by Kylie Ladd
‘Hamish,’ Nell said as she opened the door. ‘Come in. Have you been at the hospital? I was just about to ring you and see if there was any news.’
‘Hi, Nell,’ he said, bending to kiss her cheek.
‘Daddy!’ Molly yelled, careening down the hallway. He scooped her up and held her tightly, her small heart thudding against his. She smelled of crayons and milk and for a moment he felt he could never bear to let her go.
‘Have you eaten dinner?’ Nell asked. ‘Arran’s here, with John. There’s plenty left.’
Hamish swung Molly up onto his shoulders and followed Nell back along the hall to the kitchen, jouncing Molly up and down so that she giggled. ‘I’m not hungry, thanks,’ he said, raising a hand in greeting to Arran and John. ‘A beer would be good though.’
Nell went to the fridge and he sat down at the table, Molly tumbling into his lap.
‘Nanna got me a new bear, Daddy,’ she said.
‘Did she? Why don’t you get him to show me?’
Molly carefully lowered herself to the floor, then toddled off towards her bedroom.
‘I was just trying to make her smile,’ Nell said. ‘I took her into the hospital this morning, the poor little thing’s missing her mum so much, but Skye was so drowsy she could barely talk to her.’
‘When’s she getting out?’ John asked. ‘Perhaps we could have Molly to stay over one night, give you all a break.’ Hamish expected Arran to scoff at the idea, but he merely nodded and took another sip from his glass.
‘Not yet,’ Hamish said. His mouth was dry, and he took a grateful swig from his beer. He concentrated on speaking calmly. ‘Skye’s doctor thinks that she needs a new kidney. The one that got damaged probably isn’t going to come good, and the other one isn’t working properly because of how sick she was when she had Molly.’
‘A new kidney?’ asked Nell, staring at him in horror.
‘I’ve offered mine, but apparently I need to be tested first, to see if it’s compatible. Dr Madigan was wondering if any of you wanted to be tested as well.’
‘I will,’ said Arran, leaning across the table. ‘What have I got to do?’
Hamish reached for the papers tucked inside his jacket, but before he could pull them out John put a hand on Arran’s arm and said, ‘Babe, they probably won’t let you.’
Arran stared at him. ‘Why not?’
‘The hep B. You know. You’re not allowed to give blood, so I doubt anyone’s going to let you donate a kidney. Same with me.’
‘Fuck,’ Arran said, slumping back in his seat. For once Nell didn’t admonish him.
‘Can I do it?’ she asked, voice tremulous. In the harsh light of the single bulb above the table Hamish noticed that she looked old. There was a sag to her cheeks that he hadn’t seen before.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he replied. ‘Dr Madigan didn’t exclude anyone, just told me to talk to Skye’s family.’
‘What happens if she doesn’t get one?’ Arran said. John reached for his hand.
‘She can always go on a waiting list, and there’s dialysis, of course.’ Hamish didn’t mention the other thing Dr Madigan had told him, that dialysis was best to avoid, if possible, because it seemed to shorten the life of any subsequently transplanted kidney. Arran would be feeling bad enough without hearing that.
‘So how does it work?’ Nell asked. ‘Should I make an appointment with Skye’s doctor?’
‘No, it’s just a blood test to begin with,’ Hamish said, pulling out the forms. ‘I’ve got the referral. Any pathology centre can do it. But as soon as possible, Dr Madigan said. Can you go in tomorrow?’
Molly reappeared in the doorway, a large golden teddy bear stuffed under one arm.
‘Bottle, Nanny!’ she demanded, looking at Nell. ‘I want a bottle! Hurry!’
‘Say please,’ Hamish said automatically.
Nell sighed. ‘She’s too old, I know, but it’s been helping her settle without Skye here.’ She got to her feet, allowing Molly to drag her towards the fridge. ‘I should be able to go in the morning, after I take Molly to creche and before I visit Skye. Can you give me one of those slips?’
Hamish handed it to her, watched as she tucked it into her pocket. ‘You’re not getting much of a break at the moment, are you?’
‘No,’ she said, and looked searchingly back at him. ‘And I’m guessing neither of us is getting much sleep.’
