by A. S. Teague
However, the sessions usually leave him exhausted, and by the time we get home, he’s too tired to even eat, instead going straight to bed each night. He’s even lost a little bit of weight; his clothes are beginning to hang on his already slim frame.
Once he goes to bed, I stay awake half the night, trying to catch up on paperwork from the office or researching anything that might help with his health. I’ve even gone so far as to Google kidneys on the black market. Sad but true. After a few disturbing websites popped up, I quickly erased my history and said a prayer that the feds aren’t monitoring my Internet usage. So far, the door hasn’t been kicked in by a SWAT team, so I think my search history is just that—history.
Even though I haven’t found much in the way of restoring Connor’s kidney function, I’ve read hundreds of success stories of people who haven’t received a new kidney but still go on to live long, happy lives. It gives me hope that Connor will have the same outcomes as these other people, and it’s the only reason I’m able to sleep most nights.
Abby’s had multiple interviews all over the world, so she’s been away for the last week. I’ve tried convincing her to stay and at least take Connor to some appointments, but she refuses, saying she works too hard to get sit-downs with these world leaders. If she has to reschedule, she may never get another chance.
And, in her words, “Sidney, there’s a major shitstorm brewing and the people deserve to know what’s going on.”
Like I give two shits about what the people deserve.
What about what Connor deserves?
A few days after that talk, it was a story she had to cover in India, which kept her away until earlier in the week. She was home long enough to take Connor to his appointment Wednesday, and then she had to rush off again. Of course, she made sure to bring him back several souvenirs, including an intricately carved horn with images of animals. Connor loved it and immediately set it on display next to his prized baseball, which was autographed by the entire Atlanta Braves organization. Abby brought that gift home after covering the World Series they’d won two years ago.
The horn was a beautiful authentic buffalo piece I’m sure she paid dearly for, but all it did was piss me off further. While her son’s kidney was failing, she was out shopping for a trinket she hoped would make him forget what a shitty mother she could be. When she announced that she would be leaving again, I didn’t even bother asking where she was going this time. It didn’t matter to me. She could have been out saving the world as Batman and I wouldn’t have cared. The only place she truly needed to be was here, with her son, taking care of him and comforting him. But it was the one place she wouldn’t stay.
It’s obvious she loves Connor. Her face lights up when she talks about him, and she will talk about him to anyone who will listen. But she was never meant to be a mother. She was meant to have a career. Abby has always been quick to run off and cover a major news story, but since we received Connor’s diagnosis, she’s been avoiding being home more than usual. I’m beginning to think she is avoiding the truth about his condition instead of trying to find a way to fight it.
When we arrive at the dialysis center, the nurses greet us warmly. With a megawatt smile always plastered to his face, Connor is easy to love. Judging from their reaction to him, he has already charmed them as well.
Bringing over a cinnamon bun and a bottle of orange juice, Margaret says, “Hey, Connor. How are you today?”
It’s clear she has a soft spot for my nephew by the way she talks him through the process even though it’s nothing new. She reminds me of my mother, and my heart aches that Connor never got to know her, because she would have been charmed as well.
“I’m great. Never been better, actually. Feeling so good, in fact, I think it’s just about time to put a stop to these treatments. But don’t worry, Ms. Margaret. I won’t forget about you. I was planning on taking you out on a date when I get my driver’s license. Which is only, like, three years away,” Connor jokes, a silly grin on his face.
She smiles back at him, but it’s forced. I know exactly what she’s thinking, but thankfully, she’s able to mask the thoughts and teases him back. “Now, Connor, you know that Mr. Margaret wouldn’t like that one bit. He’s a bit old-fashioned and doesn’t want to share me with anyone. But, as long as you promise to take me to the Olive Garden, it can be our secret.” She winks.
After turning back in my direction, she offers an encouraging smile. “Where’s Abby? I thought that, since she was back in town, we’d be seeing her today?” Margaret asks kindly, a concerned expression on her wrinkled face.
