical records,” Dr. Grant says, “it was a fairly bad break, with the bone splintering.”
“I had to have surgery,” I say flatly. I don’t remember everything about the incident. The haziness of my memory is probably due to the trauma of being thrown from a horse. At the time, we were all thankful I was still alive, safe. A broken bone was getting off easy, the doctors had said. My parents had arranged what should have been a safe ride. Although the instructor had held the reigns the entire time, a fox darted out of the forest and spooked the Saddlebred. It was so sudden, the instructor lost his grip, the horse bolted, and I slammed into the ground, landing on my arm.
Dr. Grant speaks softly. “The records show they decided to replace the LMS while they already had the arm opened up for the bone repair. It was the latest model at the time. It’s the one they still use today.” I know the ramifications of what he is saying, but he spells it out anyway. “I can’t take it out, Kelsey.”
I feel my heartbeat pick up, my breathing increase. This is insane. Ridiculous. He has to take it out. If he doesn’t take it out, they will find me. The air suddenly seems thinner in this tiny room. I look to Dr. Grant, praying there’s something more he can do.
“What about changing the information. Just switch the information again,” I say in a voice that sounds too high and pitchy, even to my own ears.
He shakes his head. “My guy can’t do that, Kelsey. He has a family, too. He was at his risk limit in switching the data overnight. In a little more than nine hours, you’re going to be Kelsey Reed again.”
“Nine hours,” I repeat. It’s not enough time. They will find me. And then they’ll strap me to a gurney and take my kidney.
“It’ll be OK, Kelsey,” Luke whispers in my ear as he wraps his arms around me. “We’ll think of something.”
If anyone else had said that, I would have thought it was a lie, a lie meant to soothe. And I suppose it’s possible it is just that. Only, Luke doesn’t say things lightly. He pulls no punches, and speaks only of the possible. If he says we can think of something, then maybe we can.
Dr. Grant looks at us and begins wa
lking toward the door. Clearly feeling like the third wheel he is, he excuses himself to check messages.
We’re alone, and I am trying to let the warmth of Luke’s embrace drown out the nightmare of what I’ve just been told.
“Kelsey,” he says. He is so close, I feel his warm breath tickle my ear. My whole body lights up when he speaks my name. He says it as if he’s a thirst-quenched man in the desert and I am his oasis. I want to sit here with him, like this, forever. Only, I know I can’t. I sigh, as I pivot around on my bottom to face him. Our knees touch now, as we sit cross-legged on the ground.
“Now do you believe in Murphy’s Law?” I ask. This is a running joke between us. He thinks Murphy’s Law — “whatever can go wrong, will go wrong, and at the worst possible time” — is a ridiculous adage. Hokum, he calls it. Instead, he thinks we should abide by Luke’s Law: whenever something goes wrong, fix it.
Tonight, instead of chiming in about Luke’s Law, he says, “Maybe I should become a believer.”
He looks unsure, unsteady. I have never seen that in him before. He strokes my cheek, then looks down at the ground or my hand or at anything but my eyes. Finally, he looks back up. The uncertainty in his eyes scares me. It’s the antithesis of Luke. Luke is self-assured, confident, someone who protects and keeps others safe. The Luke in front of me now seems to need protection.
I try to be brave for him. “Don’t give up on Luke’s Law,” I say, mustering my best look of encouragement. “We can think of something.”
He looks down again and doesn’t speak for a few seconds. The silence unnerves me. It’s so unlike him to be silent when he clearly has something on his mind. His unease is spreading to me. If his jitters infect me, I’ll be up and pacing this tiny room in a minute. I need him to speak.
As if in answer to my silent request, he meets my eyes and begins. “What if the simplest fix is the one staring us in the face?”
I lean back, confused. “What would that be?”
He doesn’t say it for the longest time, then whispers, “Maybe you could just go through with it?”
The words hang there in the air, as I try to comprehend. Go through with it? Give up my kidney for a stranger when it could leave me disabled, or even dead? He wants me to do something he knows I don’t want. I am rebuking society and everything in FoSS by trying to run. I have to live with that, and I’ve reconciled that. Now, he wants me to question it again.
The horror I am feeling — that he now wants me to do this, when he has been so against it from the beginning — must show on my face, because he immediately follows up. “Kelsey, there’s very little risk,” he says like a speed-talking salesman. “You’ll be very safe. I know the doctors will be very careful, especially because you’re Senator Reed’s daughter. And losing a kidney is not the end of the world. People do it all the time.”
I stand up, turn my back to him, and walk across the room. I want to get away from him. The idea that he wants me to do this is beyond my comprehension. He introduced me to the underground pro-choice movement on campus. He has all sorts of banned historical books and pamphlets discussing individual rights and freedoms. He hates the Life First mantra. How could he, of all people, say this?
“Why would you want me to do this?” I ask, the bitterness seeping out, despite my best efforts to control it. “Aren’t you for personal choice as much as I am?”
He stands, crosses the room and positions himself right behind me. I can’t turn to face him, though. He’s stopped short of touching me, but I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. His voice is low, yet clear.
“I am for personal choice,” he declares. “My choice is to be with you. Always. And I don’t care if you have one kidney or two.”
He slips his arms around my waist and kisses my neck. “I can’t lose you to a holding facility over something as small as a kidney. Please, for me, consider just doing it.”
