The Other Side of Tomorrow

by Micalea Smeltzer

  Life goes on, and yet my mind always circles back to the Werth family.

  I can’t help but think about T.J.’s parents and what losing their son must have done to them.

  Every time I’ve been at the hospital I’ve done everything I can to learn if he was my donor, but the medical staff is tight lipped, as they should be. All I have to go on is the information they gave me when they called, what was in the newspaper, and my own gut feeling.

  My days become obsessive as I spend my whole time thinking about meeting them—for thanking them for their selfless sacrifice to donate their son’s organs. I want them to know, to feel relief in their heart, that their son’s death managed to bring good to the world.

  I pace my room, back and forth. It’s a miracle I haven’t worn a hole through the floor and fallen straight down into the room below.

  I’ve been warring with myself, and I know I’m about to lose the fight.

  Finally, I dive for my desk chair and sit down, lifting my laptop lid.

  With a few quick strokes of the keyboard I find the address for Diane and Peter Werth. It’s almost scary how easy it is to find someone if you know their name and the relative location of where they live.

  I save the address to my phone and look down at it.

  “Are you going to do this?” I ask myself softly.nbsp;

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  I have to. There’s this innate need inside me to meet them and I know it won’t go away until I do.

  This feels crazy, and it is, but I have to do it.

  I change into a pair of jean shorts and an off-the-shoulder top. My hair is a wavy mess, I try my best to make it look decent. I even take time to apply a little makeup. I don’t want to show up at their house looking like I rolled out of bed and threw on some shoes.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror.

  Wild blonde hair that refuses to be tamed. Freckles dotted across my nose like sprinkles on ice cream. Hazel eyes swaying golden today. Now, post transplant, there’s a slight pink hue in my cheeks that wasn’t there before.nbsp;

  It’s the same face that’s stared back at me for seventeen years.nbsp;

  But my eyes?

  That’s where I see the biggest difference.nbsp;

  My eyes aren’t those of a peppy teen, living life to the fullest.

  They’re the eyes of someone who’s lived through more than anyone ever should.nbsp;

  I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat and remind myself I can finally say that all the things that put that look in my eyes are now in the past.

  Now’s my chance to get my spark back.

  I turn the light off in the bathroom and grab my purse.nbsp;

  The house is empty—my parents are at work and Harlow met some of her friends from school at the local pool.

  I pad down the stairs, my purse slapping against my leg.

  Downstairs, Perry sits by his water bowl, begging for more. I quickly fill it and escape while he’s lapping at it.

  I haven’t been cleared to drive yet, but I know their address is in a neighborhood not far from this one, only two miles, and the walk will do me some good.

  It’s warm but breezy, perfect beach weather. I love that it never gets sweltering hot here, the ocean breeze always keeps the air feeling fresh.

  All around me are signs of summer.nbsp;

  Kids squealing in their yards as they dart through sprinklers. The chiming music of an ice cream truck in the distance. Bees buzzing from flower to flower. A beautiful blue butterfly dancing through the air.

  Dancing.

  My transplant came upon us so suddenly I haven’t even thought about dancing until this moment.

  I no longer have to worry about the tube sticking out of my stomach, the area now healed with a raised circle scar all that’s left behind.

  My shoulders feel lighter at the idea of getting into the studio again. It’s something I know I’ll have to discuss with my doctor at my next appointment. I’m not sure if a month is enough time for them to think any sort of exercise, especially dance, is okay. Healing is going great, and I feel amazing, but that doesn’t mean my body doesn’t need longer to recover.

  I check my phone and find that I’m one block from their house.

  My heart starts to beat a little bit faster.

  As I grow closer to the house it thunders in my ears like a mighty drum announcing my approach.

  What if they’re not happy to see me?

  This was a bad idea.

  What were you thinking, Willa?

  You’re such an idiot.

  Like, seriously, THE biggest idiot on the planet.