I roll my eyes and open my mouth to speak, but Connor beats me to it.
“She’s in Canada! The prime minister there did something bad and she’s on a mission to find out what it is and then make him answer for it! She is always seeking out the bad guys and asking them things that make them uncomfortable. She says the world deserves to know the truth and that someone has to be the person to deliver the answers.”
Leaning back in the oversized hospital recliner next to his chair, I bite the inside of my cheek. When he puts it that way, I feel a little guilty for all the terrible things I’ve been thinking about Abby these last few weeks. If Connor isn’t upset that his mother is gone, why should I be? I’ve been angry enough for the both of us, and I haven’t even stopped to think about how he feels about Abby being gone. Judging from the way his face lit up while he was talking about her, he doesn’t seem upset that his mother hasn’t been by his side for the last three weeks.
Looking up from the screen of her tablet, Margaret says, “All right, handsome. Tell me your birthday one more time.”
“February twenty-six, two thousand one,” he replies giving her a mischievous grin.
Margaret’s head snaps up from the computer. “I knew there was a reason I skipped lunch this afternoon. You’re old enough to take me out to dinner after all!”
Chuckling, I jab Connor with my elbow. “Don’t age me any more than I already feel, buddy. You know you weren’t born in two thousand one.”
“Okay, y’all. Just holler at me if you need anything.” Margaret says. “I’ll just be over there, daydreaming about salad and breadsticks.” With another laugh, she heads back to her desk, and Connor and I settle into a comfortable silence.
Folding forward, I ruffle Connor’s messy hair and am rewarded with one of his famous smiles. I lean back in my seat again but continue to take him in.
At twelve, Connor is tall for his age, standing at least three inches taller than my five foot five. Most boys hit their growth spurts when they are teenagers, but not him. Over the summer, he shot up six inches and gained about twenty pounds, which was just what he needed to make the JV football team at school. I stare at his face and ponder the origins of his jet-black hair and dark-brown eyes. Our entire family is Irish American, and we all sport the same strawberry-blond hair and clear, blue eyes. Abby maintains that Connor’s dad was also Irish, but there’s a lot of skepticism.
Abby came home from spring break pregnant and would never tell us anything about that week of her life. Despite her claims, there isn’t a thing about Connor that looks Irish to me. While we both perpetually look like ghosts, his skin tans easily in the summer and maintains a healthy glow year round. Much to our dismay, he loves to rub it in our faces any chance he gets. If I had to guess, I’d say his father is Hispanic. However, the most curious trait of all is his lack of temper. Connor is slow to anger and always patient.
What an amazing husband he would make someone one day.
My gut twists at the thought of someday.
Connor isn’t at the top of the donor list, and his kidney functions have been steadily declining. Not rapidly, but enough to cause alarm. Every day, it looks more and more like he won’t have a “someday.” I try not to think about his life being cut so short, because it’s not fair. I remember when he was born, holding him and peering down into his little face, promising that I would always be there fo
r him and protect him. And, now that the time has come and he needs my help the most, there’s nothing I can do.
I’m not a match, despite having been screened three times in the hopes that something had magically changed. Again, my stomach clenches as I think about the last time I was tested and Doctor Barnes’s sad eyes as he told me that the results I had so wished for weren’t going to happen. I would have given Connor both of my kidneys if I could have.
When my gaze comes back in to focus, Connor is staring at me strangely.
He grabs my hand, and I realize I have tears rolling down my face. Quickly using my shirt sleeve to wipe my face, I silently thank the alarm clock gods for not having woken me up in time to apply makeup. Otherwise, I would look like the lead singer of KISS right now. I’m searching for a tissue when he breaks the silence.
Setting his iPad down, he raises his eyebrows. “Uh, Aunt Sid, are you okay? I must have said your name, like, three times before you heard me.”
The concern on his face is overwhelming, and I almost start crying again.
