Chapter 1

Quin

Little Trinity is looking mighty wiped after the week she’s had. Her mom, Whitney, looks on at her daughter, laying in the hospital bed, fighting to smile while the dialysis machine pumps the spent blood out of her body, cleaning it, and replacing it with clean blood. Trinity had to come back to the hospital twice this week, versus her usual single visit. Her little eight-year-old body is so tired after having fought kidney disease since birth. Her father doesn’t sit next to Whitney, rather, it’s her Uncle Peter. Dad flew the coop soon after Trinity was diagnosed, leaving Whitney to fend for herself, so Peter stepped in, bless him.

“Looks like you’re almost through there, sugar.” I comment, looking at the gauges on the dialysis machine. “How do you feel?”

“Okay.” She shrugs unconvincingly.

“She looks pale.” Whitney comments, sliding a lock of hair over her daughter’s ear, speaking as though the little girl isn’t here.

“She’s a darlin’, aren’t you, sweetheart.” I say, smiling warmly at her. Trinity is such a little doll. Bright, big blue eyes, long, curly blonde hair like her mama’s, cherub pink lips, and when the dialysis machine is done its work, she’s got a precious glow to her skin again.

“Any word on a donor yet, doc?” Peter asks.

“Don’t you think he’d tell us if there were, lan sakes.” Whitney says, frustrated.

“Mama, don’t get mad at Uncle Peter.” Trinity refutes. “Maybe Doctor Quin forgot is all.”

Patients never call me by my surname, Hedger, or Dr. Hedger, and that’s at my request. It’s a bit of a play on words…Doctor Quin, Medicine Man, if you will. Some get a kick out of it. Some…it flies right over their head.

“I didn’t forget, sugar.” I chuckle. “But God’s watching over you and he’ll make sure you’re going to get your new kidney super quick. That list, I just looked at it again a day or two ago, and your name is still right there at the top, I promise.”

“And me or Peter can’t donate to her, huh.” Whitney states with the same disappointment laced in her voice as always.

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid not. Neither of you have the same blood type, as I’ve told you, love.” My heart bleeds for Whitney. Smart, hard working as hell, beautiful, and raising a kid with severe, chronic medical problems on her own. Not to discredit Peter one bit, because he’s just as dedicated to that young thing as Whitney is, but it’s not the same without a proper daddy. That I know. My own father’s been a thorn in my side all my life, up until his recent death, but that’s another story.

“And his daddy’s as good as dead.” Whitney states. “I can’t find him, even after hiring a goddamn private investigator.”

“Mama, don’t say ‘goddamn’.” Trinity frowns. “You shouldn’t cuss. Especially in front of Doctor Quin.”

“That’s alright, darlin’.” I snuffle. “I hear cussing all the time. It doesn’t bother me one bit.”

“You should come by the house some time then.” Trinity says. “Mama cusses all the time.”

Whitney tries to stifle a laugh but fails. “God love you, darlin’. You make your mama laugh all the time.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny, mama. I’m serious.”

“Maybe y’all should rest, sweet pea.” Peter suggests. “Save your strength.”

“But I’m fine, Uncle Paul.” She says casually. And I look at her. Sure enough, as the dialysis machine is just about through, the color returns to her face. Her little cheeks are pink again, and her eyes have brightened. Then she turns to me. “Mama says that if I’m feeling well enough, we can have a little birthday party for me on the weekend.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun.” I smile at her. “What do you want for your birthday?”

She purses her lips together, and when she does this, I know that she’s going to say something cocky. I wait for it.

“A new kidney.”

Whitney, playing along, having cheered up a bit, mirrors her daughter’s refreshed attitude. “How about a horse instead?”

Trinity’s face lights up a mile. “Really?”

Laughing, slapping Trinity playfully on the leg, Whitney says. “Of course not, silly! With our tiny house, a horse wouldn’t even fit in our kitchen!”

“She loves horses.” Paul adds, grinning.

“Well, if you love horses so much, you should come by my family’s ranch, sweetheart. We’ve got lots of them.”

“You live on a ranch?” Trinity gasps with delight.

“No, he doesn’t, darlin’.” Whitney interjects. “You know that Doctor Quin was raised on Hedger Ranch, but he doesn’t live there anymore.”