  Turn around. You still have time.

  I CAN’T

  I can’t.

  I can’t.

  I CAN’T.

  I have to do this.

  I stop outside the house and double check that it’s the right one.

  A gate out front opens onto a stone pathway that leads up the Spanish-style home with a stucco outside and long branched trees shadowing the front.

  A French door on the second floor opens up to a balcony.

  It’s a nice home, obviously they have money, because a house like this in Santa Monica costs even more than the home I live in.

  I follow the path up to the solid wood front door.

  Are you going to do this?

  Yes. Yes, I am.

  Before I can chicken out I raise my finger to the doorbell and press it. I hear it chime loudly inside the house.

  I can barely hear over the whirling of the blood rushing through my veins.

  I’ve never done anything like this before. Put myself out there and braced for rejection.

  While I desire nothing more than to meet them, I realize they might not want to meet me.nbsp;

  And I’ll be okay with that.

  I might run home and have a good cry over it, but I’ll be okay.

  Embarrassed, yes, but okay.

  I inhale a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I got it, Mom,” a male voice says on the other side.

  The door swings open, and before I can brace myself for this meeting I’m standing before the guy I couldn’t stop thinking about only a month before.

  He stands in front of me, same short hair, earring in his left ear, turquoise green eyes, and tanned skin. His chest is bare this time, displaying a pair of six-pack abs that makes me decide they should be called sex pack abs, because the thoughts I’m thinking are wholly sex worthy. He wears a pair of basketball shorts low on his hips, the top of his boxer briefs peeking out. I look further down and note his long bare feet.

  I can’t breathe.nbsp;

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t BREATHE.

  It’s HIM. It’s THE guy. The one Perry mowed over and that, up until my transplant, kept slipping into my thoughts unbidden.

  I’d never been the kind of girl who obsessed over guys. After my diagnosis, and subsequent enrollment in home schooling, I just hadn’t taken an interest in guys. I didn’t have the time or energy.

  But something about this guy, from the moment I saw him, was different.

  And it wasn’t just his looks, there was this aura around him that drew me like a moth to a flame.

  It feels like I look at him for minutes, but I know in reality it’s only seconds.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt. “Wrong house.”

  Before he can do or say anything, I turn and run.

  I run straight down the path, through the gate, and down the sidewalk.

  “Hey! Wait!” I hear behind me and the gate clinks.

  I don’t stop. I keep running. After all, he can’t chase me on the hot sidewalk with no shoes.

  I run, and I run, and I run.

  I don’t know if I’m even allowed to run, but I keep going, because I’m scared to stop.

  If I stop, he might be able to catch up to me if he went back and got shoes, and I can’t let him.

  I can’t face the truth.
>
  I don’t want to.

  nbsp;

  A whole week passes, and I don’t tell anyone, especially not Harlow and Meredith, what I attempted to do.

  It was a bad idea to begin with and I never should’ve done it.

  July slams into California with a sweltering heat that makes me rethink all my praise for our weather. It’s almost impossible to walk outside and not break into a sweat.

  “Willa! Harlow! Meredith!” my mom yells up the steps. “You can’t hide inside all day!”

  “We can, and we will,” Meredith says from where she lies on my floor making … well, floor angels.

  “Come on.” I hold out a hand to haul her up. “If we don’t go out there, you know they’ll march up here and drag our asses down.”

  “No,” she whines. “It’s too hot. Why do we need to celebrate the Fourth of July anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I hedge. “Maybe because it’s the day our country declared it’s independence.”

  “Ugh. Fine.” She slaps her hand into mine and I haul her up.

  Harlow stands from my mattress. “If we die out there I’m having Mom and Dad put ‘Here lies Harlow Jewel Hansen—she melted to death and we let her.’”

  I snort. “That’s a good one. I’ll put on mine, ‘Here lies Willa Layne Hansen—she got a transplant, only to die of heatstroke.’”

