23

IT’S ALMOST FOUR IN THE MORNING WHEN I SHUFFLE INTO MY room and fall face-first on my bed. I use my heels to nudge off my ballet flats. It takes Herculean effort to push up again long enough to move my covers aside and crawl underneath them. Pressing my face into my pillow, I pray for the nothingness of sleep.

It doesn’t work.

The second my eyes close, the panic returns. I try to shove it away, but now my every fiber is shouting.

You wanted that liver.

Don’t be selfish. It wasn’t yours to have.

But you wanted that liver.

I don’t think I even realized how badly I did, until Dr. Somnath said “It’s not going to happen tonight.”

But what if “not tonight” is “not any night”?

I scream inside my head to try to drown out the doubts: FEAR IS NOT THE BOSS OF ME!

But the what-if is a splinter, ripping through every protective layer I have and burrowing, hard and sharp, into the base of my spine.

I try to soak the splinter in guilt, to loosen it. You should be happy for the person who had his dreams answered tonight. He deserves to live every bit as much as you do. Maybe more. Maybe he feeds the homeless or volunteers for a suicide prevention hotline. Maybe he doesn’t do either of those things. Maybe he’s no one special but is simply a really decent person. Or not. He still has every right to it.

My pep talk isn’t working. The fear creeps along my vertebrae, spreading its poison. It’s in my bloodstream now.

“Mom! Dad!” I shout, before I’m even fully aware of the words in my throat.

My mother charges in seconds later. She flips the light on and darts wild eyes around my room. “What? Amelia, what happened?”

I press my lips together tight and shake my head, because I won’t be able to answer her without crying. Her response is to exhale and sink onto my bed.

“Oh, baby.” There’s raw emotion in her voice. “I wanted it too.”

My dad appears in the doorway and Mom waves him off. “We’re okay. Switch the light off, though, please?”

She stands again and pulls back my covers before nudging my leg to signal I should make room for her. Then she climbs in beside me. Our knees fit against one another’s and we lie face-to-face on my pillow.

The sharp tang of fear retreats to the base of my spine and curls up in a ball, not altogether gone, but no longer taunting me either. I close my eyes as her hand rubs gentle circles on my hip. I feel about five years old . . . and it’s enough for now.

For a long time neither of us says anything, at least not with our voices.

Then my mother breaks the silence. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep it together better for you tonight.”

I suck in a breath and keep my eyes screwed tightly closed, so I don’t have to see what’s in hers. “Mom, I’m not one of your clients.”

Her fingers gently untangle strands of my hair. “Which makes it even more important. You’re my child and I’m the grown-up; I’m supposed to have the answers and I’m supposed to be strong for you. I believe it’s item number one in the job description of a parent.”

Her voice wavers on the last bit and I burrow into her shoulder and let her arms curl around me.

We stay like that for several minutes and then I whisper, “I think maybe this is item number one.”

She doesn’t respond, but her arms tighten. We cling to each other, the steady click of my flip clock keeping us company, and eventually my eyelids grow heavy. The sun will be up soon and tonight has been endless. Having her hold me is keeping the panic at bay enough that sleep seems possible. Not just possible, but inevitable.

Mom kisses my temple. “Go to sleep, sweetness,” she says, before setting her head back on the pillow next to mine. We’re both quiet as our breathing slows and evens out.

I’m on the very edge of sleep when I whisper, “Someone died tonight. Whoever’s liver that was to begin with.”

I open my eyes to peek at her as she brushes my hair from my face with her fingertips. Even after my shower, I can still smell traces of salt water on the strands, mingling with her vanilla lotion.

“Yeah, baby. Someone did,” she murmurs. Her fingers capture a small chunk to add to the wisps in her hand and she tugs gently. Our private “I love you.” “And someone else was saved.”

“Bittersweet,” I whisper, my eyelids fluttering closed again.

“Bittersweet,” she agrees, the last thing I hear before drifting off.