Paraplegic

by Troy Dearbourne

"Sick?" He withdraws his hands from his pockets and brings his knees in close, resting his hands on top.

  "She needs a heart transplant; she's going to die if she doesn't get one soon." My voice increases with passion. "Like, real soon."

  "And so you thought she could use a glass of lemonade?" I can see he isn't catching on.

  I tilt my head back, letting out a dramatic sigh. "No, dad. No. I'm selling lemonade so I can raise enough money to buy her a new heart." He chuckles, stroking the three days worth of stubble on his chin. I feel hurt that he's making fun of my heartfelt endeavor. "What? Why are you laughing?"

  He slips a callused hand inside mine. "Baby, buying an organ is a felony." I feel my cheeks immediately burn with embarrassment.

  I grumble inward. That's just great. A roadblock that I desperately do not need. "Then how am I supposed to get her a heart? There's no telling how low she may be on the donor list. She can't wait for that unlikely miracle!"

  He reaches into his wallet and lays a crinkled one dollar bill on the table. "I dunno, Kenzie," taking a sip from a cup of lemonade, "but if there's a way, then I have no doubt that you'll find it." He gives me a blue-eyed wink before heading back inside the house.

  Butterflies. I hate butterflies. Not the little winged creature kind of butterflies. The dumbbell kind, especially when Desiree is looming over me making sure my form is perfect. But I can't deny that her brutal exercise routine doesn't yield results. My arms are more lean and toned than they've ever been. Though, it's tough to get too excited; my legs are these skinny little things, devoid of nutrition.

  After the final rep, I pass the ten pound dumbbell off to Desiree. She looks me over with concern. "Something wrong, dear? You haven't said much all day."

  I decide to tell her about Kalyope and my unrealistic desire to help her. Maybe she can give me some insight?

  "Hmmm." She sets the dumbbell on the rack next to the others. "You've certainly got your work cut out for you. Does this friend of yours know you wish to do this for her?"

  "No. Truth is I just met her two days ago."

  "Ah. I see." She folds her arm over her chest and leans against the rack of dumbbells. "Well, the first thing you should know is that the recipient of a transplant must have the same blood type. If your friend has a rare blood type, then that slashes the likelihood of them being a positive recipient by a large percentage. May I ask what's the transplant?"

  "Heart." She makes a fishy face with her lips as she thinks. Meanwhile, I'm feeling more discouraged about the whole endeavor. "Doesn't sound possible anymore . . . not that it ever really did sound possible."

  Desiree tilts her head from side to side. "Maybe. Maybe not. Have you spoken to Benjamin Trout, the hospital's forerunner monetary donor?"

  "I recall seeing that name in passing. Is he the one at the top of that marble slab out front?"

  She nods. "A lot of clout that one has. Perhaps he can help you. And you're in luck, he'll be at the hospital this weekend for his annual visitation."

  "Annual visitation?"

  She hands me the dumbbell again, a silent implication that break time is over. "It's when he visits some of the sick kids, brings them teddy bears, autographed baseball cards, that kind of thing."

  Sounds like this Benjamin Trout guy has a big heart and a soft spot for children. But could he help me push Kalyope up the donor list?

  I guess there's only one way to find out.

  Chapter 29

  The latter half of the week crawled. Every waking moment I painfully realized that Kalyope's days were shrinking and I still hadn't made a single advancement towards finding her a new heart. It'd already been four days since I'd last seen her. My stomach churns with regret. I couldn't bring myself to visit her, to sit there and do nothing while she slowly dies right in front of me. Does that make me a bad friend?

  But the weekend had finally come.

  After physical therapy, I asked Desiree if she could drop me off at the hospital before she went home. I didn't really feel like rolling these wheels a mile and a half on uneven terrain if I didn't absolutely have to. "No problem, hon," she'd said, that thick Czech accent lacing her words.

  Desiree waves goodbye as she pulls away in her cherry red Kia Soul, leaving me alone in front of the hospital's marble slab of monetary donors. I check the name at the top: Benjamin Trout. This is it. And I have no game plan. None.

