by RJ Crayton
I look down at the floor and try to ignore the comment. What have I gotten myself into? The guard clears his throat. I look up and he has stopped smiling. He seems to be looking a little more professional now, as he opens the door to the room we are about to exit. I wonder if we are being watched in the hallways and that is the reason for his demeanor change. He issues the terse command, “Follow me.”
I do. The guard wears a gray uniform, patent leather shoes and a billy club holstered on his side. I’m not sure where he is taking me, but I hope it is my cell. I don’t want to be in his presence any more.
The halls are white and brightened with fluorescent light. After walking down the narrow corridors, making a turn here and there, we arrive at a white steel door. There is no window to peek in and see what the other side holds.
The guard swipes a plastic card in a reader next to the door. I hear a click as it electronically unlocks, and then the guard pulls the door’s handle and swings it open. He points, and I enter what appears to be a white rubber room.
It is a cell, in every respect of the word. It is small and simple. Nothing in the room is movable. Nothing can be removed or broken off and used by an inmate to hurt himself or others. There are only two pieces of furniture, if you can call them furniture, even: a large rectangular block that will serve as my bed, and a ledge about knee height that protrudes about a foot-and-half from the wall. The bed block emerges directly from the floor, seamlessly, made of the same rubber as the floor, the walls and the ceiling. Same for the ledge, which I assume I can use as a table if I choose to sit on the floor to eat my meals. My room doesn’t have a screen, so I apparently have no video or computer privileges, and no prospects of getting any.
I sit down on my rubber block. It isn’t perfect, but it is soft enough. The guard closes the door behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. They immediately turn to Luke, my father, Susan and Haleema — in that order.
I hope Luke escaped and no one mentioned seeing us together or, if they did, that no one thought Luke a significant player in my escape. As miserable as I feel in this situation, the last thing I want is for Luke to be stuck in a holding facility, too. And my poor father. He now knows I have betrayed his trust and lied to his face. That all along, I had no intention of following through with donating my kidney to this stranger, but only pretended I would. He knows I left him without saying good-bye. He would never do that to me. I feel overwhelming guilt over how I have hurt him, how I have let him down.
And Susan. I’ve stolen her car and used it in an escape across the country. I hope no one thinks she is involved. I feel horrible, though I know Susan probably doesn’t care. She has never given a damn about what other people think.
However, I am not so sure about Haleema. I wonder if she hates me. I used her, or at least her data, to escape. I hope they don’t think she is complicit in this.
I will tell them she didn’t know. She wasn’t a part of it. Though hopefully they’ll figure that out. I search my memory, thinking of the handful of cases I’ve read about where someone was caught attempting to flee a donation. No accomplices were ever prosecuted. Perhaps that is the trick to keeping society happy with the prospect of donation. No one is ever punished for aiding. It is always solely about the person who tried to escape. There isn’t a witch-hunt, where people fear, “Might they think I was involved? Might I be punished?” There is little chance of collateral damage, so perhaps that’s why people find it so easy to convict the wrongdoer and forget about him. When there’s no chance you’ll be touched by the problem, perhaps it’s easy to forget it’s a problem.
I will be punished for this, not Luke, Susan, Haleema or my father, even if FoSS suspects they helped. It will all be on me. If they want, they will be free to forget me and move on with their lives, never worrying their government will hurt them for my indiscretions.
I think about what Dr. Grant said and wonder if it is possible to get out of the donation. If giving my reasons against it might sway the people here.
I sigh, thinking Luke is probably right. I’ve never heard of a case where someone caught fleeing hasn’t been forced to donate. And cases of people fleeing successfully — well, there are rumors of them — are nonexistent, according to the government. Though, Dr. Grant says he knows of two. The government has more reason to lie than Dr. Grant, so I believe some people have been successful. I wish I’d been one of them.
I shake my head. I can’t think like this. No what ifs. I have to deal with the current situation. I have been caught. I try to remember the outcome of the other cases where people were caught. They all had to go through with the donation. A few years ago, one was sentenced to a year in a holding facility accompanied by psychiatric treatment, and another living donation (not an essential organ, but something). But, six months ago, a captured fleer was sentenced to death through donation. With the pro-choice movement ramping up on campuses, the government is taking a much harsher view on fleeing.
