Tammy stopped at the nurses’ station to calm her heart and gather her thoughts.
Melissa sat on the other side of the counter entering patient records into the system. She closed her file and studied Tammy. “You all right?”
Tammy shrugged. “Doing better than Mr. Zimmerman.” After all these years, why now, Lord? What can I possibly say that could provide any comfort? She’d prayed with countless families, spoke Scripture, even shared the gospel when the opportunity arose. But this was different. This was Nick.
“This never gets easier, does it?”
She shook her head. “The family’s in the quiet room?”
Melissa nodded. “The dad—”
“Nick.”
Melissa raised an eyebrow.
Her cheeks heated. “I mean, Mr. Zimmerman.”
“Right, Mr. Zimmerman mentioned trying to contact the mom.”
According to Tammy’s notes, the mom was on a cruise. Tammy had the woman’s cell phone, but reception at sea could be iffy. “Do we have an additional contact number for her?”
“I’ve got her private cabin number, but that won’t help now.” Melissa grabbed another file and flipped it open. “Last we spoke, she said they were docked at a port city. I believe she’s trying to catch a flight on standby. I imagine she could arrive any minute.”
“Or not, depending on the size of the airport and how many flights they run. Did she say where she was trying to fly out of?”
“No. She was pretty upset. And she sounded . . . like she’d been drinking.”
“Lovely.” Trying to explain brain death and organ donation to grieving family members was tough enough without adding alcohol into the mix . . . and Nick.
Dr. Johnson rounded the corner, stethoscope hanging from his neck. He flashed a toothy grin. “Can’t get enough of us, huh?”
“Something like that.” Tammy checked her watch. “Have you seen Dr. Shefsky?” They couldn’t keep Nick and his family waiting. Delayed communication led to distrust.
Dr. Johnson glanced down the hall. “He was here a minute ago. You’re here for the Zimmerman kid, huh?”
She nodded.
“Sad case.” The doctor frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Guess this was the first time the dad had seen his son in months. For more than a few hours, anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“Disgruntled ex-wife? I don’t know. I only caught bits and pieces in passing—including the end of a phone conversation that left Dad rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to tear the skin right off. The woman was screaming so loud, I could hear her through the phone.” He shook his head.
So, the mother was drunk, upset, and possibly mentally unstable. Then again, grief could make people do and say things they normally wouldn’t.
Dr. Johnson drummed his fingers on the counter, a crooked smile emerging. “You and that cute friend of yours are signed up for the Alpine Hill Run, right?”
Smiling, Tammy shook her head. “She’s not interested, Dr. Johnson.”
“That’s only because she doesn’t know me yet. That’s why I need your help. Flexing my manliness during arguably the most grueling run in Woodland Pines wouldn’t hurt either.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but we’re not participating this year.”
“Come on. We need you. You’re not going to let FMC show us up, are you?”
Tammy shrugged.
“Shoulda known you’d bail on us.”
She crossed her arms. “Manipulation tactics don’t work on me. But nice try.”
Doctor Johnson turned to Melissa.
She shook her head. “Me neither, although a juicy steak dinner—or three—might help.” Chuckling, she grabbed a file and stood. “But don’t you worry. I’ll be there bright and early to cheer you on—via Facebook.”
The doctor rolled his eyes and strolled toward a patient’s room with a blinking call light. He passed Dr. Shefsky who approached the nurses’ station.
Tammy grabbed her tote and stood. “Looks like I’m up.”
“Good luck,” Melissa said.
Luck? This wasn’t a casino. “Not luck. More like a divine appointment.”
“Appointment for what? Like with a kidney?”
Melissa wouldn’t understand. She was too busy traipsing all the roads she thought led to heaven.
Did Nick know Jesus? Probably not, considering all the religious jokes he made in high school. But death had a way of changing things, of initiating spiritual conversations.
Is that why You brought me here, Lord? To share the gospel with him? And to show me my life isn’t as bad as it could be? An image of Becky and Tylan came to mind. She couldn’t imaging losing either of them. She shuddered and hugged herself.
Stopping a few feet in front of Tammy, Dr. Shefsky cleared his throat. “Are you ready, Mrs. Kuhn?”
“Yes, of course.”
The two walked toward the quiet room, then paused outside the door.
She tucked her hair behind her ears and wiped sweaty hands on her pant legs. The doctor entered, and with a deep breath, she followed.
Nick and his mom sat on the couch, his son between them. His mom had aged considerably, her once peachy complexion now ashen, her hair streaked with gray. Arlene, Heartland’s family coordinator, and the hospital chaplain sat across from them. Looking up, she gave a knowing nod. Tammy would be the one to do the talking.