‘Thanks for coming, Hamish,’ said Dr Madigan. ‘Please have a seat.’
Hamish did as he was told, glancing around. He didn’t have a good feeling about this meeting. It all seemed too formal, too serious. For a start, there was another doctor present, a middle-aged man in a spotless white coat, and they were gathered in an office rather than around Skye’s bed. Not that that really mattered, he supposed—Skye had barely been conscious for the past week, and wouldn’t have been able to follow what they were saying.
‘Hamish, this is Dr Gow, our renal transplant physician,’ Dr Madigan said. ‘Dr Gow, this is Hamish, Skye’s husband, and her mother, Nell.’
Dr Gow held out his hand. Nell shook it, struggling to contain the child on her lap, and added, ‘And this is Molly, Skye’s daughter.’ Molly reached across the desk for a silver letter opener, almost grasping it before Nell hauled her back. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘She’s got a cold. I couldn’t take her to daycare.’
‘That’s fine,’ Dr Gow said. ‘I know it’s a difficult time for you.’
‘So one of us can donate, right?’ asked Hamish. ‘That’s why you called us in?’
The two doctors exchanged a brief glance. ‘Well, maybe, maybe not,’ Dr Gow said cautiously. ‘I’m not sure if Dee went into this with you, but there are three areas that we look at when considering potential donors: blood type, tissue type and crossmatching.’
‘I didn’t,’ Dr Madigan said apologetically, looking at Hamish. ‘I thought you already had enough to take in.’
‘Blood type’s fairly obvious,’ Dr Gow went on, ‘though having said that, while someone with blood type O can donate to anyone, a person with blood type A can only donate to a recipient with A or AB blood, and AB can only donate to AB. Then there’s the Rhesus factor, of course . . .’
Hamish nodded, feeling just as he had on his first day of uni, confused and out of his depth. Beside him Molly sniffled, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. Nell delved in her bag for a handkerchief.
‘Next is tissue type,’ Dr Gow continued. ‘This is all about antigens, which are blood and tissue proteins. We look at six antigens when considering potential donors: a perfect result is when all six match between the donor and the recipient, which can occur within the general population but is far more likely from a family member. We can still do a transplant without getting that perfect match, but in the long term the recipient does better the more antigens they have in common with the donor. The kidney lasts longer; the patient needs lower doses of immunosuppressives, that sort of thing.’ He took a breath. ‘And finally there’s also crossmatching, which is where donor and recipient cells and serum are mixed in an attempt to predict whether the transplant will be rejected. There are roughly fifteen different components to this test, and if the result is negative—’
‘Stop!’ Hamish called out. Molly, who had grown drowsy sucking her thumb, was startled awake and began to cry. ‘I don’t care about any of that. I can look it up later if I have to. We just need to know who’s the best donor for Skye, and when we can get started.’
Dr Gow straightened the papers in front of him. ‘Alright then. I thought it might help you understand the results, but the fact is that neither of you are ideal donors. Hamish, you’re an AB blood type, and Skye is O. On top of that, only two of your six antigens match, and the crossmatching suggested a high chance of rejection. And Nell,’ he turned to her, ‘genetically you’re closer, of course, but when Dr Madigan suggested you considered donation she hadn’t realised you were over sixty-five. We prefer not to take organs of that age.’
Nell had been soothing Molly, but now looked across at Hamish, stricken. ‘I couldn’t have her for so long, that’s why. Arran, too. Nine years it took us, almost a decade of trying, and then the IVF . . .’ She began to weep quietly. ‘I was thirty-seven when they were born. I was just so grateful that I never even considered it might cost her later.’ Molly reached up and touched her grandmother’s tears, puzzled.
‘It doesn’t mean that either of you are completely ruled out,’ Dr Madigan rushed in. ‘There’re drugs Skye could take to help her body accept your kidney, Hamish, or maybe she could have another transplant later if she used yours, Nell. But we just want to give her the best chance we possibly can. She’s young, she’s active, one day she might want another child . . .’
‘What we’re trying to say is that we think we should investigate other options, better matches,’ Dr Gow said. ‘We could try the transplant registry, or maybe there’s someone else—a cousin or an aunt, for example?’
