“She sold one,” said Joshua in a hospital-quiet voice.
Maddie stared at the scar.
“Sold one,” she repeated.
“It paid for my plane fare and my paperwork,” he said.
“I don’t—”
“She sold a kidney so I could leave,” said Joshua. “So I could come here.”
Maddie had seen a documentary in Philosophy class last year. In a poor hot country, men—wasn’t it mostly men?—would sell their organs for money. Livers and kidneys. The cellophane-wrapped dregs of the grocery store. She couldn’t for the life of her name the country.
Maddie’s mind sprinted past all she knew about organs. “Can’t someone donate—?”
“She’s way down on the list,” said Joshua. Mrs. Andrada’s scar moved up and down with her breathing. Joshua pulled the gown over his mother’s torso, tenderly. Then he tucked her in, leaving her arms outside the thin blanket.
“Can’t you give her one?” asked Maddie.
“Alex and I are both type A. Mom’s O.”
“Alex? She’s twelve.”
“Kids are allowed to donate, with permission,” said Joshua.
Maddie forced herself to look at his mother’s inner arm, at the drinking-straw shape of a fistula beneath the skin. Around it, the skin was puffed and meaty and punctured with holes. She wanted Joshua to see that she was strong, so she didn’t look away.
He told her that the wait list for a new kidney, one that could do its job machine-free, went on and on, like a scroll, like a roll of paper towel, name after name after name. Joshua’s mother’s name was somewhere in the bottom third for this province. That meant years, he explained. It meant you waited and waited, and they evaluated your life on a point system, and if other people mattered more and earned more points, you dropped down on the list. A younger person might apply, someone with more life left; or a better patient, one without a chronic condition like Joshua’s mom had. Point getters. Line cutters. Or maybe not enough people check the “organ donor” box on their driver’s licences, and you go even farther down the list because there just aren’t enough kidneys to go around. Turns out that no one wants to part with themselves, even after death. We get greedy, hoard our bodies, just in case we need them later. So down, down on the list she goes. The scary part, Joshua said, was that it could happen, she could get called up, top of the scroll—but maybe, when it happened, it would be too late. Her one kidney, operating at “twenty-three percent” (he said it like he was answering a math question), could have stalled out by then, too far gone. The engine stopped.
His mother had been on dialysis for months. She would come to the hospital and get hooked up to a washing machine that pulled out the blood and cleaned it, then put it back. She had been doing this three times a week, six hours each visit. All those times that they had been with Carter happened because Mrs. Andrada was here, at the hospital. Her body was her other job. And Maddie never knew that this cloud of fear and sickness was what Joshua lived beneath. All their conversations (all that sex)—and she knew nothing.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me about this?”
“She didn’t want me to tell you,” he said. “She thought they’d take me and Alexis away.”
“They,” Maddie repeated.
“That’s what my mom said.” He couldn’t tell her, because Maddie was the “they,” a white girl who would bring scrutiny, inviting Children’s Aid, social workers.
Joshua’s mother’s hand lay on the sheet, its holes illuminated.
He led Maddie out of the room, shutting the door. At the end of the hallway was a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over a parking lot. He stopped there, and she could tell that he wanted to say something. Joshua rubbed his finger along the glass, looking at the cars. Tears welled up in his eyes.
Maddie moved toward him, but he put his hand out—stop.
“I can’t see you anymore,” he said. The tears snapped back.
Maddie stared. “Why not?”
His eyes stayed on the parking lot. “I can’t think about anything but my mom right now. There’s this social worker—she thinks we’re staying with friends, but she’s going to come by the apartment soon.”
“Come stay with us,” Maddie said, eager to solve it. “My mom wouldn’t mind. Our house is too big anyway—”
He didn’t let her finish. “She said ‘foster care.’ I can’t let that happen. I have to take care of Alex.” He kept tracing the same line on the window. “I don’t know how I’m going to do it, get through school—pay for university. I don’t have parents to cut me a cheque. It’s not the same for me.”
