“If I wanted to, I?—”
“You would, right.” He nods, giving himself the reassurance as he straightens his shoulders and turns to continue walking, pulling me behind him once more.
When we reach her hospital room, the door wide open, Tate stops just before we step into view. I watch his burly shoulders rise and fall from behind, giving his hand a squeeze for encouragement. That must do the trick because we continue walking not even a second later, and stepping into the room feels like stepping into some sort of black hole.
All hospital rooms look the same, really. White walls, white bed, white sheets. Except there’s a frail woman sitting in the bed in this room, her eyes a spitting image of Tate’s and her hair the same shade of brown. I hold back my gasp as I take her in. She’s Tate’s mother, alright. They’retwins. Even as sickly as she looks, I can see him in her face, the little features and quirks I’ve grown fond of over the past few weeks.
She’s sicker than I expected her to be. It looks like she’s been sick for months, based on the dark yellow tint of her skin.
Tate must not have expected it either, because his entire body goes rigid at the sight of her. She looks up at him like he’s the most precious thing she’s ever seen, her hands coming up to her chest, cradling them there.
I’m feeling like I definitely should have stayed in the waiting area. I should leave them alone, let them have this moment and figure out what they need to figure out, but he squeezes my hand tighter, like he can read my mind.
“Tay,” his mom croaks, and I feel him physically recoil at the nickname.
He needs to have this conversation with her, and he needs to do it alone. So, I nudge him forward with our intertwined hands, gently pulling mine away as I do. He immediately looks over his shoulder with his brows knitted down at me, but I just give himmy best reassuring smile before standing off to the side. Giving them the space they need.
“I’m so glad you decided to come see me,” she continues, and I don’t miss the way her eyes flicker over at me very briefly before they’re back on him.
Of course, she’s probably wondering who the heck I am and what I’m doing here.
Tate doesn’t speak; he just looks at her, his hands fidgeting by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. I know he doesn’t. He’s struggling, I can see it. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his throat bobs with a swallow every few seconds. Is he panicking?
“I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice,” he finally says.
“You had a choice.” Her eyes look sad, but what do I know? I don’t know her like he does. She could be acting, for all I know.
He cocks his head skeptically down at her before he relaxes just a smidge. I can see him working through his emotions in real time, trying to figure out a way not to explode on her like I’m sure he wants to after all these years.
“Did I?” Tate counters, and I wonder if she catches the hint of sarcasm in his tone. She has to. “That’s a first.”
Her blinks are slow as she looks up at him for a minute before saying, “I deserve that.”
“Did you call me because you actually wanted to see me, or did you call me because I’m your one possible ticket to live?” he asks bluntly, not even an ounce of stutter in his voice.
There’s a confidence there that I haven’t seen before, an…authority. It makes my spine straighten like he’s talking to me, and something about that has me fighting a proud smirk. He’s standing up for himself, and it’s about damn time.
“I called you because…” she shakes her head, searching for the right words, “I wanted to see you. Of course I want to seeyou. I want tokeepseeing you, Tatum. I want to live long enough to fix this. To fix what I’ve done.”
“Just convenient timing, is all,” he mutters back, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I’m sorry,” his mom croaks out, swallowing thickly, “I know that doesn’t fix anything. I know I have a lot more making up to do, but it’s a start. Right? It could be.”
The death stare he gives her has me dropping my head to my chest as I stare at the ground. The tension has me wishing I could disappear into thin air. As genuine as his mom may seem, there’s still a lot I don’t know. A lot that he will tell me when he feels ready, and until then, I can’t make any assumptions. I trust Tate to know what he’s doing. And if he doesn’t forgive her, then we don’t forgive her.
I keep that escape plan in the back of my mind from earlier.
“It could be,” he repeats, “all because you decided so, hmm?”
A knock at the doorframe puts the conversation to a halt, an older gentleman in a white coat entering the room with a clipboard in hand as he gives the three of us a friendly smile.
“Hello, you must be Tatum,” the man says, extending his hand out to shake Tate’s, “I’m Dr. Hammond.”
“Hello,” Tate mumbles.
“I’m so glad you could be here with us in person,” Dr. Hammondsays, setting his clipboard down and sticking his hand under the automatic dispenser on the wall, rubbing in the hand sanitizer, “I know we discussed most of this over the phone, but I’d love to go over the tests needed in order to see if you’re a match for a living donor transplant and if you’d even like to move forward with testing.”
“Okay.” Tate nods.