Her face falls. “You don’t?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t visit as often as I like. And I can have anyone over to play with the horses, too.” I explain. “Do y’all want to come over and meet them?” I’ve never done this before, but I feel like somehow I owe this little girl something, and it’s the least that I can do. It’s a difficult position to be in as a specialist in Urology, when a patient is in need of a new kidney. This type of kidney disease that Trinity has is very rare and completely incurable. There is no treatment for it other than dialysis.

Peter, as though he isn’t hearing the conversation, and is off in his own little world, states out of the blue. “So, you think her daddy might be a match, doc?”

I turn to him, wishing like hell that he wouldn’t bring this up in front of Whitney and Trinity again, as he seems to do often, and I say. “Why don’t we take a walk outside while the nurse comes in and gets Trinity off the machine?”

“Sure, sure.” He nods, looking agitated. I clap him on the shoulder and walk him out of the room, closing the door behind us.

“Peter, my friend, I’ve told you before that it is very possible that Trinity’s father is a match for a kidney for her, but you heard the lady herself, she can’t find him. So, until we find a donor, we have to sit tight. Trinity’s doing great with the dialysis.”

“Not this week.” He states, almost irritated, and I’m not sure if it’s directed at me, the child, or the situation.

“Yeah, she had a little setback. But it’s the first time in a long time, Peter. She’s doing well all things considered.”

He ignores me. “And you say that her deadbeat father’s medical records show that he’s the same blood type as Trinity, right?”

“Yes, sir, I have told you that before. But again, if we don’t know where he is, there’s no point in arguing this. He doesn’t want to be found and he’s doing a darn good job making sure that nobody finds him.”

Peter looks over his shoulder, making sure that he’s out of earshot. He lowers his voice. “I found him, doc.”

“What do you mean you found him? I thought that Whitney said that the P.I. didn’t have any luck.”

“Yeah, the godforsaken, hundred dollar an hour goddamn private investigator couldn’t find the lowlife son of a bitch, but uh,” he looks over his shoulder again. “I’ve got friends in low places who say that they know where he is.”

“Well, where is he?”

He hesitates. “I can’t tell you right now.”

A ‘v’ forms between my brows. “But I thought you said that you know where he is. Is he in Dallas?”

“I don’t…I told you, doc…I can’t tell you.” He stammers.

“Why can’t you tell me? Is he in some sort of trouble? Is he in prison or something?” It wouldn’t be a first. Lots of estranged fathers are in jail in a certain neck of the woods.

He sighs and clears his throat, sounding more like a card shark than a desperate Uncle. “I wish I could tell you more, but, look…I haven’t paid for the intel yet, and I’ll get my ass kicked if I squeal.”

This sounds slimy and shady, and the more I talk to Peter, the more unsettled I feel. “Peter, let’s just wait it out, okay? I’m sure that a donor will become available soon. And remember that this isn’t like a heart transplant, either. We don’t have to wait until someone dies in a motor vehicle accident or something in order for a kidney to be there.”

“Doc, you’re not listening to me. We don’t have to wait any longer.”

I fold my arms across my chest, feeling annoyed. “Okay, Peter. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to set up the surgery. Get the doctors and nurses and stuff in place to do it. I’ll tell you where the shithead is as soon as I can grab the son of a bitch, and we’re home free.”

My hands go to my hips, but my stone expression loosens when the nurse walks towards us. “Trinity’s ready for you in the room.” I state, moving off to the side so that she can get in. She nods and heads inside.

“Look, Peter, assuming that Trinity’s father is a match, he has to be willing and healthy enough to donate the kidney. We have to put him through vigorous testing, and he has to prepare for the surgery, too. It’s not like a swap in and out and that’s it. There are steps involved. It can take weeks, especially if he’s got other health problems.”

“So we can’t just remove it from him and place it in her?”

“No, not at all.” I shake my head. Is this guy for real? “It’s actually more difficult for the donor than for the one receiving the kidney, as a matter of fact, Peter. And again, the man has to be willing and capable to do this. It takes time.”

“But she doesn’t have time.” Peter says, almost panicked.

I place my hands on his shoulders. “Peter, Trinity is fine. She’s very healthy, all things considered. Yes, the slip up is a little unsettling, but she’s fine, and it’s going to happen from time to time. She’s growing and her body is changing, and soon she’ll be going through hormonal changes, too. It’s all going to play it’s part, Peter. But she’s fine.”

