My Wife Hid Me at Work, Now I Own Her Company novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Opt-Out

Russell sells his car and his father's watch and is still ninety-three thousand short; his mother hears who spent the money, signs the opt-out herself, hands him a string-tied folder, and the donor heart goes to someone else.

The transplant coordinator met me at the ninth-floor desk at midnight.

"Mr. Kemper, the surgical team is ready," she said. "But the deposit has to clear by six, or the heart goes to the next patient on the list."

I put Kayla's envelope on the counter.

She counted it twice.

"Thirty-one thousand, four hundred," she said. "That's not enough."

"I know. I'll have the rest."

She nodded once and wrote the number on a card.

I went down to the parking garage and called a man who buys used cars at night.

He gave me nineteen thousand for my Honda, in cash, in a bag.

At one in the morning I knocked on a pawnshop window with my father's watch in my hand.

My father had left it to me when I was fourteen.

The man behind the glass gave me six thousand dollars.

I carried it back to the ninth floor and set it down next to Kayla's envelope.

The coordinator counted again.

"Fifty-six thousand, four hundred," she said. "You're short ninety-three thousand six hundred."

I had no car, no watch and no savings left.

I called my father's old friend, who was asleep.

I called my uncle, who said he'd love to help but had a mortgage.

I called two banks and got the same recording.

Then I called Allison one more time.

It went to voicemail.

I did not leave a message.

I walked into my mother's room and sat in the chair by her bed.

She was awake, small and gray against the pillow, with the white braid over one shoulder.

The string-tied folder was under her hand.

"Russell," she said. "Is it tonight?"

"It's tonight, Mom. The heart is here. I just have to finish the paperwork."

"How much?"

"Don't worry about the number."

"Russell."

She had used that voice on me since I was six.

"Ninety-three thousand," I said. "I'll get it. I have until six."

She looked at me for a long time.

"Where is Allison?"

I could not lie to her.

"She took the savings, Mom. For a party."

My mother's face did not change.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them.

"A party," she said.

"I'm going to fix it. I'm going to find the money."

"From whom?"

I had no answer.

The nurse came in with a clipboard and a pen, kind and quick.

"Mrs. Kemper, I need your signature on the pre-op consent," she said. "Or on the opt-out, if you're not going ahead."

My mother took the pen out of her hand.

"Mom, don't."

"Give me the second page," she said.

The nurse looked at me, and I shook my head, and my mother pulled the clipboard into her lap.

"I'm sixty-six years old," she said. "I have had a good life, and I'm not going to let you beg that woman for it."

"I'm not begging. She owes us."

"That's why you'd be begging."

I took her hand.

"Mom, please. I'll sell the apartment. I'll find a way before six."

"There's no way you can find in five hours that you haven't already looked for in six years."

She said it kindly, which was the worst part.

"I know what she's been doing to you at that office," she said.

I stared.

"The drivers talk. Their wives go to my church."

"You never said anything."

"Neither did you."

She was right.

I had said nothing for six years, to anyone.

"Mom, I can still do this."

"Russell, listen to me."

She pulled the folder out from under her hand and pressed it into mine.

It was thicker than it looked, tied with white kitchen string.

"After I'm gone," she said, "don't open this yourself."

"Take it to a lawyer. A real one, not hers."

"What is it, Mom?"

"It's what I should have shown you years ago."

"Show me now."

"No," she said. "Not tonight. Tonight you're going to let me do this my way."

"I don't want it your way."

She smiled at me, tired and fond.

"You've never wanted anything for yourself," she said. "That's why you're the best thing I ever did."

I could not speak.

She uncapped the pen.

I put my hand over hers.

She moved it gently aside.

"Mom."

"I love you, Russell," she said, and signed her name on the line.

The nurse took the clipboard from her with wet eyes.

"I'm so sorry," she said to me. "I have to call it in."

"Wait. Please. Give me one more hour."

"I can't. It's the donor team's rule. Once the form is signed, the heart is released."

She left the room fast, and I heard her say into a phone, "Opt-out, bed nine."

I stood up.

I could not tell you what I said, only that my voice cracked on it.

Out in the hallway the phone at the desk rang, and the coordinator picked it up.

"Yes," she said. "It's already been given to the next patient. They're on the table now."

I looked back at my mother.

She had her eyes closed and was holding the folder against her chest again.

She did not look afraid.

She looked tired and at peace, and I hated that more than anything.

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