“What? You can’t do that. He needs a liver.”
She peers into my father’s room, nodding in agreement. “He does. Luckily, he has a little time, which gives you the time to find a support system.”
“Oh, come on, Dr. Washington. I’m a doctor. The support system I have are the people here. My friends are here. They’ll take care of me.”
“My answer is no,” she says with finality. “Until you can answer with certainty.”
“I am certain. I have a support system. Schedule the surgery, Dr. Washington. Really.”
“Who?”
“What?”
“Who is going to take care of you after the surgery?”
I rack my brain, knowing I could say Winston, but I don’t want to throw him and his wife under the bus and force them to take care of me without a conversation first. The silence between us is answer enough.
Dr. Washington isn’t a smug person, but she allows it to show on her face. “You have some time to figure it out. When you do, please tell me, okay?” With a forced, close-lipped smile on her face, she turns around and walks away, disappearing into another patient’s room.
I never thought being a loner would matter. I didn’t expect a situation like this. Never did I think I’d have to save my father’s life and need to give a lobe of my liver to him. Transplants arehard on the body. It’s a high-risk procedure for both the donor and the recipient.
“Fuck,” I whisper harshly to myself.
The downside of putting myself in isolation for so many years is this. It’s an easy fix—I think. Itshouldbe easy. But I can’t expect anyone, not even Winston, to take care of me when he barely knows me. That isn’t fair.
Sighing, I nearly collide with a nurse when I step forward to enter my father’s room.
“So sorry about that.” I give a curt nod and forced smile.
She doesn’t notice. Her attention is glued to the patient chart she’s reading.
My knuckles tap on the door.
He turns his head and it’s a blow to the gut to see him like this. He’s gaunt, thin, and I know he’s been going through alcohol withdrawals. He also has to beat those in his condition which I’m sure is taking its toll on him. His chart indicates that even with all of his issues, he’s managing.
“Son, come in. Come in. It’s good to see you.” He pushes himself up by using his hands as leverage against the mattress, lifting himself higher onto the pillow. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you.” He tries to flatten his hair with his fingers next, trying to calm the bedhead.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” I take a few tentative steps into the room, the unsettled feeling in my gut clawing at me. “How are you? Is Dr. Washington treating you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s been fantastic.”
“Good. I’m glad. That’s good.” I have no idea how to carry on a conversation with him. It’s been too long. He isn’t a father to me anymore. He’s a stranger.
“Come. Sit. Tell me about yourself. I want to know.”
“Do you? Or do you just want to know if I’m a match?”
He flinches as if I slapped him. “Of course I care, Elias. I haven’t seen you in ages?—”
“And whose fault is that?” I snap, then pinch the bridge of my nose to take a deep breath.
The machines hiss and the heart rate monitor beeps, signaling a change in the rhythm.
“I know. I know I haven’t been there. I haven’t been the best father.”
“You haven’t been a father,” I correct him, and immediately I know I shouldn’t have said that. I’m punishing him while he’s down. I can’t do that. “I’m sorry,” I relent, taking a small, cushioned seat by the window. “I don’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t realize how angry I was until now.”
“I deserve it. It’s okay.” He plays with the hem of the blanket covering him, moments of silence turning into minutes.