The bitterness in his voice was unfamiliar, and seemed directed straight at her. Maddie wished she had never told him about the lottery. No—she wished they had never won the lottery at all. Maddie felt as if a hand were holding her head under water. She was flailing.
“Dr. Goldberg can help—the U has counsellors . . .”
Out the window, where Joshua’s eyes fell, every single stall in the parking lot was occupied. “Sometimes I hate that school,” he said. “I’ve been there for six years, and you’re the first girl who’s ever looked at me as anything but a lab partner. Charity case.”
Maddie wanted to pull him back from this rare bout of self-pity. “Sophie’s on financial aid, too—”
She put her hand out to take his and he recoiled. Her touch had repelled him. What if he never touched her again? She couldn’t bear it. Her body wouldn’t stay intact. She would shatter.
“You can still study,” she said. “We can study together. I can help with Alex. You can move in with us—”
“My mom might die,” Joshua said. “Can you believe that?”
Maddie shook her head. She moved to him again, and he backed away.
All of a sudden, he asked, “Why did you leave that money at Susan’s?”
“What? I . . .” She tried to remember. She couldn’t read his expression. Joshua seemed much older than her.
“She needed the money. I had it.”
“You should have just talked to her. She wanted us to stay. Remember? But you wanted to leave. You practically ran out of there.”
Maddie frowned. “So what if I gave her money? We should all just stay in our little bubbles? Aren’t we supposed to take care of each other if we can?” She knew she sounded like a celebrity vlogger, but she believed it. She loved being in Joshua’s bubble. She wanted to behave like a generous person, even if she didn’t always feel generous. It was a hundred dollars. It was nothing. It was everything.
“You have to go,” said Joshua, looking away again, definitively.
It was because she always listened to him, because everything he said was true, that she stood for a moment longer, and saw from his rigid back that there was no way forward. The change in him was a thing, not a feeling. A large, cement object now sat between them. Maddie couldn’t get him to go around it. He wouldn’t even try. He was far away, bound only to the great injustice unfolding at the centre of his life.
She turned and stumbled down the corridor.
At the elevator, Maddie put her hand on the wall, her knees buckling. If you are going to fall, fall in a hospital. Hands lifted her. People murmured their concern.
“I’m okay,” she told these strangers, through her tears. “I’m just visiting someone, and it’s sad.”
When she was at last outside, away from the acrid hospital smell, she made a decision. She could not do nothing. She just had to figure out what the something would be.
15
GWEN
Chickadees scrambled between the newly budding shrub roses in the backyard. Sunlight streamed in the windows, climbing the kitchen walls. Gwen showed up on time at Eli’s pickups and drop-offs, and kept her eyes on her children’s phones, tracking them several times a day. But there were no strange sightings, no threats.
The most thrilling change was Maddie’s return. She was in the house more than she had been, quiet and shadowy, but around. Of course
, Maddie’s presence sprang from a loss: Joshua seemed to have broken up with her, but this topic was firmly off limits. Once, though, when Gwen had knocked on her bedroom door, Maddie had let her in and collapsed in her arms, sobbing. Gwen held her, in awe, revelling in her touch: she could still comfort her daughter.
Seth didn’t notice the money Gwen had taken, a testament to how little Daniel had asked for and Seth’s work distractions. After the win, Seth had set up the family at a new bank in the city, abandoning their old bank where the profits from the sale of the last house (after taxes, lawyer and agent fees) still sat. That account had once held all their money and been the axis of their days, telling them what they could and couldn’t afford to do. But now the account was entirely neglected, waiting at the bottom of a to-do list to be closed.
Three times Gwen drove back to their old branch, parked in the strip mall and made withdrawals until she had the money for Daniel. On the third visit, when the teller called over the manager to ask about the reason for the withdrawal, Gwen said, “Construction project.” The manager leaned in and said, “Congratulations on your good fortune, Mrs. Kaplan.”
