She speaks so offhandedly, but the word hits me hard.
“A…transplant?”
“A liver transplant, yes.” She’s already scribbling something on her clipboard. “We’ll put him on the waiting list, but I have to be frank with you. The wait for a pediatric donor can be weeks. Months. Which is incompatible with his condition.” She trails off, checking her pager.
“Incompatible?” My voice is rising. “What are you saying?”
She looks up like she’s forgotten I’m there. “I’m saying we may not have that kind of time. A living donor would be faster. For a child Leon’s age, we only need a portion of an adult liver, as the organ will regenerate. But the donor has to be compatible. Blood type, tissue matching, overall health. Family members are the best candidates. Parents, especially.”
“Please test me. I’ll donate as much liver as you need.”
“Is his father available to be tested?”
My heart stops. The question I’ve been dreading for four years, in some form. The demand that I produce Leon’s father. And now here it is, while my son sleeps deeply beside me, his skin the color of old paper and his body failing.
“He’s not in the picture,” I hear myself say. “I’ll be a match. I know I will. Leon and I have the same blood type.”
Dr. Raynor’s eyebrows rise. “Ms. Santoro, if there’s a biological father, we need to know. This isn’t the time for—” She stops herself, but I hear what she doesn’t say.For whatever mess you’ve made of your personal life.
“I can do this without him. Test me. Please. I’ll donate whatever he needs.”
Dr. Raynor sighs. “Fine. We’ll start the testing process.” She makes a note on her clipboard, her pen scratching against the paper.
“How long?”
“A few hours for the initial results. Is there anyone else? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”
Mom is on blood thinners and statins. Rosa has the wrong blood type. There’s no one else.
“Just me,” I whisper. “There’s just me.”
Her pager buzzes again. She glances at it, already stepping back. “A nurse will be by for the blood draw. If you think of anyone on the paternal side, let us know.”
And she’s gone, leaving me alone with the wreckage of my past decisions.
They take my blood in a small room down the hall.
I watch the needle slide into my vein, watch the dark red liquid fill the vial, and I think about all the choices that led me here.
Running from Cristiano. Hiding my pregnancy from him. Lying about Leon’s age, concealing his eyes with brown contacts. Building a life on secrets and fear, convinced I was protecting my son. Now my son is dying, and I might not be able to save him.
The nurse labels the vial and tells me someone will come by with the results.
I walk back to Leon’s bedside. He’s still sleeping. Still yellow. Still slipping away from me. I take his hand and close my eyes.
Please let me be a match. Please.
15
Cristiano
The prison smells like sweat, fear, and institutional food left out too long. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, turning everyone’s skin sallow.
I empty my pockets into a plastic tray. Keys. Phone. Wallet. Watch. The guard eyes my suit with jealous contempt, probably calculating how many months of his salary it cost.
“Arms out. Feet apart.”
I give him my most charming smile as I oblige him. His hands run down my sides, my legs, and check my waistband. From the glower on the guard’s face, he knows who I am, and he’d dearly like to see me locked up in here as well. But that’s never going to happen to a Montoni.
