Close Match

by Jerald, Tracey

  What about life says they can’t go together?

  Fifty-One

  Montague

  It was simpler if I didn’t know how she felt about the whole thing, when I assumed she’d hate me if I crossed the room in the middle of the night. Then the choice wasn’t mine, but hers in a way. Then I knew I’d lose her if I took a drink. Then her brother-in-law came in drinking and she didn’t care. Beads of sweat pop out across my skin as Linnie’s body curled next to me boosts our combined temperature. Slowly, I lower the blanket down to relieve some of the heat.

  Not because I’m going to move.

  Little puffs of air that both soothe me and keep me awake at the same time. Even though I know it’s her breath as she inhales and exhales from her mouth, it feels like someone is sitting on my shoulder whispering lies where there should only be promises.

  I shake my head to clear it, and it disturbs Linnie enough that she rolls away from me. Roll back, I mentally beg her. She doesn’t know it, but she’s the sentry keeping all the mistakes I can’t find the words for in the light of day at bay. Come closer and protect me from the pain. But she’s been fighting so much. I can’t ask her to fight one more battle, to take on one more burden.

  Especially when she needs me.

  I feel like I’m being tested, pulled in a tug-o’-war I can’t win without being split in two. Be strong enough. Be tough enough to be with her. My soul is screaming while the other side taunts, You weren’t enough before. People died.

  Abruptly, I sit up in bed. I can’t handle it. I need relief. I’m about to swing my legs over when I feel a reprieve.

  Then I feel the cool brush of her fingertips across my spine.

  “Is everything okay, baby?” she murmurs sleepily.

  “Yeah.” My breath comes out harshly. “Go back to sleep.” But she doesn’t. She crawls up behind me and drapes herself over my back.

  “Bad dream?”

  “You could say that.” More like a living nightmare.

  “Come back to bed. I’ll hold you until you sleep,” Linnie whispers, pressing a kiss between my shoulder blades. I ease my back against the pillows. She curls up and begins stroking my chest.

  Once again, the strength of the woman I’ve fallen for has saved me from the uncontrollable thing that wants to see me crumble.

  Fifty-Two

  Evangeline

  January

  I’ve got the post-holiday blues. I’m running in the gym in Ev’s basement because I refuse to injure myself on Virginia’s icy roads. Apparently, this state gets snow, something Monty thoroughly enjoyed my shock over. “I thought you people below the Mason-Dixon Line avoided fluffy white crap,” I accused.

  Monty kissed me hard before replying, “You New Yorkers avoid it too. It’s black sludgy crap up there.”

  Char and Ev laughed at us both while serving up a delicious meal of homemade lasagna.

  We’re all on pins and needles waiting for the test results to come back. Ev shrugs, but he’s exuding anxiety. I’ve walked in his study in the afternoons to find him staring out the window. Char has been trying out new recipes like mad to distract herself, and Monty? He’s decided it’s his mission to try to teach me how to ride outside of the beginner’s class I’ve been enjoying with Lorrie and the kids. He’s a lot more patient with a class of six-year-olds than he is with just me.

  I feel like Dr. Spellman’s silence is causing us to reach a breaking point. If we were going to have good news, we’d have heard something by now. Increasing the speed and incline on the treadmill, my legs pump harder and harder, trying to run away from the inevitable conclusion staring me in the face.

  Shawn Mendes is blasting in my ear, so I let out a yelp when I feel my earbud being yanked out. I almost face-plant when Monty steps in front of me. “Slow it down, baby.”

  Planting my hands on the handrails, I lift my knees and jump to the sides of the rapidly moving tread. Quickly, I slap the Stop button. “What’s wrong?” I pant, yanking out the other bud.

  He rests his arms on the treadmill as it lowers back into place. “We just got the call from Spellman. He wants us in his office in two hours.”

