Meg didn’t know what to say. Blankly, she looked up at him.
“There’s more,” he said, reaching into the kit again. He pulled out another piece of folded paper and handed it to Meg.
She unfolded it and saw that it was a check made out to Donovan Jacoby in the sum of one hundred thousand dollars. It was signed, “Richard Holloway, Esq., Administrator, One Last Wish Foundation.” Meg gaped.
“Do you think it’s legit?” Donovan asked. “Do you know anything at all about this foundation?”
“I’ve never heard of it.” Meg racked her brain for the names of the charitable organizations that supported the hospital. “Money usually comes to the hospital, not to any individual in the hospital. Especially not a patient.” She held the check up to the sun, but saw only a watermark for a bank in Boston, Massachusetts. “Do you know anyone with the initials JWC?”
“I’ve been thinking all morning, and the only person that comes to mind is a guy in my school named Jed Calloway—I don’t know his middle initial. But it couldn’t be him. He’s poor as dirt and not very charitable either. No, it can’t be Jed.”
“How about this Richard Holloway?”
“Never heard of the guy. What’s that E-s-q mean? Do you know?”
Meg puckered her brow. “I’ve seen it in old books. It’s an abbreviation for ‘esquire,’ an old-fashioned term for a lawyer. I guess he’s in charge of this foundation. Maybe he’s in the phone book—we could look and see.”
Donovan moistened his lips. “It’s a lot of money, isn’t it?”
“We both know that it is. Why would someone give it to you?”
“I don’t know. All the letter says is that this JWC understands what I’m going through and wants me to spend it on something I really want.”
“So, what do you want?”
“A new liver.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “But we both know I can’t buy one of those.”
“There must be something else.”
“There’re lots of something elses. I have to think about it. I can’t blow this much cash on myself.”
“I think that’s what JWC wants you to do with it.”
He glanced off toward the willow tree. “There’s another problem,” he said slowly.
“Tell me.”
“It—it’s hard for me to say it.”
“You can tell me.” Meg felt her pulse throbbing in her throat.
“It’s the part that involves your father,” he said.
“How is my dad involved?”
“I’m afraid if he knows about the money, he’ll take it away from me.”
Seven
“TAKE IT AWAY? My dad wouldn’t do that!” Meg was both startled and hurt by Donovan’s suggestion.
“I don’t mean he’d take it away on purpose. But he might have to take it away.”
“But why? Obviously, JWC wants you to have it.” Donovan shrugged, and Meg could tell he was having trouble putting what he wanted to say into words. She tried to make it easier by rising up on her knees and clasping his hand. “It’s your money. Why would my dad want it?”
He touched his other hand to her hair, smoothing it back. Her scalp tingled from his touch. “My family’s poor, Meg. I know we’re a charity case for this hospital. Mom explained how your father got us on Medicare in order to help pay for all of this.”
“Money’s not supposed to decide who gets organs.” She recalled her conversation with her father, and how he assured her that need was the main factor in determining who got organs for transplantation.
“I know that, but now that I have money, will I have to use it for the operation?”
Meg couldn’t answer his question. “What if you did? Would it mean you’d give up the chance to get the transplant?”
He stared down at the check. “It’s a lot of money, and my family could use it for lots of things.”
“How can you consider using it on anything else? I know your mother would spend every cent on keeping you alive. What difference does it make if it has to be spent on your transplant?”
“It makes a difference to me,” Donovan said quietly. “That’s why I’m holding you to your promise to keep it a secret from your father. If it’s really my money, I should decide on how I spend it.”
“But—”
“You promised,” Donovan interrupted. He softened his words by stroking her cheek. “Friends keep promises to friends. That’s a fact.” He tugged her upward. “Come on. I think I can beat you in Monopoly. Want to give me a chance?”
Meg wanted to discuss the One Last Wish money some more. “But, Donovan—”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t mean to put you in a tough place. I just need some time to think it through.”
