Tribute Act

by Joanna Chambers

  “Yeah? Try telling him that. He was horrified.” He shook his head and even offered a lopsided smile, but I could sense he was hurt, and I hated it.

  I remembered Derek’s expression earlier as he’d berated Mack for not calling first and honestly, right then, I could cheerfully have punched my stepdad. But surely he hadn’t really been horrified to see Mack? Surely it was shock that made him react like that?

  I let a moment pass, then said gently, “He was surprised, for sure, but of course he wants to see you—he wrote to you, didn’t he?”

  Mack’s look was wry. “He wrote to me because he wants me to donate my liver to my little sister.” He lifted his lager and took another swig. Set it down. “And that’s fine. It’s not like I’d’ve come for any other reason. Like I said back there, I’m not interested in some big reunion. It’s way too late for that.”

  My heart twisted painfully in my chest at those words. I didn’t know what to say. What could I say after all? I was the guy with two dads—one of them his. What did I know?

  “Speaking of which,” Mack continued, frowning at his pint of lager. “I shouldn’t be drinking any more booze. In case I’m a match.” He pushed it a couple of inches away.

  I couldn’t help thinking about him last night, reaching out to me in the dark. His words.

  “Hold me.”

  He had needed me last night—or at least, he’d needed someone. We all needed someone, sometimes. And God help me, but I was a fixer.

  I began, my tone tentative, “Maybe Derek—”

  His hand landed on my forearm, warm and firm. “Don’t, okay? I don’t want to talk about my dad.” He gave a half smile to take away the sting, and I nodded.

  Just then, an electronic feedback shriek made us both jump.

  “Sorry!” someone yelled out—it was the ponytailed guy from the bar, plugging his guitar into a speaker at the tiny stage area. Andy, Jago had called him.

  “Looks like we’re getting some music.” Mack seemed pleased, watching the guy set up his equipment with obvious interest.

  “You’re a musician, aren’t you?” I said.

  He turned back to me, eyebrows pleated over the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, kind of. How did you know?”

  “You had a guitar case in your hotel room.”

  “Oh, right.” He shrugged. “I suppose. It depends on your definition of musician. I play, but mainly for myself, not to make a living. It’s not like I’m hoping to hit the big time.”

  “You’re not a professional then?”

  “Nah, I just love to play. As soon as you start trying to make money or get known, that gets tainted, you know?”

  Tainted. Interesting choice of word

  “So what do you do the rest of the time?” I asked.

  “All sorts. I was working as a barman in Manchester till last week, but I’ve been a kitchen hand, waiter, labourer, cleaner, worked in warehouses and factories.” He offered me a small smile. “I’ll turn my hand to pretty much anything. What about you?”

  I sipped my pint. “I studied marketing and business studies at uni. Worked in London for a while, then a couple of years ago, I came back to Porthkennack.”

  He gave me a curious look. “Why?”

  It hadn’t occurred to me he wouldn’t already know but of course he didn’t.

  “I—um—I work in the family business. Dilly’s.”

  “Dilly’s? Wait.” He frowned, thinking. “Do you mean the ice cream shop my dad bought down here?”

  I shifted awkwardly. “Yeah. That’s it. It’s more of a café now though. We still make and sell ice cream, but we do breakfasts, lunches, and afternoon teas. We’re hoping to expand into next door at some point.” I realised I was babbling and stopped talking abruptly.

  Mack eyed me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Impossible to ignore the obvious fact that this might prove to be a source of resentment between us. Me, the stepson, working with Mack’s dad in the “family business,” while Mack scraped by in what sounded like a series of temporary jobs. But in the end, all he said was, “You gave up a fancy career in London to sell ninety-nines in Cornwall?” To my relief, he chuckled. “You must be mad.”

  I laughed too. “I do make the odd ninety-nine,” I admitted, “but my main role is dealing with all the business stuff—the boring stuff. Derek makes the ice cream, Mum and me run the café between us, and we have a couple of part-timers to help out.”

