Larry's Kidney: Being the True Story of How I Found Myself in China with My Black Sheep Cousin and His Mail-Order Bride, Skirting the Law to Get Him a Transplant--and Save His Life

by Daniel Asa Rose

  “I know why I came here,” I say. “Looking at you, so young, I understand. Larry and I were young together. Now he’s facing death. But he’s the first person I care about in my family’s generation to be up against it like this. There was no way I was going to let death take him without a fight.”

  “I understand this,” Jade says.

  “Even a baby fight, even a token resistance. This was my protest, my shrimpy sit-down strike, saying you can’t snatch us that easily, every damn time, we’ve got to be able to postpone the inevitable just a tiny bit longer….”

  “I am capable to understand all this.”

  “I know you are. Whatever is the true, whatever is the false, I know you know.”

  “I do,” she says.

  “We’re still naïve, you and me. I’m the most naïve of all, to think I could come here without knowing anyone and score an illegal kidney. To think that Larry has the golden heart even though I’ve seen the awful tarnish on it. This kind of naïveté is irresponsible, reckless—the Disapproving Docs are right!—almost inexcusable. And yet I keep it, I prize it….”

  “Me as well.”

  “To feel about you the way I do—”

  But we bang the cab in front of us. We’re in a queue of cabs jostling for position in front of the train station. And suddenly it’s a mob scene even worse than two months ago, because after all the Chinese population has continued to grow in the last sixty days. People are coming in on ancient trains from the countryside who’ve never been to a city in their lives. They are bewildered country bumpkins with stick-out hair who’ve never seen a Caucasian before, certainly not one with a wiry goatee and a panama hat, holding the hand of a twenty-four-year-old Chinese woman, leading her to her track.

  “What is your name?” I shout, pulling her along in the crush.

  “You know my name.”

  “No, your real name.”

  She tells me. I have to have her repeat it. “Jinghua.”

  “Jinghua,” I say.

  “Jeeeeeen, jeeeeen,” she prompts.

  I pull my lips back over my front teeth. “Jeeeeeen.”

  “Gwuah!”

  It’s a throat thing, deep near my tonsils, an uncustomary sound, almost obscene, like kissing the inside of a flower or tonguing a humming-bird. No wonder her teeth are always wet; it’s like soul-kissing in a sun shower. I dig the sound out with my breath and utter it forth, the sound of what she goes by, the sound of who she is. “Jeeeeen-gwah!”

  “Give it up!” she shouts.

  The peasantry is gawping at us, more than one of them with fingers in their noses, causing the pedestrian jams to thicken. It’s almost time for her train to leave. We shove and wedge until finally we’re at her track.

  “I must get something off my chest,” I tell her as we approach her train, steaming there like an old workhorse. “I’m reluctant, but I feel I must.”

  She looks frightened.

  “I’ve been around the world a few times. I’ve seen a lot of things, but you…”

  Our hands are pulled apart as the peasantry intervenes, looking dazed as they shuffle through. This is the ageless, long-suffering substance of the Chinese nation, deeply sunburned, immemorially burnished by the sun as though they’ve been sleeping outside for centuries, in the fields with their crops for millennia. They’ve been rained on by history, they’ve had the elements happen to them for so long that it’s like they’ve become part of the elements, an elementary force of nature. Most of them are pushing one another unthinkingly, but some are stopping in their tracks to stare at the Western man with the Eastern woman who is weeping openly now, groping for each other’s fingers.

  “But you,” I resume, “are more beautiful even than a cauliflower.”

  The tears gush forth in a spurt of laughter, which she fights to stifle because she has something to tell me in response.

  “So may we never use the word ‘love,’ not proper between father and daughter….”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “But maybe, when I have babies, I tell them I love them. Maybe our generation will be different. May be….”

  “Good-bye, daughter I never had.”

  “Do not remove my memory from you heart, please.”

  “I do not. Never. Never.”

  “I miss forever your smart face and pretty sound.”

  “Long live the naïveté of the Chinese and American peoples!” I say.

  She pushes my shoulder ever so slightly.

  I push her shoulder ever so slightly back. Then I push her harder, toward her train.

