Sorry Not Sorry

by Jaime Reed

  The bed and the butterfly chair were the only viable seating options in the room. The chair now operated as a hamper, so I’d have to make do with the floor. I checked the closet for a blanket to sit on. I was shocked to find the old purple sleeping bag crammed against her shoe rack. That thing had seen some wild nights of makeovers and pizza parties. There was still a pepperoni stain on the zipper that wouldn’t come out.

  “You sure you okay with me crashing here for a bit?” I asked Alyssa.

  Channel surfing at rapid speed, she said, “I would’ve slammed the door in your face if I wasn’t.”

  Seeing her point, I fluffed the bag a few times until it draped evenly on the floor.

  After kicking off my shoes, I sat with my legs crossed and stared up at her. “I can’t believe you still have this thing. I’m surprised you haven’t burned it.”

  “Yeah, I have an issue with letting stuff go.”

  My stare dropped to my lap and stayed there for several of the most awkward minutes of my life. What could I say to that? I wasn’t reading into things, but neither of us had the strength to unpack the baggage between us. Alyssa sure didn’t.

  What in the world was she gonna do about school? She was due back next week, but she clearly wasn’t ready. Her mom had mentioned pulling her out of school altogether, but it was still up in the air. Her whole life had been up in the air since she was a kid. Her family, her coin, her diet, her treatments, her energy—everything was managed but never resolved. An unending cycle of modified schedules, the additional steps needed to start the day.

  Glancing around the room, I realized this was hoarding of another kind—the hoarding of procedures. Medical stuff was piled to the ceiling, and every inch of wiggle room had to be squeezed through just to get out the door. Day in and day out: sanitized incisions, fresh bandages, new needles. Beeping machines, daily records in journal pages. Nutritional fact labels with each bite of food tasting like a percentage. I looked at Alyssa’s thinning hair, the translucent white skin that hadn’t felt the sun in days.

  It was her childhood battle with insulin all over again, times a thousand. The sick little white girl up the road with the junky house. The business partner who sold cookies and lemonade each year and refused to sample any of it. When would it end? One way or another, it had to.

  I cleared my throat, let the air dry my eyes, then asked, “So, you wanna—”

  “Okay, the first rule of this hangout is that you do not talk about my condition or anything sappy. I’ve just got through dialysis. I’m totally drained, my head is killing me, and I’m ready to blow chunks.”

  “I was gonna ask you if you wanna Netflix and chill,” I clarified.

  “You are not a hot Korean guy with a sexy raspy voice, so no. I politely decline your offer. Plus, I don’t have Netflix anymore. Mama considers it a luxury expense. Cutbacks.” She said this last part with a crook of her upper lip.

  What? Miss Shop Till You Drop finally got that credit card cut up? Say it ain’t so. I couldn’t kick the poor dear while she was down—not from my angle on the floor anyway. This was her being civil, and what better way to call off a two-and-a-half-year feud than by presenting a peace offering?

  Her eyes, droopy and dead to the world, sparked like flickering embers when I said, “You can use my password.”

  “Janelle Pruitt?” the nurse called from the receptionist window.

  I approached the front desk on legs that had fallen asleep.

  “Here’s your ID and insurance card back.” The nurse slid a clipboard through the slot in the window. “Go ahead and fill out this form and bring it back to the desk when you’re done.”

  “Thanks.” I returned to my seat, leafed through the papers, then zipped through the usual questions. Single. Not pregnant or nursing. Nonsmoker. Hepatitis, malaria, and HIV negative. No known allergies. Haven’t traveled abroad in six years.

  Each new form I filled out had the same questions, as if they were trying to catch me in a lie. It was all part of the process, according to the Living Donor Program Companion Guide. That hella thick, spiral-bound booklet was currently sitting on my lap and provided a hard surface to fill out paperwork on. It gave a full rundown of policies and issues addressed during the procedure, you know, in case there was an open-book quiz later.

  POLICY 2.1: MEDICAL HISTORY

  POLICY 6.2: RISK ASSESSMENT

  POLICY 8.5: ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS???