I stand. I don’t want to think about that anymore. I don’t want to sit on the rubber block anymore. I want to stretch, feel my legs, and think about something other than my fate or how I’ve hurt the people I care most about. The good news is that they are all out there, outside these cramped walls. If they are like most people whose friends and family end up here, they will write me off. They will make peace with my fate and say their good-byes, and that will be the end of it.
Except for Luke. He won’t say good-bye to me. He will fight, fight to see me. My father, I’m not sure about. He brought me back to Maryland; that’s one thing I am certain of. But, I have betrayed him by the very nature of what I’ve done. Does he understand my reasons and want to help, or is what I’ve done unforgivable? That thought sends a shiver through me. I am torn. The little girl in me hopes he doesn’t feel that way. Yet, grown-up Kelsey knows writing me off is the best thing for him. It will keep him in the race for governor. Writing me off will let people know that I am an aberration, not the daughter he raised, but some stranger who has taken over her body. It will be right for him to keep his distance. And perhaps it will be justice for me. Justice for my betrayal. He’s only ever had two passions in life: his family and his political career. When Mom died, politics and I were all he had left. But with me doing this, he should focus on the one passion still viable. And if he just writes me off, he can still have that.
I am walking away from my block, toward the opposite wall, pacing, when it turns pitch black. The lights are out. The darkness catches me so by surprise, I just stop moving, mid stride.
I put my foot down, so both feet are firmly planted on the floor as I try to discern what has happened. Is there a power outage? It seems unlikely. In homes, the power goes out occasionally. But government buildings have emergency generators. One might see the lights flicker if there is a power outage, as the emergency power source kicks in, but there would never be anything like this: something several seconds that is beginning to drag into minutes.
I don’t move. It is so dark I can’t see ahead or behind me. I can’t see anything. Just darkness. I wait, hoping the lights will come back on.
The more I stand there, the more it truly begins to sink in that I am in the dark. I decide to turn around and try to make my way back to the rubber block. It should be easy, but I somehow get angled wrong and hit a wall. Not the one my block is on. I grope in the dark for a minute or two more before finding my way back to my rubber block. I sit first, making sure I am securely on it, then slowly stretch out to a lying position, and scoot close to the wall, so I am less likely to fall off.
I begin to wonder if sleeping on the floor would be a better idea. I toss and turn at night when I’m troubled. I don’t want to roll to a thud on the floor. So, I test the floor, and it seems that even though it is made of substantively the same material, the bed block is indeed softer and more comfortable than the floor. It is a nuanced, but noticeable, difference. I stick with the bed.
I lie there in the silence, my eyes c
losed, having long since given up on them adjusting to this level of darkness, and try to think reassuring thoughts. A lights out time at a place like this is probably mandatory. This is not some power outage that will leave me without food or proper ventilation in this building for an indefinite period. I listen to the gentle whir coming from above. It is definitely a vent. Conditioned air is blowing in. I am getting air, and the lights will come on in the morning. I am not forgotten in this place.
The thoughts aren’t really that reassuring. They just fill my head, and I realize that for me to sleep, I need my head empty. I concentrate on emptying my mind of clutter and thinking only of sleep. Eventually, my body takes over. I am tired from the restless night before and fall asleep. Even with my body doing what is needed, I can’t really find peace. I awaken several times during the night, lifting my head for a few moments to listen for the whir of the vents. Soon after I fall asleep deeply enough to forget where I am, I awaken confused and addled. The complete darkness at first makes me wonder if I am dead. Wonder if I have gone through with the surgery but simply never awakened from the anesthesia. That’s an incredibly rare occurrence. Less than one percent, but I’ve read about it happening, and in the fog of dreamland, this fact rushes to the forefront of my mind. Then I hear the screaming. You don’t hear screams when you’re dead. Do you? Finally, I divine it is me who is screaming, and stop.
