The Donor (4 page)

“He believed you?”

Jonah crosses his arms. “I asked you if you had any conditions I should know about. A brain tumor just slipped your mind?” His voice is calm. I almost don’t hear the slight tinge of anger there.

“They say memory loss is common with this type of cancer.”

I feel stupid as soon as I say it and neither of us laughs.

“They told me it was serious,” he says.

I don’t have a response.

“Does anyone else know? Your parents?”

I almost don’t answer him, my voice becomes a bubble trapped in my throat at the mention of my mom and dad. I shake my head.

“What were you hoping to achieve, Casey?” he asks, glancing at me for a second. “Did you come here so I would make you one of us?”

“No.” I’m not lying. I don’t want to die, but somehow the thought of living forever scares me more. “I just…”

“What?” Now he’s looking at me straight on.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” I say, staring at my hands, the Band-Aid on my arm. “They gave me a few months at most, two if I refuse treatment.” I take in a breath, let it out slowly. “I want to make enough money to pay off my medical bills before I’m gone. I don’t want my parents to have to worry about it.”

“They told me you did refuse treatment.”

“Yeah.” The word is barely there at all.

I decide that’s all I’m going to give him, but he wants more.

“Why?”

I rub my eye with the back of my hand. “Pills, chemo, radiation, surgery. They all cost money.” I brave a glance at him before looking away. He’s staring right at me. “
A lot
of money. And for what? An extra month for my parents to watch me waste away and vomit and die?” I ask. “No way.”

Jonah’s quiet for a long time. “You realize I have to tear up that contract now.”

Somehow, telling this kind-of-stranger everything that no one else knows doesn’t make me cry, but when he says this, I can’t help it. “I understand.” I swipe at my cheeks, hoping he hasn’t seen the tears when I know he has.

Slowly, his hand reaches toward my face again. I realize I’ll have to go home now. See how long I can hide my deterioration from my parents. See how much debt I can work off before it’s too late and the collectors start calling them when I’m not here.

“We’ll have to draw up a new one tomorrow,” he whispers. “How does a month sound…instead of two weeks?”

I blink a few times, wrap my hand around his. I’m not sure if I’ve imagined the words so I wait for him to continue.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

I have to hold in a sob, biting my tongue as I nod. My words are trying to escape now, but unable to figure out what I’m supposed to say.

There were worse ways for a dying girl to make money, I guess. There are worse ways to spend time. Especially when time is such a limited thing. That’s what I think about before I stop crying. Before I finally fall asleep next to my match. I dreamed that we were underwater. That I was swimming in an aquarium with yellow and black striped fish and brown seahorses.

The Donor

Part Two

There is always this moment, before I’m fully awake, that I can’t remember where I am. As I lie in bed, morning light fills the all white room. For a few seconds I believe I’m at home in my cramped room, or I think I’m still on the plane on my way to Boston. It’s like my brain refuses to believe that I’m actually here, that I’m really doing this.

***

The morning after my first night at Jonah’s, there were approximately ten messages and texts from my parents.

[Mom 10:45pm]:
Hey sweetie. Are you there yet?

[Mom 10:50pm]:
Where are you staying? Please call me when you get in.

[Mom 10:55pm]:
I heard it’s supposed to snow there. Was your plane delayed?

[Dad 11:06pm]:
Casey, please call your mother. She’s driving me nuts.

And so on.

A dull ache threatened at the back of my right eye as a thin stream of morning light filtered into my all white room. The stain by the bathroom door was gone; Jonah must have taken care of it while I was sleeping.

I vaguely remembered falling asleep. Jonah holding me as I cried, gentle and silent. Then nothing but dreams of water and fish. It was probably the most peaceful night’s sleep I had gotten in a long time. Jonah was nowhere in sight, so I figured once I was calm he went to his own room. I felt a sense of abandonment but I shook it off quickly. There was no reason for him to stay. I was his donor, not his girlfriend.

The time on my phone read ten am. It would be seven in Sacramento. I took a deep breath and called my mom.

She picked up on the second ring. “Casey?”

I felt a pang of guilt at her anxious tone. “Hi, Mom.”

She paused for a second before slamming me with questions. “Why didn’t you call me last night? Was it snowing? Was your flight delayed? How was the plane ride? Did you get your luggage? Where are you staying? When are you looking at the school?”