  Okay, the last one was fake, but it’s pretty obvious the powers that be were trying to weed out the poseurs by assigning homework. Not only did I have to bring the workbook with me to every appointment, I also had to write journal entries inside for each step of the procedure. Fun times.

  Once done, I handed my form to the nurse, then spent the next five minutes people-watching. Patients in varying degrees of illness occupied every seat. On the left sat an elderly couple. The husband appeared to be the sick one, judging from the oxygen tank by his chair and the missing leg. My attention moved to the girl sitting in the center cluster of seats with her mother. Her bald scalp hid underneath a pink baseball cap, and I tried not to stare. Poor kid. I often complained about my high-maintenance hair, but now I counted my blessings and gripped my shoulder-length braids in a protective clutch.

  It appeared that everyone in the room had a sad story, each with a sense of mortality I could never appreciate. When I did volunteer work overseas with my parents, death had to literally stare me in the face for me to see it. I’d never known famine until I spoke to a skeleton with brown skin and dust-covered hair. Five little fingers and a thumb told me her age when she was too weak to speak and too foreign for me to understand.

  Oh man, why did bad things happen to good people?

  I was sure those sitting in the waiting room had asked that question at least once, and it might actually apply in their case. Alyssa Weaver, however, was not good people. She wasn’t even nice people half the time, and I wouldn’t put it past her to let our town burn to the ground if it upped the viewership on her vlog.

  So why was I here? Why had I taken time out of my day, ditching school to get tested for something that might not happen? The answer came by way of a phone call I’d gotten three days ago.

  I’d been in the middle of another after-school-special crying fit, the one where you hugged the steering wheel because you were triggered by a stupid song on the radio. Taylor Swift was singing about how she and some chick got bad blood, which might as well be the theme song for Alyssa and me. The fast beat didn’t fit the typical bawl-your-eyes-out power ballad, but my tear ducts had their own agenda.

  Apparently, so did the person blowing up my phone.

  Around the eighth ring, I put me and the caller out of our misery. “Hello?”

  “Hello? May I speak to Janelle Pruitt, please?” a man asked on the line.

  “This is she.” The confusion was understandable. I didn’t sound like myself, but more like Sera with a head cold.

  “Oh! Okay, then. Hello, Janelle. This is Dr. Ian Brighton from the Atlantic Wellness Center. We received your online application and we wanted to follow up with a few questions. Is this a bad time?” he asked.

  My head lifted from the car steering wheel. “No! No, not at all. I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  “Great. It’s my understanding that you wish to partake in our Living Donor Program.”

  I pushed up into a sitting position and wiped the tears and snot from my face. “That’s right. I know the person I’m donating to.”

  “Yes, an, uh …” Papers rustled in the background. “Alyssa Ellen Weaver. She’s in our database. May I ask your relationship with the patient?”

  There was no need to lie, so I went for the short and sweet approach. “Old friends.”

  “Well, as the transplant coordinator, I’m here to walk you through the procedure. I also serve as an elective advocate, in cases of personal preference and convenience, though one will be assigned to you. Our facility is fully
staffed, so all the testing you’ll need can be done in only a few appointments, should you decide to have them done here.”

  “That’s fine. You’re about an hour drive from me,” I said.

  The phone interview ran nearly an hour and I hadn’t entered the building yet. At first, I thought it would be an in-and-out process until Dr. Brighton ran down the dream team of doctors I’d have to meet: a general physician, the surgeon, the kidney specialist, the psychiatrist, the health insurance worker, and a partridge in a pear tree. All I could say was “Wow.”

  And now here I was, ready to begin the process in real time.

  The door to the back room opened and a nurse in blue scrubs stepped out with a medical chart in her hand. “Janelle Pruitt? This way, please.”

  I followed her down a white hallway with doors on either side.

  Her head was buried in the folder in her hand. “So you’ve already had a physical and blood work by your GP. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. My doctor faxed them here yesterday.”

  Sounding real hype about the whole appointment, the nurse said, “You’ve documented all of your medical history. Just to be sure, no one in your family has high blood pressure? Diabetes, heart, kidney, or liver disease?”