Nell shook her head. ‘I’m an only child, and all of Charlie’s family are overseas. I haven’t even met some of them. But I suppose we could try . . .’ she said doubtfully. ‘I could call them and you could tell me what blood tests to get them to have, and—’
‘There is someone,’ Hamish interrupted. He’d been thinking about it ever since Dr Gow had declared that Hamish himself wasn’t a match; had suddenly wondered if the connection of blood which had so tormented him might yet save Skye. ‘You’ll have to call Arran, Nell,’ he said to her. ‘I know they’re friends. Arran would have his number, wouldn’t he?’
38
‘Just hold still.’ The disembodied voice came from somewhere behind his head. ‘We’re getting the picture now. Try not to move at all, OK?’
Ben stared up at the X-ray machine. He didn’t need to be told. He wasn’t inclined to move anyway—every time he did the tube in his leg jagged and pulled, delivered a sharp hot sting to his groin. He could feel the dye flowing through it and into his femoral artery; in his mind he traced its path through his body to his kidneys, imagined it suffusing the renal cortex, flushing through nephrons. The year of vet studies had come in handy after all.
‘That’s it . . . great,’ said the voice. ‘Lovely. Everything’s looking good.’
Ben hoped so. The arteriogram was to map the blood vessels in his kidneys, firstly to ensure that everything was normal, then later to aid the surgical team when they came to reposition the organ inside Skye. Inside Skye. He suppressed a shiver. The idea still seemed impossible to him, but it looked as if the donation was going ahead, events racing towards that conclusion. Three days ago he’d been running his sessions at the drop-in, preparing for the school holiday camp, and wondering if he should get a dog. He was surrounded by people most days, but the evenings were lonely. A dog would be company, would be something to come home to, though he’d have to check if it was allowed into national parks so he could take it away with him on the camps . . .
And then there had been a knock on the door. It was late, after ten, so Ben first peered through the peephole. What he saw made his hands shake as he reached for the latch. Two men on his front porch, Arran and Hamish. Arran he’d barely spoken with since the Christmas Eve barbecue; Hamish he knew only from photos—the one he’d seen on the fridge when he’d taken Jess home after she nearly drowned; a family snap he’d glimpsed that time he visited Skye after Molly was born. What was Hamish doing here? Had he found out somehow what had happened that day; had Skye confessed? But that was crazy, he told himself. It was two years ago now. His imaginary dog fled the room. He opened the door.
Arran stepped forward first. ‘Ben,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you’re home. We need to talk to you. Can we come in?’
Hamish followed Arran into the lounge room, nodding briefly at Ben. He was tall and good-looking, but Ben thought he looked tired. Tired and stooped, his broad shoulders hunched.
‘Would you like a drink?’ Ben asked. ‘Coffee? A beer?’ It was a cool night, but he could feel himself sweating.
‘No thanks,’ said Hamish. He sat down on the couch and waited until Ben was seated opposite him; then he cleared his throat and glanced across at Arran. Ben couldn’t be sure, but he thought that Arran nodded, as if to encourage him to begin.
‘Skye’s in hospital,’ Hamish said, turning back to Ben. ‘She had an accident. A sculpture she was working on in her studio fell on her, a large one made of concrete.’ He pressed his hands together in front of him, almost as if he were praying. ‘It did a lot of damage . . . she needs a new kidney. I’ve had the tests, and I can’t donate. Arran and Nell can’t either. The hospital said that her best chance would be someone who was related to her . . .’ he faltered. ‘I’m really sorry to spring this on you, Ben, but there’s no one else. Would you consider it?’
Arran began to elaborate and apologise, but Ben barely heard him. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.
Later, in bed, he’d reflect on how quickly he’d made up his mind, but really, there was never a choice. Whatever Skye needed of him, she could have.
‘You will?’ Hamish said, straightening. ‘Are you sure? Is there anyone you should discuss it with?’
Ben shook his head. There was no one. There’d been no one since Skye; no one who mattered, no one who made him feel anything. Sally had tried, but even she hadn’t managed.
‘That’s great, Ben.’ Arran sighed, as if he’d been holding his breath.