There were a lot more, but I lost track and scrambled to answer the ones I could pick out of the endless stream. I was fine. Yes, my flight was delayed and I didn’t want to wake her up, it wasn’t snowing, but it was a lot colder than I thought it would be. As far as she knew, I was staying at a cheap hotel that had complimentary breakfast. I was looking at the school in a few days.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, honey,” she said when I was done lying about everything. “I can’t wait until you’re home. I miss you already.”

I couldn’t help the ache forming in my stomach, the crease of my brow as she said that. When I spoke, my voice came out too strained. “I miss you too, Mom.”

“What’s wrong, Casey?” she asked. There was no way she couldn’t hear the quiver of my words.

I was on the verge of crying and I hated it. This was my decision. This was the way I wanted to live out my limited amount of time in order to do more good than harm to my family. I had been comforting myself for weeks with the fact that they didn’t need me, they needed money. Now that I was here, doing what I set out to do, I was questioning if the tumor had an effect on my rational reasoning abilities.

When I didn’t say anything, Mom said, “Are you home sick already?”

“Yeah,” I choked out.

“Well, listen,” her tone became slightly more serious but it was still caring. “If you never get out there and experience life, you’re as good as dead. Remember that, okay?”

I took a steadying breath. “Okay, Mom.”

“I know I said I wanted you to come home as soon as possible, but you take all the time you need out there and come back knowing there’s more to life than…this.”

I swallowed. “Okay.”

We hung up shortly after because she had to get to work. I sat on top of the clean white sheets for a long time without moving, staring at the spot on the carpet.

***

I haven’t left my room in a while, too embarrassed to face Jonah. Two days passed where he just let me sleep, leaving food on the nightstand and taking it away when I ate small pieces of it.  I decide it’s time to stop hiding and after I’ve showered and changed into a skirt and the warmest sweater I packed, I slowly make my way downstairs.

There’s a dull throb in my head and my stomach aches slightly, but I feel pretty good compared to how I was a few days ago. Physically, anyway. Emotionally is a whole different story.

Jonah is standing at the bottom of the stairs before I’ve made it all the way down, already dressed in dark pants and a light grey T-shirt.

He smiles up at me and I smile at the carpeted stairs underneath my socks.

Once we're on the same level, he says, “Hi.” The word is quiet, but heavy.

“Hi,” I say back.

Jonah lightly places a hand on my shoulder, his expression becoming more serious. “Are you hungry?” he asks, letting his hand drop. “I could make you something.”

My stomach twists at the mere thought. “Can I just have some water?”

He looks unsure, but smiles anyway, gesturing for me to follow him into the kitchen.

There’s already food cooking when I sit down. Eggs and bacon. There are two plates sitting next to a steaming skillet.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” he asks, setting my water down. He turns back to the stove and shovels some food onto a plate. “I always make too much.”

I feel guilty making him eat alone so I tell him I’ll have some.

He slides the plate over and then sits across from me.

“You eat food?” I blurt out. Awake for less than ten minutes and I already have my foot in my mouth.

Jonah smiles as he places a napkin over his lap. “Sometimes,” he says. “I’m not really ever hungry. I think it’s just habit.”

I take a sip of my water as Jonah takes out his laptop and types in between small bites of food.

I eat too, unsure of what else to say.

It's quiet, but I'm not entirely sure we're supposed to be talking right now. It’s been three days, and I'm still unsure of how this whole thing is supposed to work, especially now that he knows about me.

After about a third of my glass is empty, Jonah speaks. “New contract is printing now,” he says. “I have to ask you a few more questions, if that's alright.”

I nod once. “Sure.”

He stands, retrieves some papers from the living room, where I’m guessing the printer is located, and returns with them in hand. He uncaps a pen when he sits back down. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

“What type of cancer do you have?”

That question lets all of the breath I have out of my lungs. I set down my fork. No one's asked me that before and I don't know how I should respond.  I’m sure my doctor told Jonah the details when he found his number in my phone and called, but he wants me to answer his questions, and I owe him that much for letting me stay. “Uhm…the bad kind?”

Jonah looks up at me and blinks a few times. “So I gathered,” he says humorlessly.

“Sorry,” I say, all joking set aside. “Oligodendroglioma.” The word tastes funny in my mouth. Metallic and hard. “I don't know if I'm pronouncing that right. It's basically a tumor right here.” I point to my face, near my right eye and next to my nose. “Stage one.”