“I’m glad you told me, but I don’t know how to help you with it.”
“Then let’s go inside and talk about it later. Right now, I want to have some of that fun you promised me.”
Meg spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with Donovan, playing board games and watching the video movie in the recreation room. Several of the younger kids joined them, and Meg saw how fond they were of Donovan. He had a way with them, a friendly, open manner that put people at ease. She knew she felt comfortable with him.
By the end of the day, Donovan was completely worn out and couldn’t eat the pizza Meg brought to his room. “You don’t mind?” he asked as he crawled into his bed.
“Who needs the calories?” She kept her question light, as she shoved the unopened box to the side and fluffed his pillow. His coloring, which looked more yellow than it had that morning, bothered her. “Maybe you pushed too hard today,” she observed.
“I wouldn’t have traded today for anything. I really appreciate your spending your free time with me. It meant a lot.”
“I had fun.” Meg meant it. The time she’d spent with him had seemed to fly. “Your mom and Brett will come by tomorrow, and then it’ll be Monday again and the start of a brand-new week.”
“Another week in paradise,” he mumbled cynically. His eyelids looked heavy, and Meg watched them close. “Don’t forget your promise,” he whispered.
“I won’t forget,” she said. He was asleep instantly, but Meg couldn’t bring herself to leave. His breathing sounded shallow, and she was concerned about him. She wished her father were there to assure her that Donovan was all right. She fiddled with the bedcovers, smoothing them the way she’d been taught during her candy striper training. She kept thinking about the letter he had received, and the check.
Meg realized that she had been raised quite differently from Donovan. She’d been given many material things and had never truly wanted for anything. At sixteen, she attended a top private school, wore expensive clothes, had her own car. Not that her parents hadn’t taught her values. Many a time, her mother had lectured, “We have a duty to help others who are less fortunate. Your father’s profession is aimed toward helping and healing. I work hard with my charities because it gives me a deep sense of satisfaction to know I’m doing something useful for others.”
Until now, Meg hadn’t paid much attention. But JWC’s generous gift to a person he or she claimed to not even know, caused Meg to pause and reevaluate her parents’ philosophy of life. Why would a complete stranger give Donovan so much money? Who was this JWC anyway? Meg found herself not only curious, but also a little jealous. Not that she didn’t want Donovan to have the money—she did. The money didn’t threaten Meg at all. It was the caring, the concern, from an anonymous, faceless person that intimidated her.
“Don’t pout. It won’t help.” Meg heard Cindy’s voice in the back of her mind.
“But you don’t understand. My dad thinks more of his patients than he does of me!” Meg recalled wailing to her friend the day she’d graduated from eighth grade and an emergency had made him miss the ceremony.
“Doctors don’t belong to just their families, Meggie. They belong to everybody,” Cindy commented. “Sort of like the President, I t
hink. I’ll bet he feels he owes something to the people he takes care of.”
“Then why did my father even bother to have a family? Why didn’t he just devote himself to humanity and forget about having us?”
“Probably because he wanted you,” Cindy answered. “Who says you can’t have both?”
Now, years later, standing next to Donovan’s hospital bed, watching his chest rise and fall with labored breathing, Meg recalled the conversation with vivid clarity. Did JWC feel he or she owed something to the sick and dying? Was that the motivation behind the One Last Wish Foundation? And if so, where did that kind of compassion come from? Did Meg have it within herself to feel the same way? The way her parents did?
She longed to talk it over with Cindy. Her best friend would have helped her make sense of it. But, of course, there was no Cindy. Stricken, feeling more depressed than she had in weeks, Meg pushed away from Donovan’s bed and quickly left the hospital.
“Your father and I are going to run out to the country club and play a few rounds of golf. Want to come along?” Meg’s mother asked her Sunday afternoon.
“Not really.” Meg felt listless, as if her energy had been drained away. “I’d rather lie here by the pool.”
