Sorry Not Sorry Page 7

  “No, baby,” she’d replied. “That’s just his dialysis machine. He keeps it in the box so he can get his treatment while he travels.”

  “His what?” I’d asked.

  “His artificial kidney,” Sheree had explained. “Some people’s organs don’t work the way they should, so a machine does the job for them.”

  That sounded like sci-fi to me. “You mean like a robot?”

  My sister’s eyes darted to Mom, and then to me, and she gave a lopsided smile. “Uh, yeah. Sure. A robo-kidney.”

  I hadn’t thought of that man in years, but he’d been on my mind all this week. Was he still alive? How bad was his condition anyway?

  Ever since I’d visited Alyssa’s house, I’d spent my evenings researching information about kidney damage. The average dialysis patient had to have 15 percent kidney function when introduced to the kidney robot. Alyssa was at 12 percent and dropping. Not a good sign.

  That Friday afternoon, I gathered the courage to see Alyssa at the hospital. I signed in at the front desk, slapped on my printed name tag, and moseyed on down to room 5471 with no idea what to say, do, or expect. Sources claimed that she’d returned to the conscious world and been moved to a cushy recovery room on the fifth floor. And by sources, I meant Ryon. He mentioned that the specialist had done something to her arm to help with her dialysis.

  “Whatever you do, don’t, I repeat, do not stare at her fistula,” Ryon had told me at lunch. “She just had it put in and she’s a little self-conscious about it.”

  I was lost on two counts: I had no idea what a fistula was or why he’d given the warning with such dread. It nearly distracted me from the red blotch on his left cheek. At first, I thought it was a reaction to the drop in temperature outside, but under closer inspection, it was the remnants of a hearty slap.

  Best I could do was a nod. “Okay, sure. Just one thing though. What the heck is a fistula?”

  As soon as I entered the hospital room, I had my answer.

  “Oh my God!” was my initial reaction. I leapt back and clutched my chest.

  “If you’re going to stare then get out!” Alyssa glared grisly murder at me from the bed.

  “I’m not here to harass you. I come in peace. Look. I even brought balloons.” I showed her the bright-yellow bunch in my hands.

  Alyssa scoffed, unimpressed. “Yeah, because Lord knows I need more flowers, balloons, and cards.”

  She was right. Child birthday parties weren’t this lit, even with a hired clown. Foil balloons crowded the ceiling. Teddy bears and fancy bouquets hogged all the free counter space. Looking at my meager offering, I said, “But … but they’re all pink.”

  “You know I hate pink.”

  “I do know that. That’s why I bought these.” My smile widened.

  Her eyes narrowed into two razor slits.

  Inviting myself in, I scoped out the new digs. The room looked like a hotel suite, with cream-colored walls and dark wood accents. A flat-screen television was mounted on the wall across from the bed, and a chaise longue sat under the window. That was where Mrs. Weaver no doubt spent most of her nights. Then my gaze moved to the dreaded dialysis machine next to Alyssa’s bed. Its omnipotent bulk would not go ignored. The robo-kidney demanded acknowledgment and a steady diet of unfiltered blood.

  “What did I tell you about staring?” she asked.

  “Sorry.” My eyes lifted to the ceiling. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yep. But once the swelling goes down, it should be fine.”

  As hard as I tried to avert my gaze, it somehow kept landing on that thing on her arm. It looked like a sausage link embedded into her skin just over the left bicep. Right now it was covered in bandages, but when I first walked in, she’d been picking at the stitches. I’d seen more parasites, lesions, keloid scars, and boils in my life than anyone should and still maintained a healthy appetite. But that? That was just nasty.

  Finally, I asked, “What is that thing?”

  “It’s an artery and a vein surgically fused together with two outlets poking out of my skin that connect to the tubing that connects to the dialysis machine. A fistula.” She said this as though reading from a script, completely monotone and full of apathy. I probably wasn’t the first person she’d explained it to.

  “I thought it goes through your stomach,” I told her.

  “Same game. Different field. Only this way the filtering action happens outside the body.” She nudged her head toward the machine. “Fewer risks of infections this way.”