  Meredith snorts. “Funny, mine’s going to say, ‘Merebitch is here to haunt yo ass.’”

  Harlow and I bust out laughing. “You win,” I concede.

  The three of us reluctantly make our way downstairs.

  On the kitchen island is a spread of food. Everything from finger food like chips and mini turkey sandwiches all the way up to hot dogs and burgers. There’s anything and everything.

  We each grab a plate and pile some food on it before joining everyone outside.

  Meredith’s parents mingle with mine and even more of their friends. Their friends have brought their children too, but most of them are either older or younger than us, therefore the three of us have always stuck together at these types of gatherings.

  We step off the deck, right into the sand, and keep walking until we finally find a spot far enough away from the others to have our own conversation, but close enough that they can see us, lest they think we’ve snuck back into the house.

  “It’s like they want us to melt to death or something,” Meredith whines. “Even the sand is too hot.” She squirms uncomfortably.

  “I think it’s somewhere in the parenting handbook that it’s their job to make our lives miserable,” I joke, taking a bite of my burger.

  Meredith gathers her hair up off her neck and twists it into a knot, securing it with a hair tie. You know Meredith is hot if she’s forsaking looking good for getting her hair out of her way.

  We eat in silence, too hot to talk much. Meredith finishes her chips and hotdog and tosses her plate to me. I catch it, but glare at her, because she could’ve gotten ketchup all over me. I don’t know why she piles it on her hot dog like she does and then smears it all over the plate. Wouldn’t it be easier to put a normal amount on to begin with?

  “Forget this,” she says, standing. She kicks off her shorts and removes her tank top, revealing her hot pink bikini beneath. “I have to get in the water before I die.”

  I wish I could join her, but it’s too soon post-transplant to be safe. I’m just glad swimming in the ocean isn’t on the list of things I won’t be able to do, because that would suck. Lakes, however, are out of the question, too much bacteria. Same with public pools—however private ones are okay.

  Harlow finishes and joins her. I gather our trash up and take it inside to dispose of it.

  They’re still in the ocean when I return, and I stick my toes in the water.

  I smile to myself as the crystal water swells around my feet. It sparkles as the hot sun shines down on it. The water, which is normally cool, even in the summer, is decent today.

  Off in the distance, I see other families out enjoying the day, either on the sand or in the water. A group of three surfers sit in the distance, waiting and hoping for a decent wave that might never come.

  The water tickles my toes, bringing me back to the here and now.

  Meredith and Harlow wade out of the water, dripping wet and smiling.

  “I feel so much better,” Meredith cries, plopping into the sand.

  Harlow drops down beside her and I join them.

  Behind us, the party rages on, music blasting out of speakers, kids shrieking and running around, adults standing around with beers in hand.

  Meredith looks over her shoulder and must see what I see because she looks back at me and says, “It’s sad you’ll never be able to drink alcohol. Like … it’s a coming of age tradition to steal alcohol from your parents and get so drunk you can’t even see the toilet so you throw up in the bathtub instead.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “Sounds to me like I’m not missing out on much. That’s one rule I’m okay to follow.”

  Alcohol is hard on your kidneys; therefore, I’m not supposed to drink any. I’m sure many transplant recipients do, but I think they’re dumb. I’m not doing anything to potentially compromise this precious gift I’ve been given. I want to know I’ve done everything I can to keep this kidney as healthy as I possibly can. I won’t have guilt weighing on my shoulders, wondering if I’d followed certain rules if it would’ve lasted longer.

  Meredith bites her lip. “I’ve been curious, but I haven’t wanted to ask …”

  I raise a brow. “That’s not like you—you love asking the most uncomfortable questions ever.” I laugh and bump her shoulder with mine.

  She shields her eyes from the sun and shrugs. “It’s just … I mean … I don’t want to … ugh, I might as well ...” she stammers. “Can you have kids?”

