The Donor (The Full Novella) Page 6

  He raises his eyebrows in mock-surprise. “If you're trying to top yourself, you'll have to do better than this next time?”

  I know he's joking, but I can't help the small pang of fear that hits me in the stomach. “That’s me,” I say. “I set records and break them.”

  Jonah cuts the water and turns toward me. “Do you need help?” he asks, looking down at my legs.

  I hesitate for a minute. No one besides my parents has ever seen me naked before. I don't know why it even matters, but the thought pops into my head all the same. “Let me try first?” I ask.

  He nods. “I'll go get you some clean clothes.”

  The door shuts silently behind him. I try to lift up my shirt and get as far as my bellybutton before my shoulders ache enough that I have to stop. Next I try my skirt, not even being able to support my weight for a few seconds before slamming my butt back down onto the seat.

  Jonah knocks on the door a minute later. “Need help?”

  “Yeah,” I admit as the door opens with a tiny squeak.

  He sets down my clothes on the sink and comes over to me. He places his hands on the bottom part of my shirt and starts lifting it up. Surprisingly enough, I'm not embarrassed. The sooner I have my clothes off, the sooner I'll be clean and we can move on. I try to lift my arms but he ends up having to do it for me, bending them like a toddler being shrugged out of a heavy winter coat.

  I watch as he doesn't concentrate on my body as the shirt hits the floor, just my face. It looks like he's searching for signs of another seizure to come back, but he doesn't say anything about it.

  Then he has me wrap my arms around his neck again so my butt is off the seat. My skirt and underwear are shucked off and on the floor within minutes. I cover myself the best I can, but it ultimately doesn't matter. I decided to live the rest of my very short life here; he would be seeing me in the worst ways imaginable. This was probably not as bad as it could get.

  Jonah lifts me easily and I'm sitting in the hot bath before I can blink. I wrap my arms around my knees, trying to make the room stop spinning. I think he's going to leave. I don't want him to, but I also think I’ve probably inconvenienced him enough, what with wetting the bed and all.

  But he stays. He sits on the edge of the tub. He doesn't ask me any more questions, he doesn't try to figure out what's wrong, he just sits.

  It's enough for me to just not be alone, but he silently washes my hair for me, ringing it out when he's done. He helps me dress and combs out the straggly brown strands with a brush he finds in my suitcase I still haven't bothered to unpack.

  When I'm clean, he takes a step back and kneels down to look at me. “Do you feel better?” he asks.

  My head still has a faint throbbing in the temples, but I think the momentary terror was just that: momentary. The thought crosses my mind that one day it won't be that way. One day, probably not too far from now, the numbness won't go away. I won't be able to walk or feed myself. If I'm lucky, my brain function will be so bad that I won't be aware of it, but if not, I'll be trapped inside my own body. Eighteen years old in the body of a ninety year old.

  Carefully, Jonah kisses me on the cheek.

  Then I start crying.

  ***

  The only time I cried about it was the night before I left home. Jonah and I had just gotten off of our chat and I was restless. I was upset and I didn’t know why. I wasn’t worried about anything in particular, I couldn’t pin point a single thought that swam around my head and force it to fully form. An overwhelming need to cry filled me, and for the first time, I didn’t fight it. I let the waves crash over me, subside, and come back. This was all I was going to let myself have, I decided. I had to make it count.

  It wasn’t until morning, when I heard the sounds of my Mom getting ready and making breakfast for my Dad , that I forced the fear and sadness away. I couldn’t be scared if I was going to help anyone. I had to be brave. I had to believe I wasn’t dying.

  ***

  I don’t know how long we sit in the bathroom, but once I’ve calmed down, Jonah wraps an arm around my shoulder and we walk slowly into his room. The sound of the new seahorse tank greets us. I try to find the tiny brown animal inside, but I can't focus my vision long enough to spot it. I lie back on the comforter and I'm relieved when he kicks off his shoes to join me. He folds his hands on his chest and stares at the tank across the room. We don't say anything for a very, very long time.

  Just as I think he's nodded off, he whispers, “You should tell your parents.”

  The words dig into me like fingers gripping my arms and legs, all trying to push and pull me in different directions. I stare at the picture of his daughter for a long time. So long that maybe he thinks I've fallen asleep, too.

  “If Myra were my age and you didn't know,” I say, hoping I don't upset him when I know there's no possible way I can't. “Would you be happier in the long run if you had to watch her suffer?” I ask. “Or would you be happier remembering who she was—healthy?”

  It’s silent again. I keep my eyes fixed on the picture, too afraid to face him.

  Jonah doesn't answer. Instead, he turns over and goes to sleep.

  ***

  I thought about telling my parents once.

  It was about a week after Jonah and I had started talking.

  We were all in the cramped living room one night after dinner. Dad was in the recliner, Mom was kneeling in front of the coffee table, and I was on the computer. We were going over how much each of us made that month and where each little bit of money would go. Mom flipped through the bank statements and bills in front of her and Dad tried to say encouraging things about how we would figure everything out and that they couldn't hound us for money forever.