  I strained to recall. “No.”

  She frowned at an entry marked in the file. “You indicated a stroke. Is this correct?”

  “Yes. My pop—” I cleared my throat, then tried again. “My grandfather died of one when I was fourteen.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Did he have a preexisting condition?”

  “Not that I know of. It happened out of nowhere.” Alyssa’s collapse happened out of nowhere as well and both people were at the mercy of their own bodies. Yeah, best not to dwell on that right now.

  The nurse snapped the folder shut and led me into an examination room, where we began the initiation rite that all must partake in before setting eyes on a real doctor. This had been Alyssa’s life since she was five and I didn’t envy her for a second.

  Now, seated on what looked like a kid’s high chair with padded arms, I was getting a sneak preview of the Alyssa Weaver experience. A rubber tourniquet wrapped around my bicep. The strap was pulled tight and tied in a knot, pinching my skin. Goose bumps sprouted on contact with the rubbing alcohol on my inner arm. Gloved fingers traced the crook of my elbow, seeking a vein, and the tap, tap, tapping against my skin made my molars grind together.

  The sharp prick felt years longer than the few seconds the nurse promised me, yet her cheery manner made me calm. The nurse looked to be in her forties, with large, sympathetic eyes. Seeing blood must’ve been old news for her, plus it wasn’t her life force piping into the vial in her hand.

  “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The nurse taped the needle in place.

  “I guess.” I opened one eye to look at her but avoided glancing down at my arm. My gaze moved to her baby-blue scrubs, then settled on the name tag fastened to the pocket.

  BAMBI GOLDBLUM, RN

  Hold up. I was having blood drawn by a grown woman named Bambi? Who on earth were her parents? Did they not love her? It had to have been a nickname because I could see the endless teasing in school as clearly as if it were happening live.

  “You’re doing great, Janelle. This is a really noble thing you’re doing,” Nurse Bambi said with a warm, maternal smile.

  My free shoulder twitched in a half shrug. “It might not lead to anything.”

  “Maybe so, but just the act of volunteering speaks volumes about your character,” she argued. “Not many people would be quick to do this.”

  Yeah, and I was one of them. Nurse Bambi had no idea how much convincing it took for me to book this four-hour appointment. You had to have a few screws loose to agree to get cut up for parts. Sure, I had ORGAN DONOR marked on my driver’s license, but I figured I’d be very much dead before someone took me up on the offer.

  I remembered what Dr. Brighton had said to me over the phone:

  “I know it sounds overwhelming, but you need to be aware that this is a long process and we’re only in the evaluation stage. Once we have your test results, we can determine if you’re a possible candidate. We need to be careful with these types of procedures, especially for someone so young. So tell me, what made you decide to donate?”

  My answer could’ve gone several ways. I could’ve waxed philosophical about what constituted a friend and an enemy and how they were sometimes the same thing. I could’ve gone the humanitarian route, run down statistics I’d researched online, and ranted about the plight of mankind. But the truth, the real reason was more complicated and far too personal for casual conversation. So I gave him the quickest and most generic answer I could:

  “It’s for a good cause.”

  “Is this what you really want to do?”

  Sheree’s face dominated my computer screen with an expression that seemed foreign. Her smile, her pep, her rainbow-kitten-pixie-dust were unavailable for our Saturday video chat. And it all had to do with my big reveal.

  I couldn’t keep a secret this juicy to myself. Those who really needed to know would likely cuss me out, so it was best to do a practice run with big sis. But the convo wasn’t going so hot, judging by the severe side-eye she threw my way.

  “I’m just getting evaluated. It’s not that serious.” My reply did nothing to remove that stubborn crease in her brow.

  “But what if it’s more than that?” she asked. “What if you get approved? What happens then? If you, hypothetically, are a match and then you back out, do you think that’s fair to Alyssa?”

  Only if Alyssa finds out that I applied as a donor. Which is not going to happen.

  “Come on,” I said. “What are the odds of us being a match?”

