by RJ Crayton
She adjusts herself in her chair, crosses her legs. It seems to be a stalling tactic, something my father might do if he were feeling the need to regain his composure during a debate or contentious meeting. She leans forward, apparently back on track with her evaluation. “Do you believe you owe your fellow human being nothing?”
The question is the type that could be laced with venom, and I wonder if secretly she wants it to be, but it comes across monotone and dispassionate.
I put on my best look of incredulity. “Of course not. I owe my fellow man much. I just don’t believe I owe him my body.”
She lets that hang in the air a few moments, then uncrosses her left leg, and instead crosses right over left. “Are you concerned about the survival of humankind at all?”
“Yes, of course. And I do everything I can to help mankind survive. I gladly give blood every two years, and I’m not opposed to organ donation. I just want it to be a choice, not mandatory.” The last sentence comes out whiny and pleading, like a crazy person pleading for the sane to believe her. That’s what I feel like, here. Like a crazy person. Part of me wonders if I am crazy. If Dr. Grant has somehow warped me like a strange Svengali.
But, in my heart, I know I am not under any spell. I am doing what is right, even if the world thinks I’m crazy. My mother’s lack of choice literally cost her her life. Susan almost paid with her life. I have no intention of being like them, even if FoSS thinks I’m crazy or, worse, evil. I wish I’d made it to Peoria. In Peoria, what I’m saying would play as well as the best ever Vaudeville show.
“May I ask you another question?” the lady doctor coos with false sincerity.
As she’s been asking already without permission, her requesting it now seems odd. Perhaps it is some psychological move to make me feel I’m in control again. Or perhaps she’s just weird. Her reasons don’t matter, I suppose. “Go ahead,” I say evenly.
“What if you were the only match for this man? What if no one else were able to give him a kidney?”
“If no one else could give him a kidney?” I repeat, turning the idea over in my mind, trying to grasp such a foreign concept. There is always someone else, always another match. Not as good as the first, but good enough. Good enough to save a life.
The phrase “Life First” dances in my head. The words are connected with every memory, every synapse, like an intricate web. I’ve heard the phrase so often, lived it, breathed it. Yet, when she asks the question like that, the familiar mantra seems meaningless. What would happen if there were no one else? The answer pops into my mind clear as day, and I blurt it out before I can stop myself. “Then he would die.”
“If it were your choice, you would choose for him to die?”
I shake my head. “If it were my choice, I would choose for me to live without injury to my body. Whether he lives or dies only relates to him. My choice is about me.”
“Even though it kills him.”
“His failing kidneys are killing him, not me.”
She narrows her eyes and gives me a death-ray stare. If looks could kill, I’d be dead, and Lady Klein would get to see what this room looks like from the other side.
Finally, the man, Dr. Slate, stands. The lady startles, as if she’s forgotten he’s there, then stands also. He smiles at me and says, very friendly, as if we’ve just been discussing what to have for dinner, or an upcoming outing, “Thank you for talking with us, Kelsey.”
And with that, he turns off the recorder and hands it and the tripod to Dr. Klein. Then he picks up both chairs, turns and exits. Dr. Klein follows close behind.
Alone again, my insides feel like they’ve been flooded with ice as the realization of what I’ve done hits me. I’ve blown it. Shit. They are going to deem me a sociopath, take my kidney, and then scavenge every useful organ I have left.
Chapter 16: Joke’s on You
A half hour later, Dr. Slate returns. This time, he is alone. He brings in a chair, sets it on the floor not far from where I am perched on my rubber block, then sits.
“How are you, Kelsey?”
This has to be a trick question. How is one supposed to be after having her head shaved; being stripped, prodded and given useless medical tests; spending a sleepless night; and being asked a bunch of questions by a doctor who clearly hates her? “As well as can be expected,” I murmur.
“I want to ask you a couple more questions, if you don’t mind.”
I have no idea why he is here or where this is going, but I look him in the eye and nod.
He leans forward, gives a sheepish half smile, looking almost bashful. It’s as if he is trying to endear himself to me. “I know this is an awkward place to be brought to, and everything seems very harsh, especially us doctors. And sometimes it’s hard to feel like you can open up.”
He pauses, looks at me as if awaiting a response. I nod, then he continues. “You can trust us, here, Kelsey,” he says earnestly enough that I want to believe him. It is not true, I know. I can’t trust him. This is certain, based on our last interaction. I trusted them with the truth; that was a mistake. Now, he wants me to believe I can open up. I nod, a sign to show I accept his lie. He smiles, showing pearly white teeth this time.
“When we asked you before about your reasons for not wanting to follow through with the donation, did you leave anything out?”
Now, that is an odd question. Not at all what I expected. I think for a moment. Nothing springs to mind. My reasons are clear. “No,” I say, shaking my head.
He nods, sits up straighter, bites his lower lip, thinking some apparently deep, silent thought for several moments. Finally, he leans forward again, looks me in the eye, lowers his voice slightly. “I know your father is a state senator running for governor, and you may not want to embarrass him. If that’s the case, don’t worry about his career or any impact what you’ve done will have on that. What you say will stay between us. Just tell me if you have another reason.”
