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Part 2: Two Floors Up
I sat down on a bench in the hospital hallway. I read the rest of Mark’s letter.
Jen, I know your dad hates me. I know why. I was nineteen and stupid once, and he never forgot it.
But he’s your dad. And he’s sick. And our daughter should have a grandfather.
I asked Dr. Patel to keep it quiet. If your dad knew the kidney came from me, he might say no. He’s stubborn. Like you.
So don’t tell him. Not until it’s done.
Then you can tell him whatever you want.
I love you. Take care of our girl. And take care of your dad.
Dr. Patel sat down beside me.
He explained it carefully. Mark asked to be tested in secret. His kidneys were still healthy. He was a match for my father.
He signed a directed donation form. It meant his kidney would go to Gene Walsh. No one else.
Dr. Patel said, Your father was told only that a directed donor named him. He doesn’t know who.
He said, Mark made me promise not to tell you until he was gone. He said you’d try to fix things with your dad first. He didn’t want you to have to.
I put my face in my hands.
My phone rang. It was my mother, Ellen.
She was crying. She said, Jenny, the hospital called your father in tonight. They found him a kidney. Somebody named him specifically.
She said, Who would do that? We don’t know anyone.
I couldn’t answer.
Then I heard my father’s voice in the background. Gruff. Tired.
He took the phone.
He said, Jennifer.
It was the first time I’d heard my name from him in three years.
He said, I heard about your husband. I’m sorry.
Then he said, The nurse said this donor died tonight. In this hospital.
He was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, Was it him?
I kept my voice steady.
Dad, I said quietly, just take it. Please.
He said, If it was that man, I don’t want it.
I said, Dad, they’re waiting for you. Take it.
The line went silent. Then a nurse’s voice. Mr. Walsh, it’s time.
My father didn’t hang up. I heard them wheel him away. Then the line went dead.
Dr. Patel touched my shoulder.
He said, The surgery will take four hours.
Mark asked me to give your father something too. When he wakes up.
Part 3: Four Years
I sat in the surgical waiting room. My mother sat across from me. She didn’t know yet.
I let myself count.
Four years of dialysis. Three times a week. Four hours each time.
Six hundred twenty-four sessions. My mother drove him to every one.
Three years since my wedding. My father didn’t come. My mother came alone. She cried through the whole ceremony.
I counted the times Mark tried to reach out to him. Four letters. Two phone calls. One Christmas card with our ultrasound photo inside.
Every one went unanswered.
Mark never once said a bad word about my father. Not one.
When I was angry, he’d say, Give him time, Jen. He’s scared of losing you.
Then I counted Mark.
Thirty-four years old. Three months from his diagnosis to the end.
Three weeks before he passed, he was so weak he could barely walk to the bathroom. But he insisted on going to the lab alone. For blood tests.
I thought they were for his treatment.
They were for my father.
I counted the minutes in the waiting room. Two hundred and forty.
At midnight, the surgeon came out. She smiled.
She said, The transplant was successful. The kidney is working already.
My mother burst into tears. She hugged me.
She said, Thank God. Thank God for whoever that was.
I didn’t say anything.
At six in the morning, a nurse came to the waiting room.
She said, Mr. Walsh is awake.
He’s asking for his daughter.
Part 4: My Father
My father looked small in the hospital bed. Pale. Tubes everywhere.
He watched me walk in. He saw my belly. Eight months.
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he said, quietly, It was him. Wasn’t it?
I nodded.
My father turned his face to the window.
He said, I didn’t want it. You knew that. I told you I didn’t want it.
He said, Now I have to carry that man inside me for the rest of my life.
He said, He did this to make me look bad. To make you hate me even more.
Then he said, You should have told them to give it to someone else. Someone who deserved it.
I felt that one land. It was meant to.
Because part of me had wondered the same thing. Whether my father deserved Mark’s kindness.
I took a slow breath.
Dad, I said quietly, Mark didn’t do this to make you look bad.
He looked at me.
He wrote you four letters, I said. He called you twice. He sent you our ultrasound picture.
You never answered.
And when he found out he had three months to live, he used part of that time to get tested for you. In secret. So you couldn’t say no.
My father’s chin started to tremble.
I’m not sorry they gave it to you, I said gently. It’s what he wanted. And I want you to live, Dad.
I want my daughter to have a grandfather.
Then Dr. Patel knocked softly on the door. He was holding a small sealed envelope.
He said, Mr. Walsh, your donor asked me to give you this. When you woke up.
My father stared at the envelope.
His hands were shaking when he took it.
He opened it. He read it.
Then my father, who had never cried in front of me in my entire life, put his hand over his eyes and wept.
Part 5: Carry Him
My father read the letter twice. Then he handed it to me.
It was one short page in Mark’s handwriting.
Gene. I know you never liked me. That’s all right. I wasn’t sure about me either, when I was nineteen.
But I loved your daughter every single day. And she loves you. Even now.
You’re getting a second chance. I didn’t get one. Please use it.
Be there when my daughter is born. Hold her. Teach her to fish. Tell her about me if you want. Or don’t. That’s up to you.
Just be her grandpa.
That’s all I’m asking.
Mark.
My father reached for my hand. He held it tightly.
He said, I was wrong about him. I was wrong about everything.
He said, I’m so sorry, Jennifer.
I sat on the edge of his hospital bed. I held my father for the first time in three years.
Three weeks later, I went into labor.
My father was out of the hospital by then. Still recovering. Still on medication.
He insisted on being there.
He sat in the waiting room with my mother. When the nurse came out and said, It’s a girl, my mother said he stood up so fast he almost fell over.
They let him come in an hour later. He walked slowly. Carefully.
He looked down at his granddaughter in my arms.
Seven pounds. Dark hair. Mark’s nose.
He said, quietly, What’s her name?
I said, Marcy. After her daddy.
My father held out his arms. His hands were shaking.
I placed her in them.
He held her against his chest. Right over the scar where Mark’s kidney was keeping him alive.
He said, Hello, Marcy. I’m your grandpa.
Then he looked at me with tears running down his face.
He said, I carry your daddy now, little one.
Every single day.
That’s a promise.
