“You don’t have to.”
Her eyes lifted.
“That sounded dismissive.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I just mean Nolan made the decision.”
She put down the plate.
“I’m his mother.”
“I know.”
“I gave birth to him.”
“I know.”
“And I’m supposed to just stand there while strangers decide what they can take?”
The word take made me uncomfortable.
“They don’t just take things, Diane.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
She looked toward the living room where Nolan was resting.
“He wouldn’t have wanted this before he got sick.”
I stared.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know my son.”
“So do I.”
She looked at me.
Not angry.
Not yet.
Just wounded by the idea that knowing Nolan might not belong exclusively to her.
That night, after she left, I told him.
Nolan closed his eyes.
“She said it again?”
“Again?”
He looked at me.
That was my first clue.
“She’s talked to you about this already?”
“Several times.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t want you involved.”
“I’m already involved.”
“She likes you.”
“That’s not the point.”
He sat up slowly.
“Mom needs somewhere to put the anger.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“And I don’t want it to become you.”
I stared at him.
“Nolan, if you’re expecting your mother to accuse me of something after you die, you need to tell me now.”
“She won’t necessarily.”
“That is not comforting.”
He rubbed his face.
“I’m handling it.”
“How?”
He smiled faintly.
“Badly, apparently.”
That was the first private appointment with Dr. Vale.
By the time I reached eight months pregnant, Nolan needed help with basic things he hated needing help with.
Buttons.
Shoes.
Sometimes showering.
He had always been independent to the point of irritation.
Now he apologized every time I carried a glass of water upstairs.
One morning I found him in front of the bedroom mirror trying to button a shirt.
He had put two buttons in the wrong holes.
I stepped closer.
“Give me that.”
“I can do it.”
“You look like the shirt is winning.”
“It is a tactical retreat.”
“Nolan.”
He dropped his hands.
I fixed the buttons.
His fingers were trembling.
I tried not to stare.
He noticed.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re studying for an exam.”
I froze.
He smiled sadly.
“You’re memorizing me.”
My throat closed.
“I want Avery to know you.”
“She will.”
“How?”
“Through you.”
“That is too much responsibility.”
“You’ll tell her the important things.”
“Like?”
“That I made excellent pancakes.”
“You burned pancakes.”
“Selective history.”
I laughed.
Then cried.
Nolan pulled me against him as well as he could.
After a moment he said:
“Dr. Vale is coming this afternoon.”
“Another secret meeting?”
“Yes.”
“I hate your secret meetings.”
“I know.”
“Will you ever tell me what they’re about?”
“If everything goes well, maybe you’ll never need to know.”
I pulled back.
“That is the worst possible answer.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Probably.”
Nolan died on a Monday morning.
Rain had started before sunrise.
Diane sat on one side of the bed.
I sat on the other.
We both held him.
For the last hour, there was no rivalry.
No disagreement.
No donation debate.
Just the three of us inside a room at Bellmere Regional Medical Center while Nolan’s breathing became slower.
Then stopped.
Diane bent over him and sobbed.
I thought my own body had forgotten how.
I was too stunned.
Too pregnant.
Too tired.
The donation coordinator came later.
