I can't believe this is happening. I thought . . . I thought I would have more time.
I don't remember leaving the hospital. I don't remember rolling my wheelchair back inside the van. And I don't remember mother driving me home. My mind was elsewhere, constantly thinking back to what I had just seen, the burning image of a drugged and dazed Kalyope lying eyes open on her deathbed.
After arriving home, I locked myself in my room and stared out the square panel windows of the French doors.
There has to be way. It's not over. It can't be. There must be something I can do. And that something may very well rest in the hands of Benjamin Trout. I don't care what he said to me before, he's the only person who can help me pull this off.
I move from my room and down the hall to father's den, locating several lightweight whiteboards, and take them back to my room. I stare at the blank, white canvas of the boards, Sharpie in hand. The next hour consists of me scribbling frantic random thoughts on to the boards, then wiping them clean; the process repeating dozens of times.
Think, McKenzie. Think! A life depends on it. Maybe more. Maybe thousands more, tens of thousands. So put your mind to work and think!
I write Kalyope's name at the top of the board. She once stated that there are over one hundred and twenty thousand patients across the country awaiting an organ transplant of some sort. I scribble such facts down on the board, too, not entirely sure why or how it will help, but at least it makes the board look more complete with something other than Kalyope's name written on it.
One hundred and twenty thousand. That's far too many people on a waiting list. With such a large figure, it'll take years before Kalyope receives a heart. Obviously, she doesn't have that long. I then recollect the conversation I had with Desiree just a few days ago. If it were possible to create a secondary waiting list, one that services a more restricted and local area, then that would virtually slice the patient wait times by over half. But such a task would require a healthy amount of funding and an admirable amount of clout.
Wait a second! That's it. That's how I'm going to do it!
My phone's on the nightstand a few feet away. As I dial Desiree's number, my hands are trembling from both excitement and fear. I'm literally racing against the clock, Kalyope's clock.
The line hums on the other end as I place the phone to my ear. Seconds later, I hear the familiar voice of Desiree pick up. "McKenzie? I wasn't expecting a call from you. Everything alright?"
"Des, do you know Trout's home address?" The line grows silent for a moment, and I can imagine she's probably wondering why I'd be asking such a question.
"I believe so."
She gives me the address and I quickly jot it down on a piece of notepad paper, thanking her for her help before hanging up.
I find mother in the theater room on her laptop. "Mom. We need to go. We need to go now!"
She casts a swift glance over me and my wheelchair, ensuring I'm not hurt in any way; my panicked tone no doubt startling her. "Kenzie, what are you talking–"
"I don't have time to explain. Just get up and get in the van!" It takes a few more minutes of coaxing, but I finally get her out of the house. From inside the van, I copy Trout's address from the notepad paper and input it into my phone's GPS. It displays we're approximately twelve miles away from his home. Could be worse, I guess.
My nervousness begins to show, fingers rapping against the window, fidgeting with the DVD player, making popping sounds with my mouth. Mother shoots and odd glance at me in the rearview mirror. "Wanna tell me what this is all about?"
Moaning loudly, I throw my head back. "Mom, you wouldn't understand." The next thing I know, I'm thrown forward against my seat belt as she slams her foot on the brake pedal, pulling over to the side of the road. "No! What are you doing?"
"I'm not driving a mile more until you tell me what's going on." Her tone is kind, but firm, and I reluctantly accept that she isn't going to budge. With a deep breath, I fill her in on my plan, cringing as the story unfolds, hoping she doesn't tell me I'm completely insane and straightway drive me back home.
She's silent at first, the low rumble of the engine is the only noise. I try to keep my breathing steady, but that proves to be difficult. Mother's face is turned away; I can't even get a read on her. Finally, her eyes flicker towards the rearview mirror, the tiniest of smiles creeping onto her face. "My baby girl's gonna save the world one life at a time." The van shudders forward, and I feel the cool rush of relief flood my veins.
