Page 130 of Iris

Dr. Brian Holland met them at the door, and Garrett met his hand. “Good to see you, Garrett.”

Garrett nodded.

“Jenny, Garrett, have a seat.” He motioned to the orange chairs and only then did Garrett notice the remodel, the teal walls, the new carpet, the pictures of Brian’s children, now grown, on the desk. Outside, the heavens dropped soft snow, as if trying to gentle the blow.

Jenny sat. Garrett stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. She gripped his hand.

Brian leaned against the front edge of his desk. Folded his arms. “It’s not what you think.”

Garrett gave him a hard look, his chest tight.

“You already know the initial tests showed the cancer isn’t back. Thank you for the extra tests, Jenny. The MRI, the Pet-scan, the blood tests. It’s all confirmed—you’re still in remission.”

Garrett just blinked at him, not sure if he heard him right, trying to let the words settle.

Remission.

Except. “Then why the look, Doc?”

Doc Brian leaned up and went around to his desk, logged into his computer. The remodeled office included a flat screen, and now he picked up a remote and turned it on. An x-ray showed on the screen. His remote control included a laser and he flashed it over a darkened area on the screen. “This is your liver, Jenny.”

“We should be worried that it’s so black, right?” Garrett said, now letting go of Jenny and walking nearer the screen.

“Yes. It’s diseased, and our tests showed that it’s failing.”

Garrett steadied his hand on his desk.

“It was the chemo, wasn’t it?” This from Jenny, and Garrett glanced at her. She had sat up, her arms around herself. “It was one of the side effects.”

“Yes,” Dr. Brian said. “It’s been a slow decline, but now we’re here.”

Garrett walked over, sat in the other orange chair, and reached for her hand. Maybe more for himself than her. “So, now what, Doc?”

He flicked off the monitor. “There’s good news. The liver can be transplanted by alivedonor. It’s intensive surgery, with a four-month recovery time, but you have four children—”

“Five,” Jenny said.

Dr. Brian took a breath. “Four, for the purposes of the transplant. But there is a high possibility that one of those four is a match.”

“You’d take out part of their liver, and put it into Jenny?” Garrett said.

“Yes.”

“And then what? Is it like losing a kidney?”

“No, their liver can grow back. And Jenny’s would too—the healthy liver.”

“And she’d be better? Healthy again?”

“She’d have to take anti-rejection meds for the rest of her life, but yes, if she takes care of herself.”

He wanted to weep with the terrible rush of light through his body.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

He stilled, looking at Jenny, but her attention was fixed to the doctor. She pulled her sweater around herself. “How risky is it? I don’t like the idea of putting my children’s lives in danger.”

“Jenny! Our children would do anything for you!” Never in a thousand years did he believe she’d even consider not—

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