  So in the end I leave China by myself. Instead of Jade seeing me off at the airport, I see her off at the train station, and it feels right that I make my departure alone, the way I arrived. I feel extremely solitary in the back of my cab, driving past Tiananmen Square with the giant portrait of Mao looking more like Larry than Larry ever did, seeming to send me a big inscrutable wink…out past the hutongs where people live, the houses I can’t see into, the whitewashed rooms with harsh sunlight bleaching the threadbare cots and lizards running up and down the walls…or maybe that’s Africa…or maybe that’s everywhere I’ve never heard of…where millions of patients lie waiting with veins ticking for a transplant that will never come. May I have one last rollover prayer, O Sharpest Dresser of them all, King of Coincidence and Singer of Sagas Supreme, that they be tossed a holy bone, too? Reduce the suffering, I pray.

  And then I’m at the airport, checking my bag at the sidewalk. In my isolation I fantasize that Dr. X will surprise me by showing up to see me off, in a Bentley overflowing with people I’ve grown attached to: Mary and Cherry, and the Super 2 den mother here to blow kisses goodbye, Artie the KFC deliveryman, some of the waltzing Red Guards. And maybe some of my favorite cabbies will show up, as well: the kidnap cabbie with his dimply wife, the Queen Latifah cabbie weaving her way through the airport traffic honking her horn and shouting “Long, long live!” And maybe Abu on his motor scooter, deciding to take off his mittens and give me a proper handshake good-bye. And others I don’t recognize: a Puerto Rican student now working as a flack for the cruise lines—what’s she doing in my fantasy send-off? Along with others I’ve never seen before: godchildren and colleagues of Larry’s, and a bevy of nuns, including a round one clutching a letter of recommendation, unforged this time. And Jade, dear double agent Jade, coming clean once and for all, swearing loyalty, waving a companion ticket to America to be adopted into my family as the sister my boys never had, or something. Maybe even Larry, a younger version of Larry before he took ill, Larry at his bar mitzvah, the tubby kid who brought me a plate of strawberry shortcake in the parking lot, panting a little because his bow tie was on too tight.

  Maybe even this: a bad-bad criminal pleading for his life back in a language I’ll never understand.

  But none of this happens, of course. In the end I’m alone as I make my way through the airport, as I shuffle across the tarmac, as I climb the steps into my plane and take my seat and adjust my earphones. But I’m filled with all these people. They’re inside me now, part of the multitude who make up who I am. As the plane lifts itself from the runway, they join me in crossing fingers for the next person who dares come out from under the blankets to take charge of his own destiny, throwing himself upon the good graces of this world, in China or beyond: Good luck, we trick you….

  Epilogue

  To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.

  My cousin and I were young together. Now we’re young no more. But at least Larry’s life is preserved for the time being. One year later, his kidney’s going strong.

  Such is not the case for the rest of him, however. He’s a fifty-something-year-old man with a thirty-something-year-old kidney living inside him. The kidney’s willing; the body’s in decline. How long they will continue to work together is anyone’s guess. He’s weaned himself off his quad walker, limps along with only a cane, and rarely speaks of suicide.

  Ironically, the on
ly medical complication of the whole ordeal arose shortly after he returned home—and it was not from the Chinese side of things but the American. He landed in a Florida hospital for a week either because he wasn’t taking his antirejection meds or because his American doctors misread the instructions from Dr. X and prescribed four times the antirejection meds he required. To hear Larry tell it, it could have been either, but in any case he was nothing but delighted about this for a time, because he figured he could sue the doctors and recoup what he put out for his trip to China…before ultimately deciding against it.

  Did Mary talk him out of it? But why? Did it go against her convoluted code of ethics? We may never know the complexities of that human being…because she’s gone. When all was said and done, her miscommunications, her cultural misapprehensions, whatever name we want to put on it, proved too much for Larry. He wanted nothing more than to live out his days in wedded bliss with her down by the pool at his condo—maybe he’d take up crochet, maybe she’d be phoning in hits to the mob—but it was not to be. They remain pen pals, and he demonstrates his continued fondness by sending her gifts through the mail.