He changes tack. It’s suddenly as if I’m asking him to live with an old beater car, not replace a body part on his niece. “But…Whitney and Trinity can’t live like this forever. You don’t see what they go through. Trinity gets bullied at school, and she misses so much school because she’s always here. Plus, she misses birthday parties and trips because she’s sick. This is crazy, doc. If we can get her a new kidney, we need to do it now, before it gets worse.”

Suddenly I’m more worried about Peter than I am about Trinity. “Peter, have you considered going to talk to someone about this? I know that you’ve been a figure in both the girls’ lives for a long time. Maybe it’s time you talked to someone.”

“You mean a shrink?” he blurts, craning his neck.

Setting his derogatory use of the word aside, I concur. “A therapist, yes.”

His face scrunches. “I don’t need no shrink, doc. What I need is to help Trinity get better.”

He’s about to go on, when my phone starts to ring from my pocket, announcing that it’s the surgical room calling. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.” I say, stifling him by raising my hand. I pull the phone out of my pocket and answer it. The nurse says one thing and I know that it’s urgent; that I’m needed in surgery to tend to a patient of mine who is in recovery from just having a surgical procedure done to repair his kidney. I raise my hand again. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” I whisper to Peter, and trot towards the elevator to go to the surgical unit.

As I arrive in the recovery department of the surgical unit, I see that Mr. Evans, my patient, is giving nurses trouble. “What seems to be the problem, Mister Evans?” I ask kindly. The man is five feet even, and about a hundred pounds soaking wet, to my six foot two inches and nearly two hundred and twenty pounds. If I sat on him, I’d kill him.

“He doesn’t want to keep the catheter in, doctor.” The nurse explains.

“It burns like a sumbitch.” Mr. Evans whines. His face is pale. He damaged his kidney in a car accident recently, failing to wear a seatbelt.

“Well, of course it burns, but it’ll burn a lot more if you try to urinate by yourself. You just had surgery, Mr. Evans. Your kidney needs time to heal.”

“But I can’t take it, doc.” Another whine.

“Give him something for pain.” I advise the nurse.

“I don’t want to take nothing for pain. I just want this damn thing out of me.” he insists, sitting his hand on the catheter tube.

“Now, Mister Evans, if you pull that tube out, you’ve never seen pain before until you’ve done that.”

“Calm down, Mister Evans.” The nurse urges kindly. “You’ve just woken up from surgery. Let’s get you some pain medication and you can take a nice nap.”

“I told you already—” he’s cut off by a large woman walking into the ward. Her sour expression is set on a face that looks like she was born in a bad mood.

“Arthur?” she calls, and she sees her husband sitting on the edge of the bed, with his hand on the catheter tube, and his wiener all but hanging out for the others to see. Thank God the curtain is drawn.

“In here, ma’am.” I say, recognizing the face, and I back off.

She sits her hand on her hip and begins chiding him. “Now what’s this I hear? Y’all aren’t going to listen to the doctor?”

Arthur lowers his head, addressing the nurse. “What did you have to go and call my wife for…”

The nurse smiles. “I’m sorry. But it was either that or I’d have to restrain you.”

“I’ll restrain him.” Arthur’s wife warns, matter-of-factly. “It’s bad enough you were a fool and drove that dang pickup truck without a seatbelt, now you listen to the doctor, or I’ll take the damn catheter out myself.”

“Yes, dear.” Arthur says, chastened.

I wink at the nurse and she smiles at me, as I leave the recovery ward.

My intention is to go back to Trinity’s room and finish the conversation that I had with Peter, although, admittedly, as far as I’m concerned, that conversation is over. The nerve of that man. Granted, he has more heart than brains, the man needs to keep his niece out of his affairs with whatever shady bunch he’s been mixing with. Her health is more important than settling a score with her biological father. Sure, Peter is likely feeling the sting of his departure, but as far as I know, Peter came to help of his own accord. Any unsettled issues have nothing to do with him being placed here involuntarily.

But as I walk back up to the room where Trinity was, sadly, they’re gone. My office is steps away, on this floor, so I make up my mind to go and make notes on her file in the computer, regarding her treatment today. In my pocket, my phone stays quiet, so I finish my notes from today, noting that I’ve been here since the early morning hours, and decide that it’s time to call it a day, since I’m on call tonight anyhow.