  “All righty then.” I tied the balloons to her meal tray stand and planted my butt in the chair next to her. Crossing my legs, I asked, “So, how was your week?”

  She fought hard not to smile but failed. “Worst week ever.”

  “How long are you gonna be stuck here?”

  “Until the infection clears. Then I gotta go to a center across town for treatment three times a week. Mama’s trying to get one of those home filtration kits, but there’s a lot to it. You gotta take a class just to plug the machine in. She works too much to be home with me and she can barely operate the microwave. Best let the pros do it.”

  “Good call.” I nodded. “I can go with you if you want?”

  She hesitated for a moment. “Not sure if visitors are allowed during treatments. But I’ll check.”

  “Okay.” I searched the room for a new topic. “So, about what I said in class the other day—”

  “Don’t apologize. You’re not sorry. Don’t pretend that you are just because I’m sitting in a hospital bed. I’m still me. You’re still you, and we can’t stand each other. Let’s not break tradition, okay?”

  I could tell she was lying—sort of. She was all shifty-eyed and looking around. Dead giveaway. If she really wanted me out, she’d just press the CALL button for the nurse. But the comment was a good lead-in to another question I had waiting backstage.

  “Why are you so set on pushing me away? Who ran over your cat in the street?”

  She grabbed the remote and began channel surfing. “Ain’t got a cat.”

  “Which further proves how baseless your stank attitude is.” I paused as Ryon’s face flashed in my head. “It also explains the handprint on Sugar Booger’s cheek. Are we having a domestic dispute, ma’am?” I asked in a tone full of syrupy sweetness.

  “I told him not to touch my incision. It’s still tender.” She pointed to her bandaged arm. “But did he listen? Nooo.”

  “So beautiful, man. Gets me right here.” I patted the spot over my heart.

  She wiped the damp strands of hair from her face. “Look, if you’re gonna stay, don’t mention anything that has to do with me or any of this machinery attached to me, okay?”

  “All right. Don’t come at me slick, and I won’t start pulling tubes and pushing buttons. Got it?”

  “Fine!” She turned up the volume on the TV.

  “Fine!” I shifted in my seat and crossed my arms, my attitude dropping to an 8.5. Then I caught what played on the screen. “Oh! The Golden Girls! We used to watch that show with your mom all the time.” I grinned.

  The Golden Girls had been our introduction to the world of throwing shade, and those cranky broads were our mentors (along with my grandma).

  “Used to?” Alyssa asked. “I still do. They’re the coolest old ladies ever. I’m so Blanche, it’s not even funny.”

  “No. Your mom is Blanche. I’m Dorothy and you’re the dumb one.”

  She sniggered. “Just shut up and watch the show.”

  And that’s how we spent the next two hours of my visit. The back-to-back episodes turned out to be a full weekend marathon. It was nice not having to say anything, or to come up with something witty or positive. There was nothing positive or healthy about Alyssa’s situation. The same could be said for our relationship, and neither required further discussion. We just sat together watching four old women act a fool in their Miami home.

  “I want to be like them when I get old. These chicks are awesome,”
Alyssa said after the fourth episode.

  By then, I’d scooted my chair closer to the bed, my head resting on top of my folded arms over the blanket. But at her words, the air shifted in the room and something dark crept under the door, a phantom presence that had no business in the peaceful space we’d created. It loomed behind me and leaned close to my ear. Its icy breath tickled the hairs on my neck as it whispered, She’ll never live to see old age.

  I jumped to my feet. The chair teetered backward; its legs scraped the floor. “Wow! Look at the time. I was only supposed to be here for an hour. I should get back home.”

  “Already?” she asked, the way a child pleads to stay up past her bedtime.

  “I’ve got a lot to do at home.” I collected my bag and jacket from the back of the armchair. “I’ll come back soon though.”

  “Okay.” She spoke in a small voice. “I mean, you don’t have to.”

  “I know. But I will.” I closed the door behind me.