‘I’m sorry to do this to you,’ Hamish went on. ‘I know it sounds crazy—that it’s come out of nowhere—but I wouldn’t ask if there were other options, if Skye wasn’t so sick.’
Hamish’s eyes were wet, Ben noticed. His own were too; his heart heaved in his chest as if it had come untethered from the rest of him. ‘How sick?’ he asked.
‘Pretty bad,’ said Arran. ‘It’s not life threatening yet, but it could become so. If she can’t get a kidney she’ll have to go onto dialysis. That’s why we wanted to speak to you face to face, rather than just ring. There isn’t much time to waste.’
‘You’ll need to get a blood test done tomorrow,’ Hamish said, all business now. He pulled a notepad and pen from his back pocket. ‘First thing, if you can. Is there a pathology place you can go to near here?’ Ben nodded. ‘Good. Let me know where it is and I’ll have the hospital fax across the request. That will tell us if you match, then if you do there’ll be some other investigations—’
‘How long will it take?’ Ben broke in. ‘Just so I know. The whole thing, I mean, from go to whoa.’
Arran coughed. ‘The doctors want to do it next week, I think.’
‘Next week? The tests, you mean?’
Hamish put down his pen. ‘Not just the tests. The whole thing. The transplant, if you’re compatible. Is that OK?’
Ben nodded. It was ridiculous. It was mad. It didn’t change his mind. ‘What happens if I’m not?’
‘Then she’ll have to go on the donor registry, or dialysis.’ Hamish slumped forward and ran his hands through his hair. ‘God, I could do with that beer now.’
‘Coopers OK?’ Ben asked, standing up. He needed one too.
‘Anything alcoholic is good,’ said Hamish.
‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Arran rose and followed Ben down the hallway to the kitchen. As soon as they were out of earshot he hissed, ‘Are you sure this is OK?’
‘You drinking me dry? It’s happened before.’ Ben felt suddenly light-headed, almost giggly. The whole thing—Arran whispering to him, Hamish in the lounge room, asking for his kidney—was too surreal to absorb.
‘Not the beer—the donation,’ Arran said. Then his voice softened. ‘Listen, I didn’t want you to feel forced into it. You can still say no. It’s just that at the moment there’s nobody else . . .’
Ben opened the fridge door and reached inside. ‘It’s OK. I want to.’ A thought hit him. ‘Does Skye know you’re here?’
Arran shook his head. ‘She’s in and out of consciousness. Even when she’s awake, she
isn’t focused enough to take much in.’ He took two beers from Ben and added, ‘This was Hamish’s idea.’
‘Really?’ Ben asked. He was glad he’d passed the slippery bottles over. He had a feeling he might have dropped them otherwise.
Arran hesitated. ‘He’s feeling guilty,’ he said. ‘Look, we haven’t given you the whole story. She left him, they had a fight, it got messy—’
‘She left him?’ Ben interrupted.
‘Yeah. She’s been living with Nell for the past couple of months. I would have told you, but we haven’t seen each other, and it wasn’t really my place anyway . . . It’s bloody fantastic that you’ll do it,’ he rushed on. ‘I know it won’t be easy, but it’s her whole life, you know? We all really appreciate it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ben, grabbing a third stubby for himself to take out to the lounge. Then he’d looked at it, paused and put it back in the fridge. If he had to have a blood test the next morning he should probably be fasting.
Now the humming stopped. Ben’s eyes flew open, and he saw the nurse who had accompanied him to the X-ray department hovering by his side.
‘Are you still with us? I thought you might have drifted off. It takes a while, doesn’t it?’
He felt himself being rolled backwards.
‘We’re just going to pop you in recovery for a bit,’ the nurse continued. ‘I’ll get that catheter out, but because it was in an artery we need to keep you for an hour or two to make sure that it doesn’t start bleeding again. Are you hungry? I can get you something to eat now.’
Ben shook his head, and closed his eyes again as her footsteps retreated. Skye was here, somewhere in this building. He could sense her, somehow, lying as he was against starched white sheets, their chests rising and falling in rhythm. Maybe on another floor, maybe in the room next to his, but nearer than she’d been in years. They’d matched. Of course they’d matched: six out of six for the antigens, same blood type, no indication at all that her body might reject his cells.