This is, by far, the oddest conversation I’d ever had (and that’s saying something, given the weirdos I’ve met at my father’s campaign stops). I have no idea what this doctor is talking about. He thinks I have another reason, something unsaid. Something I think would embarrass my father. My mind draws a blank. Nothing. It is awful that when you need your brain to work most, to think of logical answers, nothing happens. Is he giving me a second chance? A second bite at the apple to improve my situation. If so, I have no idea what to say. I need more help. I study his face looking for clues. Green eyes, auburn hair, strong jaw bone, angular face. Nothing to give me a clue. I look up at the ceiling, then back at him, down to the floor, racking my brain, begging it to give me the right answer. But nothing is forthcoming. Finally, I simply shake my head. No hidden agenda. Besides, what could be worse for my father’s career than his daughter fleeing? I basically gave the middle finger salute to the state he is seeking to govern. I can think of nothing worse than that.
The doctor gives me a resigned look and adjusts himself in his chair. We stare at each other, playing a verbal game of Chicken, each waiting for the other to say more.
I break first — cluck, cluck. Any other time, I could sit here and stare him into oblivion, but not now. I have a question. It’s clear I totally blew my previous interview. And while I sorta like the ignorance-is-bliss mode, I know it will be better to have an answer so I can prepare myself mentally. I clear my throat so I am sure I have his attention. “When are they going to do the transplant?”
“They’re not,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Now, I am utterly confused. If I’d gotten a better reception from the doctor and his colleague earlier, I might think I’d succeeded in swaying them. But, it is clear telling the truth has not helped my cause. While they’ve been gone, I’ve been bracing myself for the moment they would tell me I am a pariah and they are going sedate me, and take my kidney, even though I’ve said no. “I don’t understand,” I say, pleading with my eyes for explanation.
“You’re no
t eligible,” he says with such perfect clarity that I can’t even pretend I’ve misheard and ask him to repeat himself.
“Why not? I thought I was the perfect match.”
He watches me closely now, evaluating me. Astonishment settles on his face. “You don’t have any clue, do you?”
I shake my head.
He laughs. “Well, there’s certainly irony in that. Isn’t there, Kelsey?”
I don’t like his laugh. It is harsh and cold and means something is very wrong. “Irony in what?”
“If you’d come in to do the procedure, they would have turned you away.”
Is this some sick joke? Is this was why inmates try suicide, because of crazy taunting doctors like this one? “I — I — I don’t understand.”
He takes a deep breath, leans forward and begins speaking in a patient, even tone. “When you came in, we did a health evaluation, a urine sample.”
I nod.
“This morning, we did a blood test and the ultrasound. You remember?”
Is he kidding? Of course I remember. “Yes, you did an ultrasound and blood tests to look at my kidneys, to make sure they were still in good condition.”
He shakes his head. “No, that’s not why. I mean, we can use the ultrasound to look for that. But that’s not why you got one. You got the tests because of your urine sample. After we found the markers in your blood, we were pretty confident we had the right diagnosis, but it was the ultrasound that confirmed it. The blood tests had given us the right prognosis. It had not been a decoy.”
I feel alarm. They found something wrong with me during the blood test. Something so wrong I am no longer suitable for the transplant. “What did you find in my blood?”
“Human chorionic gonadotropin, also known as HCG.”
It sounds familiar, but I can’t quite figure out why. “What is that?”
“A hormone.”
A hormone. We all have hormones. How could a hormone make me ineligible? Is it a sign of cancer, a brain defect, or maybe even a kidney defect? Talk about irony. I feel like all the air has been sucked from my lungs. My voice comes out raspy and frightened, when I finally pluck up the courage to speak. “This HCG — it’s bad?”
“Nope,” he says, standing, then grabbing his chair. “It’s good. A woman only produces it in these quantities when she’s pregnant. Ultrasound confirmed it wasn’t a hoax. Wasn’t something you’d injected yourself with to keep us from doing the transplant. There’s a little guy or gal attached to the wall of your uterus. You’re about four weeks along.”
And with that, he walks out the door. It closes with a bang, followed by the click of the electronic lock.
I am dumbstruck. Pregnant. I hadn’t considered, hadn’t even thought of it as a possibility. Luke and I are always careful. But, obviously, nothing short of abstinence is 100 percent foolproof. I don’t know what went wrong, but I feel overwhelmingly glad for whatever folly it is. Luke is going to be a daddy, and I am going to be a mommy. A smile spreads across my face as the thought sinks in.
I don’t notice the electronic click that signals the door being unlocked. But, it must’ve sounded, for I look up to see the door open again and my father enter. I am shocked. He is the last person I expected to see at this moment, and a complete mood shifter. My surprise and happiness over the baby are immediately tempered as I see the results of my betrayal up close. My father has several new gray hairs. And he doesn’t smile at me, not the genuine one or the public one.
I feel the guilt pile on like bricks as he walks towards me. I have hurt him immeasurably. And despite how sorry I feel, seeing him makes me realize I have done this to him. I have cracked the implacable man who has been there for me whenever I needed him. I walk over and hug him. “I’m so sorry, Daddy.”