One hurdle down, who knows how many more to go.
I pull my phone from my pocket, checking the GPS. "Turn right up here."
Using my thumb to sweep across the screen, I tap the gallery icon on the menu page. The photograph me and Aurora took on our last day of school pops up. It grieves my heart to look at it, to look at her, smiling, care-free, full of life. Hard to fathom I've lived nearly six months without her. But the pain is still present; my heart aches for her now just as much as it did on day one.
"This is for you, Aurora," my voice audible enough for only me to hear.
Ten minutes later I feel the van slow. A monstrous house sits on the hill in the distance, a six foot tall iron fence encompassing the entire premises. At first glance, there doesn't appear to be an entrance. Mother drives the edge of the fence line for a few hundred yards until discovering a gated entrance at the end. A black video surveillance camera is perched beneath the small tile awning, swiveling on its base to follow our motions. A metallic speaker box, much like the ones you see in a fast food drive-thru, is erected in a bed of black elliptical shaped rocks.
"State your name!" a gruff voice booms from the speaker.
Mother leans out the open window. "Um. My daughter is here to see . . ." she swings her head back inside the van. "What did you say his name was?"
"Trout. Benjamin Trout."
"Benjamin Trout!" she sticks her head out the window again.
No voice comes from the speaker, and for a moment I wonder if we'll even get a response. Then it crackles to life, "One moment."
Mother looks in the rearview mirror, shrugging and tucking her lips inside her mouth. I start thinking about what I'm going say to Mr. Trout. I haven't even thought about it. Part of me is just kind of hoping to waltz in there and tell him my grand plan and he'll agree with me, and then we'll get a heart, and Kalyope with be saved, and everything will end in happiness. But I know it's going to take a lot more convincing than that.
The speaker crackles again. "Did you have an appointment?"
Mother leans out the window. "Well . . . no, but I–"
"Then this conversation is over. Good day."
Great. Another hurdle.
Mother gives me the "we tried" look, but I shake my head firmly, letting her know we we're getting inside those gates – even if it meant me army crawling out of this chair and underneath those iron bars. The voice behind the speaker didn't sound like Benjamin Trout, which leads me to believe it's probably just a disgruntled lackey or butler or something.
I lean forward, tapping mother's shoulder. "Tell the Wizard of Oz there that the girl from the hospital is here to see Trout." Mother narrows her eyes on me, probably wondering if such a weak statement would work, but she leans out the window anyway and yells those words at the speaker. That has to pique Trout's interest, not knowing which girl it is that's come to see him. He'll have to satisfy his curiosity, and that's when I'll plead my case.
"You may enter." No sooner had the voice said those words did the iron gates creak open. We start on the narrow driveway that snakes up the hill, passing by two impressive bronze statues of life-size horses, one in mid-sprint, the other bucking its rider, then drive by a long section of assorted flowers on both sides of us, where it finishes at the summit of the hill in a circular driveway – a fountain with fancy inlays is flowing in the center. I hide a smile, thinking back to how Maverick paid for McDonalds by taking all those coins from the mall's fountain.
I a
sk mother to grab the whiteboard, then dismount from the van down the ramp and crane my neck to view the house. It's massive, three stories tall, balconies extending forth from every bedroom, burgundy tile roofing, and Grecian-style columns supporting the upper stories. And here I thought that I lived in a nice house.
Unfortunately, the stoop is elevated and there's no ramp, so mother helps me up the three brick steps, leaning her weight on the back of my chair to lift the front wheels upward and over the step – process repeating. I hear her grunt and feel her labored breathing on the back of my neck, hating myself for being such a burden. But we finally make it on the top step of the stoop.
I press a finger against the doorbell. A woman answers almost immediately, greeting us with a warm smile. Before she can say anything, I hear Trout's voice from inside the house. "Thalia? Thalia, who's at the–" Trouts pale eyes pass over me, then over mother. "It's you."