He looks up from his papers. “Is there more than one stage?”

“Two.”

“So stage one is better than having stage two?” he asks, no longer looking at the paper he's written on. He stares directly at me and I suddenly feel naked. Like he has stripped off my skin and bones and all he can see is that awful, hard part of me that's pressing down on my brain.

“I wouldn't know,” I say.

We're silent again as he reads something else off of his sheet.

“I'm the only person who knows about your illness?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“May I ask why?” By the way he's looking at me I can tell it isn't part of this new contract. “Why don't your parents know, for example? Where do they think you are, what you’re doing?”

I swallow around a lump in my throat. “I...” I have to stare at my hands.

Jonah reaches across the table and squeezes my fingers. “Okay,” he says, as if I've answered the question.

“Are you staying until...” he trails off. I don't think I've ever expected him to be at a loss for words.

I finish the thought for him. “I don't know.” My voice is too quiet. I take another sip of water. “I haven't thought that far ahead.”

He nods to himself, his expression a flawless mask of whatever is going on inside his head. “If something bad happens while you're here, do you want…medical intervention?”

“No,” I answer automatically. “I don't want any hospitals.”

He marks some things on his paper. “Okay.”

I vaguely wonder if I'll actually be here that long, for things to get really bad. It's hard to think about in any capacity because things have been so bad for so long. Sometimes it doesn't even occur to me that everything will eventually get worse.

When Jonah finally looks up again, something behind his gaze has shifted slightly. “Why didn't you tell
me
?”

I swallow hard. I open my mouth to call him out on the fact that the question probably isn't on the new contract, but he holds up a hand. “The truth, Casey,” he says gently. “Please.”

I nod to myself before I answer. “I didn't want you to know,” I say to start. I'm barely conscious of the fact that his hand is still on mine, partway across the table. I can't remember the last time someone stopped to hold my hand.

“I thought that if you knew,” I go on, “You wouldn't want me anymore.”

When I brave a glance in his direction he's looking at me dead-on, waiting for me to keep talking.

“I thought that if you didn't want me, no one else would. I didn't have time to look for someone else who wasn't scary or depraved in some way.” I pause to take a breath. “I just...”

“Needed to be here?” he says quietly.

We stare at each other for a beat. “Yeah.”

Jonah lets go of my hand and looks over the paperwork in front of him one last time.

He pushes the document over to me. “This one’s for two months. You don’t have to stay that long, of course. If you change your mind and want to go home, tell me.”

I nod. “Okay.”

My vision blurs, refusing to focus on the page as I sign away what could be my last days on earth.

***

I remember what went through my mind the day the doctor called with my diagnosis. The digital clock on our stove read 1:45pm. Soft light was streaking through the cracks in the bent blinds of our kitchen. Mom was at work, Dad was in the bedroom, recovering from his latest surgery. I had come home from my own job for lunch so I could check on him, but he was soundly asleep. The sounds of some show about fishing was muffled through the closed bedroom door.

I can still hear how clinical it all sounded, filtered through my cell phone clutched in my hand and probably years of practice on his part. I stupidly asked him to repeat it all, trying to cling to some small hope that I had heard him wrong. What he meant to say was that I was fine. What he meant to say was that I would feel better soon. But what came through the other end of the phone was mechanical, cold.

Miss Williams, I want to assure you that this diagnosis does not mean there is no hope…

I cleared my throat and tried to speak, but my heart was pounding so hard that it made my chest ache. It made speech impossible.

The rest I heard in snippets.

Brain tumor.

Malignant.

Radiation.

Chemotherapy.

Inoperable.

Life expectancy.

In the end, it didn’t matter how he worded it. Everything lead to one simple fact: I was dying and time was a very limited thing.

***

The first week at Jonah’s house is eerily routine. We talk, he cooks me breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and we sleep in separate rooms. He doesn’t take any blood. At first, I’m nervous about it, like he thinks I’m defective in some way now that he knows my secret. I try not to think about it, figuring he’s just trying to let me settle in, make me believe I’m here for more than just what is pumping through my veins. I almost do believe that.

I come into the living room one morning to find Jonah hunched over the aquarium, a dark blue net in the water, fishing something out.

“They keep dying,” he says, and I can’t tell if he means to say it to me.

I don’t want to interrupt. I think I’m maybe not supposed to be in his space. I still don’t know how this donor thing works, especially under my circumstances.