PART 3
For the first forty-eight hours, Denise barely spoke to me.
Then something changed.
I don’t know whether someone said something to her.
Maybe grief needed somewhere to go.
Maybe she simply woke up angry.
At Marcus’s memorial, I heard the first whisper.
His cousin Renee approached me near the church entrance.
“Tessa, can I ask you something?”
Her expression made me nervous.
“What?”
“Was Marcus taking medication that affected his thinking?”
My body went rigid.
“Why?”
Renee looked uncomfortable.
“Aunt Denise said he was heavily medicated when the donation decisions were made.”
I stared at her.
“That isn’t true.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“No. I just…”
She lowered her voice.
“She said you handled most of the medical decisions at the end.”
“I handled appointments. Marcus handled his own decisions.”
Renee nodded too quickly.
“I believe you.”
But she didn’t.
I could see it.
Later, I found Denise standing near Marcus’s photograph.
People were still inside the church.
I walked directly to her.
“What are you telling people?”
She looked at me.
“I’m answering questions.”
“With lies?”
Her face hardened.
“Watch your tone.”
“No.”
Several relatives turned.
I lowered my voice anyway.
“You are telling people Marcus wasn’t mentally capable of choosing donation.”
“I said he was sick.”
“He was physically sick. His mind was clear.”
“You were there every day.”
“Yes.”
“You filled out paperwork.”
“Because sometimes he couldn’t hold a pen.”
Denise’s eyes flashed.
“Exactly.”
I took a breath.
“You know what he wanted.”
“I know what you wanted.”
My heart began pounding.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You liked the idea.”
“What idea?”
“That Marcus would become some kind of hero after he died.”
I couldn’t speak.
Denise continued.
“You kept telling everyone how generous he was. How he could help people. Maybe he heard that enough times and thought it was what you needed from him.”
I stared at the woman I had once called Mom.
“My husband had been a registered donor for eighteen years.”
“So?”
“So I didn’t invent this.”
“He could have changed his mind.”
“He didn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me.”
Denise laughed once.
It was bitter and broken.
“Of course he did.”
That was when I walked away.
Not because I had nothing to say.
Because if I stayed, I was afraid I would say something unforgivable.
The rumors spread anyway.
Marcus’s aunt called me.
Then his uncle.
Then one of his old coworkers sent me a message asking whether there had been “confusion” surrounding his final decisions.
Confusion.
I began to hate that word.
People who had not sat through his appointments suddenly had theories about his mental state.
People who had visited twice during his illness suddenly remembered him seeming “out of it.”
His mother’s grief had become a story.
And in that story, I was the ambitious wife who had pressured a dying man into donating parts of himself.
I was seven months pregnant.
Sleeping three hours a night.
I still woke reaching for Marcus.
And somehow I had also become responsible for defending him.
That was when Dr. Malik appeared at my house.
He held the black case out to me.
“Marcus made several recordings.”
I looked at it.
“Several?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“During our private appointments.”
My anger came instantly.
“He knew this would happen.”
Dr. Malik did not answer.
That was answer enough.
I looked toward Denise.
Her face had lost its color.
“What recordings?” she asked.
Dr. Malik turned to her.
“Marcus asked that they remain confidential unless his capacity or intentions were disputed.”
Denise whispered, “He talked about me?”
“I can’t discuss the contents.”
Then he looked at me.
“But they belong to Tessa now.”
I took the case.
My hands were shaking.
Dr. Malik left.
Denise stared at the case.
“Open it.”
I almost laughed.
“You just spent days telling people I manipulated my husband. You don’t get to order me around in my own house.”
“If Marcus said something—”
“You need to leave.”
“Tessa.”
“Leave.”
She grabbed her purse.
At the door, she turned.
“You think a recording changes everything?”
“No.”
I held the case against my chest.
“But I think the truth might.”
I didn’t open it that night.
Or the next morning.
I placed it inside Marcus’s desk drawer.
Then I closed the drawer.
Because suddenly I was angry with him too.
That emotion terrified me.
Marcus was dead.
Dead people were supposed to become sacred.
You were supposed to remember their best qualities.
Speak gently about them.
Forgive unfinished arguments.
Instead, I stood in our bedroom one night and shouted at an empty room.
“You knew!”
My voice echoed.
“You knew your mother might do this!”
I grabbed one of his pillows.
“You made a plan with your doctor, but you didn’t make one with me?”
I threw the pillow across the room.
“You left me to deal with this!”
Then I collapsed onto the floor and cried so hard my stomach hurt.
Eventually, I felt the baby move.
I placed both hands over her.
“I’m sorry.”
Another movement.
“I’m not mad at you.”
I looked at Marcus’s side of the bed.
“I’m mad at your father.”
For some reason, saying it out loud helped.
I loved Marcus.
And I was furious with him.
Both things could be true.