Months passed, and there was no word from Daniel. Maybe the money had worked. Gwen had handled the situation correctly, after all, and having done so, she gradually felt less tormented. She put away the sound of Steve’s wheezing as his body thumped to the floor, put away the image of some girl watching him, dumbstruck. She could do this—punch the airbag back into the steering wheel—put it all away like it had been locked up those many years. Slowly, slowly, Gwen let herself breathe again. A new, airy mood descended, as if she were sleeping in the sun.
On the night of Maddie’s birthday, when Maddie walked in the front door, Seth had the three of them waiting in the living room. Gwen was searching her phone for a cab number. Eli was rolling a soccer ball with this foot, untied shoelaces clacking.
“Surprise!” Seth called. “Keep your coat on. Did you read the card?” He had put a small gift in Maddie’s backpack that morning, as he did every year.
“Yes, thank you,” said Maddie.
Gwen saw her touch her ears, where diamond studs glittered. Last year the school gift was lip gloss in a little plastic pineapple. Gwen watched Seth hug her. Maddie softened in Seth’s embrace.
“Mom picked them,” Seth said. “The bird reference on the card. Did you get it? It’s the other part of your present. You’re about to have your mind blown.”
“Do up your shoelaces, Eli,” said Gwen.
Eli had worn Velcro for so long that he came late to shoelaces. He crouched down and attempted the laces slowly, his hand moving through space like a mime, his face grimacing, recalling the steps.
The three of them stood with their jackets, waiting until Gwen finally dropped to her knees and did the shoelaces herself. “One, two, three, FOUR,” she said, and they were done.
* * *
They ate in a wood-fired pizza restaurant, part of a chain that had come to Toronto from New York. A big round light hung over the table as if they were in an operating theatre.
The whole extravagant evening had been Seth’s idea, but Gwen was glad; she needed a night out, away from the silent neighbourhood, the big house with its slippery floors. Seth had started planning the party a few days ago, stumbling into the bedroom after getting home late, a little drunk, maybe. “It’s expensive, but screw it, right? She’s only eighteen once. Let’s enjoy these last days before the horsemen arrive!”
The server brought salted caramel tarts. Seth proclaimed, more than once, that the meal was “amazing.”
“What, no candle?” asked Eli.
“Your university fund matures today, Mads,” said Seth. “The money’s in your account now, so don’t panic if you see a high balance. We’ll talk about moving it to GICs.”
“You’re rich!” said Eli. “What school are you going to anyway?”
Gwen and Seth both leaned in.
“Don’t know yet.” Maddie poked at the tart.
“There’s not much time,” said Seth. “You can’t make a bad choice, really.”
Maddie nodded, taking a small bite.
“Let’s not talk about choices tonight,” said Gwen.
* * *
The Town Car was waiting outside the restaurant. Gwen opened the back door to an interior coated in black: black leather seats, black windows, a driver in a dark suit nodding his hello. They climbed in. Eli adjusted the TV to a sports channel.
The car sped along the freeway, the daylight fading. Gwen could feel Maddie growing anxious next to her.
As they turned onto the road to the airport, Maddie asked, “Are we going on a trip? Because I didn’t pack, and I need some things . . .”
“Do you want to know?” asked Seth, turning around from the front seat.
“Yes,” said Maddie tensely.
Gwen had reminded Seth that Maddie hated surprises. Then the Town Car pulled up in front of a sign: TORONTO HELI TOURS.
“Oh,” said Maddie.
“Yes!” cried Eli.
“It’s very safe,” said Gwen, though no one but her was seeking reassurance.
“We’ll get to look into the skyscrapers, see how other people live,” said Seth.
Maddie smiled, and Gwen took this as a positive. She walked behind her down the corridor, Seth and Eli up ahead.
The helicopter was surprisingly plastic. Gwen had expected it to feel more substantial. Before they could enter, the pilot delivered a lecture about the possibility of nausea, and the benefits of “inertial relief,” a phrase that Gwen liked, chewing on it.
Gwen sat next to Maddie, Eli sat next to the pilot, Seth sat in back, all of them in bulbous black headsets that sat aside their skulls like fly eyes. As they ascended, the plane jerked and heaved; the blades hammered loudly.