  My legs wobble as I jump down and they hit the solid floor of the gym. I’m about to sprint up the two flights of stairs to Monty’s room—the room I’ve basically moved into—when he stops me. “Hold on a second.” Cupping my overheated, sweaty face between his fingers, he lowers his mouth to mine.

  The kiss is gentle. It’s not meant to arouse but to soothe. My eyes drift shut just before it ends. “I want you to understand before we move an inch that even if this only started by giving him hope, you gave Ev—all of us—so much more.” My eyes fly open to reveal Monty saying a million words with his eyes we don’t have time for.

  We’re about to find out if I’m a close enough match to help save my father’s life. Yet— “I just got this feeling in the pit of my stomach our whole life is going to change.” I drag my fingers down his cheek.

  Turning, I fly up the stairs.

  * * *

  A little less than two hours later, we’re escorted into Dr. Spellman’s office. “Hell, if I’d known the bastard was going to be on time for once, maybe I’d have driven faster,” Monty mutters.

  “If you’d have driven any faster, I’d have needed air sickness bags,” I retort. “Those curves right by the house are hell on my stomach.”

  Ev looks a little green himself as he collapses into a chair. “All I have to say is thank God we have an E-ZPass. Jesus, did you see the traffic in the other lane?”

  Char flaps her hand. “Those poor people who deal with that commute every day. I can’t even begin to imagine.”

  “If we’re lucky, maybe some of them can ‘remote work’ like Linnie does. Isn’t that what you said when we first met?” Monty lifts my hand to his lips. I’m tempted to squeeze his lips together to get back at him for taunting me, but I realize he’s only trying to put the room at ease.

  “Not all of us are lucky enough to have your job, buddy.” I can give as good as I get. “Roll out of bed, have food ready, stroll out to work at whatever time suits us. It’s going to be hell on your system when I’m not there to convince you to stay in bed.”

  Monty flushes as Char bursts out laughing. Ev chokes, coughing just as Dr. Spellman comes in the room. He frowns at my father. “Everett, I hope you’re not getting ill. After all the trouble you went through to find a donor, it would be poor timing to have to ask the poor girl to wait for you to get better.”

  The collective air is sucked out of the room. My head is spinning dizzily. “Wait, you mean…”

  The stick-up-his-ass doctor smiles. “Yes, Evangeline. I wanted to be completely certain, so I asked for the tests to be run twice.”

  Ev interrupts. “That’s the reason for the delay?” Relief is evident in his voice. Char is curled under his arm, quietly sobbing. My father’s eyes are bright as well.

  “Correct. Normally a perfect match is considered eight to ten or more HLA markers. Evangeline is what we call a close match: six. Because Evangeline is Everett’s biological daughter, I’m confident enough he won’t reject your cells—or that we could counteract any reaction. Therefore, I feel confident we should proceed with allogeneic transplant.” Spellman lifts his hands. “Ultimately, it’s up to both of you.”

  My hands are shaking. I couldn’t save Mom, but I can save my father. In my mind, there’s no doubt, no question at all. But… “Ev? This is your life. It’s your decision.”

  “You’re asking me if I want the chance to extend my life by an infinite amount of time or be living on borrowed time?” he asks me incredulously.

  “I’d like to remind you all of the processes by which both Evangeline and most especially Everett will go through for this procedure to be a success.” He quickly describes the harvesting process I’ll endure, which sounds more discomforting than anything else. Then I get chills as he explains the “conditioning” Ev will endure: high doses of chemothera
py to kill off his cancerous cells. “We may need to do radiation as well; we won’t know until we see the effects of the initial treatment.”

  “Reading between the lines, you’re going to have to kill me before you cure me,” Ev says pragmatically.

  Char’s hands are covering her mouth, and a sob escapes. Monty, who’s been silent this whole time, hands her a box of tissues. His jaw is locked so tight, I don’t think a bolt cutter could get through it. Even I let out a little squeak of sound I can’t entirely control.