Breathing deeply to collect myself, I force a smile to my face. “I’m fine, honey. Just thinking about, er…work.” I draw in another breath in an attempt to lock my emotions away before squeezing his hand. “I didn’t realize I was crying. Did I upset you?”
He arches one eyebrow skeptically, which tells me that he knows I’m full of shit. Besides, who cries about accounting anyway? Connor is nothing if not perceptive, and I make a mental note to work on my acting skills.
“No, I’m not upset. I just don’t like you crying. Being here with me didn’t make you cry, did it? I can come by myself, you know. You and Mom don’t have to treat me like a baby all the time. I’m not gonna break,” he says with a false bravado I so strongly want to believe.
He doesn’t realize that, while he is trying to prove how grown he is, he has never looked more vulnerable. I can see in his deep-set eyes that he wants us there with him and how scared he really is, but he’s trying so hard to convince himself that he isn’t terrified of what is happening.
Grabbing the pen I had him bring along, I tell him the reason I wanted to come today. “Of course not! And I know that you could come by yourself, but really, I like hanging out with you. Anyway, let’s try to forget about that. I know you’ve been talking about a bucket list, and so I thought it was time we actually wrote some things down. I also contacted the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Do you know what that is?” I don’t even bother suppressing my grin. It’s been incredibly difficult to keep this secret to myself. I haven’t even told Abby because I wanted Connor to be the first to know.
“I think so. Don’t they pay for you to go to Disney World? That’s really cool of you, but I’ve already been there, and it’s kinda for babies, isn’t it?” His face falls ever so slightly before he drops his gaze to the ground.
I lightly shove his shoulder. “Well, yes, that’s one of the things they do. But the Make-A-Wish Foundation grants whatever wish you have. It’s not just Disney World. It can be just about anything. And they have agreed to grant you a wish. Any wish, Connor!”
He blinks at me several times, and I can see the wheels turning.
After several beats of silence he blurts out, “KO!”
“What?” I ask, confused by his response. “Like knockout? You know you can’t do any contact sports!” Horrified at the thought of someone knocking him out, I recoil.
A short burst of laughter erupts from deep in his chest. “Oh my gosh! No! Man, you are so old. KO is a fighter. Like, the best fighter there is, really. That’s the fight I was just watching. I’ve seen all of them, actually. Aunt Sid, can that be my wish? Can I really ask to meet him? That’s all I want.” Throwing his arms up, he knocks his bottle of orange juice in to my lap.
“Shit! Uh, I mean, uh,” I sputter, looking around, embarrassed to have cursed in the middle of the dialysis lab.
Margaret comes bustling over with a couple towels and a smirk on her face. “Boy, you must have really said something bad to have him throwing juice at you!” she scolds, a sly grin on her face.
Connor looks over at her, mock horror on his face. “No, ma’am! I wouldn’t throw juice at the best aunt that’s ever lived.”
Oh, he is definitely trying to butter me up.
After taking the towel from Margaret’s outstretched hand, I wipe the juice off my lap.
“I get to meet my idol! Make-One-Wish is gonna set up a meeting with the light heavyweight champ for me! Can you believe it?” He trips over his words while Margaret mops up the mess he made.
She looks at me, confused, while Connor continues to ramble on about KO and fights.
“It’s Make-A-Wish, not Make-One-Wish, silly. And that’s not guaranteed. They do everything in their power to grant every child’s wish, but we don’t know what this KO person’s schedule is like or if he will even agree to it.” With a groan, I give up cleaning my pants and drop the towel.
“He just had a fight, so he should have time. And of course he wants to meet me. Who wouldn’t?” Connor says with the oversized confidence of a teenage boy.
“Okay, buddy. Let’s take it down a notch. Your big head is going to suck all of the oxygen out of the room.” I can’t help but laugh at the silly grin on his face. “The lady I spoke with told me that you should write a letter with whatever your wish is. When you finish the letter, let’s get started on that bucket list. You better make that one pretty long though, because we have at least another sixty years to complete it.” I hand him the pad of paper and wink.