“Tammy, Nick said you were working here.” His mom dabbed her eye with a tissue. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, it has.” A sharp pain stabbed at the back of her throat as Tammy looked at the young boy sitting between them. Dark, wavy hair, long, straight nose, and dark lashes—he was a younger Nick, only thinner. More willowy.
With fallen faces and sorrowful eyes, the family looked from Dr. Shefsky to Tammy. When her gaze met Nick’s, her heart clenched at his hollowed expression—as if the life had been ripped from him.
Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry.
She longed to go to him, to hold his hand, comfort him. But they didn’t have the relationship for that. Not anymore. At least he had his mother.
The doctor stepped forward. “It appears you all have met Mrs. Tammy Kuhn. She’s with Heartland Donation Services, and she—”
“I know why she’s here.” A tendon in Nick’s jaw twitched. “My son’s dead, isn’t he?”
Tammy and the doctor exchanged glances.
The doctor nodded, his Adam’s apple dipping. “Your son has been declared brain dead by brain death criteria. Mrs. Kuhn will explain what that means along with your options.” He paused, his face unreadable, and Tammy knew he was fighting to keep his emotions in check, to remain calm and professional. “She will be able to answer any questions you may have.” With a brisk nod, he stood and strolled from the room. The door thudded closed behind him.
Nick puffed air through tight lips. He stared at his hands, rubbing at his thumb knuckle with his other thumb.
“Let’s talk about what this means.” Tammy sat in the chair across from Nick and his mom, hands folded in her lap. “Do you have any questions about brain death? What it is, how it’s determined?”
“I’m not stupid.” Nick continued to rub his thumb knuckle. “Payton’s . . . Payton’s . . .” He swallowed, blinked, caving inward as if he could crumble at any moment.
“Dad?” Nick’s younger son’s voice squeaked out. “What is she talking about?”
Nick swiped at his tears with the back of his forearm. Then, as if inhaling strength, he straightened and draped his arm over the young boy’s shoulders. “Your brother didn’t make it, bud. But we know where Payton’s going—where he’s at.”
What did that mean? Was Nick a Christian? She longed to think so, but many believed in an afterlife. Not everyone accepted Jesus as the only way to heaven.
“Can I see him?”
Sniffling, Nick’s mom lifted Jeremy’s chin. “Your brother’s dancing with the angels, sweetie.”
Jeremy nodded, his chin quivering. How much did the child understand?
Watching the young boy—only a year or so older than Tylan—trembling in his grandmother’s arms, Tammy fought back tears.
“This is all my fault.” Nick’s bloodshot eyes locked on hers. “I should’ve been there—shouldn’t have—” He dropped his head in his hands. Still holding her grandson, his mother rubbed Nick’s back. At her touch, he lost it, deep-throated sobs wrenching through him.
Tammy suppressed a sob of her own. Lord, help him. Comfort him. Give me words of hope and healing.
“Would you like to pray?” the chaplain asked.
Nick gave a slow, almost indiscernible nod. He pulled his son close, and his mom inched closer, wrapping her arms around both of them and resting her forehead on Nick’s shoulder.
Tammy bowed her head as the chaplain prayed for the family to find comfort and strength in God. Silently, she offered her own prayer—for mercy and strength, and that God’s Holy Spirit would envelope Nick and his family.
When the prayer concluded, Nick inhaled a shuddered breath, drying his tears on his shirtsleeve. Tammy grabbed a box of tissues and handed them over.
Oh, Nick.
He lifted his chin, the familiar twitch returning to his jaw. She’d seen it at least a hundred times, always when his world was starting to crumble, and he was fighting for strength.
“You want to talk to us about donating his organs, right?” he asked.
She nodded. “That’s an option.”
Jeremy turned teary eyes toward his father. “What’s that mean?”
Nick stared at his son, his upper lip twitching as if struggling for words. Tammy waited. He would let her know if he preferred to have the boy leave.
“Your brother’s . . . dead.” Nick’s voice cracked. “Nothing’s going to change that, but maybe . . .” His face hardened and he stretched his hands flat, then balled them into fists.
It was an internal battle she witnessed often—the one between wanting to help someone else and wanting to cling to the loved one who had passed.
“Your brother could help save someone’s life.” He looked at Tammy. “Isn’t that right? If we donate his organs, someone else’s boy might be able to live?”
“Your son’s . . .” She looked at Jeremy. “Brother’s organs could save numerous lives.” Tammy explained donation in more detail. She pulled the necessary forms from her tote. “Do you believe your son would have wanted to be a donor?”