  Perfect.

  I take a calming deep breath before making my way inside the hospital and down the zigzag formation of hallways to the PICU. Once I'm there, I see group of children with eager eyes surrounding a man standing in the hallway, his back to me. I assume this man to be Benjamin Trout, but I second guess myself at the sight of his casual attire: mint colored polo with skinny jeans. Not exactly what I was expecting from a billion dollar man, but then again, I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting.

  Trout is bent over talking to a little girl, the bald one that I saw previously; she looks even sicker than before, all droopy eyed and pale. A metal pole with hanging bags of clear liquid is at her side, attached to her through multiple strands of clear tubes. Trout gives her a teddy bear. The girl's face lights up, a toothy grin following. She reaches out with her little hands and pulls it in close, squeezing tightly.

  I can already tell there's no point in trying to talk to him right this second; I'll need to get him alone when he's finished. In the meantime, I decide to swallow my fear and visit Kalyope. I hear the erratic beeping of the heart rate monitor before I enter the room. Kalyope is propped up by a long pillow reading a paperback novel, a tray of half eaten oatmeal that's long gone cold is beside her.

  She lifts her head from the book at my entrance, pouty lips spreading in delight. "McKenzie, what a surprise. What are you doing here?"

  "Came to see you of course." I try concealing my concern. "How ya feeling?"

  She speaks over the noise of the fluctuating ECG. "A little tired, I guess. Thankful for another day, though," eyes crinkling with joy. Her positive attitude with such a bleak outlook is touching. "Sorry about the other day with me going all zazazazaza on you." She imitates her seizuring moment. "That doesn't normally happen."

  "Sorry? Why would you be sorry? You almost died! And what do you mean doesn't normally happen?" I guess its happened more than once?

  "Well, it usually only happens once a week, so . . ." she lets her words fade.

  "Once a week!" Kalyope jumps in fright at my outburst. I'm even a bit surprised how loud those words came out. "Sorry. It's just . . . that's kind of lot. How many times has it happened this week?"

  She hesitates for a moment. I give her a firm stare, letting her know I want a straight answer. "Four." She buries her face in her palms. I'm not sure if it's to hide her shame or tears or what.

  I reach for her hand. She looks up at me, her green eyes all watery. I want to say something, something that will make her feel better. But there's no words on earth that will make her feel better, except me telling her I have a new heart for her. Which I don't. Not now at least.

  "Where's your family?" suddenly realizing the emptiness of the room.

  "Work. Medical bills aren't cheap. Health insurance doesn't cover as much as it used to. And as much as they'd like to spend what may be my last days with me, there's nothing they can do for me here. So they come after work and sit with me through the night, go home for an hour of sleep, then back to work." She hangs her head. "I'm to blame," then smacks the left side of her chest with her fist. "If this stupid thing would beat properly, then they wouldn't have to work themselves to death," voice croaking in agony.

  That sounds like something Aurora would've said.

  I try switching subjects to ease the sorrowful aura. "Weird question, what's your blood type?"

  She looks at me skeptically. "Um. O-positive, I think. Why do you ask?"

  I release a happy sigh. From what I've gathered from those medical shows mother watches, O-positive is the most common blood type on the planet. If I am to g
et Kalyope a heart, then at least I won't have to face finding a heart only compatible with a rare blood type. "Just curious." I try to seem as casual as possible with my answer.

  I stay with her a few minutes longer before saying that I need to get back to the Center. After departing from her, I find Trout finishing up his visitation with the children.

  I roll my wheelchair up beside him. "Mr. Trout?"

  He spins around, a well-kept silver beard being the first thing I see. "Oh. Well, hello there, young lady. Did I forget to give you something?" I can see the kindness in his pale eyes.

  "Oh. No, no. I was just here visitation a friend. But I did have something I wanted to ask you. May I have a minute of your time?"

  "Well, certainly."