  Ev winces when he realizes the effect his blunt words have on the rest of the occupants of the room. “I’m sorry, everyone, I didn’t mean…”

  “It’s the truth though, Doctor, isn’t it?” Monty’s voice is harsh.

  “Yes, Monty. I’m afraid it is. If the worst happened and there was a total transplant failure, we would be looking at a situation where Everett’s life expectancy would be rapidly reduced.”

  “Are we talking about years? Months?” Char whispers.

  Spellman’s voice softens. The doctor knows the news he’s delivering isn’t easy. “I’m sorry, Char. We could be talking about days. That’s why this decision is the most important one he’ll ever make.”

  Char turns to Ev like a she-cat. “I know I encouraged you to do this, but don’t,” she begs. Tears fall hot and heavy over my cheeks. “We have Linnie in our lives, and that’s a miracle enough. We’ll have a few more years together. How can we ask for more?” She collapses in his arms, sobbing.

  “I have to do this, Char. How can I not when I can have a few more years plus another day with you?” I swipe my arm under my eyes. “We’ve all been granted the miracle of each other. I’ve never heard of anyone declining a miracle, have you?”

  She shakes her head in his shoulder, still not lifting her head. I curl my legs up in my chair and bury my face into them. That’s the kind of love everyone should hope for. I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until I feel myself being lifted by strong arms. Monty sits down with me in his lap. “I’ve always said they were a perfect match,” he murmurs in my ear. “Let’s just hope between the two of you, he gets through this.”

  And you get through it too, I think, but I don’t say it, because Monty begins asking about timelines even as his arms tighten around me. And I again thank God for his strength.

  Because I fear we’re all going to need it.

  Fifty-Three

  Montague

  The information floating through my head is making me dizzy. The numbers are making my head blurry.

  Fourteen days of outpatient therapy where Ev will be home as we slowly help him to kill off his immune system; the medicine will swim through each cell, killing them off, destroying what’s left.

  Three days of intense chemotherapy. The dangerous kind—one that will have Ev tethered to a catheter to flush out his bladder so it doesn’t fall victim to the toxicity of the drugs. Cytoxan. They say it’s standard, but there could be significant side effects at his age, so he’ll be continuously monitored—another fucking number. I shiver in the cold.

  One day of rest before the transplant, but what kind of rest will he have? After his system’s been systematically abused and destroyed for the seventeen days prior, he gets one day for one shot at this one life.

  And above all the other numbers, one is the number repeating over and over and over again.

  I just want one fucking drink.

  I want the salt cracking my lips to be a result of a tequila shot, not as a result of my tears. I’d love to taste the smoke of bourbon to fog out the doctor’s words, the buttery taste of Jameson to smooth away the burn. I want something to make me forget all these numbers, make me forget anything except…

  I jump when a cold hand lands on my bare forearm. “Monty, you’re going to freeze.” Linnie’s teeth are chattering. “Come inside. Your mother’s made cider, and Ev wants to talk.”

  Quickly, I wipe my fingers under my eyes before I turn to face her.

  Even though silence and the bottom of a bottle sound like a better way to process my thoughts, the concern in her eyes causes me to choke that statement back. Not when it’s her strength that’s going to flow into Ev’s body to heal us all. No, even as I brush a long lock of her hair back and her face turns to kiss my hand, even as much as I know it’s a perfect night to pour a glug of Irish into the cider she mentioned earlier, I’ll get drunk on this woman instead. Because in her eyes, I pray, lies the path to all of our futures.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I dream about dousing mine with a good shot of Irish,” I joke as I slide my arm around her shoulders, careful to keep my expression casual. Her nose wrinkles, but she doesn’t say anything more. My breath is calm on the outside, but inside, my heart is quaking in anticipation.

  In excitement.

  In yearning.

  Not only for the woman next to me but for the fact she really doesn’t mind if I have a drink and love her anyway.

  Because I don’t know how I can live anymore without one or the other.