I figure it's not wise to waste his time, so I start right in with the introductions. "Mr. Trout. I'm McKenzie; we've met before. And this is my mom." Mother lifts a hand in greeting.
"Yes. I remember you."
I grab the whiteboard from mother's hand, keeping my handwritten notes out of sight for now. I don't want to scare him off. He might think I'm just a gold-digger who's out for his riches with no true intention of helping out the hospital and children. "May we come in? I'd like to propose an idea to you . . . sir." I feel formalities might play in my favor.
He motions Thalia aside, who I find is actually his maid, then motions us inside the house. The inside is just as grand as it is on the outside. A cement staircase with red carpeting down the middle is off to the side, which seems like it would fit more appropriately in a five star hotel rather than a house. Trout leads us to the rear of the house where it opens up into a seating area surrounded by full panel windows.
"Please." He motions towards a crème colored sofa. Mother sits, while I remain seated in my wheelchair, whiteboard still in hand. Trout takes a seat across from us on the edge of a chaise lounge, clasping his wrinkled hands together. "You said you had a proposition?"
"Yes." I say that, but for some reason I can't bring myself to show him the whiteboard. What if he doesn't like it? What if he says it's foolish? What if he laughs? Mother rubs my back, her long nails teasing the fabric of my V-neck. I know she's trying to urge me. I take a breath and flip the whiteboard over in front of my wheelchair. Trout squints to read my rushed handwriting, then he leans back and sighs. I can't tell if it's a good sigh or a bad sigh.
"I see. Your friend still needs that transplant, hmm?"
I swallow hard. "Yes."
He sighs again, turning his gaze towards the window: a breathtaking view of hundreds and hundreds of acres stretching towards the horizon where the sky merges with a vast lake.
"If you'll just hear me out I think you'll agree this can work and a lot of lives saved." My voice comes out babyish, almost whiny. I should probably dial back the desperation.
Trout returns his gaze. "Speak."
"We start our own organ distribution center right here in Camden, Maine."
"We? And how do you suggest we go about doing that, I wonder?"
I refer his attention back to my notes on the whiteboard, glancing back and forth from the board to his face – he isn't displaying the slightest bit of interest. I feel my palms moisten, and a part of me wants to just shut up, roll my wheelchair out of here and go home.
I clear my throat after I get done speaking. He rubs his hands over his knees. "And why would I invest tens of millions into a project that has yet to prove itself?"
"Because of the children." He eyes flare open at the mention of children, and I think maybe now I have his interest. "Please." My voice is back to sounding desperate, but I don't care this time. "I know this can work; I just need someone to help me get everything started."
"And by everything you mean you want me to write you a check for fifty million dollars?"
I gulp. Maybe I haven't harnessed his interest after all.
Trout goes back to staring at the whiteboard once again. I feel like flipping it over, so he can't disparage my plan anymore. Plan. It's not even worthy of being called that. The final hurdle, the hardest hurdle, the most unrealistic hurdle is starting to seem impossible to surmount. I guess I shouldn't have expected things to result differently. I mean, I'm a girl in a wheelchair requesting millions of dollars from a total stranger. McKenzie, you're so naive.
Trout points to the whiteboard. "Kalyope? Is that your friend's name?"
"Yes, sir. She's at the hospital right now living out what may be her last few hours."
Trout fidgets in his seat, running his fingers though his silvery beard, while deep in thought. "You know something, child? You're a dreamer. You yearn for ludicrous achievements, while having no knowledge on how to achieve them, and you certainly have no concept of business endeavors in the slightest." His blue eyes flicker to mine. "But this might actually work."
Chapter 33
I did it.
Benjamin Trout agreed to back me, to fund this project. There's just one final hurdle. He needs to convince three other private investors to go in with him, billionaire friends of his, I assume. Apparently, starting a project such as this costs a lot more than I initially thought; I can't blame Trout for not wanting to invest such a monetary figure all on his own. I just hope he's a convincing soul, otherwise all of this effort, all of this hoping, all of this wanting to change, not just in myself, but to change the world, will be for naught.
