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“I miss Dr. Donovan,” he says then.
“Yeah…I know you two had a special relationship.” I glance out to the water. “I uh…I’m not really good with kids.”
Otto looks up at me, blinks. But he’s listening.
I continue, “My dad…he wasn’t really good with kids either. When me and my brother were growing up, he didn’t know how to play with us. Support us. I guess what I’m trying to say is…I’m not going to get this right all the time. But. If you’d let me…I’d really like to be there for you.”
Otto looks at me. Those blue eyes are glassy now.
I slip my hand to his shoulder and give a light squeeze. “You’re a strong kid. Really strong. I’m proud of you, bud.”
He sniffs and glances away. “Thanks.”
His small body leans against mine, and I can hear him sniffling. I draw my fingers through his hair.
“It’s okay,” I murmur to him. “It’s going to be okay.”
At the Medical Center, I drop Kenzi, Missus P, and Otto off in the waiting room.
Transplants are my specialty. So I’ll be performing the surgery on the live donor. Which makes it my job to screen the donor.
Making the call to be a live donor isn’t easy. The recipient is getting better—the surgery, if successful, will most likely have a positive outcome on their life.
With a live donor, you’re removing the organ of an otherwise healthy person. It’s risky. It can, and often will, have lasting consequences. It can also be the most rewarding thing a person can do with their lives. They are, in my opinion, the real heroes. But it makes it all the more important that I make sure the donor knows what they’re getting into, and that they’re prepared for what’s ahead of them.
I check in with the front desk, and they let me know that my donor is waiting on the second floor. I scale the steps and head into a private conference room.
I’m not entirely prepared to see the person waiting for me, though.
He’s an older gentleman—in his sixties, maybe. His gray hair is long, tied back in a familiar ponytail. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt—even in the dead of winter—and a too-big smile.
“Mr. Blake?” I ask.
“Jason!” He stands, jovial, and shakes my hand. “Or should I call you Dr. King now? Boy, it’s been a minute, hasn’t it?”
“Sure has.”
It’s been nearly a decade since I last saw Terry Blake. He used to own a boat at the marina. And, for about a year, he was married to Pearl Stratton. The first time I met Kenzi, she was a smart-ass eighteen-year-old, tired of watching her newly married mom and Mr. Blake make out on their boat.
And then he and Pearl got divorced—though as far as I could tell, it wasn’t particularly contentious, it just didn’t work. He still showed up now and then to play golf with my father, but eventually, he faded from the picture.
I hadn’t thought anything about it then. Until now.
He shakes my hand a little too long, and I notice the sweat on his palms. “It’s good to see you,” I tell him as I retract my hand and take a seat. “I’ve been wondering what happened to Sweet Harmony.”
“Ah—had to sell her.” He shows all of his teeth when he smiles. “You know how things get.”
“Sure.” He sits across from me, crosses one leg over the other, then seems to rethink it and puts both feet on the ground. I smile. Try to put him at ease. “What prompted you to want to be a donor?”
He goes somber, which is a strange look on him. “I heard Kenzi’s kid was having a time of it. Hell of a thing. And I thought to myself, dammit, Terry, you’ve never done one good thing in your life. Here’s a kid who needs you. Step up to the plate!”
“That’s admirable of you. And your doctor walked you through the potential consequences?”
“Oh, they’ve given me the whole spiel. Took my blood, did the workup. Said I’m a great match for the kid. When do we get going with this anyhow?”
He won’t stop fidgeting. Alarm bells are ringing in my head. “In a minute. Since I’m the surgeon, I like to have a one-on-one with my patient beforehand so I make sure you understand the outcomes. There’s infection. You could develop a hernia from the site. Of course, there’s always the risk of a fatal complication.”
He’s starting to sweat. His grin is more of a grimace now. “But you’re the best surgeon there is, right?”