  Outside her room, I spotted Mrs. Weaver in the hall. I would’ve told her goodbye, but she appeared to be in a heated conversation with the doctor. Her hands sliced into the air, and words were spoken in harsh tones that sounded too loud to be real whispers. It was best to stay out of grown folks’ business, but I needed to move closer to get to the elevators in the next corridor.

  I tiptoed across the floor, creeping down the hallway. Mrs. Weaver faced away from me and the doctor was too concerned with calming her down to notice me. I’d just made it around the corner when I heard Mrs. Weaver say, “Why can’t she have mine?”

  “I’m afraid your HLA levels make you incompatible.”

  I froze mid-step.

  “How can that be if we’re the same blood type? I’m O and she’s O. We’re the same blood type,” she argued.

  “There’s more to it than that, Mrs. Weaver. The number of antibodies in your system is too dangerous for your daughter’s body. It’s a high probability that she will reject the kidney.”

  My back pressed against the wall. I inched closer, not daring to peek around the corner. Thanks to the hallway traffic mirrors mounted in the top corner, I didn’t need to.

  “So you’re tellin’ me that my daughter’s gonna die? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?” Mrs. Weaver demanded.

  “If she doesn’t get a kidney soon, then her body will shut down,” the doctor rephrased. “But there is still time to locate a suitable donor. Have you discussed this with her father?”

  “He can’t help her,” she groused. “The way he parties and drinks, he’ll be on that waitin’ list right along with her.”

  “There is the donor exchange program I spoke to you about,” the doctor said.

  “The what?”

  “The donor exchange program. Since you’re already in the database, we can line you up with a patient you’re compatible with, and their donor will match with Alyssa.”

  Mrs. Weaver reared back as if slapped. “I’m not givin’ my kidney to some stranger! I’m doin’ this for my daughter! My child! And you wanna pass me off to someone else?”

  “It will be an even exchange,” he assured her.

  “I thought you said you couldn’t find a match. You sayin’ you found a donor in this program to trade with?”

  He nodded. “As a matter of fact, we’ve found several patients that you are compatible with—”

  “For her!” Mrs. Weaver pointed toward Alyssa’s room. “Did you find a match in your database for her?” When he didn’t reply right away, she sucked her teeth. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Back to square one.”

  “Mrs. Weaver, I understand this is a difficult time for you—”

  “No!” She cut him off again. “Difficult is holdin’ down three jobs to pay for these medical bills. Difficult is pinnin’ a five-year-old still while givin’ her insulin, or forcin’ juice down her throat when she has an attack. Difficult is havin’ your child depend on a machine to keep her alive. Difficult is doin’ this all by yourself because your husband can’t handle a sick kid. But goin’ in that room and tellin’ my baby that she only has a few weeks to live? That ain’t difficult, Doctor. That is impossible. Now, I want you to go to your office, make some calls, write some emails, send up a Bat-Signal, whatever you gotta do, and get my daughter a donor!”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the doctor said, then moved quickly down the hall, hopefully to his office to do what she’d asked. I wasn’t sure because all my focus was set on Mrs. Weaver.

  I studied the fragile woman leaning against the wall. One arm was wrapped around her waist, the other hand clasped around her mouth. Her sobs fell quiet under tremors that ran all the way to her knees. I couldn’t see her tears, but I could hear them in every sharp gasp of air. It was like a swimmer punching through the water’s surface and drawing breath before plunging back down into the soundless deep. Or maybe she was drowning.

  I turned around, ran to the elevator, and pushed the DOWN button. The numbers above the door hadn’t changed. I pushed it again. Again. Again, again, and again, until finally, the numbers climbed to my floor and the doors slid open.

  My body slumped against the elevator wall and I balanced my weight on the metal railing.

  “Can you hit lobby, please?” I asked the elderly woman in the elevator with me. I didn’t recognize my voice. It sounded croaky and wet with phlegm. The blockage spread to the back of my throat, allowing only shallow hiccups of air to pass through in quick sequence. My vision was blurred; my eyes prickled with unshed tears.

  The woman in the elevator asked me if I was all right and I remember thinking the words yes and fine, but they couldn’t be heard. Not underwater. Not while drowning.

