Page 92 of Close Match
“Correct. Normally a perfect match is considered eight to ten or more HLA markers. Evangeline is what we call a close match: six. Because Evangeline is Everett’s biological daughter, I’m confident enough he won’t reject your cells—or that we could counteract any reaction. Therefore, I feel confident we should proceed with allogeneic transplant.” Spellman lifts his hands. “Ultimately, it’s up to both of you.”
My hands are shaking. I couldn’t save Mom, but I can save my father. In my mind, there’s no doubt, no question at all. But… “Ev? This is your life. It’s your decision.”
“You’re asking me if I want the chance to extend my life by an infinite amount of time or be living on borrowed time?” he asks me incredulously.
“I’d like to remind you all of the processes by which both Evangeline and most especially Everett will go through for this procedure to be a success.” He quickly describes the harvesting process I’ll endure, which sounds more discomforting than anything else. Then I get chills as he explains the “conditioning” Ev will endure: high doses of chemotherapy to kill off his cancerous cells. “We may need to do radiation as well; we won’t know until we see the effects of the initial treatment.”
“Reading between the lines, you’re going to have to kill me before you cure me,” Ev says pragmatically.
Char’s hands are covering her mouth, and a sob escapes. Monty, who’s been silent this whole time, hands her a box of tissues. His jaw is locked so tight, I don’t think a bolt cutter could get through it. Even I let out a little squeak of sound I can’t entirely control.
Ev winces when he realizes the effect his blunt words have on the rest of the occupants of the room. “I’m sorry, everyone, I didn’t mean…”
“It’s the truth though, Doctor, isn’t it?” Monty’s voice is harsh.
“Yes, Monty. I’m afraid it is. If the worst happened and there was a total transplant failure, we would be looking at a situation where Everett’s life expectancy would be rapidly reduced.”
“Are we talking about years? Months?” Char whispers.
Spellman’s voice softens. The doctor knows the news he’s delivering isn’t easy. “I’m sorry, Char. We could be talking about days. That’s why this decision is the most important one he’ll ever make.”
Char turns to Ev like a she-cat. “I know I encouraged you to do this, but don’t,” she begs. Tears fall hot and heavy over my cheeks. “We have Linnie in our lives, and that’s a miracle enough. We’ll have a few more years together. How can we ask for more?” She collapses in his arms, sobbing.
“I have to do this, Char. How can I not when I can have a few more years plus another day with you?” I swipe my arm under my eyes. “We’ve all been granted the miracle of each other. I’ve never heard of anyone declining a miracle, have you?”
She shakes her head in his shoulder, still not lifting her head. I curl my legs up in my chair and bury my face into them.That’s the kind of love everyone should hope for.I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until I feel myself being lifted by strong arms. Monty sits down with me in his lap. “I’ve always said they were a perfect match,” he murmurs in my ear. “Let’s just hope between the two of you, he gets through this.”
And you get through it too, I think, but I don’t say it, because Monty begins asking about timelines even as his arms tighten around me. And I again thank God for his strength.
Because I fear we’re all going to need it.
Fifty-Three
Montague
The information floating through my head is making me dizzy. The numbers are making my head blurry.
Fourteen days of outpatient therapy where Ev will be home as we slowly help him to kill off his immune system; the medicine will swim through each cell, killing them off, destroying what’s left.
Three days of intense chemotherapy. The dangerous kind—one that will have Ev tethered to a catheter to flush out his bladder so it doesn’t fall victim to the toxicity of the drugs. Cytoxan. They say it’s standard, but there could be significant side effects at his age, so he’ll be continuously monitored—another fucking number. I shiver in the cold.
One day of rest before the transplant, but what kind of rest will he have? After his system’s been systematically abused and destroyed for the seventeen days prior, he gets one day for one shot at this one life.
And above all the other numbers, one is the number repeating over and over and over again.
I just want one fucking drink.
I want the salt cracking my lips to be a result of a tequila shot, not as a result of my tears. I’d love to taste the smoke of bourbon to fog out the doctor’s words, the buttery taste of Jameson to smooth away the burn. I want something to make me forget all these numbers, make me forget anything except…
I jump when a cold hand lands on my bare forearm. “Monty, you’re going to freeze.” Linnie’s teeth are chattering. “Come inside. Your mother’s made cider, and Ev wants to talk.”
Quickly, I wipe my fingers under my eyes before I turn to face her.
Even though silence and the bottom of a bottle sound like a better way to process my thoughts, the concern in her eyes causes me to choke that statement back. Not when it’s her strength that’s going to flow into Ev’s body to heal us all. No, even as I brush a long lock of her hair back and her face turns to kiss my hand, even as much as I know it’s a perfect night to pour a glug of Irish into the cider she mentioned earlier, I’ll get drunk on this woman instead. Because in her eyes, I pray, lies the path to all of our futures.
“I hope you don’t mind if I dream about dousing mine with a good shot of Irish,” I joke as I slide my arm around her shoulders, careful to keep my expression casual. Her nose wrinkles, but she doesn’t say anything more. My breath is calm on the outside, but inside, my heart is quaking in anticipation.
In excitement.
