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“Hi, my name is Cindy and I work with Be The Match.”
My heart stops. At least, it feels that way. I urge my lungs to breathe again and lean against the bed. “Um... yeah?” The word cracks.
Fuck fuck fuck...
“I’m calling to request a preliminary evaluation. Our records indicate you might be a match for someone on our roster. Would you be willing to undergo basic testing in the next few days, understanding we may make additional requests pending results?”
I let my breath out. “That’s why you called?”
“We’re on an expedited timeline, so we’re asking that you act on this as soon as possible.”
I nod slowly, letting this sink in. It’s been years since I heard from them. I never thought I would again. Not unless... I shake my head. “Sure... that’s fine. No problem. If I am a match, I would... go through this again?” Would it be to the same person? My pulse races.
“If you are a match, you would be called upon again. I see here in your records that you’ve done this before.” There’s a brief pause, in which I try to breathe. Then she says, “Are there any other questions, Cleo? We’re so glad that you’re a part of Be The Match.”
I inhale deeply. Exhale. Let my two-ton question tumble forth. “Can you tell me anything about Robert?”
“Robert?” she echoes.
“You don’t know the name of my last match?” My tone is sharper than I intended, but I find I don’t care.
I hear a brief pause, followed by loud typing. “What information are you requesting, Miss Whatley? I’m limited by—there are rules in place to—”
“How is he?” I whisper.
I hear a delicate clearing of her throat. “It looks like... mmhmm. I can see your chart is marked with blue—which means you’ve been flagged based on your file from last time.”
My stomach hollows out. “Are you saying that I’m being called again as a match for R.—Robert, I mean? Could I be matched with him again?”
Silence fills the line. “What’s the last report you received on Robert D., Miss Whatley?”
I clamp my teeth down on my tongue. “I haven’t gotten one. Not since a while back. That’s why I’m asking. It’s been really bugging me, the silence from him.”
A heavy sigh comes through my phone. My throat tightens. My stomach heaves, and I just know. I can feel the bad news coming like a train. “Cleo. I’m so sorry to inform you, your last match is listed as deceased.”
“Deceased?” The word makes no sense. Less than no sense.
“I’m sorry that you didn’t know. We don’t want to discourage—”
Her voice sounds like it’s underwater. I hang up the phone.
Eight forty-three PM, my phone says.
I sit down on the rug. I wait for tears, but they don’t come. My face feels like a slab of wood. My heart thumps painfully.
I check Kellan’s bedroom first, peeling the blanket away from the wall so I can examine the hidden door. As I dash downstairs, I wonder why I’ve never asked what’s in there. I wonder why I didn’t tell him about the girl I saw today.
But I already know the answer: because I didn’t want to rock the boat. Despite the strong connection I feel to him—a connection that seems to grow stronger every minute—the boat with Kellan feels unsteady. Probably because he runs so hot and cold. My mom has always been that way: happy when she’s on a two-day off shift from the factory; quiet and withdrawn on work days. I grew up trying to make her happy, trying to help keep our struggling household steady. It’s why I got good grades. To avoid rocking the boat. I do the same thing now as I press my lips together to hold in a sob, despite the awful ripping sensation in my chest. I want to fall onto the floor and wail.
Instead, when I get downstairs, I stalk through the living room and kitchen, then the formal dining room, the half-bath, and the library, which I’ve only ever peeked at through a half-cracked door till now.
I can’t find Kellan. I can’t sit down. I swallow repeatedly as I g
et Helen more diced chicken, re-fill Truman’s water bowl, and rearrange the pillows on the couch.
I pace the living room, peek out the back door, the house’s front door, and then dash back upstairs. I give the rumpled bed a glance—I imagine Kellan and me, intertwined tightly enough to extinguish the awful ache behind my breastbone—before I change into a black cotton sundress, pull a gray sweater on over it, and slide my feet into black flip-flops. Then I step out onto the balcony.
The pine trees are a dark mass. I aim my gaze above them, looking frantically for Leo.