  “Now that the foundation beneath the trailer is sinking,” Mom began. “I think we need to live on an even tighter budget.” She said this with a wry smile, like it was at one time funny but now not so much. “It's going to cut into more of the bill money than we thought.”

  “How long can we go without fixing it?” I asked. “Do we even have to?”

  Dad chuckled. “If only things were that simple. We could live underground.”

  I smiled at him, but none of us were happy.

  “I think we should get rid of cable,” Mom finally declared. “And internet.”

  My heart leapt down to my stomach and my pulse pounded in my ears. “I don't think we need to do that,” I said. I noticed that Dad didn't look happy about the idea either.

  “What will I do all day if I can't watch TV?” he complained.

  Mom sighed to herself. “Well we have to cut something out,” she said. “We can't keep draining money away when we have all of this to worry about.” She waved a hand over the coffee table.

  “Well, I don't use the internet,” Dad said.

  “I do,” I countered.

  Mom glanced at me. “You can go to the library to use it,” she offered.

  I had to take a deep breath. In an instant, I wanted to tell them that I needed it in order to make us money. In order to meet some guy I didn't know and give him whatever he wanted for whatever price he was willing to pay. If I told them that, it wasn't too far of a jump to telling them about me. About what was growing inside of me. About how I didn't have much time to make that money because of the tumor pressing down on my frontal lobe.

  It would be the hardest thing I'd ever done, telling them something that could destroy them so completely. As a family, we were barely keeping it together. If they were faced with the idea of that family becoming one member short, I didn't know how it would affect them.

  At the very least, it would cause them to convince me to go to the doctor, go through chemo. They would miss more work, not be able to pay more bills, all to prolong the inevitable. All to watch their only child die in front of them.

  That's why I didn't tell them. I didn't want them to suffer more than I was. I didn't want them to have to go through more than they were already going th
rough.

  “I'll sell my car,” I blurted out.

  Mom paused.

  “Can we keep the internet if I sell my car?” I asked, calmer now that I saw that she was considering it. “Only one insurance to pay for that way.”

  “How will you get to work?” Dad asked.

  “I can carpool or take the bus,” I said. “Drop Mom off at work and then pick her up some days.”

  Dad nodded. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

  Mom shuffled more papers around. “You're sure you're okay without a car for a while?” she asked. “A girl your age needs her freedom. How are you supposed to have a social life without your own car?”

  I wanted to laugh but I didn't want to upset her. “I'll figure that out, Mom.”

  With that out of the way, we paid most of the bills we had for that month. I had no further thoughts of telling them about what the doctor said, and no one spoke of cutting off the only lifeline I had to save my family before it was too late.

  ***

  When I wake up, Jonah isn't there. I didn't expect him to be after what I said the night before, but I still think I should have said it. I've probably ruined any chance of him ever wanting to hold my hand again with these words, but he needed to understand. I'm trying to not be selfish with a selfish decision. I don't have many choices at all and either way the final outcome is the same.

  I sit up and stretch my stiff arms over my head. I notice the tea and toast next to the picture of Myra and my stomach flips, suddenly starving. I eat slowly, trying to check for any signs of the seizure that took over my body last night. My head doesn't hurt and my limbs seem to be working more or less normally.

  When I'm done eating, I make the bed the best that I can, smoothing out the covers and arranging the pillows neatly. I pass the seahorse tank on the way back to my room without looking at it.

  I plan on taking the longest, hottest shower before going downstairs to apologize to Jonah. Whether I think I should have said it or not, I hurt him. I didn’t mean to, but there’s no time to explain things slowly. There’s no time to do anything slowly.

  I stop at the door before going in, preparing myself to clean up the mess I made last night. When I open it, the bed is completely gone, just a blank spot on the floor where the frame once was. My suitcase sits in the corner, zipped up.

  My heart pounds in my ears. Jonah moved my bed out of his house while I was sleeping. I don't know how that's even possible, but more importantly, why he did it. Did my question really bother him that much? Did he decide to tear up the contract, throw me out on the street to go home?

  With shaking hands, I head carefully downstairs, trying to run through any reason why he should let me stay and coming up empty except for one: the blood. He wouldn’t make me leave when he still needs me, even if it’s on just a basic level.

  I should have known better to think that a stranger wanting nothing but blood and sex from another stranger wouldn’t get tired of taking care of a dying teenager. What did I expect, exactly? That he would fall in love with me and have me stay? Take care of me and not tell my parents? Jonah didn't owe me anything besides the money. That was all I was supposed to care about anyway, right?

  So why, as I climb down the stairs, does my chest ache? Why do I feel like I’m falling and never going to reach the bottom?

  I have to blink a few times to make sure I'm not hallucinating when I’m at the foot of the stairs. The tank has its light on and the smell of breakfast food floods the room. I can see the corner of the couch, a suit jacket of Jonah's slung over the side, and on the floor next to the couch is a pair of black high heels. The kind with the red bottoms that mean they're expensive. I gulp. There's someone else in the house.

  I turn the corner, wondering if I shouldn't just go back upstairs.

