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.