  Mack raised a brow. “Must be demanding.”

  I glanced at him, wondering if there was any sarcasm there, but it didn’t seem like it. “It can be,” I said lightly.

  Over at the stage area, Ponytail Andy hopped up onto a tall stool and began playing a few exploratory chords. Mack watched him intently. After a few moments he said, without looking at me, “What happens if I’m not a match?”

  “Rosie stays on the waiting list,” I said. “And we wait to see if a donor comes up. It could happen.”

  He nodded, tight-lipped.

  “Fingers crossed you’ll be a match though,” I added.

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “Fingers crossed.”

  We stayed for Andy’s short set—he played four songs, only one of which I recognised, an early Bob Dylan hit. He was a good guitarist but an indifferent singer, and I pretty much zoned out while he was playing. Mack listened attentively though.

  A couple of times, Mack reached for his pint, only to remember his decision not to drink it and withdraw his hand. After a bit, I got up, taking the pint away, replacing it with a Coke. Mack blinked at me when I set the fresh drink down.

  “Thanks.” He sounded surprised.

  Our drinks were long finished by the time Andy started packing up.

  “Do you want another?” I asked, gesturing at Mack’s empty glass.

  He yawned. “Nah, I think I’ll head back to the B&B now.”

  I was tired myself, but still, I felt oddly disappointed at the thought of the night coming to an end, though I hid my thoughts behind an easy smile, reaching for my jacket.

  “Actually, can you wait a sec?” Mack said quickly. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  I subsided back into my chair. “Sure.”

  He darted off to the stage area, where Ponytail Andy greeted him with a friendly smile. They spoke for a couple of minutes—Mack giving the guy some kind of compliment, judging by the pleased grin on the other man’s face—before Mack strolled back to me.

  “Ready now?” I asked when he got back to the table.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to tell him how much I liked the arrangement he did on that last song.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that. He’d probably made the guy’s week.

  Outside the pub, it was surprisingly chilly. A fresh, cold breeze had started blowing in off the sea. Mack paused on the pub steps to zip up his jacket.

  “Where do you live, then?” he asked once we’d headed off.

  “Not far from your B&B,” I said. “My flat’s pretty close to the seafront.”

  After we’d walked a bit further, he said, “It’s a nice little town. Cute. Bloody quiet, though.”

  “It can be,” I agreed. “Especially in winter.”

  “Do you ever miss London?”

  “Sometimes,” I admitted. “Mostly when I want to do something like go clubbing, like last night. I’ve got to go all the way to Plymouth now for that, and it’s a bit of a drive, though I can at least stay with Gav, my mate.”

  “Yeah,” Mack said. “Look, about last night . . .”

  My heart started pounding with anticipation. “Yeah?”

  He sighed. “You’re not going to, you know, say anything?”

  The wave of disappointment that swamped me was as surprising as it was ridiculous. What had I expected? To be invited up to his chintzy B&B bedroom for more amazing sex while his landlady listened outside the door? He was obviously only raising the subject to make sure there was no danger of me blabbing about what had happened bet
ween us to Mum and Derek.

  I pasted a smile on my face, though it felt awkward as hell. “Course not. It’s just between us.”

  He nodded, gaze averted. Said softly, “Thanks.”

  And that was that.

  As we walked on, in silence, I found myself musing on why he’d felt the need to check that point—was it possible Derek didn’t know he was gay? That Mack was worried about breaking the news? Maybe I should tell him that Derek already knew about me and it wasn’t something he had a problem with?

  Eventually, I blurted out, “Does your dad not know? That you’re gay, I mean?”

  “Oh, he knows.” Mack’s tone was grim. That surprised me. I wanted to know more, but there was a finality, a warning, in his tone that was clearly intended to discourage further questions.

  We had reached my turnoff and, reluctantly, I slowed my pace. I pointed up the side street. “This is me.”

  He stopped. “Oh, right.”

  “The seafront’s only a couple of minutes down the hill. Take a left when you get there. It’s about five minutes’ walk to the White Rose.”