  For her part, Mary has put herself back on candeyblossoms.com. With the correct data this time.

  There was another woman Larry met in China, a nurse who caught his fancy. Not the medical resident who resembled his dead twin, but a nurse from the dialysis clinic outside Beijing where he refused treatment. A nurse I never met and about whom Larry breathed not a word the entire trip. Maybe she had something to do with his refusal to undergo dialysis that day in the dusty courtyard? Maybe that was why he insisted on getting gifts for everyone there? I don’t know and am content to know that I’ll never know. A genuine Larry Inscrutable.

  Of which there remain many. Has he dropped his fatwa against Burton? I’m not sure. I would think that the fact that I’ve included it in a book about our adventure would satisfy Larry that he’s made his point…or at least scare him out of it, since it’s now a matter of public record. But I simply don’t know. He’s a tree stump—immovable by its nature, ultimately unknowable. All I can do is inform Burton of the continuing threat, and this I am hereby doing.

  I assume Larry has not put a fatwa on me, but I did do him a pretty big favor, so I’m just not sure.

  I do know that Larry has been a bit troubled, off and on, by the idea of my announcing our mission to the world this way. It breaks the second of his cardinal rules, which is: Never admit to a crime. No matter what, never admit to a crime. When I explain that we didn’t commit a crime, exactly, there’s a Mona Lisa silence on his end of the line, and my admiration for da Vinci knows no bounds.

  Cardinal rule number one, by the way, is: Never sign your name. I don’t know how a person is supposed to follow that, but Larry swears by it. Sign George Washington or Sgt. Pepper, but never sign your name.

  Neither rule, incidentally, prevents him from running for chairman of his condo association, a race he thinks about entering, if he judges he’s up for the nastiness such a campaign often entails.

  After getting home, did it briefly cross Larry’s mind to maybe send me a strawberry shortcake, by way of thank-you? I’m romantic enough to think that maybe it did. I do know that I briefly considered sending him a 1909 VDB-S penny, in tribute to all we’ve shared. But I ultimately decided against it. Maybe something similar went on with him. Or maybe it slipped his mind.

  Oh, talk about slipping the mind: the nurse, I almost forgot. Larry is actively courting her by e-mail and plans to go back to China to see if they’re meant to be together. If it doesn’t take, he hopes to finish out his days in China anyway. Despite how arduous our adventure was, he grew very fond of China and considers our two months there one of the best times of his life. “Plus, way cheaper.”

  As for me, I’m grateful to be back with my family, pooling our body heat. My wife remains incomparable, Spencer continues to teach me about kindness, and Jeremy has taken up the sax, a development that has necessitated the return of my earplugs. The ducks are fine, again for the time being. All is temporal. “What does not change,” as the old gravestones say.

  One last thing to report. When the weather warmed again, after a brutal winter, I put on shorts I hadn’t worn since leaving China that last night. I found a folded up, handwritten note inside my front pocket. I’ll leave it to you to name the person who put it there, but she must have done so around the time I was sneaking a note into her purse. This is what it said: “If you are ever sick, come back to China and I will take care of you.”

  I thought that was kind of nice.

  Farewell, and (Cool) Godspeed to us all.

  Nice Clear Morals, as Larry Prescribed

  Moral 1. Don’t try to go to China for a kidney. We got the last one. However, you can take charge of your own medical destiny. You can question your health care. You can jump on a plane for wider options. In general, it is entirely possible to save your own life, as Larry did.

  Moral 2. Don’t let your organs die with you. Everyone should visit the Web site www.donatelife.net to see how simple it is to donate an organ or two. Additionally, the United States can reverse the donation default, the way Spain and a number of other countries have, so when you die your organs will automatically be considered available for donation, unless you specifically opted out. Finally, people can pressure their legislators to offer donors any number of inducements such as tax credits to help save the thousands of patients who die each year awaiting various transplants.