  “Then what’s the point if you’re so sure? Are you doing it just to say you tried to donate? Is it for a personal pat on the back?” Sheree’s tone reeked of accusation, and the vibe was stinking up my room.

  “If that was the case, then I’d post it all over the internet,” I argued.

  Sheree possessed the marked ability to read a chick for filth with an iceberg stare, a curled upper lip, and a click of the tongue. No words required. It was enough to shut me up.

  “Okay then. If it’s not for credit then it might be for revenge. Are you making a power play? You’re gonna hold this over Alyssa’s head to get her to act right?” she asked.

  Before I could answer, a disturbing image came to mind. I was dangling an organ over Alyssa’s head and she was hopping around like Peekaboo to catch it from my fingers.

  Here you go. You want a kidney? Who’s a good girl?

  Oh yeah. Totally messed up.

  “What’s with the hostility, Sheree? I’d think you—of all people—would be happy for me.” If she was this upset, there was no telling what our folks would say. This call was supposed to be the dress rehearsal for that, but my sister done flipped the script.

  “I am happy for you, really,” Sheree replied. “But I’d be happier if you were doing this for the right reasons. A few weeks back you were telling me how much it bugged you when Alyssa brought those clothes to the fund-raiser. Why were you mad?”

  “Because she was just doing it to show off. She was going to throw that stuff out anyway,” I explained, getting irritated all over again.

  “Exactly! And you just saying you’re donating, but without the passion of going through with it, it’s no better than her handing castoffs to homeless people. Where’s the sacrifice? Where are the man hours and elbow grease? Anyone can be generous when the gift costs them nothing. But this gift’s gonna cost you. Big-time. And I’m not even talking about the physical part. There’s controversy and emotional strain. Brace yourself, sis. ’Cause it’s coming.”

  Nope, that didn’t sound ominous at all. “Can you elaborate on that?” I asked.

  “Facts: Black people don’t donate organs, especially while we’re still alive,” Sheree explained. “Think about it. How
many black folks do you know would give away body parts? We won’t even go to therapy if we need it. If Jesus don’t fix it, then it’s gonna stay broke. And because of that, people are gonna feel some type of way about you saving a white girl and not some sistah on a ten-year waiting list. The struggle is real on these streets, Janelle. Some are willing to pay top dollar for minority organs and will resort to abduction and human trafficking …” She let the subject hang, as if saying more would invoke a curse.

  That reply wasn’t terrifying in the slightest and would by no means give me nightmares tonight. The chill tickling my spine was just a side effect of the weather, I swear. “Okay. Let’s keep it one hundred. Do you want me to do this or not?” I asked.

  It took some time for her to answer, but she said, “If Alyssa doesn’t get a transplant, then she’s gonna die. So, yes, I want you to do this. Listen, I know you wanna help out in the world like the rest of us, but you need stamina and stiff principles to get you through the rough parts. There’s a lot of wrong in this world, but does this particular wrong heat your seat?”

  The saying brought a smile to my face and a flood of memories. A thousand little words of wisdom told to me and my sister over dinner, a game of chess, or from an old man’s favorite armchair.

  Not every battle is yours to fight, baby girl. But when conviction burns so hot it heats your seat and you hop out the chair swingin’, then you’ve found your callin’.

  “Pop-Pop would say that all the time,” I told Sheree.

  “And he was right.” She leaned closer to the screen. “You know I’ve got your back in whatever decision you make, just as long as you have a clear reason for it. If it doesn’t work out—fine. But see it through ’till the end.” Finally, like the sun peeking through clouds after a storm, her twinkling smile appeared. “So, keep me posted, okay?”

  I smiled back. “Sure. Love you.”

  Once the screen went black, I closed my laptop, then checked my phone for any new messages. Saturdays meant disaster relief business, and the cleanup team was supposed to meet at the park entrance in an hour. Theoretically. At least one student council member would flake—I could bet money on it. Today’s dropout was none other than Joel Metcalf. According to his text, he was stuck editing Alyssa’s tribute video, which included the Borg remake of Beyoncé’s “Run the World.” A small clip was already posted on the Active Beauty fan page. The atrocities captured on film were numerous and unspeakable.