“If that’s what you want.” She saw her mother hesitate. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Things are fine.”
“You seem to be a little down today. And last week, you seemed so much more animated. Did something happen at the hospital yesterday?”
“Nothing happened. I had a good time with one of the patients. I’m concerned about him.”
“The Jacoby boy—your father’s told me about him.”
Meg sat upright. “Has Dad said how Donovan’s doing today?”
“I’m trying to get him off for a little relaxation. I asked him not to even call in today. If he’s needed, he’ll be paged.”
Meg had seen her mother’s efforts to protect her father from overwork before. She planned frequent getaways and weekend minitrips. Still, most jaunts were interrupted by calls from the hospital, moreso now that he was head of the transplant unit. “Go on to the golf course,” Meg said. “I’m perfectly fine by myself.”
Once they were gone, Meg tried to lounge by the pool and read a book, but she couldn’t concentrate on the story. Her thoughts kept returning to Donovan, his medical prognosis, JWC, and the One Last Wish Foundation. Around five o’clock, she gave up, dressed, and left her parents a note: “Went for a drive to buy some frozen yogurt. Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll get the low-fat. Honest.”
She hoped the note’s levity would keep them from being concerned about her. She was in the pits emotionally and was attempting to take her therapist’s advice—“stay busy, stay involved.”
Meg wasn’t sure how she ended up near the hospital, but before she knew it, she was pulling her car off the exit ramp that would take her to Memorial. The neighborhood around the complex was well kept. Older houses, once the homes of Washington’s elite, dominated the area to the north, away from the expressway. To the west side of the hospital, signs announced the construction of sleek new medical office buildings. Meg saw the whole area as an odd mixture of the old and the new, with a sturdy median strip lined with cherry trees separating the past from the present.
As she neared the entrance of Memorial, Meg recognized Mrs. Jacoby and Brett waiting at the bus stop. She pulled to a halt in front of them. “How are you?” she asked.
Brett waved. “Hi,” he said. “I remember you.”
Mrs. Jacoby’s face looked lined and drawn, and Meg’s heart went out to her. “Come on,” Meg urged, throwing open her car door. “Let me give you a ride home.”
“We live too far,” Mrs. Jacoby said.
“No problem. I’d love to take you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” Meg replied, knowing instantly it was the truth. She wanted to know Donovan’s family better, and she wanted to help. She couldn’t change the past, but she could affect the future. “Hop in and tell me all about Donovan. I have a ton of questions for you.”
Eight
BRETT BOUNDED INTO the backseat, and Donovan’s mother wearily got into the front. “This is very nice of you. For some reason, the bus doesn’t seem to run on schedule on Sundays.”
“Hey, this car is neat!” Brett blurted, bouncing on the leather seat. “Is it yours?”
“It’s mine,” Meg said.
“Put on your seat belt,” his mother insisted.
“That’s the rule in my car,” Meg told him as he began to protest. When she heard the buckle snap into place, she asked, “So, how was Donovan today?”
“Crabby,” Brett announced.
“He wasn’t feeling well,” Mrs. Jacoby explained. “Dr. Rosenthal said his electrolytes were imbalanced and his potassium levels were elevated. It’s happened before, and it always makes Donovan spacey and incoherent. The doctor says it’s hard on his heart too.”
“He kept talking like we were back home,” Brett chimed in. “He kept telling me to call Lauren for him and tell her he was picking her up for their date. That’s dumb.”
“I explained it was because his blood was messed up,” Mrs. Jacoby said over her shoulder. “He didn’t know what he was saying.”
“He didn’t even listen when I told him about the fort I’m making in my bedroom.”
“Please, Brett, he couldn’t help it.”
Meg thought Mrs. Jacoby sounded on the verge of tears. “I have an idea,” Meg said. “Before I take you home, how’d you like some ice cream? My treat.”
“Yeah!” Brett’s voice filled the car. “Chocolate.”