I stay awake for what feels like an hour, but maybe it is less than that, 30 minutes. I can’t see the room’s digital clock in the dark. It’s a gray monochrome display without backlighting. I remember seeing it at some point before the lights went out. The last I saw, the clock read 21:48. I have no idea what time is now. My internal clock thinks I’ve been up at least an hour after the screaming. I finally fall back asleep after that, but the sleep isn’t good, just fits and bursts of rest.
When I wake up again, the lights are on and the digital clock says 6:22. Morning at last. I sigh in relief. The soft white light is soothing, and I manage to sleep a solid two hours, until I am awakened by a nurse named Keith. He barks out, “They need you to do some tests.” A lanky, indifferent blond, Keith walks me through the bowels of the facility — dimly lit cement corridors — until we arrive in a medical area. There, doctors give me an ultrasound. It is irritating that I am so distrusted they believe I would harm my own kidney to prevent giving it away. They didn’t need to check its healthiness via ultrasound. The whole point of avoiding the surgery is to preserve my own health, starting with that of my kidney.
While I am in the testing area, they also take my blood. Several vials. I suppose they will test me in every way to make sure I’ve done nothing odd to my body that could damage my kidney, making it unavailable for transplant. This mistrust bothers me immensely. I am not insane. I am simply a person who wants to live without fear of forced medical procedures.
Nurse Keith returns me to my room. There, I sit and wait, wondering what will happen next.
Chapter 15: Time for a Chat
I sit in my room for two more hours, nothing but my thoughts to keep me company. I wonder again if Dr. Grant is right. If we are at a tipping point, if just telling them why I did it will help. Clearly, if they’re testing to see if I’ve done damage to my own kidney, they haven’t a clue why I fled.
The door to my cell opens, breaking me from my thoughts. I’m not sure who I expected to see, but it is doctors who appear. They waltz in with neutral faces and no talk, not even the customary hello.
One doctor is a man, the other a woman — both wear white coats. The man is large, towering over the woman. His muscles are visible even beneath the loose-fitting coat.
The woman, blonde hair swept into a bun, takes the lead. She gives me a quick once-over — sizing me up, I suppose. Her internal assessment made, she smiles. While the rest of their entrance seems deliberate, perhaps even planned to give nothing away, this smile feels unrehearsed, yet not entirely sincere. Perhaps something about the way I sit here, still and unmoving, makes her think I need someone to smile at me. While I wish it weren’t true, she’s right. I do need a smile.
“Kelsey,” she says softly, as the man steps a little closer, still keeping his distance from me. I’m not sure if she is his superior, and he wants to show respect, or if he is concerned his size might frighten me. “I’m Dr. Klein,” she says, then points to the man. “And this is Dr. Slate.”
I stay seated on my bed block, look up at the woman, but don’t speak.
She nods at the man. He leaves the room, then returns momentarily with two metal chairs. He sets them across from my bed. Dr. Slate leaves again, and returns with a camera, setting it up quickly on a tripod that unfolds with a jerk of one hand. The lady doctor sits. He follows her, sits politely, then looks toward her expectantly. The lady doctor, Klein, tells me they will be recording my interview. Dr. Klein is definitely in charge, I decide.
“Kelsey,” she says again, in a low, smooth voice she clearly believes is soothing. “We want to talk to you about why you ran away. Would that be alright?”
I nod again.
She waits for me to speak. I’m not sure what to say. I’m tired from a restless night, irritated at being suspected of hurting my own kidney, and not certain what I should tell them. I look at my hands, hoping a brilliant explanation pops into my head. Only I don’t do well on lack of sleep, and my thoughts feel slow to come.
The lady doctor is staring at me. “Kelsey,” she purrs my name again, and I am beginning to hate the way it sounds rolling off her patronizing tongue. “Why did you run away?”
I maintain my hand-gazing to give myself a moment more to think. Then Dr. Grant’s words pop into my mind. We are at a tipping point, he said. Is he right? If I just explain, will it make a difference?
