“First, there will be some paperwork you’ll have to go over and sign before the real tests. Tests include a physical examination, updated blood work, diagnostic tests such as X-rays and ultrasounds, and an EKG. Then we have to determine if your liver would even be the correct size for the transplant.”
“Okay,” Tate says again, “and what is needed in order to be a match?”
“Your blood type has to be a match, you have to pass the crossmatch, which determines if the recipient's antibodies will attack the donor’s cells, and then you have to pass the HLA typing, which testsyourantibodies.”
Tate nods again, chewing at the inside of his lip before he scrubs a hand down his face. “And how long does it take to get results?”
“It can take up to two weeks, but in this case…” Dr. Hammondtrails off, giving Tate’s mom a sympathetic smile, “it would have to be as soon as possible. Rushed lab work is doable.”
“Can I think on it?”
Dr. Hammond nods. “Of course. I’ll give you some time to think about it. I know it’s a big decision. There are always risks associated with surgery, even if you do end up being a match. We can do the tests as early as tomorrow morning. You can let me know then.”
Tomorrow?
Less than twenty-four hours to make a decision like that?
“Thank you,” Tate tells the doctor, before turning toward me and extending his hand. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if he wants to say anything more to his mom, but he gives me one small shake of his head, so I take his hand and follow him as he guides us out of the room.
I try to catch his attention as we fly down the hallway like he’s running away from someone, but he keeps his gaze straight ahead. The only thing I can do is hold on for dear life as we hurry down the hallway, past the front desk, and out the front door into the cold drizzle that’s now falling from the grey sky.
He doesn’t stop until we’re at his truck, and even though he hasn’t said a word, he doesn’t hesitate to open up the passenger side door for me to climb in and close it gently behind me. When he gets into the driver’s side, he doesn’t speak for a while. The only sounds are the soft rain against the windshield and his heavy breathing.
This must be so overwhelming for him.
“If I let her die without getting tested, there’s a part of me that might always feel guilty,” he finally says. “A part ofherthat might use that against me. If she dies, and Iwasn’ta match, at least I wouldn’t have it on my conscience.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. This is something he needs to get off his chest, weigh his options out loud.
“But a part of me also feels like she doesn’t deserve my help,” his voice falls into a whisper, “a part of me wants to just let her…rot.”
The last word comes out sounding as if it was painful for him to even say, and I bite at my lip as I stare over at him in the driver’s seat. My eyebrows pull together as I watch him fidget with his hands in his lap.
“Is that…awful of me?” he rasps.
“No,” I tell him, “you’re allowed to process this however you need to. Tate…you were a victim. An innocent child. However you decide to go about this is the right thing to do because it’s whatyouwant to do.”
The silence settles in around us once more, but it’s not long before Tatum is crying. The sound breaks my heart, and my eyes water as I peek over at him. He’s angrily tugging his glasses from his nose as he wipes away the tears trailing down his cheeks and his nose.
“Tate,” I coo sadly, sliding over in the seat to wrap my arms around his shaking figure. He buries his face into my chest immediately, and I cradle his head with my hands.
He sobs against me for a while, and I rub his giant back in slow, gentle circles as I hold him through it. After what feels like minutes, he eventually stops, but he doesn’t lift his head from me, doesn’t look at me. And I don’t force him to, I just stay there, my arms around him like I’m the only thing holding him together.
“Sorry,” he croaks, “I keep doing that.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for,” I tell him, pressing my cheek to the top of his head.
He wipes his sleeve along his nose before finally lifting his head, sniffling as he tries to crack a joke, even though I can tell how embarrassed he’s feeling. The pink on his cheeks isn’t from crying. “You d-don’t think I’m a crybaby?”
“No, Tate.” My voice is serious.
He doesn’t say anything, but he still doesn’t look me in the eye.
“You don’t have to be scared of showing your feelings to me,” I whisper, lowering my head so he has no choice but to meet my gaze. “I would never judge you.”
After the last two weeks, I’ve noticed he does that a lot, tries to cover up his emotions with a joke or a comment of self-consciousness. There’s never anything wrong with a guy crying or being in tune with how he’s feeling; if anything, it’s more attractive. I like that he is sensitive and sweet and cares too much because so do I.
“I’m going to do it,” he says after a moment. “I’m going to get the test.”
