Page 73 of The Delivery

“Why? You’re scaring me, Lex. What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know, sis. I started reading about it, you know, just to see what it was like, what he was going through. I did a little bit of research, and it’s true that kidney transplants started out with identical twins and what not, but it’s not that way now.”

I cradle the phone to my neck and pull on a pair of jeans over Mo’s boxers.

“What are you saying?”

“It can be anybody who donates a kidney. It doesn’t have to be your brother. These people have money, right? It just seems weird that they let her get so close when it didn’t have to be his organ, you know? They could have bought one. It didn’t have to be Mo.”

“Maybe her immune system is compromised. I don’t fucking know. Now I’m terrified, Lex. Thanks. I gotta go.”

I slam the phone down and jam my feet into my shoes. I open the door so fast the security guard leaning against it practically falls into the room. He straightens up and pulls on the lapels of his jacket. His hair is slicked back, and he’s got a tiny mustache that runs right along the edge of his upper lip.

“Any word yet? Can you take me back to the hospital?” I ask him. He nods his head and starts to proceed down the hallway. I guess he didn’t catch what I said.

In the back of the SUV, I take out my phone to text Lex and tell him I’ll give him an update as soon as they let me see him. I scroll through my email thinking this fifteen minute ride might last an eternity. An email from Gunnar Anderson catches my eye. I forgot I’d asked him to do a run on Brisa’s stats through the state registered database. He’s a little too late if he’s identified Brisa. I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

His email starts out with a thousand pleasantries, I scan through them, my fury building although all he’s done is oblige my favor. Then there it is —the information I want.

His searches for her age, birthday and given name resulted in nothing. She either never made it to California or if she did it was under a different name. But there are data rows cut and pasted into the email and the next few words almost stop my heart.

I did do another run on Moisés. I think it’s pretty obvious I always had a thing for you. I ran him against federal records just to be safe. If he’s gonna be the guy for you, I thought I’d make extra sure you knew what you were getting into—not only that but I want you to be happy. You deserve it probably more than anyone else I know.

Turns out “de la Cruz” is an alias, the kid’s been arrested under multiple names. He’s the founder of the radical street art crew called the Dibujeros. They’re your run of the mill, outlaw punks with some pretty anarchist views on government and such. Their stuff is graffiti based so it’s not like capital one or assault or anything violent, but painting on the side of the courthouse is still a federal offense, and they’ve racked up a lot of them. The police for the most part don’t know their identities. I broke the code just by running criminal DOB’s against Juvie ones and adding in physical stats. And bang! You got your man! I should get a bonus for that. Lol! But don’t worry, I won’t turn him in. You can google him as Moisés Miramontes. Check out his record and all of that fun stuff. I hope the guy has been upfront with you. Sorry I couldn’t be of much help with the sister. It’s a sad story, but the really sad thing is, I’ve heard worse.

All the best to you, Lana. I’m still around if you ever want to catch up.

Gunnar

My foot is slamming an invisible brake on the floor of the SUV. I scan the email maybe ten times, my thoughts swinging vertiginously all over my head. Jennifer did mention the Dibujeros, so that doesn’t surprise me. What surprises me is that Mo asked me to marry him without ever coming forward with the whole truth about who he is. But what’s got me speechless and raging is the surname; it’s a full-on, nasty, slap across the face.

It tells me he lied to me with way too much ease. His entire story has been a fake. Moisés intentionally deceived me, and he knows these bad people much better than you would think. What kind of co-conspiracy are they cooking up? And where the hell exactly do I fit in? Am I being used as some sort of cover for Mozey? Or am I the red herring in a retaliation against his parents? I’m so confused. I slip the beautiful ring off my finger and shove it into the pocket of my jeans. No way in hell I’ll marry some guy who lies to me.

I jog through the lobby of the hallway until I make it to the nurse’s station. I ask for permission to see him, only to be told that he’s in recovery and still waking up. After wandering lost for what seems like ages, I finally locate the waiting room near recovery and plop myself down in the chair. I text Lex to tell him I’ve arrived and Mo isn’t dead. Lex texts back:

“Did you find out what was so good about his kidney?”

“Turns out he’s a huge fucking liar. Tell Mom and Dad that we’re not getting married.”

“You’ll figure it out. Go easy on him, he just had surgery. Tell Mo he’ll always be my brother.”

“Traitor.” I text back to him.

“That’s what you get for hooking up with my best friend.”

I toss my phone onto the chair beside me and cross and uncross my legs. I scratch my scalp like it’s louse infested and then tie my hair back with a clip from my purse. I’m about to start pacing the hall again when I see Beto Miramontes exit a door and close it softly behind him. It looks like he’s sneaking away. I shoot up from sitting and shout, “Hey!” to him.

He turns and brings his finger to his lips. I gesture for him to come over, and he quickly throws a look over his shoulder. A security guy or two are lurking down at the end of the hall. His leather shoes are expensive; they don’t make a sound on the tile as he comes toward me, but I can hear the swish of his tailored slacks. Without realizing it, I’m already tugging down on Mozey’s shirt, feeling messy and underdressed.

“He is just now waking up. Very tired. Thought I would let him sleep some.”

“Are you his father?” I ask, bringing one hand to my hip.

Beto Miramonte’s eyes flinch just a tiny bit, and he brings his fingers to his face to stroke his chin. I’ve seen the exact same chin-stroking gesture before, from a boy who I’m beginning to realize, looks quite a bit like him.

“Yes. Why? Did he tell you that?”

“Nope. He lied. I found out from a friend. And you know what’s the funny part? He actually asked me to marry him. I hope you all have fun with your fucked up reunion. You can tell him I left. I’m catching a flight back home tonight.”

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