“Don’t go out of your way for us.”
“I was going to get some for myself when I saw you. There’s a minimall not too far from here.”
“It’s kind of you,” Mrs. Jacoby said. “I don’t want any, but Brett will follow you anywhere if you feed him.”
Meg laughed. When she reached a small strip center, she parked and the three of them went inside an ice-cream parlor decorated like an old-time country store. They ordered, and while they waited, Mrs. Jacoby handed Brett two quarters for a game machine tucked back in a corner. While he was preoccupied, Mrs. Jacoby leaned against the booth and shut her eyes. “I’m exhausted. Thanks again for offering us a ride.”
“Too bad you live so far away from the hospital.”
“Believe me, I tried to get closer, but the immediate vicinity had no rental apartments. I’m afraid the homes there are out of my league.”
“Donovan told me about your home in Virginia. He misses it.”
“So do I, but once we were told he had to have a liver transplant, I knew we had to be closer to the transplant center. The call could come anytime, day or night. The closer we are, the sooner we can get here. I’m sure you understand how critical timing is for something like this.”
Meg nodded. “Maybe the call will come soon.”
“Maybe. I have mixed feelings, however.”
“You do?”
“Think about it. His life, the liver he so desperately needs, depends on someone else’s dying. I think about that. I think about some mother losing her child, and it makes my heart ache. But my son is living on borrowed time—every day is one less that he has to live. And every day brings him closer to either dying or surviving with a part of another mother’s child inside his body. These days, medical science gives us strange choices.”
“Sometimes it seems like doctors play God, doesn’t it?” Meg asked.
“Don’t get me wrong … I’m grateful for the technology, grateful for men like your father who’ve devoted their lives to bringing recovery and longevity to the dying. Organ transplantation is a wonderful thing, but human beings are always involved, and that makes it complex, not simple at all. Life and death never is.” Mrs. Jacoby studied Meg and smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so philosophical. It’s been a long day.”
“Now that you’ve mo
ved to the city, will you stay even after Donovan’s transplant?”
“I assume so. He’ll need to be checked regularly, and of course, his dosage of immune-suppressant drugs will have to be carefully regulated. Washington’s not such a bad place to raise two sons. There’s plenty of history here. And the suburbs really are lovely, although I’m positive I couldn’t afford anything too grand. Still, there must be some nice neighborhoods I’ll be able to afford someday.” She laughed wryly and added, “Tonight, I’d trade a mansion in the boondocks for a room with a view nearer the hospital. This commute is the pits.”
Once again, Meg realized how sheltered her own life had been. She’d lived in the same house since she was a baby, and she took her life-style for granted. “If you had a car—” she started.
“I couldn’t afford the insurance. No, for now, this is simply the way things have to be. I’m resigned to it.”
The ice cream arrived, and Brett bolted over to the table and dug in. Meg enjoyed his enthusiasm, and soon the three of them were laughing over his stories about taking his laser gun to school. Yet, subconsciously, Meg kept mulling over Mrs. Jacoby’s dilemma. How terrible it would be to have someone in the hospital and no way to get to him quickly. She wondered if Donovan would want to spend a portion of his Wish money on transportation for his mom. She decided that as soon as he was feeling better, she would ask him.
When Meg arrived for work Monday morning, she went by the nurses’ station in order to get an update on Donovan’s medical status. “His blood work hasn’t come up from the lab yet,” Mrs. Vasquez said. “But he seems more coherent this morning.”
“My brother would get the same way when his blood chemistry got out of whack. Once Donovan’s balanced, he’ll be back in his right mind,” Alana told Meg.
Meg tried to feel encouraged, but she didn’t want to see Donovan not in control of his facilities. Something cautioned her that he wouldn’t want her to see him that way either. Around lunchtime, she overcame her inhibitions and went to his room anyway. He lay on his side, staring into space.
Let Him Live Page 4