Let Him Live (11 page)

“What else?”

“Well, we don’t want you to think Meg and I have
all
the good ideas,” Alana said. “The others at the meeting had a few too. In two weeks, the Junior League is planning a Moonlight on the Potomac cruise.”

Donovan rolled his eyes. “That sounds pretty romantic—you know, not like mud wrestling or bowling for charity.”

“You got something against romance?” Alana chided.

“Romance with a purpose,” Meg insisted, swatting his arm playfully. “We get all these rich people out on a riverboat on the Potomac River, feed them, let them dance, then put on a presentation for the Wayfarer Inn and ask each person how much he or she wants to give.”

“Notice we said,
how much
, not
if
they want to give.”

“Sort of a captive audience out there on the river,” Donovan observed.

“Exactly. Either they give or they swim home.”

They shared a laugh over Meg’s reasoning.

“Will you two be going on the cruise?” Donovan asked.

“Sure,” Alana said. “Someone has to keep a check on donations.”

“Who are you going to take?” Donovan’s question
was for both of them, but his eyes were on Meg.

“She’d like to take you, boy, but she’s too slow in asking.”

Meg felt her face turn beet red, and she shot Alana a glance that could kill.

“Are you inviting me?” Donovan wanted to know.

Meg straightened. “I was planning on it, but in my own time.” No one mentioned what was on all their minds: In two weeks, he could be too sick to go.

“I accept,” Donovan said.

“You do?”

“He does,” Alana replied, standing. She brushed her hands together, as if dusting them off. “That was an easy matchup. Now, I’d better get to it and find myself a date. First person I’m asking is Carl Douglas, one fine hunk of man.”

“Now that we have your social life settled, how about that letter?” Meg hauled Alana back to her chair.

“I was getting to that.” Alana sat down, and Meg passed her a pencil and paper. “How should we start?”

“Donovan, if you could tell people one thing about how you feel concerning the Wayfarer Inn, what would it be?”

Sobered, he contemplated Meg’s question. When he spoke, the words came from deep inside him. “Waiting for an organ transplant is truly hard work. It’s hard not to get discouraged. Even
harder when you get psyched up to go through the surgery and have a possible donation fall through. But I have to say that the hardest part of this whole ordeal is not being able to have your family near you while you’re waiting.

“I’m seventeen and thought I was beyond the stage of needing my family close by. But I’m not. Sometimes, when I feel so low, I think it would take a crane to boost me over a curb, I need the closeness of my mom and kid brother. It’s not that the hospital people aren’t good to me—they are. But sometimes, more than anything in the world, I want to hold my mother’s hand.”

Donovan’s voice had grown thick with emotion. Meg felt a lump in her throat. She had thought she understood Donovan’s situation, but she hadn’t. Not truly. She realized that her simple ability to come and go as she pleased, to be with her parents in her home, was something that she’d taken for granted. Donovan had no home, and his family was not able to help much because there was no place nearby for them to stay.

“That was pretty real, Donovan,” Alana said, her voice sounding whispery. “If we can put that kind of emotion into a letter, I know we’ll raise a ton of money.”

He glanced away, obviously self-conscious. “It’s common for little kids to want their mommies,” he said. “I thought it might be more effective if people understood that big kids need theirs too.” He offered a sheepish smile. “So, that was from the bottom of my heart. Now, on the lighter side,
you can say that another reason for building the inn is to have access to a kitchen where my mom can bake up a batch of her special chocolate chip cookies. This hospital food gets boring.”

“That request alone should bring in plenty of contributions,” Meg joked.

“I already want to donate to the cause,” Alana added. “Anyone who can bake chocolate chip cookies deserves a place to do it.”

They worked for another hour, each making suggestions, but allowing Donovan to put his unique perspective into the letter above all else. When they were finished, Meg felt satisfied with the results. “I’ll show this to Mom and Dad and see what they think,” she said. “If they like it, we can get it out soon.”

“I hope it helps,” Donovan said.

“I know it will, because it came from your heart.”

“That’s true,” he said. “Straight from my heart.”

Once Alana had gone, Donovan took Meg’s hand and sank back onto his pillow. He looked tired. “I appreciate all you’re doing for me,” he told her.

“It’s for every kid stuck in long-term hospitalization,” she said, but knew that he sensed the truth—it was mostly for him she was doing it.

“I’m going to do everything I can to stay well so that I can go on that cruise with you.”

“You’d better. I’m counting on you.”

“Unless a new liver comes along, that is.”

“It’s the only excuse I’ll accept,” she said. Then, on impulse, Meg bent, quickly kissed his cheek, and bolted from the room.

“M
EG, THIS IS
wonderful.” Her mother put down the rough draft of Donovan’s letter and wiped moisture from the corner of her eye. “It’s so sensitive and heartfelt. I think you’ve done an excellent job. I’ll present it to the board, and maybe we can get it mailed out before the cruise. I know it’ll raise some money for our cause.”

Her father took the letter and read it as he ate. They were having one of their rare dinners together, and Meg was actually appreciating their time with one another. “This is good,” her father said. “I told you Donovan was a special kid.”

“I’d like to take him on the cruise if you’ll give him a pass from the hospital again,” Meg said.

“To be honest, I’m planning on releasing him from Memorial.”

“Is he well enough?”

“He’s well enough to wait around his apartment as easily as at the hospital. Medically, Dr. Rosenthal has done all he can for him. Now, it’s up to me and my team to find him a new liver. It’s still his only recourse.”

Meg felt nervous about having Donovan so far away from the hospital—and from her. “But what if you find a donor? Or what if he gets sick? His mother works all day—”

“He’ll be on a beeper,” her father interrupted gently. “If we get a compatible donor, he can be brought here by ambulance in no time at all. Same thing if he starts feeling bad. Calling for an ambulance is a decision he can make for himself if he gets sick and he’s alone.”