  The doors opened again and I almost collided with the lady to get to the exit. I ran through the emergency room doors and into the hospital parking lot. I found my car, got in, locked the door, and stared at the row of vehicles ahead.

  There, in the privacy of my car, that drowning thing swam toward the light and broke through the black surface of the water. My first breath ended with a scream that should’ve shattered the windows. My head throbbed, my jaw cracked, I was certain I popped a capillary, and yet I kept screaming. I punched and kicked and pushed back against my seat with all my weight, and not even my best attempts had an effect. I didn’t care if I broke the steering wheel or busted the airbag or if the car exploded—this pain had to go somewhere. The horn went off. People in the parking lot were staring, and if they knew what was good for them, they would back off.

  At some point, I stopped screaming. Sometime after that, I started the car and peeled out of the lot. It could’ve been the change of the season or sitting in an air-conditioned hospital for hours, but the chill I’d felt in Alyssa’s room clung to me like body odor. At every stoplight, my eyes strayed to the rearview mirror, paranoid that the phantom had followed me home.

  I scooted past the dogs, then trudged upstairs on legs that felt like half-cooked noodles. I heard Mateo moving around in his room and fought the temptation to knock. That would lead to him answering the door, which would lead to talking, which would lead to feelings becoming vocal and poorly translated. Best to skip all that and just sleep it off. I zombie-shuffled to my room, landed facedown on the mattress, and then had what I felt was a fully deserved cry. I’d kept it in for too long, something I had promised myself I’d never do. After all, tears were signs of something wrong.

  Tears came from cuts that others can’t see. That’s why they run clear, Alyssa told me once.

  If I had to pinpoint the cut, that one dominant emotion, it would be helplessness. This issue, this crisis, couldn’t be fed, clothed, or given fresh drinking water. I couldn’t collect money, signatures, or imperishable goods. I couldn’t rally, boycott, march the streets, hold up a sign and scream out to the world, “MY FRIEND IS DYING!” Lord knows I wanted to, though. But this was an internal battle, an area completely out of my depth. How do you gain freedom when your body is the oppressor? It’s not like you could
get a new one …

  My head shot up as I remembered something I found in Alyssa’s room. The medical brochure for organ donations on her dresser. Was that the program Mrs. Weaver was talking to the doctor about? I’d forgotten the name, but I remembered that the hospital was in Arlington.

  As I stood up from my bed, helplessness fell away and made room for something else. Curiosity. Hope. It’s what dropped me into my desk chair. It’s what opened my laptop and it’s what typed keywords into the search engine. And that was how I ended up on the Atlantic Wellness Center’s home page.

  The hospital’s national score ranked in the top ten. The patient testimonials, however, left me paranoid, heartbroken, and reassessing my life choices. I clicked on the link for the donor questionnaire, just to see what it was about. A quick skim, nothing too serious. What could it hurt?

  One hour later, I crashed on my bed, mentally drained from the twenty-five-page donor application I’d just completed. Peekaboo nestled by my side, contently chewing on my left sock while I stared at the glowing stars on my ceiling. Those stars, too, were straight out of the dusty archives that were me and Alyssa. I was a gawky tween again, gazing at this sticker galaxy, discussing crucial topics that wouldn’t matter in a week with Alyssa at my side. The memory felt like a comfy pair of slippers, that beloved T-shirt with the faded letters, the song you hadn’t heard in years yet still knew the lyrics to. If I closed my eyes, I could almost hear the tune in my head, a faint harmony of two girls whispering in the dark.

  “Janelle! Janelle, wake up!”

  My eyes flew open. I couldn’t recognize the setting at first because everything looked black. I was sitting upright on something soft, and after piecing together the where and what, the new locale had to be my room. I wasn’t at the cemetery or the hospital or downstairs in the kitchen where the nightmare began. But it felt as if I was still there.

  “Janelle, shh. It’s okay. You’re awake. Stop screaming,” Alyssa’s voice called in the darkness. “It’s the middle of the night. You’ll wake up the whole house.”