  I maneuver my wheelchair off to the side of the hallway, lowering my voice as I speak. He crouches down next to my chair, leaning his back against the eggshell colored wall. "I'm not really sure how to start this question or even finish it for that matter." I stop myself, squeezing my eyes shut. McKenzie, focus! "I need you to help get my friend a new heart. If she doesn't get one soon, then she won't get one at all." At the first sight of confusion on his wrinkled face, I realize I haven't explained myself well enough. "She needs a heart transplant, but she doesn't have the lifespan to wait for a donor. Isn't there some way you can expedite the process? Please."

  He sucks in a deep breath, slowly expelling it from his lungs. "I see your dilemma, child, but I'm not sure that there's anything I can do for your friend. That kind of thing is out of my hands. I may have helped fund this hospital, but I can't control how it functions. These things just have to work themselves out, and if it's meant for your friend to find a heart, then I'm sure they will." My hopes splinter at his response. This was the man I had been waiting to talk to, my final resort, and he's telling me he can't do anything to help? Nothing?

  "Please," my voice coming out a whimper. "I don't know what else to do. I don't even know why I feel I should do this. I just . . . I just do."

  He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry," then walks away.

  I feel like screaming a bunch of random words at him as his profile fades, disappearing around the end of the hallway, but such public display of emotion would only prove futile. And stupid. So I refrain. Barely.

  Now I truly do feel alone in this endeavor. No one to ask for help. No one to turn to for guidance. A near impossible feat hanging in front of me. And to raise the already elevated stakes, I had to do it in a week or else my mission would be a failed one and a life lost.

  I sat there alone in the hallway and cried.

  Chapter 30

  I felt exceptionally fatigued during my next therapy session. It was like a worm had crawled inside of me and sucked all the energy right out of my soul. I wanted to stay home this morning, tried to, but mother came in and ushered me out of bed shortly after eight o'clock; I've been yawning nonstop ever since.

  Desiree throws a hand over her mouth and yawns loudly. "Now you've got me doing it!"

  "Sorry."

  "Any luck with Trout?"

  I shake my head sluggishly. "Not even a little. He was my last hope. It's over now."

  "Nothing's over til it's over. And so long as that friend of yours is still alive, there's hope."

  I nod, but can't seem to share her confidence.

  What we're you thinking, McKenzie? Finding a heart? You can barely locate your own toothbrush in the morning. What made you think you were capable of finding a heart? I keep thinking of it in that manner: me finding a heart, when in all actuality, it's not like it's some lost penny laying on the pavement or a favorite shirt that was accidentally tossed under the bed; you simply don't find living, beating hearts just anywhere. You have to be chosen. How could I be so stupid to think I could overthrow that process and somehow garner a heart for Kalyope?

  Desiree lowers her head to look at me, eyebrows slanting in concern. "Having doubts?"

  "I've been racking my brain for nearly a week now. It's not possible. It's just not possible. The only way my friend is going to get that transplant is if I . . ." the gears in my brain start turning, ". . . is if I build my own donor list."

  "I don't follow."

  I lean forward in my wheelchair. "Des, what if I were to build my own donor list? Who handles the organ distribution in the United States?"

  "That would be UNOS: United Network for Organ Sharing. Why?"

  I continue thinking. "Okay. Listen. What if I was somehow able to create an independently operated organ distribution center from right here in Camden, Maine? We'd have our own little UNOS locally, allowing us shorter wait times and higher transplant success rate."

  She bites down on her lower lip, considering my idea. "I dunno. That's sounds complicated. Not to mention where would you get the kind of money to start a project that prodigious? We're talking millions."

  My hopes dip for just a moment. "We'd need a private investor."

  "One with lots of money."

  "And a genuine desire to help children."

  Desiree archers a neatly groomed eyebrow, smiling slightly. "Sound like someone we know?"

  I start to see where she's headed with this conversation. "This could work. This could actually work!" And once again the nearly impossible doesn't seem quite so impossible. That is until some other unforeseen impediment strikes.