  Acknowledgments

  Funny thing: The last time I penned an acknowledgments page, almost a decade ago, I complained that writing was a solitary business. That’s how it felt back then. But my progression as a writer has been largely one of comprehending how much help is out there in the air we breathe, and that all writing is collaborative to a greater degree than I ever imagined. Larry’s Kidney has been a joint effort from the beginning: first with the Chinese people, who were extraordinarily gracious and kind in all their dealings with us. Then, too, the actions described herein could never have happened had not my Western contacts in China stuck their necks way, way out to help a couple of complete strangers. To the individuals of both groups, who must out of necessity go unnamed, I offer my awe for your unstinting generosity and courage.

  On these relatively safe shores, the names can readily be sung. Don Snyder, novelist and screenwriter, has been my guardian angel throughout the writing. It was Don who first hammered out with me, in the course of a shared work-out session, how this book could be structured, and he has stuck by me ever since. Our colleagues at Western Connecticut State University’s MFA Program in Writing, where Don and I are both writers-in-residence, have been more than supportive: They have been inspirational. Not only mon vieux John Briggs, but also Brian Clements, Cecilia Woloch, Mark Sundeen, Paulo Corso, Elizabeth Cohen, Dan Pope, and Laurel Richards; as well as the many brilliant students who never missed a trick. Thanks also to the National Endowment for the Arts, whose support was deeply appreciated, and to Larry himself, for giving me the opportunity to help. Couldn’t have done it without you, cuz.

  Has ever an author had a more sterling agent-editor team than I’ve had? The indomitable Jennifer Joel, with her polish and nuance, and my editor, Henry Ferris, with his vision and resolve, have been staunch allies on my behalf. Together they prodded, pummeled, even withheld affection till they were satisfied I had delivered myself of the best of which I was capable. Hats off to you both.

  I am indeed fortunate to have an exquisite backup team of early readers: Bonnie Friedman, Jamie Miles, Avery Rome, Lawrence Goodman, and my genius cousin S.I. Rosenbaum. Also sundry stalwarts who did me various solids: Peter Loescher, Lee Kitchen, Sue Bodine, Steve Sheppard, Andrea Cannistraci, Peter Temes, Niki Castle, Peter Hubbard, Tavia Kowalchuck, Brianne Halverson, Wendy Kaufman, Marty Resnick, Peggy Bacon, Laurel Touby, Carolyn Hessel, Dan Schnur, Anita Chakin, Mike Roberts, April from the soccer match, Maureen the best copyeditor ever, Martha and Tim, Andy an
d Jen, John and Fay, James and Nina, Laura and Bill, Mark and Laura, Larry and Kim, Susan and Tony, Gret and Julie, David and Penny, Cec and David, Kate and Lawrence, Ron and Stacy, Mary Jane and Mark, Rachel and Peter, Hester and Michael, Josh and Jeanne, Johnny and Teresa, Nick and Nancy, Sy and Ilene, Stephen and Jill, Ginger and John, Addison and Stacey, Liza and Barnaby, Carolyn and Tom, Merrill and Phoebe, Ellen and Jason, Gil and Graciela, Barbara and Walter, Renee and Paul, Clarice and Malcolm, Gilly and Mike.

  Sacrifices were cheerfully borne, as always, by my four boys: Alex, Marshall, Spencer, and Jeremy. They all made their indelible marks on the book, though I didn’t include the first two in the text because (a) they’re grown, and (b) they’ve been victimized by me enough in earlier books. Alas for her, my wife, Shelley, does not so easily escape my gratitude. Sorry, Slim. You kept the home fires blazing in a pretty stiff breeze.

  In spirit, I have had Sara and M. Edward Rose with me through every step of the journey. And, lately, my mother. Thank you, dear souls.

  The named above, and many more unnamed, are the real heroes of this saga—all I did was the glorious grunt work.

  About the Author

  DANIEL A SA R OSE has won an O. Henry Prize, two PEN Fiction Awards, and an NEA Fellowship. Formerly arts and culture editor of Forward and currently an editor of the international literary magazine The Reading Room, he has written for the New Yorker, Esquire, Vanity Fair, GQ, and the New York Times Magazine, and is the author of the acclaimed memoir Hiding Places: A Father and His Sons Retrace Their Family’s Escape from the Holocaust. He lives in a colonial farmhouse in Massachusetts.

  www.danielasarose.com

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