His arms stiffly embrace me for a moment, then he pulls away. He turns and won’t look at me. It’s all I can do to keep myself from crying. He’s cutting me off and I deserve it. After Mom died, it was just me and him. We were all the family we had left, and we were always supposed to be honest with each other. Always supposed to be there for each other. I broke my end of the bargain when I sneaked away in the middle of the night.
I thought my note could explain it, that he might understand when he read it. That what was happening right now would never happen. But, clearly, I was wrong. His eyes were ice when he walked in, and he won’t look at me now. It is apparent that my actions mean more than my explanations. I close my eyes, trying to keep the tears at bay. I tell myself that he came. That means something. He came.
“I’m glad you came,” I say, hoping he will tell me I am misreading him, that he does not feel as wounded as he looks.
He nods curtly, stares at my head. The lack of hair must be jarring. I rub my hand over my head. “It’s going to be all the rage in the salons, soon. I’m at the forefront of the trend.”
He smiles at that, a genuine smile. “Well, at the very least, this hasn’t affected your sense of humor,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t say that, but you can’t give up everything just ‘cause you’re locked away for refusing to give up a kidney you weren’t actually going to have to give up anyway.”
He is stiff and uncomfortable. “So, you didn’t know about the baby?”
I shake my head. “Looks like you’ll be a grandpa.”
“Looks like,” he says, offering a public smile.
I want to say something, to say I am sorry again, but that seems utterly inadequate. I’ve ruined everything for him, both his career and personal life. No one will vote for a candidate whose daughter dodged her responsibility. And I’ve created a rift between us that has never been there before. That rift feels as wide as the Grand Canyon as we stand in the tiny white rubber room.
“Did you get my note?”
He looks at me for a moment without speaking, then says stiltedly, “I did, but the chip was corrupt.”
No! He has to hear Mom’s message. I feel what little color I have drain from my face. That is the most important part, the thing he needs to see most. How could it be corrupt? I checked it myself earlier that day. Mom’s video was on there.
Seeing my dismay, he edges closer and puts a hand on my shoulder. “The note was enough, Kelsey. I didn’t need the chip.”
I study his face, wanting to believe him, but his eyes seem so distant, so foreign to me, that I know he is wrong. He needs to really see it to understand. I take a deep breath, then sit down on my block. I close my eyes.
My father takes the two steps over to me and kneels. “Kelsey, don’t upset yourself, not in your condition.”
“I’m fine, Daddy,” I say, hoping saying it will make it true. “It’s just I wanted you to understand, understand that I’d never intentionally hurt you, that what I did, I did for me, and I really am sorry that you were hurt by my actions.”
He proffers a genuine smile. “I understand, Kelsey, really.” He hugs me, and pats my back the way he did when I was little and had fallen and scraped a knee. The familiarity of it is very comforting. Then he lets go and gives me a piercing look that reminds me that I have let him down. I am a failure as a child. I wonder if I’ll be a failure as a mother, too. Then, a thought occurs to me. Luke.
“He doesn’t know, Daddy,” I sputter. “He doesn’t know I’m pregnant. You have to tell him.”
My father looks confused. I changed subjects without telling him. I pause, preparing to explain, but at that moment, my father seems to get it. “The baby’s father?” he asks.
“Yes, you have to tell...”
“John,” he says, cutting me off. I stop cold. John? John works in Dad’s office, and I went on one date with him. It wasn’t even a real date. He just accompanied me because Dad hadn’t wanted me to bring Luke. My father is now giving me a significant look, one that says to go along with him.
“Yes, John,” I say, as it dawns on me my father is right. Bringing Luke’s name into this, bringing him into the fold, into the authorities�
� purview is idiotic. He’s saved me. Even though I’ve so wronged him, he’s saved me, and I am grateful.
My father breathes out a sigh. His face is ashen. Something is wrong. I still can’t figure out what. One moment he’s loving, fatherly, saving me and Luke from my idiotic big mouth, and the next he’s cold and aloof and distant. I’m trying to read his face, but this isn’t like anything I’ve seen on the campaign trail. It’s a bit like when Mom died; a persevere, despite all odds, stoicism. I bite my lip.
“Honey,” he says, looking down at the floor, not at me. “The things you said have not helped your case. They’d like to transfer you to the long-term unit.”
My lips part and my eyes widen with incredulity. He can’t be serious. I’m pregnant. My hand instinctively touches my belly. They can’t move a pregnant woman to the long-term unit. Those places are only for people who society has written off. I haven’t even had a hearing. They can’t transfer me unless someone has made a decision. Someone other than a prissy psychiatrist. Another look at my father’s face reveals I’ve been mistaken. His demeanor hasn’t been anger or disappointment or resentment or some other awful thing my guilt has led me to imagine. His demeanor has been dread. Dread at telling me I am being railroaded.
“What about my hearing?” I manage to ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. More dread seeps into his bluish-gray eyes. “Dr. Slate would like to convene a hearing in two days. Then, he’d like to take the baby and have you transferred.”