  The parallel bars are to my right; chrome gleaming beneath the overhead track lights. A part of me wants to use them again, but then I wonder if it's because I'm suddenly elated from believing I still have a chance to save Kalyope. But when I stood on my own two feet, that feeling, regardless how short-lived it may have been, it was . . . breathtaking.

  "Wanna give it another go?" Desiree sees me gawking at the bars.

  I release a puff of air with my words. "No. I'm not ready. Not yet."

  "You'll get there, hon," laying a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  Sporadic movement from the other side of the single pane windows grabs my attention. Maverick is briskly pacing back and forth in front of the hedge maze entrance, arms flailing around wildly, talking to himself in a very animated manner. He looks troubled.

  "How come nobody's ever come to see him? Doesn't he have family?"

  Desiree turns her head to see who I'm talking about, chuckling briefly in a sympathetic manner. "Maverick Hale Aldridge. He was admitted into this facility long before I started working here, but through my years as a PT, I've learned a thing or two about the backstory of a lot of these residents." She swoops her finger in a circle at the room. "Maverick was brought here by his parents; I guess they had hopes that somehow we'd be able to cure the cancer that had already run rampant through his ear and threatened to spread throughout his face. When it came time for his surgery, they were with him. Then that was it. That was the last day they ever came back."

  I'm shocked by her answer. "So they just left him here? All by himself?" She nods, a frown forming on her face. "What kind of parent's would do that?"

  "Some say it was because they didn't feel he would live long enough from the cancer. Others say it was because they couldn't afford the rising medical bills. Whatever the truth, they abandoned that poor boy, but at least they left him here in our capable hands."

  "Will he have to stay here forever?"

  She bobs her head from side to side, as if considering my question. "Hard to say. It's largely dependent on how well he can function independently. He struggles gravely when off his medication, but doesn't do much better when he's on it; basically just enough to keep him from being bedridden."

  My adverse situation as a plegic continues to seem more and more like an improvement in comparison to the unfortunate life other people are given. Maybe that's only because I've learned to live with my disability. Or maybe because it's true.

  I turn to Desiree. "Will you excuse me?" She motions me away with a flick of her hand.

  As I pass through the side door leading outside, I find Maverick talking to himself
quite loudly. "Everything alright, Mav?"

  He looks up at me, but continues to pace. "No. No, everything's not alright!"

  Something's really got him worked up. "You wanna talk about it?" I raise a hand in gesture towards the rickety wooden bench. He halts from his pacing to nod, then takes a seat on the bench. I roll my wheelchair beside it. "Did the African Assassin Bug try stealing your other ear?"

  He shakes his head, eyes gazing intently at the ground. "Worse."

  What could possibly be worse than that? But then again, this is Maverick we're talking about. "Aliens try abducting you?"

  "I wish they would've, then I wouldn't have to explain what happened."

  I feel my gut tighten with concern. "What exactly did happen?"

  Maverick tears his gaze from the concrete, gulping loudly. "I ate the last of Cal's secret jelly bean stash!"

  I can't quite tell if he's serious or kidding. After a few seconds, I realize he's serious. I try hard not to laugh. "Oh. Well. I'm sure he'll understand–"

  "Why do I do these things?" he buries his head in between his knees.

  I pat his back gently. "Yup. You're a real criminal. What are we gonna do with you?"

  He mumbles a series of words I can't understand, head still between his knees. I feel bad for him; no family to turn to when his craziness flares up, which is a daily occurrence. I wonder if he's ever thought about them? Or does such craziness take his mind off that kind of thing? Might be for the best if it does; more humane, I guess.

  Maverick lifts his head. "You wouldn't by any chance have any jelly beans, would you?"

  I smile, but have to shake my head. "Sorry. You wanna tell him together?"

  "Nah. I'll just blame it on some alien life-form or something; he'll believe me."

  "Why do say that?"

  "Because I say things that are . . . bizarre."

  I find it interesting that he would mention something like that. I was always under the impression that he was entirely clueless about his unusual behavior.