PART 5
Inside were three video files.
A signed copy of Marcus’s advance directive.
His donor registry documentation.
And a handwritten letter addressed to me.
I had already watched the first video alone two nights earlier.
That was how I knew what was coming.
But Denise didn’t.
I placed the laptop on the coffee table.
Her hands began shaking.
“What did he say?”
“You need to hear it.”
I pressed play.
Marcus appeared on-screen.
He was sitting in Dr. Malik’s office.
He looked thinner.
Paler.
But his eyes were unmistakably clear.
He glanced toward someone off-camera.
“Are we recording?”
Dr. Malik’s voice answered.
“Yes.”
Marcus looked directly into the camera.
“If this video is being watched, something probably went badly after I died.”
Denise gasped softly.
I kept my eyes on the screen.
Marcus continued.
“I want it documented that my decision regarding donation is mine.”
Denise’s face changed.
“I registered as a donor when I was nineteen. Tessa did not ask me to do it. She actually hated talking about it.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Marcus gave a faint grin on the recording.
“She really hated talking about it.”
Then his expression became serious.
“My illness has affected my body. It has not taken away my ability to make this decision.”
Denise began crying silently.
“I have discussed this with Dr. Malik, the hospital team, an independent social worker, and legal counsel because I don’t want Tessa forced to defend me when I’m not there.”
I closed my eyes.
Even after watching the recording once, that sentence hurt.
Marcus continued.
“Mom, if you’re watching this…”
Denise made a sound beside me.
“…I know this scares you.”
She covered her face.
“I know you hate the thought of strangers receiving something from me. But this body is mine.”
Denise whispered, “Marcus…”
“I love you. I will always be your son. But loving me does not give you ownership of the choices I make.”
She began sobbing.
I did not stop the video.
“And please don’t punish Tessa for doing what I asked.”
Marcus paused.
“You two are going to be hurting in different ways. Don’t make that pain compete.”
My throat tightened.
Then Marcus leaned closer to the camera.
“And another thing.”
Even dying, he somehow looked stern.
“Our daughter is not a memorial.”
I looked down at June.
“She doesn’t exist to replace me. Don’t spend her childhood searching her face for proof that I’m still around.”
Denise lowered her hands.
“Tell her about me. Show her photos. Tell her I loved terrible action movies and put hot sauce on food that did not need hot sauce.”
A laugh escaped me through my tears.
“But let her be whoever she becomes.”
Marcus smiled.
“And her name is June Naomi Cole.”
I looked at Denise.
She looked at me.
Onscreen, Marcus added:
“Tessa won.”
I laughed.
An actual laugh.
The first one that had come from somewhere real since Marcus died.
Denise laughed too, but hers broke into sobs immediately.
Marcus continued.
“Technically Naomi is still in there, so I’m calling it a tie.”
Then he looked into the camera for several silent seconds.
“I love you both.”
The recording ended.
The room became completely quiet.
Denise stared at the black screen.
Finally she whispered, “He knew.”
“Yes.”
“He knew what I would do.”
I didn’t answer.
She wiped her face.
“I told people you manipulated him.”
“Yes.”
“I said he wasn’t himself.”
“Yes.”
“I thought…”
She stopped.
“What?”
Denise looked toward June.
“I thought if I admitted he chose it, then I had to admit there was something my son wanted that I couldn’t protect him from.”
My anger softened slightly.
Not enough to disappear.
Enough to listen.
“I spent his whole life protecting him,” she continued.
“When he was seven and somebody bullied him, I handled it. When he wrecked his first car, I handled it. When he lost his job at twenty-six, I helped him.”
Her voice trembled.
“Then he got sick, and suddenly there was nothing I could fix.”
I sat across from her.
“So you tried to control what happened afterward.”
She nodded.
“And when you wouldn’t help me…”
“You blamed me.”
Another nod.
I looked at June.
“This cannot happen again.”
“I know.”
“No, Denise. Look at me.”
She did.
“You will correct what you told people.”
Her face tightened.
“All of it.”
“Tessa—”
“You told them I manipulated a dying man.”
“I was grieving.”
“And I was postpartum, widowed, and burying my husband. Grief is not a permission slip.”
She flinched.
“You will call Renee. Carla. His aunt. His uncle. Anyone else you spoke to.”
Denise nodded.
“And you will never tell June that her father was confused or controlled.”
“I won’t.”
“And if you start using her as a substitute for Marcus, I will limit your visits.”
That hurt her.
I could see it.
But she nodded again.
“I understand.”
I believed she understood the words.
I didn’t yet know whether she could live by them.