Over the headsets, the pilot explained what they were seeing: the lake to the south; the distant lights of Niagara Falls; the TD Centre towers. He had mistaken them for tourists, and no one corrected him, because they were still tourists, in a way, even though it had been nearly a year since the money.
As Seth had planned, they were flying inside the dusk. The light was pink, and fading quickly. The pilot slowed in front of a massive glass building face, so close that Gwen didn’t know what they were looking at. He hovered there and explained almost tenderly, despite his electronically distant voice piped into their ears, the origin of the building. It had been built to be the tallest in the world, but then someone else in another city had the same idea, and now it was fourth. He sounded disappointed.
The sky darkened, and specifics gave way to shapes, long rectangles and pointed pencils. They were yanked back up into the sky to look down at the snaking lights of the night, just flickering into steady lines. The city turned electric. Gwen looked down on the neglected tops of the buildings. Air vents blew puffs of white smoke.
She felt a tap on her knee: Maddie pointed out the window, excited. Gwen strained to see what she was seeing.
“Mall!” she mouthed. Gwen nodded at the glittering block. Maddie pressed a button so that her words could travel out into everyone’s ears. “That’s where Joshua works!” she said excitedly.
Gwen nodded, gave her a thumbs-up, and then she sat back, thinking, Oh no, it’s not over at all. Whatever had happened between them, whatever severing Joshua had attempted—Maddie hadn’t accepted it. Her daughter was madly in love. Gwen could feel its residual heat on her. For this, there was no motherly comfort to be offered. You will suffer these losses, and I can’t help you, she thought. Gwen patted Maddie on the knee, and Maddie kept her face close to the glass.
Seth’s voice crackled through the static in her ear. “Hey,” he said. Gwen turned around to look back at him. “I’m going to have to go back to the office as soon as we land,” he said into his mouthpiece, holding up his phone by way of explanation, grinning. “Tom has big news.”
Gwen nodded, trying not to be annoyed at Seth’s constant absences. “He does it
for us,” her mother had said once, when Gwen complained about having to tiptoe past her father sleeping on the couch after work, beer on the coffee table. But Gwen had never really believed it: he did it for himself, so he wouldn’t have to be around the three women. Men worked so they could be silent and elsewhere, recused from the boredom and mess of the quotidian, which was left to the women. Even the women who worked full-time—Julia, or Eleanor, the Bay Street financier back in Shadow Pines—never entirely stepped out of their families in the way of the men. Gwen was almost positive that they didn’t get to be war heroes after work, crashed on the couch, absent when present.
She looked at her daughter. Gwen knew that Maddie was searching the skyline, as if she might see Joshua there, and he might see her, floating above the city in her bubble.
At that moment, Maddie looked over at her mother and dropped her hand on top of Gwen’s. Gwen looked at it, bewildered.
Maddie’s voice came through the headset. “Thanks for a really nice birthday, Mom.” She smiled and Gwen swelled with joy.
“Happy birthday, hon.”
MADDIE
The email looked, at first, like junk mail. It didn’t have a subject line, and the address featured a weird series of numbers. Maddie almost hit Delete, but then thought maybe it would be something surprising, like a note from Joshua—
Dear Madeline . . .
As she read, her centre of gravity shifted. By the time she was finished, she was some other girl, sitting at her desk in her unfamiliar bedroom on her eighteenth birthday.
Happy Birthday. I hope this doesn’t come out of the blue.
You never know what’s normal. You never know what other people’s families are like. Emma’s mom, back in Shadow Pines, could remember everything she wore on the first day of school of every single year of her education, from Grade 1 to Grade 12. The summer before Maddie and Emma started high school, Emma’s mom pulled out her old journals. Together around the kitchen table, the three of them sat looking at a stack of pink notebooks from the ’80s, tiny broken locks flapping. They were boring (“I got a shaker knit sweater at Le Château. I got blue but wishing it was white. Paul T. super cute today. See ya!”), but Maddie was fascinated anyway. Details were what her mother never shared.
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