  Fifty-Four

  Evangeline

  “What does this mean? In English, please?” I’m sitting with a patient advocate in Inova Fairfax discussing the process about donating my bone marrow. I thought it would be relatively straightforward—especially since Ev refuses to let me pay for a dime. Instead, I’ve been in hour after hour of meeting with doctors, physician assistants, and now the patient advocate. Yes, I understand I will be undergoing a surgical procedure. Yes, I know there are risks involved. I realize I will experience soreness, bruising, pain afterward. I have a ridiculous lack of care about the amount of time it will take for me to return to my “normal” life when what I care about is giving my father more time to live in this one.

  I want to give Ev this hope of a longer life with the wife he adores and the man he has called his son who I have fallen in love with. I want to get to know my father even more than I already have, build memories that I’ll be able to pass along to my children one day the same way I’ll be able to tell them about the ones I have about my mother. I want to have my father sitting front and center at one of my performances.

  With Monty right beside him.

  Life, it turns out, is more complicated than wants. After all, if it were based on wants, my mother would still be alive, and I’d have learned about my father in a much more conventional way than spitting in a tube mailed in a rainbow-tinted box.

  My hand shakes as I reach for the glass of water on the table in front of me. “Go ahead.”

  “As I was saying, Ms. Brogan, this document is a commitment between you and the patient…”

  “My father,” I interrupt, angrily. The time for hiding is long gone. After this is over, Ev and I need to make some decisions on how to announce this. It was my mother’s secret, not mine.

  “Yes, Mr. Parrish. This document is a letter of understanding that once the protocol begins, you understand if you back out…well, there is no going back for your father.” A high-pitched sound of pain comes from somewhere. It takes a few moments to realize it’s from me.

  The advocate fiddles with the pen on the table anxiously. “Ms. Brogan, you do understand what that means, correct?”

  It means I’m literally signing Ev’s life away. If something happens between the time they start his transplant and when I give him my bone marrow, my father will die. I want to run away, but I have nowhere to go. Not physically. Mentally, I retreat to the only safe place I’ve found in the last few months. And that’s where my heart is.

  Monty, I know, is with Ev somewhere in the hospital going through a similar briefing. I received a text from him earlier that said, They just had Ev sign something… Well, let’s just say, this day had better end up with you, me, and a glass of something. Fuck, Linnie.

  Now I understand. “Did my father sign something like this?” I ask quietly, still not picking up the pen.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss—”

  And I lose my mind. “Yes o
r no! Was my father asked to sign a paper like this?” I shout.

  “No.” I sag in relief. Much too soon, she continues. “All transplant patients—speaking generally, of course—are advised they may not make it through the conditioning period. That”—my arms grip the sides of my chair—“if something happens to their donor, they understand their condition is considered to be terminal if they don’t have a backup donor.”

  Picking up the phone instead of the pen, I send a quick message to Monty. I don’t drink, but it seems like a good night for it.

  As I’m signing my legal name on the most critical form I’ve ever signed—more important than any binding contract—I get back a single word.

  Amen.

  * * *

  I’m sitting on Monty’s balcony wrapped in the comforter from his bed. Tears are frozen against my cheeks as I crush my phone between my hands. It all starts next week, but the soul crushing continues as soon as I press Send on the call I need to make.

  Will she understand?

  I’m not choosing one family over another. I have to break a promise to save my father’s life. I guess there’s only one way to find out.

  I press the green button and hold the phone up to my ear. One ring. Two. “Bristol Todd…Houde.”

  I smirk. “After all these months, still not used to saying it?”

  “Simon didn’t care if I changed my name for work, and honest to God, Linnie? I’m beginning to wonder if I should have started the process to change it. It’s a royal pain in the ass. Half of my log-ins are in one name, half in the other. I figure they might have my access figured out just in time for me to go out on maternity leave in a few weeks,” she grumbles.