Once I’m finished making notes and closing up shop for today, I check in one last time with Mr. Evans, and he’s passed out in his bed, happily recovering in his own room. There is no sign of his wife, so I assume that all went well with him. As I drive home, I can’t help but think about the events of the last few months. My father, an outrageous alcoholic, took his own life weeks ago, and we buried him next to his father, who was also an alcoholic. My brother Chad moved to El Paso and came back all in a month’s time, and he met a lovely young lady named Rachel. It’s a long story, but it seems like there might be wedding bells in the future for those two.

Smiling inwardly, I pull into my driveway, make my way up the front stairs, and set my briefcase down while I fish my keys out of my pocket. Inside my house is quiet as can be. Just the way I like it. I’ve always been a single man and I have no plans on changing that. With the demands of my job, it wouldn’t be fair to a woman to be placed second, despite my mama’s urging me to bring her grandchildren. I’ve got four brothers that can take care of that.

Modest, my house is just a small bungalow, which is easy to care for, given my schedule. The only thing that requires maintenance is the lawn, and I pay someone to come in once a week to take care of the landscaping. Sure, I’m a rich man, but I’ve never believed in being one to show it off. Even my car is just a small sedan. If I need something fancier, I’ll borrow it from one of my brothers. With mama settled now that daddy’s gone, I can put my feet up when I get home, rather than fussing over whose turn it is to check in on her.

As I do a light workout in my home gym in the basement, take a shower, eat some dinner leftover from supper at mama’s house last night, I read through some medical periodicals and settle in for bed after a long day’s work. When I go to sleep, I’m careful to make sure that I leave my phone by the bed, in case I get called in. It rarely happens, but it does sometimes. After brushing my teeth, I climb under the sheets, rewinding in my mind what happened with Peter today. His tone, his almost deviant attitude, and his suggesting that I put things into play, bothers me.

Sleep won’t come, so I head downstairs to make a glass of warm milk. I almost consider going over to mama’s place, but then the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something that Peter said to me…about having friends in low places. What did he mean by that? Did he pay some underground thug to hunt down Trinity’s biological father? Does Whitney know about this? Surely not. Is he putting Trinity in danger by reaching out in this unsafe manner?

As I stand in my kitchen warming the milk in a saucepan, I can hear my phone beep from upstairs, and I run for it. When I reach it, I look at the display and see that it’s an email from the donor bank where I submitted Trinity’s case. Apparently, they may have a match for her, and I’m to stand by for further instructions, but to pencil in accommodations for the surgery, since it can take a while to put the proper resources in place.

My smile is so broad that my cheeks start to hurt. It takes everything in me not to pull up Trinity’s file and call her mama right away, but it’s too soon. The bank said that they may have a donor, that it isn’t definitive yet. Further testing is required, but they have found a match and someone who is willing to join the plan, since they likely have someone who is in need of a kidney, too, but they don’t have a match. It’s a genius plan that the medical system came up with, that enables kidney transplant donors to be matched with those in need. So a person who has a family member in need of a transplant can enter their information into the database, setting themselves up to be a potential donor, in hopes that someone else who joins the database also has a family member that could be a match for someone else in need. This relatively new system has saved thousands of lives and has made it easier to get transplants without the need of a healthy cadaver from a motor vehicle accident.

A loud hissing and the smoke alarm in the kitchen, is what breaks me of my reverie as I nearly drop my phone, startled. By the time I reach the kitchen, the milk has boiled over and has burned all over my stovetop, making a huge cloud of smoke in my kitchen akin to a Grateful Dead concert. I never leave things on the stove unattended. This is so unlike me. And as I wrestle between cleaning up the mess on the stove to stop the smoke alarm or climbing up on a chair to pull the battery out of said smoke alarm, I decide on a third choice: opening the front door to allow the air to clear.

Thinking I’m such a fool, I continue cleaning the stove, until the smoke has finally dissipated, and the alarm has settled to an intermittent chirp. A few minutes later, the kitchen is clear, the smoke alarm is silent, and I’m happily preparing yet another pot of warm milk…this time warming it in the microwave. With a yawn, I rise, set my mug in the sink, and walk over to the door to close it before heading to bed.

…but I make it as far as the door and the world turns black.