Meg was certain that Mrs. Jacoby wouldn’t like leaving him alone day after day. “It just seems that he’s safer in the hospital,” she said.

“He’s stable now, and there’s nothing we can do for him at Memorial for the time being. Frankly, we need the beds for sicker patients.” How sick did a person have to be? Meg wondered. Needing a new liver seemed to qualify in her mind. Her father reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be all right, Megan. It will be good for his morale to get out of the hospital for a while. I know what I’m doing.”

Her father was right about the morale part. When she saw Donovan the next day, he was all smiles. “I’m blowing this place,” he said. “Mom’s
coming to help me pack tonight after she gets off work.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“She was going to get us a cab.”

“Why spend the money when I know the way?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. Meg’s Taxi, at your service.”

“You’ll come visit me?”

“Every chance I get.” She watched him shuffle over to the dresser and remove clothing from the drawer. She realized how much she was going to miss stopping by his room every day. She told herself that this was good for him, but it was herself she was thinking about. “I’ll call you during my breaks.”

“I’d like that.”

“And I can drive over this weekend.”

“Mom’ll fix us dinner.”

“And in two weeks, we have the cruise.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be going.” He came over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I’m scared about leaving Memorial too.”

“I hope I’m not making you feel that way.”

“You’re not. According to Dr. Rosenthal, it’s natural for me to be uneasy. As long as I’m here, I can ring for a nurse if I need anything. I know when I stay at home, I’ll have to be on my own. Even though I’ll have my medications and the phone close by, it’s still scary. But I’d rather be scared than stuck here another day.” He grinned down at her. “Besides, you should have heard Brett’s voice when I told him on the phone I was
coming home. He’s planning some big surprise for me.”

“I’ll bet.” She knew how much Brett had missed him. She was beginning to miss her sister, Tracy. Meg guessed that separation did make people long for each other. “Just stay well,” she told Donovan.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Maybe next week, I can go see some of those houses you were telling me about.”

“Maybe,” Meg answered, wishing she had more choices to show him. “The agent’s still working on it.”

“Then, things are looking pretty bright, don’t you think? We’re helping to get contributions for the Wayfarer Inn, I’m shopping for a house for my mom—thanks to JWC—I’m getting out of Hotel Memorial, and I’ll soon be going on a moonlight cruise with a pretty girl. Things don’t look too bad at all to me.”

Except for your health
, Meg thought. She longed to share his enthusiasm, but she’d been with her father on that late-night run to Bethesda. She’d never told Donovan about it. But she had seen with her own eyes how quickly joy could turn into mourning.

“I didn’t exaggerate one bit, did I? Isn’t this place perfect?” Ms. George ushered Meg and Donovan through the front doorway of the old house. Her heels clicked across the hardwood floors, sending echoes off the walls. “I couldn’t believe
anything would actually become available in this neighborhood. As I told you on the phone, the elderly woman who owned it recently died in a nursing home. She had no relatives and left no will. She’d taken out a mortgage to help pay her nursing home bills, and when she died, the bank put the house up for sale.”

Ms. George waved her hand. “I don’t mean to rattle on about it, but when my friend at the bank called and told me about this house, I thought it sounded just perfect for you.”

Meg glanced about the house with dismay. It looked run-down and smelled musty, of rooms too long closed up against fresh air and sunlight. “It’s really old,” she observed, filling in the silence.

“It was built in the 1890s. I know it needs work,” Ms. George said hastily. “That’s a big reason why the bank is selling it below market value. But its structure is sound, and you won’t find craftsmanship like this anymore. Wallpaper, new paint, new appliances will fix the place up like new. I’m telling you, it’s a real bargain.”

Meg glanced at Donovan, who was taking his time touring the Victorian-era room. He stopped in front of the fireplace and ran his hand over the mantel. “This has been hand-carved,” he said.

“There’s another fireplace upstairs. Five bedrooms too.” Ms. George chuckled. “I know that’s far more space than you said you needed, but I figured I owed you right of first refusal on it.”

Meg and Donovan exchanged glances. She
wished she could read his mind. Was he as disappointed in this house, as he’d been in the others she’d selected for him to see?

“The thing I thought you’d appreciate most was its proximity to Memorial Hospital,” Ms. George continued. She turned toward the open front door with its beveled, stained-glass insets. “Only two blocks away.”

“You said it’s on a double lot?” Donovan asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Ms. George fairly beamed. “Come through the kitchen.”

Meg tagged behind the agent and Donovan through a swinging door. The kitchen looked bleak and cramped, in need of renovation. Ms. George led them out onto a back porch and pointed toward the backyard. “The bank hired a crew to mow and clear out the overgrowth, but see how generous the yard is?”

Meg saw that it sloped downward and a huge oak tree loomed in the back corner like a giant sentry. “Brett would have fun playing back there,” she said, trying to sound upbeat.

“My mom loves Victorian houses,” Donovan said. “She’s always buying magazines about them. She wants a garden and lots of wildflowers on her lawn every spring.”

“Come see the upstairs,” Ms. George urged. “The staircase is solid cherry, and the newel post has a carved figurine—very unusual. There’s a stained-glass window set over the stairwell too. It’s a true antique.”

As they climbed the stairs, the late-afternoon
sun slanted through the old window and peppered Donovan’s shoulders and head with shades of red, yellow, and purple, making him look as if he’d stepped out of the past, from a time and place Meg had only read about. As they passed from room to room, Meg could see the beauty of the house beneath layers of grime and dust. Wainscoting, vaulted stenciled ceilings, rich old woods needing little more than lemon oil and buffing to make them gleam, caught her eye. “It is pretty,” she whispered to Donovan as they circled the master bedroom.