  Then I hear Jonah talking, saying something in a low voice. There's a giggle in response. When I finally have enough nerve to look up at where the sounds come from, Jonah is sitting next to a girl my age with a short blonde bob. She's wearing a pencil skirt and it's too short. They don't see me, but they're a little preoccupied.

  Jonah has a needle in her arm and there's a blood bag on the table.

  I must make some small noise, because he lifts his head in my direction. Except for a hint of being startled, his expression is almost unreadable.

  I don’t know what else to do other than run back upstairs to my empty room. I sit on the floor where my bed used to be, rocking back and forth slightly.

  Everything is temporary. I know that, especially with my life the way it is now, but I didn’t think my time with Jonah would be up so soon. Through the pounding of my pulse in my ears, I can hear faint knocking on the door.

  I have a hard time doing anything besides sitting still.

  The Donor

  Part Three

  I try to not look at my phone as I sit down in the lobby. The snow has seemed to slow everything down. People sit with their kids in the hard plastic chairs, trying to occupy them until things start moving again. I don't have anyone to talk to, so I sit with my hands in my lap and look out the window. There are thick white flakes floating down onto the pavement. Everything is in slow motion. Everything except me and my rapid heartbeat.

  ***

  The knocking stopped after a while, but I could still hear him on the other side of the door. He wasn't speaking. He wasn't even really moving. Just a soft slide of his back against the door as he sat on the carpet outside of my now empty room. We were both stuck, I realized. Both unable to move.

  I fell asleep on the floor, curled up on my side, and woke up more tired than I was the day before. More distraught than when I saw that woman, her blood in a bag between Jonah and her as they laughed and made small talk.

  He had another donor. If he had another donor, where did that leave me?

  Slowly, I sat up, pushing my greasy, knotty hair out of my face. My eyes felt swollen even though I hadn't cried, and my jaw was tight and achy, like I had clenched my teeth tightly together while I restlessly slept. I didn't really know what time it was or how long I had been in the room, but there was grey light floating in through the window. It appeared I had slept through the entire day and night was falling once again.

  I wasn't sure what I should do now. I didn't want to stay in the empty room that was no longer mine, but I didn't want to leave either. If I stayed, I would be wasting time. If I left, I was only speeding things up, cutting off the time I had left with Jonah and the illusion that he cared about me, that I wasn't replaceable.

  Standing on shaking legs, I pushed my hair from my face again. I didn't know what was waiting for me on the other side of that door, but I couldn't prolong it. I had to move forward.

  The doorknob was cold under my hand, probably because I was sweating, dreading the conversation Jonah and I were about to have. He was going to send me home, tell me that it wasn't working out, that I was too sick to be his donor anymore. I would have no reason to convince him to let me stay.

  The door creaked open quietly and I cautiously stepped out. I didn't have to go far before I saw Jonah curled up on the floor in the hall, his suit jacket thrown over him like a blanket. I could have just retreated back into the room, or headed downstairs to wait for him and the inevitable, but I didn't. I crawled over to his side, taking my own piece of the jacket, and fell back asleep next to him. His hand curled around my middle and he tucked my head under his. Jonah was still asleep, but it was good to be near him, even if he didn't know I was there. I knew it was the last time I would be this close to him and I took advantage of it.

  ***

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I'm too afraid to look. I'd rather watch the snow floating outside the window. I don't want to be reminded of what I'm leaving behind, what I may never see again. It could be Mom or Dad, asking where I am. I imagine coming home to our trailer, warm from the California sunshine, and sitting down with them in the living room. They ask me how my trip was. I tell them how many college
s I saw and how many options I have. I tell them how excited I am for the future and all that I'll learn.

  Then we hug and go on with our lives. Working, paying bills, surviving.

  It might be Gina, asking me how my trip really was, or when I'll be back to work. I imagine sitting in the break room at lunch with her, a scarf tied around my neck for show. I tell her how it wasn't completely unpleasant. How much money I made. How I'll go back and do it again.

  I force my thoughts away from what’s really happening. There will be time for that yet.

  ***

  I woke up to Jonah stirring next to me and I didn't move. His hand wrapped tighter around my waist at first, bringing me closer as he buried his nose between my neck and shoulder, inhaling. I pretended, for a fleeting second, that this was a normal relationship. That besides the fact that we were lying on the hard floor, we woke up like this countless times. We slept with no space between our bodies nearly every night, except on the rare occasions we had to be apart for some reason. We were a normal couple and had a normal life.

  It was a nice, warm thought, but it fluttered away before I could catch it.

  At some point, it occurred to me that he was awake, but I still pretended to be asleep. His grip around my waist hesitantly loosened, like he wasn't sure what to do.

  “Casey?” he whispered, still half-asleep. “How did you get on the floor?” He seemed to be asking himself but I answered anyway.

  “You were on the floor first,” I said without turning around. My voice was scratchy and my throat ached.

  Jonah sat up. “I must have fallen asleep.” His voice sounded far away, like I was already gone.

  I slowly sat up too, leaning against the wall across from where he was sitting. We stared at each other for a long time, rubbing the sleep from our eyes.