PART 2
Marcus’s mother had never liked the donation plan.
Denise Cole had raised Marcus alone after his father disappeared when Marcus was four.
They were incredibly close.
For most of our marriage, I loved that about them.
Denise called every Sunday.
She remembered our anniversary.
When I became pregnant after three years of fertility treatments, she bought baby clothes before we even knew the gender.
She painted an old wooden rocking chair that had belonged to Marcus’s grandmother.
She was not the stereotypical cruel mother-in-law.
That almost made what happened later worse.
Because I knew the woman underneath the anger.
About three weeks before Marcus died, Denise came to our house while I was folding baby clothes.
Marcus was sleeping upstairs.
She watched me place tiny onesies into drawers.
Then she said, “He told me about the donation paperwork.”
My hands stopped.
“I assumed he would.”
“You’re allowing it?”
The word allowing bothered me.
“It’s Marcus’s decision.”
“You’re his wife.”
“Yes.”
“So tell him no.”
I turned.
“Denise…”
“My son is dying, Tessa.”
“I know.”
“You get to wake up every morning beside him. I go home to an empty house and wonder if the phone is going to ring.”
I softened.
“I know you’re scared.”
“No. You don’t.”
She wiped her cheek angrily.
“I carried that boy. I raised him. I worked two jobs when his father left. Everything I had went into him.”
I walked toward her.
She stepped backward.
“And now people are talking about his body like spare parts.”
“That isn’t what anyone is doing.”
“It’s how it feels.”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked upstairs.
“You could change his mind.”
“I won’t.”
Her eyes moved back to mine.
“Won’t?”
“Because he asked me not to.”
Denise grabbed her purse.
“You have more influence over him than anyone.”
“That doesn’t give me the right to use it.”
She left without saying goodbye.
That night, I told Marcus what happened.
He closed his eyes.
“I knew she’d come here.”
“You knew?”
“She’s been calling me.”
“How many times?”
He didn’t answer.
“Marcus.”
“Several.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“She’s terrified.”
“So am I.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t get to say that and move on. Your mother thinks I’m supposed to talk you out of something you have apparently already decided.”
He looked exhausted.
“She’ll calm down.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
Marcus stared at me for a long moment.
Then he said something strange.
“If she doesn’t, promise me you won’t let her rewrite me.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Marcus.”
He smiled weakly.
“You’re doing the interrogator eyebrows.”
“Because you’re being weird.”
“I’m dying. Weird is included in the package.”
I didn’t laugh.
He reached for me.
“Come here.”
I sat beside him.
He placed his hand against my stomach.
The baby immediately moved.
Marcus smiled.
“There she is.”
“You still think Naomi?”
“Absolutely.”
“I still think June.”
“Our daughter is going to come out confused because her parents couldn’t make one simple decision.”
“She’ll survive.”
Marcus leaned closer to my stomach.
“Your mother is stubborn.”
I stared at him.
“You’re the stubborn one.”
He kissed my belly.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal.
I would spend months wishing I had understood how precious those few seconds were.
The private meetings with Dr. Malik began shortly afterward.
Marcus’s physician, Dr. Aaron Malik, had been treating him since his diagnosis.
One afternoon, Marcus asked me to get coffee while the two of them spoke.
I raised an eyebrow.
“You hate hospital coffee.”
“It’s not for me.”
“You hate when I drink hospital coffee.”
“Tessa.”
“What?”
“I need fifteen minutes.”
I studied him.
“Are you hiding something?”
“Yes.”
I blinked.
I hadn’t expected honesty.
“For who?”
“For you.”
“That makes absolutely no sense.”
“It will later.”
I hated that answer.
But Marcus had lost almost every form of independence by then.
He needed help showering.
I cut his food.
I drove everywhere.
I managed his medication.
If he wanted fifteen private minutes with his doctor, I decided he deserved them.
So I left.
It happened three more times.
Once with Dr. Malik.
Once with a hospital social worker.
Once with both of them and a woman from legal services.
Each time, Marcus refused to tell me why.
And each time, I let him keep it.
Marcus died eleven days later.
It happened at the hospital shortly before sunrise.
I was sitting beside him.
Denise was on the other side of the bed.
Marcus had been unconscious for several hours.
At 5:42 a.m., the monitor changed.
A nurse came in.
Then another.
Someone touched my shoulder.
Someone said his name.
I remember almost none of it.
I remember Denise screaming.
I remember pressing my forehead against Marcus’s hand.
I remember thinking his fingers were still warm, so clearly everyone had to be wrong.
And I remember the baby moving inside me while my husband died.
That felt cruel.
How could one life be arriving while another disappeared?
Later, members of the hospital team discussed the donation process.
Because of Marcus’s condition and the circumstances of his death, not everything could be donated.
Some tissue could.
His corneas could.
Several other donations remained possible after evaluation.
I said one thing repeatedly.
“Follow his paperwork.”
Not my wishes.
Not Denise’s.
His.