"What's wrong, Bestie?" Aurora looks at my hands, then up at me - my fingers are tightly wrapped around the chrome plated armrests of my wheelchair. "Aren't you happy? You did something amazing today! Something that's rarely done."
I slowly release my grip, finger by finger. "It doesn't matter. It'll take weeks before this project gets finalized and months after that before it's officially started. Kalyope will be dead by then." I finish my words with a choppy exhale.
Aurora stares at her lap. "But think of the lives you'll help, possibly save, years from now, decades even."
"It's kind of hard to think about that when I've failed to save the one life that truly mattered."
"But she's not gone yet."
"Yet."
Aurora stands to her feet, wrapping her long arms around my neck, dropping her lips to my ear. "Yeah. Yet."
The nights are getting colder as Autumn comes to a close. I tug my sweater tighter around my body, then steer my wheelchair away from The Bluff and towards my bedroom. I may just go to bed; I'm exhausted. But there's this swelling nauseousness in my stomach - it feels like those spinning tea cups you see at county fairs - whenever I think about how I take such things for granted, sleeping, then waking, while knowing there are people in the world like Kalyope who might not wake up again once they fall asleep. Ever.
Mother and father are sitting in the theater room when I pass by. They tell me they're just about to watch a movie and ask if I want to join them. I tell them I will for a little bit. Even though I'm tired, I know I won't fall asleep in my wheelchair; did that once, woke up with the worst pain in my neck.
The floor of the theater room slopes as it descends towards the projector screen, so I lock my wheels to keep me in place. This is probably my most favorite room in the house. Before my accident, I always loved dashing towards the oversized beanbag chairs and jumping face first into them, like a little kid jumping into a pile of red and orange leaves.
August shuffles into the room with a gallon of chocolate milk in one hand and a stack of blue Dixie cups in the other.
"Late night snack?" I poke the side of his head as he plops down in the beanbag next to me.
He meets my gaze after he finishes pouring, displaying a toothy grin. "Indonesia. I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A. Indonesia."
I laugh. "Oh. And I assume that's where you got the milk? From your chocolate milk producing cows?"
He nods his head, handing me one of the plastic cups. "Ch
eers, sis."
We knock our cups together.
I've been attached to my phone all morning, wincing every time it vibrates. I'm terrified I'm going to receive a call or text saying Kalyope has passed away. I mean, I know I will - it's inevitable at this point. I'm just having a hard time accepting it.
My vision sweeps over the parallel bars once again. A part of me wants to try them once more, but just as quickly as that thought comes to mind, the thought of me falling takes its place. Six months I've been a prisoner of this chair. I know what the doctors, the world class surgeons, the nurses, Google even - I know what they've said; I'll never walk again. I just . . . I just want to see some improvement, some reward for all the hours of physical therapy and rehab I've endured. Just something. Anything.
Desiree has me lying on the floor once again, extending my legs to and from my chest, alternating legs every few minutes. "How'd things go with Trout?"
I lift my head off the floor just a little. "Great. I guess."
"You don't sound too sure."
"That's because I'm not." I huff, rubbing my forehead with the back of my hand. "He agreed-"
"That's wonderful."
"But! He needs to convince other investors that this is a pragmatic business investment. I'm still waiting to hear from him."
"And your friend?" My pulse jumps at the thought of Kalyope and her doleful fate.
I shake my head. "There isn't enough time. I would've needed to start this project a year ago in order to save her."
"Oh. I'm sorry, dear."
"Yeah. Me, too."
My phone vibrates again; my heart throbs against my ribcage. It's only a few feet away, but I'm hesitant to reach for it. With a shaky hand, I curl my fingers around it - immediately blowing a sigh of relief when I realize it's just a Twitter notification. I lay my phone back down beside me.
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