Page 59 of Matteo

The realization hits me harder than I expect. Beneath all the anger, frustration, and resentment, there’s fear. Real fear. Knowing that a parent is ill, and that it could be serious, fatal even, is enough to knock the ground out from under anyone.

I try and think of my own parents. I only remember pieces of my past because my childhood is a blur. Vlad said it’s because I’m rewriting my story. My childhood was changed, unexpectedly and forever, by a chain of events that derailed my world for ever. My mom died suddenly, from a hit and run accident. My dad fell apart. He struggled to keep going after her death, and then he lost his job months later and that’s when he turned to drink, and sank into depression. There were many days when he couldn’t even get out of bed. The teachers noticed, and that’s when I was moved into foster care.

He swipes a hand across his jaw. “I’ve been having tests. We all have. It’s a lengthy process so …”

“You all have?”

“We’re six brothers.”

I remember reading about them, when I was researching the company. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have five siblings, and a father, even though they don’t seem to get on. Still, their father seems to have provided for them in a way that most would find envious. I’ve found no mention of their mother, which is odd, but still, I consider him to be lucky, though I sense Matteo doesn’t see it like that. He doesn’t know how blessed he is.

“I’m a match for the blood type.” His voice is flat and dull, like this isn’t the news he wanted. Like he’s not happy about giving his father a chance to live.

It explains his mood today.

I poke a little. “You sound upset …” I assumed he was sad because his father was gravely ill, but now I’m sensing that he's upset, maybe even conflicted, about the possibility of being a match.

He shrugs, like he always does, when he doesn’t want to deal with things. “They need to run more compatibility tests and full donor screenings before they decide if I can donate.”

The way he says it makes me wonder if he wants to go ahead with this. “Do you want to donate?”

He sits back, looking resigned as he swipes his thumb around the rim of his beer bottle, still wearing that same pensive look from earlier. I know that family can be difficult, and complicated, and the source of so much sadness. Sometimes, the people we're supposed to love the most are the ones who hurt us the deepest.

“I’m not sure how I feel about giving one of my kidneys to a man I don’t love.”

That’s heavy. His usual laidback and nonchalant expression is replaced by one of turmoil and anguish. He’s facing a difficult decision.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?” He looks at me.

“I'm not sure.” I just figured this man looks like he needs some sympathy. A kind word. A touch of empathy.

Our eyes hold for a second longer than necessary. I see a waitress approach and a sense of relief washes over me as she sets down our food. I dig into my sandwich with gusto. We eat silently. He devours his burger with as much gusto as me.

After a while, when he's finished, he sits back and lifts the bottle of beer to his lips, takes a gulp. I rush to finish my messy sandwich, suddenly feeling conscious of him watching me eat.

I hope I don't have mayonnaise on my lips.

Or a piece of bread stuck between my teeth.

“Your family?” he asks. The audacity of the man, he who never answers my questions.

“I've been in foster care since I was nine,” I remind him.

“Oh, fuck,” he says quietly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to bring up the foster homes and all the bad memories.”

I look away briefly. “There’s nothing about it I want to remember.”

“I meant Arthur and Irene.”

My attention snaps back to him. I'm mildly surprised that he remembers their names.

“Arthur and Irene.” It’s so easy to talk about them. About people I love with all my heart. “Where do I start? They’re … just so lovely. They’re wise and they ground me.”

“Ground you?”

How do I explain to a man who’s known nothing but privilege all his life?