Part of me wants to say, longs to say, “Of course.” That’s the effect Luke has on me. I want to give him every part of me. And if the kidney were for Luke, I would give it up in a heartbeat. I’d give him both without a second thought. But, for a stranger? When losing a kidney means I could ultimately lose my health, my ability to enjoy my time with Luke or, worse, my own life?
I slowly circle around to face him. Still nestled in his protective arms, I peek up at him and find his pale blue eyes, desperation deep within them, staring at me. He’s afraid, I realize.
“Please,” he says.
I can’t look at him anymore. If I do, I will tell him yes. So, I close my eyes and bury my face in his chest. He smells slightly sweaty and salty. It’s a very manly scent, and I inhale deeply to get more of it, more to remember him by, in case the fears he’s dreaming up materialize.
“Kelsey, I know I’m asking a lot of you, but you’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my life,” he whispers. “I don’t want to lose you because of a stupid principle.”
I pause. Then I speak words that are, on every level, wrong, but still leave my lips: “Would you love me if I were like Susan?”
“Yes,” he says, so quickly, so definitively, so firmly, that I know he means it unequivocally. And for that alone, I love him dearly. The problem is, I won’t love me if I’m like Susan. Not because there is something innately wrong with Susan’s condition. But, because I could never forgive myself for going in, knowing the risks, and letting it happen. I would always blame myself, wish I’d not gone through it, wish I’d run, if I did turn out like Susan. For Susan, there had been no warning. Her odds were as good as mine, better in fact, but everything had gone wrong and now, after she was marked and had surgery, she is paralyzed. The thought of ending up like Susan — forever damaged by surgical error — terrifies me.
Luke pulls me tighter. “I know what happened to Susan scared you, but it won’t happen to you, too. The odds are ridiculously low. You’ll be fine, and we can be together if you just do this.”
On the most rational level, his words make sense. So much sense. Yet, emotionally, they’re all wrong. I don’t know I won’t be like Susan. And even if everything turns out fine, I won’t be me anymore. Won’t be Kelsey. I’ll be Kelsey without a kidney. Not just Kelsey without a kidney, but Kelsey who didn’t fight for her kidney. Kelsey who willingly gave up without a fight, even though she knew it was wrong. How do I make him understand? I close my eyes, and enjoy his comforting arms.
As contented as I am in his arms, I know what I have to ask. “Do you love me?”
“Of course.”
“Why do you love me?” I finally bring myself to look him directly in the eyes.
He smiles that darling, cocky, light-up-the-room smile only he has, and says, “We don’t have enough time for me to tell you all the reasons I love you.”
Classic Luke. It takes a few seconds to get over the swoon and respond. “Tell me three.”
“You’re beautiful.”
I roll my eyes. Of course he goes for one that isn’t actually true, and is easy to think up. “And?” I prod.
“You’re smart and sexy and honest. And you follow your heart, and try to do what’s right.”
I nod, thankful he’d gone in the direction I wanted. “And would it be right for me to give up my kidney, Luke, even though I don’t want to? To give it to this stranger, when my choice is no?”
His smile fades, he lets go of me and walks across the room, back to his corner. It’s my turn to follow. To stand behind him, wrap my arms around him, and warm him in my loving arms. He is silent as we stand huddled in this secret cellar. And when he decides to turn and face me, he asks in a desperate whisper: “Is it so wrong to not do the right thing?”
He looks so wounded that I want to say yes to his request, to say I will give up my kidney if it will wash away the hurt and anguish he’s feeling. But I know I can’t. Instead, I say: “Ask me again, Luke. If you think it’s the right thing to do, ask me again to go through with it so we can be together.”
He closes
his eyes and pulls me tighter, holding me so snugly that I feel completely loved. But I know he is torn, that he is struggling with what to say. Eventually, he slackens his grip, leans to my ear, and whispers. “Kelsey, will you promise to always be the Kelsey I love, and always fight for what you believe is right?”
“Yes,” I whisper back. I’m not sure how I would have answered the alternative question, so I’m glad he didn’t ask it. Glad he loves and accepts me for me.
He tilts his head downward and our lips meet. His mouth is warm, soft, and a bit minty from the breath fresheners he chews. The heat from the kiss radiates outward, pulsing from my lips to chin to cheeks, down my neck and spreading like a warm sunrise through my entire body. It’s enough to make me forget the damp, chilliness of this subterranean room.
As if on cue, Dr. Grant knocks. “Come in,” I call as I detangle myself from Luke. When Dr. Grant has closed the hidden room’s door, Luke and I are simply standing next to each other holding hands.
As we stand there, it hits me that the real work begins now. We have to figure out what to do next.
Chapter 7: A New Plan
I look at Dr. Grant, then my watch. “When does the tech switch us back?”
“Eight a.m.”
The time hasn’t changed. There is no way I can get out of FoSS.
I shudder involuntarily. Luke squeezes my hand. As bad as things are, Luke’s presence keeps me from panicking. In fact, I can think clearly when he is in arm’s reach.
Right now, I need answers. Luke and I are holding hands, leaning against the wall at the far end of the room. Dr. Grant stands a few feet in front of us. I take a step closer to him, though my hand still lingers inside Luke’s.
“So, give me the short version of why you can’t take it out,” I say.