  Mack nodded. “Thanks. I’ll say good night, then.”

  “Yeah, night.” Impulsively, I stuck out my hand and after a moment, he took it. His hand was warm, his grip firm. When our eyes met, I was struck again by how very appealing I found him, and felt an unexpected pang, as though at a loss.

  Why did he have to be Derek’s son?

  Our hands separated and fell back to our sides.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” I hadn’t intended it to be a question, but somehow an inquiring note crept in at the end.

  “Yeah, I said I’d go up to your mum’s place after breakfast. She was anxious for me to get back there early doors tomorrow.”

  “She’s pretty stressed,” I explained. “She won’t sleep tonight, worrying.”

  Mack tilted his head, his expression curious. “Worrying about what? Me running off?”

  I sighed. “Probably, yeah. Don’t be offended—this whole thing’s been really hard on her—she’s not completely rational right now. Rosie’s her baby.”

  He shrugged. “It’s fine—I understand. And I won’t be running off, okay? I may have issues with my dad, but that doesn’t come into it. If I can help Rosie, I will.”

  Something about the way he said that, how his steady gaze met mine as he spoke, convinced me.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He turned away then, lifting a hand in a final farewell as he began ambling down the hill, calling over his shoulder, “Good night.”

  “Night,” I replied, though I didn’t move. Just stood there and watched him till he turned the corner and was out of sight.

  He didn’t look back.

  Mack was a match.

  Weirdly, the news surprised me. Maybe it was because there had been so many blows by then: first, the mystery of Rosie’s illness; then the diagnosis; then the news that none of us could help her. But now, for the first time in what felt like forever, there was good news. Mack could help her.

  He could save her life.

  The process was quick. Mack had to undergo a raft of physical tests and scans, but these were arranged swiftly, and within days, we had a green light. The main delay arose after that, when the hospital insisted that Mack speak with a counsellor and take some time to reflect on his decision before confirming he wanted to proceed.

  The night after he met with the counsellor, Mack announced his intention to visit a friend in Essex for a bit.

  “The last thing you need is me sitting around here twiddling my thumbs while I weigh all this up,” he’d said firmly.

  He was wrong though. While he was gone, Rosie’s mood reached a new low and Mum got so stressed, I began to worry she might be heading for a breakdown. I’d never seen her in such a state. As for Derek, he was walking around like a zombie, unable to concentrate on anything.

  For my part, I focussed on the practicalities—someone had to hold everything together after all, and it wasn’t like there was much else I could do, so I threw myself into running Dilly’s, insisting that Mum and Derek prioritise Rosie. When I wasn’t working double shifts at the café, I was at the Costco or paying bills or banking takings . . . I even washed the bloody windows one day. That was one good thing about running your own business. You never ran out of things to do.

  Six days later, Mack came back.

  He arrived at the house on the Thursday evening and announced that he definitely wanted to go ahead.

  After that, things moved fast.

  The surgery date was quickly arranged—it was sobering to realise how pressing the doctors considered the procedure to be—along with a bunch of other presurgery appointments. Over the two weeks leading up to surgery, it felt like Rosie and Mack were constantly at the hospital having something tested or scanned or measured. Mum and Derek were at pretty much every appointment, which left me holding the fort at the café.

  It was fine. Someone had to keep our employees in work and our customers coming through the doors, but yeah, there were times, occasionally, when I wished it didn’t always have to be me; when I wished I wasn’t constantly on the outside of what was happening with my sister. In my worst moments, I’d wonder if Rosie thought I didn’t care and that I was more concerned about keeping Dilly’s running. I knew she thought I was obsessed by the business—she was always rolling her eyes when I went round to hassle Mum and Derek about incomplete paperwork and unpaid bills. But right then, quite honestly, I couldn’t have cared less about it. It was just that looking after the café was the only way I could contribute to our family crisis. It wasn’t as if I could tag along to the appointments.

  Not like Mack.

