Dillon was sitting up in bed writing as Mum entered the room. It had been seven days since his operation.
‘Good news,’ she said. ‘You’ll be getting discharged tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s great,’ said Dillon, putting down his pen. ‘I am so over this whole hospital thing.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Mum. ‘It’s hasn’t been that bad, has it?’
‘You mean,’ grumbled Dillon, ‘apart from the poking and prodding, and the sounds at night that keep me awake, and terrible food with too many soggy vegetables, and that funny smell everywhere ALL the time. And it’s boring!’
‘Okay, okay,’ conceded Mum. ‘It’s not wonderful. But you’ve had books and DVDs, an iPod, an iPad and a laptop. What more could you want?’
‘Friends,’ suggested Dillon.
‘Yes, all right,’ said Mum. ‘I see your point. But we’re going home tomorrow, and I’m sure your friends will come for a visit.’
Dillon grunted.
‘And hasn’t Jay been sending you emails?’ asked Mum.
‘Yeah,’ said Dillon glumly, ‘but it’s not the same as actually having him around.’
‘Well, I’ve got some more news that might cheer you up,’ said Mum, looking pleased with herself.
Dillon looked interested.
‘You know how you wanted a mobile phone?’
‘Yes!’ Dillon felt like he was about to jump out of bed with excitement.
‘But there will be rules,’ insisted Mum. ‘I’m not going to have you raking up insane bills. It’ll be a pre-paid phone, with twenty dollars of calls per month. You reach the cap and your phone stops working unless you add money to it yourself. Got that?’
‘Got it!’ Dillon was just happy about finally getting a mobile. He’d work within the limits and then see about getting Mum and Dad to maybe extend them, a little at a time.
‘So, what are you doing?’ asked Mum, sitting down on the end of his bed.
‘Writing a letter,’ said Dillon. ‘Well … trying to anyway.’
‘A letter?’ asked Mum. ‘How very twentieth century of you. Who to?’
‘To the family of the donor.’ Dillon’s face was serious.
‘But I thought they couldn’t tell you who they are?’ said Mum.
‘They haven’t,’ said Dillon. ‘And the donor’s family aren’t given any info about who got the liver, either. But the nurse said I could write a letter anonymously and that it would get passed on to them.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Mum smoothed out the bedsheet, the wrinkles suddenly interesting. ‘So … what have you written?’
‘Not much,’ admitted Dillon. ‘I can’t seem to get past thank you. It doesn’t seem enough. But I don’t know what else to say.’
Mum nodded. ‘And they probably wouldn’t know what to say to you. Maybe that’s why the donor program prefers to keep things anonymous?’
‘I guess.’ Dillon put the paper and pen aside and picked up his iPad. ‘Of course, I might be able to find out who the donor was.’
Mum looked at him with surprise but didn’t say anything.
‘You can find almost anything with Google.’ Dillon held up the iPad and waved it about. ‘Entering the date we got the call, with search terms like “liver”, “transplant” and “organ donor”. Checking online newspapers for accident reports.’
‘Are you going to?’ asked Mum tentatively.
Dillon shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’ He dropped the iPad onto the bed. ‘If I can’t think of what to say in a letter, what’s the point in tracking them down?’ He shrugged. ‘They probably don’t even want to hear from me. I might be a horrible reminder that the person they loved is gone.’
Mother and son sat in silence for a while. Dillon traced a finger over the iPad screen.
‘You know …’ His voice trailed away.
‘What?’ asked Mum, encouragingly.
‘Part of me hopes that they’ll find me,’ he said slowly, not looking up. ‘That the donor’s family will Google the date and transplant recipient and … and find me.’
‘I think,’ said Mum, shifting herself further up the bed so she was beside him, ‘that, for now, it’s okay if you’re just thankful. You have been given a tremendous gift that has come from someone else’s tragedy. You don’t have to write a letter straight away. Give it some time. After you’ve adjusted, after you’ve learned to live a normal life … then maybe the words will come. When you’re ready.’
‘I guess,’ said Dillon.