I know nothing about the sport—if that’s what you would even call fighting other guys for a living—other than what I’ve overheard Connor and his friends talk about. But this fighter seems to be pretty popular. Closing my eyes, I say a silent prayer that this guy will accept Connor’s request and at least agree to meet him. Connor seems confident that he will, but I’m not holding my breath.
I’ve been avoiding Mark’s calls all week. I haven’t actually read any of the texts he’s been sending, either. Instead, I just send him a generic “I’m fine” response so that he knows I’m still alive.
It’s probably because I’m a pussy, but I tell myself, and anyone who will listen, that it’s because I’m a grown-ass man and don’t need to check in with my trainer like I’m ten years old.
Now that my three-week “break” is finally over, I’m headed to the gym. Time to get back to training for the next one, although they haven’t yet announced who I’ll be fighting. I’d like to say that the incident at Club Raw was the last of its kind, but unfortunately, that’s not the case.
I’ve been kicked out of two other clubs since then. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t started either of those fights. As a matter of fact, I even tried walking away from the last one. But, when some drunk asshole starts putting his hands on a woman, it’s pretty much an obligation to put an end to it.
Luckily for me, the cops agreed with me in that regard and didn’t arrest me. Unluckily for me, the bars didn’t give a shit why I had destroyed their property, instead wanting restitution.
Mark was calling me nonstop because of the shit that was all over the news, and that’s why I didn’t answer. I wasn’t ready to face the consequences.
My train of thought is interrupted by my phone pinging with a text.
Tripp: Good luck with Mark, man. He’s gonna rip your balls off and feed them to that dog of his.
Me: What the fuck ever. I told you he’s not my daddy. I don’t have to check in with him while I’m on vacation.
Tripp: You’re right. He’s not your daddy. Your daddy wouldn’t have even bothered to check up on you. Maybe that’s why you’re such a prick?
Me: Guess I come by it honestly. I’m walking in now. Beer later?
Tripp: If you can still walk without your balls, sure. Let me know when and where.
I put my phone away and take a deep breath as I open the door to the gym.
Ready or not, here we go.
&nbs
p; I haven’t even stepped fully inside the door when Mark starts.
“Don’t come sauntering your ass in here like it’s just another day in paradise. Breccan, what the fuck?”
It doesn’t take long for the smirk I plastered on my face to turn into a grimace when I see the look he’s giving me.
Slowing my feet to avoid getting too close to him, I plead, “Mark, come on, man. Don’t start in on me as soon as I get here. At least let me get changed before you start busting my balls.”
At the mention of my balls, I peer around for his dog, just in case. He wouldn’t actually cut them off, but that dog is scary as hell and I don’t want to chance not having any little Brecs running around someday in the future—way, way, way in the future.
He pulls a chair out at one of the tables and takes a seat. “Oh, you’re not working out today, so no need to change. Last time you pulled some shit, I tried to work the stupid out of you. It didn’t work. So, now, I’m trying a different approach. Sit your ass down,” he commands while gesturing to the chair across from his.
The paperwork in his hand makes me nervous for some reason. My mind starts to go wild with possibilities.
Hesitantly, I pull the chair out and sit on the edge. “What’s that in your hand? It’s not my contract, is it?” I don’t know why I’m so worried about my contract with the league. There’s no way that the few transgressions I’ve had over the past couple of weeks would cause them to terminate my employment with them. I’ve been the undisputed champ for far too long.
Waving the paper in my direction, he asks “This? No, it’s not your damn contract, you asshole. We’ll get to what this is in a minute. First, we need to talk about what the hell is wrong with you. And I want a straight answer as to why you’ve been photographed partying almost every night the past two weeks. And why you’ve been kicked out of three different nightclubs in as long. So, before you start spewing your bullshit, I want you to remember who it is you’re talking to here.” Mark arches his eyebrows in a challenge.