Part of me wants to say the truth. The burden of hiding my belief has been heavy, but the price of being wrong is huge. The lady doctor is waiting.
“Kelsey,” she says my name yet again in a low voice. “We’re just looking for some answers.”
Her expectant face means I must answer something. “I didn’t want to give up my kidney,” I blurt out, and it feels good. It feels good to say it.
Her expression remains momentarily neutral, then changes to curiosity. “Did you want the man who needed your kidney to die?”
I shake my head. “NO!” I screech. “No. Of course not.”
Despite my shriekish reply, Dr. Klein speaks calmly. “What did you think would happen if you did not provide him your kidney?”
Her tone is patronizing, and I wonder if it is intentional, or if she intends the tone to sound merely nonthreatening. I’m not doing this right, I realize. I need to explain better. “I thought they’d find someone else,” I respond, hopefully coolly, even though I am nervous about how things are going and upset that she accused me of wanting someone to die.
“Did you understand that you were the best match?”
I’m still not conveying this properly. I take a deep breath and try to match my tone to hers. “Yes, I understood that.” I pause, searching for the right words. “It’s just that I know other people participate in the system. I know my risk of death from the surgery is only 3 percent, but then there’s also the risk of infection, or medical error. Something going wrong in general is 14 percent for a healthy person my age.”
She nods her head gently to show she is following.
“It’s just that, I, um, I got scared. After everything that happened to Susan, I just couldn’t do it. Granted, hers wasn’t a kidney transplant, and she had only a 12 percent chance of something going wrong, but something did go wrong. Terribly wrong. I just decided I didn’t want to put myself at risk to help someone I don’t even know.”
Dr. Klein leans back in her chair, folds her arms, then, with genuine curiosity, asks, “Who is Susan?”
Well, that is a doozy of a question. I could spend hours answering it. Instead, I go simple. “She is my friend.”
Lady doc looks surprised by my answer. She is n
ow intrigued. I explain about Susan being marked last year for what should have been a simple bone marrow transplant, her operation, the infection, the paralysis, the low quality of life she has now. Dr. Klein listens without saying much, an occasional nod coupled with a “yes” or “go on.” The man, Dr. Slate, watches me too, but shows almost no change in expression. I find myself wondering again why he is here. Is he a student tagging along to watch? Has he been told to remain neutral throughout, a passive observer? If so, he is very good at it.
Lady Klein notices me staring at her underling and clears her throat before speaking. She has my attention. “So, you’re afraid Susan’s misfortune will befall you if you have surgery.”
I shake my head. “Not exactly.” Putting my fears into words is hard because they’re not concrete, but I know that if I’m unsuccessful at it, I will remain in this awful place. “It’s not likely what happened to Susan will happen to me. The odds are totally in my favor. I mean survival statistics classes have hammered that in, over and over. The odds were in Susan’s favor, too. They just didn’t go her way. It’s fine if the odds go against you, if you choose to take that risk. It’s just that I don’t want to take that risk.”
The doctor crinkles her brow. “But the odds are in your favor. The surgery is a minimal risk.”
“Of course it’s minimal. And if Susan were the patient, I would risk it without a second thought. If it were my father. Or Haleema. Or, or,” I want to say Luke, but know I can’t bring him into this mess. “Or anyone else I loved, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But, for this stranger, for this person I don’t know, I don’t want to take the risk.”
“Even though he’d take the risk for you?” she shoots back, dropping her doctor’s veneer of impartiality.
“Yes, even if he’d take that risk for me,” I say, trying to sound calm. Speaking the truth feels good and now that I’ve started, I feel the urge to spill every feeling I have on this subject, even though I know I need to avoid inflaming this doctor. “He would take that risk for me because society demands it. Because if he didn’t, he’d end up in a place like this. If he would do it for me, on his own, out of the generosity of his heart, I would love that, but I would never force him to put anything about the life he’s come to know in jeopardy to save me. If I have a problem, it’s my problem to solve. If he wants to help, of course, I’d take it. But, I don’t believe I’m owed it. Therefore, I don’t believe I owe it to him.”