  I grind my teeth together. I should’ve known this question would come eventually from someone. I guess maybe I didn’t expect it to be so soon, or Meredith of all people.

  “I can. That’s why a lot of younger women with kidney disease advocate to get a transplant, but … pregnancy is hard on your kidneys, and I only have one that isn’t even mine, and that makes me hesitate to think about having biological children. Do I want to risk going on dialysis again just to have a child that’s my blood? I don’t think so. I think I’d rather adopt and be healthy and there for my child.”

  “Whoa … that’s deep. I never even thought about it like that.”

  I pick up sand and watch it sift through my fingers like so many other things I haven’t been able to hold on to.

  When I was little I dreamed of having my own family, two or three kids of my own that had my blonde hair and maybe my freckles.

  But that dream has drifted away like so many others.

  Maybe it’s selfish of me but keeping my donor kidney healthy and lasting as long as possible is far more important to me than having biological children.

  Brushing the sand off my hands, I look out at the ocean. “I’ve thought about it a lot,” I admit. “I’ve had to.”

  “You’re the strongest, most brave person I know, Willa. I aspire to be more like you,” Meredith admits. It’s one of the sincerest things she’s ever said to me.

  “Thanks,” I say, but I don’t feel strong, nor brave enough, to deserve her praise.

  Most days, I feel like I’m just skating by, going through the motions and doing what I have to do.

  “What are you going to do for your birthday?” she asks, changing the subject.

  “I haven’t even thought about it,” I admit.

  “We should do something big.” I open my mouth to rebut that idea, but she continues on before I can say anything. “After all, this is a very big birthday for you. Not only is it your eighteenth, but you got a kidney, that’s a big freaking deal.”

  She’s right, it is, but I don’t find myself in the mood to celebrate. Maybe I’m still butthurt over my disastrous attempt to meet T.J.’s parents, a
nd instead encountered his brother? Cousin? Who knows, it’s not like I hung around to find out, but the fact that he’s the guy I saw outside Cool Beans is more than a little ironic for my tastes. It’s like the fates are mocking me. I finally meet a guy who makes me feel more than just a general feeling of fondness, and he’s potentially related to my kidney donor.

  I don’t know why I’m bothered by it. I don’t know him. He doesn’t know me. It shouldn’t matter, and yet it does.

  “What do you propose we do then?” I ask her. I have no ideas, I might as well hear what she has to say.

  She taps her lip in thought. “We could go to the mall—eat at the Cheesecake Factory, you love that place—maybe get our nails done.”

  “Maybe …” I hedge, it’s not a bad idea, but it doesn’t excite me either. “What about bowling?” I suggest. The irony is not lost on me that I was bowling when I first collapsed and found out at I had CKD.

  “Bowling?” Meredith wrinkles her nose. “Why?”

  “That sounds like fun to me,” Harlow pipes in. I can always count on my sister to have my back.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug, thinking it over. “It’d keep my mind off things. It might be good for Spencer too.”

  We’ve been texting some, but I haven’t seen him since before T.J. died. He sounds different now, even through text, almost older like he’s experienced too much. I know that all too well.

  Meredith tilts her head this way and that. “Okay, okay. If that’s what you want to do then you should.”

  “Yeah, I think it is.”

  Bowling would be low key and chill. I don’t want to do anything at home, I’m already here enough, and while Meredith’s suggestion wasn’t the worst thing in the world it’s just not what I want to do.

  Besides, I don’t want to make a big deal out of my birthday. For me, it’s always been just another day. I’m not one of those people who celebrates the whole week, or heck even the whole month. It’s just not my style.

  I’ve always preferred to fade into the background.

  The song changes and Meredith grabs my hands, hauling me up.

  “Dance with me,” she begs, but not giving me a choice as she begins to swing my arms.

  I can’t help myself and begin to dance with her. Harlow stands and joins us, the three of laughing and dancing the goofiest dance we can muster.