  And God, what kind of a dick was I to feel resentful of that? Mack was giving her his fucking liver.

  I wasn’t really resentful. But sometimes I’d go round in the evening, and I’d walk into the living room, and there they would be, the four of them, and they’d look up, and I’d feel like . . . an interloper.

  And sometimes, just sometimes, the idea would flash across my mind—He’s the interloper, not me.

  It would be a fleeting thought, banished an instant later. I knew it was dickish and stupid and untrue to boot. Unkind. But sometimes—well, yeah, that was how I felt.

  A couple of nights before the surgery was due to take place, I went round to the house after closing up the café, like I’d been doing every night that week. When I walked in, the four of them were midconversation—or rather, Mum was midrant. She had a determined expression on her face and her voice had gone up in pitch, the way it did when she was agitated. Derek was sitting, silent and plainly uncomfortable, on the sofa beside her, and Rosie was slouched miserably in her favourite armchair.

  Mack, who appeared to be the victim of her rant, looked hunted.

  “It’s six weeks’ recovery time,” Mum was telling him. “It makes sense. You need someone to take care of you, and you’ve admitted yourself you can’t afford to stay at the B&B any longer.”

  “What’s up?” I asked settling myself down in the only remaining vacant chair.

  Mum glanced at me. “We’re talking about where Dylan’s going to stay after the surgery. It’s obvious he should come here. We’ve got loads of room, and I’ll be running around after Rosie anyway. I may as well run after two as one.”

  “But I’m not going to be bed-ridden,” Mack protested. “I don’t need a nurse.”

  “Then why not stay here?” I asked. “There’s a spare room, and Mum would love to have you. You can’t stay at the B&B for six weeks.”

  “That’s what I said!” Mum exclaimed. She sent Mack a reproachful look. “I don’t know why you won’t let us help you.”

  Mack stared at his hands while a dark red flush crept up his neck. He appeared as uncomfortable as Derek, ready to crawl under a rock.

  Like father, like son.

  Of course, being me, Mr. Fixer, I had to step in and try to make it better. Smoo
th over Mum’s offended hurt; offer another explanation. Mediate.

  I turned to her. “I can understand where Mack’s coming from—he doesn’t want to take up your time when you need to be concentrating on Rosie. She’s going to need all your attention after surgery.”

  Mack glanced up, his expression grateful. “Yeah. That’s it.” He offered Mum his usual diffident shrug. “Rosie should be your priority when we get out. You can’t be running after me as well.”

  “I don’t mind,” Mum said, but there was a note of doubt in her voice now.

  “Besides,” Mack went on firmly, “I’ll be up and about pretty quickly and—”

  For the first time since I’d arrived, Derek spoke up, interrupting Mack midsentence, his tone flat and uncompromising. “The doctor said you need to factor in a full six-week recovery period, son.”

  Mack’s gaze snapped to his dad, his expression hardening, till eventually, Derek flushed and glanced away. The hostility coming off Mack was palpable.

  “She also agreed that someone who’s young and in decent shape might recover faster than that,” Mack pointed out. “And frankly, Dad, I don’t intend to hang around here for six whole weeks.”

  “I know you can’t wait to leave,” Derek said bleakly, “but you can’t just go running off the day after your surgery, or even the next week—first, you need to give your body a chance to get over this. They’re cutting out half your liver, for Christ’s sake! It’s a major operation. Not something to take lightly.” His voice went hoarse on the last words. Then he added, more briskly, “Besides, like they told you, you won’t be discharged till they do the three-month scan to check your liver’s grown back properly.”

  Mack exhaled sharply. “Listen—” he began, and somehow I knew he wasn’t going to give in. For whatever reason—and yes, I could guess why, we probably all could—he didn’t want to stay under the same roof as Derek. But no way could we leave him to fend for himself after surgery. He was mad if he thought we’d let that happen.

  “Why don’t you stay with me?” I blurted.

  The words were out of my mouth before I’d thought them through. Before I’d considered my own brief and secret history with Mack.