“Of course.” Nick’s mom twisted her tissue, tugging at the end. “He was such a caring little boy. Always bringing me shiny rocks and other treasures. I . . . never . . . even . . . got . . .” Sobs choked her words. “to . . . see . . . him.”
Nick dropped his head into his hands again, his torso shaking, which triggered tears in his son.
Tammy gave him a minute. “Would you like to take a break?”
He didn’t answer for some time. When he did, his voice was husky. “No. I’m okay. I want to do this. Need to do this.”
“How do you feel about donation, Nick?”
“Least some good can come out of this. But you need to talk to their mother. She has custody. I just . . .” He shook his head, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He pulled his cell from his back pocket and tossed it on the coffee table with a thud.
Someone knocked on the door and eased it open. Melissa stood with her hand on the knob, face tense. “The mother’s here—”
A slender woman with long brown hair and more bling than the local jewelry store barged in, shouting accusations. A tall man wearing a pink polo and white slacks trailed behind her.
Marianne Hawke?
The chaplain jumped to his feet.
Tammy prayed for peace and wisdom, then stepped forward with her hand extended. “Good afternoon. I’m Tammy Kuhn—”
The woman whirled around, glaring at Nick, fisted hands trembling at her sides. “Let go of my son.”
Nick’s eyes narrowed. “He’s my son too.”
“If you think for a moment that I’m letting my child go home with you, you’re crazy.”
“Now’s not the time for drama, Marianne.” Nick’s mother engulfed her son and grandson in a protective embrace.
“Drama?” Red blotches sprang out on the woman’s neck. “Don’t you dare talk to me about drama. It’s because of your son we’re here.” Spittle flew from her mouth. “Some father.”
Nick flinched, which only seemed to fuel Marianne’s anger, initiating a slew of accusations and verbal condemnation.
Tammy stared from one to the next, her mind spinning through training files in search of the best response. “How about if we . . . Let’s take a step back for a minute. Give yourselves time to process.”
Marianne cursed and grabbed her son’s arm, giving it a tug. “Come on.”
Jetting her chin, the grandmother held tight to the boy. “If you want to leave, go ahead. But the boy’s staying with his father.”
“Some father,” Marianne spat.
“Stop it.” Nick released Jeremy and stood, glaring from Marianne to his mother before looking at his now trembling son. Chest heaving, the child swiped at his tear-streaked face.
The chaplain stepped forward. “Ms. Hawke, please.”
Marianne’s breath came in quick bursts, her face flushed. “Jeremy, do as I say! I’m taking you home. Now.” She grabbed her son again and pulled him to his feet. The man who’d accompanied her stood beside her, face pale and eyes wide, arms dangling. Apparently Marianne’s hysteria intimidated him too.
Clutching Jeremy to her chest, Marianne glared at Nick. “How much are they paying you?”
He blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Ms. Hawke,” Arlene’s voice rose above the emotional due, calm but authoritative, “how about if we take a break and talk later?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She whirled around to face Tammy. “I know exactly what this little meeting is about. You want my son’s body parts. And you!” She stabbed a finger at Nick. “This is all your fault.”
Nick’s mom sprang to her feet. “That’s uncalled—”
“Stay out of this, Vicky.” Marianne’s hands fisted, her eyes fiery.
This initiated a screaming match, both women hurling barbed words and accusations while Jeremy covered his ears, eyes closed. Tammy had seen a lot of family anger, here in this room—when loved ones passed, emotions ran raw and tensions high—but few fights were as vicious as this. It was clear these women had a history of bitterness between them.
“Enough.” Nick raised his arms, palms out, gaze steely. “Payton’s gone. Acting hateful won’t bring him back.” His voice quivered. “But we can help someone else.”
Marianne’s face contorted into an ugly scowl. “The man who killed his son wants to play the hero now?”
“I’m out of here.” Nick stomped toward the door, then stopped. He returned and knelt in front of Jeremy. “I love you. You know that, right?”
Jeremy nodded. Tears streamed down his face.
“Leave him alone.” Marianne’s voice shook. “You’ve done enough.”
Nick stood slowly, swiveled his head to look at Marianne, his eyes cold. “You’re a piece of work.” Then he left.
“Wait.” His mom scurried after him, leaving Tammy and the rest of the hospital staff to try and calm Marianne down.
Tammy glanced at the time on her phone. The doctor wouldn’t want to tie up a much-needed hospital bed with a brain dead patient who may or may not be a donor. She sighed and massaged the back of her neck. With one word, Marianne had the ability to save up to eight lives. Eight critically ill patients desperately praying for an organ, many who might not live to wait for another donor.