Part 2
He guided me to a row of plastic chairs along the wall and sat beside me.
” My voice sounded strange, far away. ”
“No. ” He took a breath. ”
I stared at him. “Someone specific? ”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you who another patient is. ”
My mind went straight to Mark.
Suddenly, every strange moment from the last few months came rushing back. The late-night phone calls. The way he’d step out of Hannah’s room to take a call that seemed to last forever. The flicker of discomfort on his face whenever she talked about her wishes. And now, the way he’d run off just as she was being taken into surgery.
Had he asked our dying daughter to save someone he cared about? Someone I didn’t know existed? Someone he’d never once mentioned to me?
” I asked. ”
Dr. Hale studied me for a long moment. ” He stood. ”
Then he walked away.
I sat there for several minutes.
Footsteps passed. Doors opened and closed. A cart squeaked by. Everything felt distant, like sounds from underwater.
My daughter had just died. My husband had just disappeared. And now I’d learned there was a secret wrapped around her final gift.
I stood up and went looking for Mark.
I found him on the third floor, in a small family waiting room at the end of a corridor. He was sitting across from a couple I had never seen before. The woman was crying into a crumpled tissue. The man had an arm wrapped around her shoulders.
Mark looked up. The second he saw me in the doorway, his face went white.
”
He rose slowly. “Rachel. ” My voice came out sharper than I meant it to. “Her doctor just told me Hannah wanted one of her organs to go to someone specific.
“Does this have something to do with them?”
He looked at the couple, then back at me. He still didn’t answer.
That silence told me everything.
“Who are they, Mark?” I stepped closer. “If you love me, you won’t lie to me again.”
“I never lied to you about Hannah’s condition.”
“Then what did you hide?”
He glanced at the couple one more time. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
One word was written across the front.
Mom.
I knew the handwriting instantly. The loopy M. The little tail on the end. Hannah’s.
For one second, all my anger vanished, and something worse rushed in to replace it. Fear.
“When did she write that?”
“Last week.”
“You’ve been carrying it since last week?”
He nodded. “She made me promise not to give it to you until…” He stopped. “Until after.”
I took the letter from his hand. “I need to read this alone.”
“Rachel…”
I walked out before he could follow.
The hospital chapel was empty. I sat in the back pew, unfolded the paper, and watched my own hands tremble.
Mom,
I couldn’t get past that word. I stared at it until it blurred. Then I made myself keep going.
If you’re reading this, it means something I hoped for actually happened.
I froze.
What had my daughter been hoping for, in her last weeks, that she couldn’t bring herself to tell me?
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