Overnight Sensation(96)

To make a grand gesture, you need a few things: courage, airfare, and cooperation from the universe.

That last thing proves to be a problem.

My cheap flight has a layover in Detroit. That costs me an hour and a half. And then my connecting flight to Minnesota is forty minutes late.

But I can still make it, I tell myself as I run toward the taxi line outside the airport. It takes me ten minutes to make my way to the front of the line. When I finally throw myself into the back of a cab and blurt out the address, I only have twenty-seven minutes until the meeting will start.

Cue the traffic. It’s pretty bad once we get off the highway. I see signs for the hospital and think I’m in luck. So I sit back and fix my face as the taxi inches through various intersections. I manage not to stab myself in the eye with the mascara wand as the driver steps heavily on the brakes. “Accident,” he says. “Sorry, miss, they’re gonna make me turn here.”

I look out the window and spot a policeman setting up a detour, and my heart sinks. A glance at the time tells me that the meeting starts in four minutes. And I can see the hospital from here!

Damn it! How can I be a great and selfless friend when I’m stuck in the back of a cab?

I could walk the rest of the way. That’s how.

This idea energizes me. “I’ll get out here,” I say, passing cash to the front seat.

“You’re kidding me,” he grumbles, and I pass over another twenty. I’m getting there if it kills me.





It doesn’t kill me. I’m just very winded by the time I roll my carry-on through the hospital doors and present myself at the information desk. “Organ. Transplant. Center,” I wheeze at the man behind the desk.

His eyes widen. “Are you okay, miss?”

“Fine! I’m late for a meeting…”

“Go through those double doors. Take the second elevator to the B wing. Then follow the signs toward surgical.”

“Got it!” I take off again.

But, Lordy, I didn’t know a hospital could be so big! It’s another ten minutes before I see the transplant unit. There’s a Meeting Room sign over one door, so I sprint over to it. I skid to a stop outside, breathing hard, peering through the glass pane, looking for Jason.

And there he is, looking gracious in a gray suit and blue shirt. He stands tall beside… Well, everyone. His mother and father are there. And both his sisters. Georgia, too. She’s holding a bag of Bruisers gear. And there’s a gray-haired woman I don’t recognize. They’re standing in a semicircle with two young women, one of them in a hockey team jacket, the other one in a dress.

As I watch, the hockey-playing girl steps forward. She looks up at Jason with pure joy, and then gives him a big hug. The look on Jason’s face is impossible to describe. It’s full of pain, but also love. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip.

And now my eyes are fountains. I brush away my tears and take a series of steadying breaths. When I look more closely at the meeting room, it doesn’t make things easier. The walls are covered with photographs of smiling people, in sets of two. Donor and recipient. Loss and life. Loser and winner.

The other girl steps forward now. Jason meets her gaze and makes himself smile. Then he pulls her into a hug.

Now I’m a mess. The tears come again, and even though I can’t seem to stop them, it feels gratuitous. I’m blissfully uninvolved in everything that’s happening here. I’ve never lost anyone so violently, nor have I ever bargained with God for the chance to live a healthy life.

My wish list is mostly luxury cosmetics. Never once did I have to put kidney on there.

I turn away, chastened. There’s a box of tissues on the reception desk, and I take one.

“Can I help you?” the woman behind the desk asks.

“N-no,” I stammer. “No, thank you.” I retreat down the hallway again. Jason didn’t need me after all. But at least now I understand what it means to truly be spoiled.

Daddy had it all wrong. It’s not the jobs you work or the brand of your shoes.

Spoiled is not having to look into the darkness.





38





Jason


Carrie is adorable. The fact that she plays college hockey makes this a little easier somehow, like we have one thing in common that’s not tragedy. And Georgia is standing ready to give her a jersey and some other Bruisers’ swag.

“You know I’m a Brooklyn fan now,” she says. “It’s really amazing to meet you.”

And meeting Anita—the other recipient—isn’t so horrible, either. It helps that she looks nothing like Lissa did. “I have 20/20 vision,” she whispers after hugging me and Lissa’s mother. “I’m sorry for your loss. I can’t even imagine it. But I wanted you to know that Lissa changed my life. I’m pregnant.” She puts a hand over her tummy. “When my baby is born, I’ll be able to see her. Just like any mom.”

That’s it. I’m done. Fat tears roll down my face. I’m the last to break; my family is quietly crying, and Jolene Skinner is wailing like a wounded animal.

“My baby girl,” she howls. “If she had to go, I’m glad she could do this for you.”

I blow my nose and pull myself together. Somehow Jolene’s theatrics make it easier for me to keep it together. Somebody has to. I feel wrung out. That’s what nobody ever tells you about grief—it’s exhausting, and you’re never really done with it.