The whole way home I felt like I was riding on a cloud, trying to mentally relive each second of tonight. For the first time in a long while, I felt normal, and yet, different. A different normal.
I lay in my bed, tossing and turning, trying to shut down my excited brain, but to no avail; images of the dance and that perfect hour continuously flash through my mind. So I shove my body off the bed and onto my wheelchair, accepting the fact that I'm not going to fall asleep anytime soon, and that I might as well visit The Bluff.
You be my eyes. And I'll be your legs.
My lips spread into a smile as Calix's words float through my mind.
"Tell me! Tell me everything!" Aurora's excited voice fills The Bluff.
"I don't even know where to begin."
"Start! Start anywhere. Blurt it out. But first; tell me it was magical." She plops down on the grass, facing me, her eyes wide.
"Yes. It was magical. So very magical."
I proceed to tell her about the night's events. She squeals with excitement when I tell her about how Calix got on stage and asked me to a dance, then she sighs with happiness when I tell her about how I balanced on the top of his toes as he waddled us around the ballroom floor. It wasn't the most normal way to dance, but we aren't exactly the most normal of people either.
"Look at you, Bestie, moving on through life like a pro." She drums her fingers on my knees.
I glance down at my wheels. "It's weird. Some days I don't mind being paralyzed, like I don't even notice it, and then there are days where I get so depressed that I'm not sure if I can make it through the day."
"You made it through this day," Aurora points out.
"Yeah. But today was easier than most. Today was . . . magical. Tomorrow, I'm forced to go back to reality, back to facing the fact that I'm still a prisoner to this chair."
"It could be worse."
Those words cause me to think of Kalyope. Guilt rises inside of me when I realize that I've neglected her. Finding a heart hasn't proven to be as simplistic as I had initially hoped. I have one final idea, one last shot to accomplish the task that I set out to do—the task of saving her life.
But time is running out.
* * *
After physical therapy with Desiree, mother always comes to take me home, but today I had asked her if we could stop by the hospital on the way. I could tell she was surprised that I would ever want to visit that place again. Fortunately, she didn't deny my request.
She pulls the van up to the hospital's front curb and I tell her that I won't be long. After moving through the entrance, I follow the series of hallways leading to the P.I.C.U. The brooding aura that I felt when Calix first brought me here returns. I can't shake loose of it. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised; hospitals aren't exactly known for their cheery aura.
Up ahead, I see the red and white P.I.C.U sign on the wall. A female nurse marches in my direction with her attention buried in a clipboard full of papers. She looks up; her steel eyes pass over me as she moves by. I shiver after she's gone. There was a frigid sensation in her gaze, one that makes me believe that bad things have just taken place, like she's off to deliver the sad news of a passing family member.
Kalyope!
I press harder against my push rims, spinning my wheels faster in the direction of her hospital room. I'm terrified of what I will find—or not find. Is she alive? Am I too late? A knot swells in the pit of my stomach. I hear the unmistakable sound of the erratic beeping moments before I enter her room. She's still alive!
The door is already open, so I move inside. As usual, Kalyope is lying in the hospital bed. The white bed sheets are pulled up to her chin with her skinny fingers curled around its edges. Her skin is ashen; all life is drained from her face. The circles under her eyes have turned almost black now, like she's suffered extreme blunt trauma there. I nearly collapse in a puddle of tears right here and now, but I pull myself together. Kalyope needs support, not an emotional breakdown.
"Hey, you." I attempt a smile, but it feels like it falls flat over my face.
"H-hello . . ." Her voice is strained and weak.
I sweep a concerned glance up and down her brittle frame. I'm shocked at how rapidly her health has declined in less than a week. She didn't look nearly as bad the last time I visited her; you could hardly tell she was sick. But now, aside from her copper-blonde hair that has somehow managed to retain its healthy glow, she truly looks like she's on her deathbed.
"How . . . how are . . ." I can't finish the sentence.
"Not good." She coughs hard, placing a tissue in front of her mouth. After the coughing subsides, I see dark red blots on the white tissue. "There's not much left for me here." It almost looks like she's trying to smile, but she's too weak. She can barely keep her eyelids open.
My fingers tighten around my armrests in anger. I've wasted too much time. I'm too late.
Someone clears their throat to my left. That's when I notice there are two people sitting in chairs beside the medical counter. They introduce themselves as Kalyope's parents. Their eyes are puffy and noses a rough pink—from hours of crying I'm sure. They're forced to watch their own daughter die right in front of their eyes and there's nothing they can do to stop it.
Her father tells me that they're here to spend the last few hours, days if they're lucky, with their daughter. He chokes up on his words, not bothering to finish as he breaks down into sobs. His wife, Kalyope's mother, buries her head in the crease of his neck, her shoulders bobbing up and down from muffled sobs. Pressure builds in my own eyes, only waning as hot tears trail down my cheeks. I look over at Kalyope; I'm surprised to see she isn't crying, too. She isn't doing anything. No visual signs of sadness or fear; blinking only once every half a minute. The hospital must have her on potent pain medication.
I can't believe this is already happening. I thought I would have more time.
* * *
I don't remember leaving the hospital. I don't remember rolling my wheelchair back inside the van. And I don't remember mother driving me home. My mind was elsewhere, constantly thinking back to the tragedy that I had just witnessed.
After arriving home, I locked myself in my room and stared out the square panel windows of the French doors.
There has to be way. It's not over. It can't be. There must be something I can do. And that something may very well rest in the hands of Benjamin Trout. I don't care what he said to me before; he's the only person who can help me pull this off.
I move from my room and down the hall to father's den, locating several lightweight whiteboards, and take them back to my room. Sharpie in hand, the next hour consists of me scribbling random thoughts onto the boards, then wiping them clean; the process repeating dozens of times.
Think, McKenzie. Think! A life depends on it. Maybe more. Maybe thousands more, tens of thousands. So put your mind to work and think!
I write down Kalyope's name at the top of the board. She once stated there are over one hundred and twenty thousand patients across the country waiting for an organ transplant. I scribble such facts down on the board, not entirely sure why or how it will help, but at least it makes the board look a little bit more complete with something other than Kalyope's name written on it.
One hundred and twenty thousand—that's far too many people on a waiting list. With such a large figure, it'll take years before Kalyope receives a heart. Obviously, she doesn't have that long. I then remember the conversation I had with Desiree just a few days ago. If it were possible to create a secondary waiting list, one that services a more restricted and local area, then that would virtually slice the patient wait times by over ninety percent.
Wait a second! That's it. That's how I'm going to do it!
My phone's on the nightstand a few feet away. As I dial Desiree's number, my hands tremble from both excitement and fear. I'm literally racing against the clock. Kalyope's clock.
The line trills on the other end as I place the phone to my ear. Seconds later, I hear the familiar voice of Desiree pick up. "McKenzie? I wasn't expecting a call from you. Everything alright?"
I get right to the point. "Des! Do you know Trout's home address?" The line grows silent for a moment, and I can imagine she's probably wondering why I'd be asking such a question.
"I believe so."
She gives me the address and I quickly jot it down on a piece of notepad paper, thanking her for her help before hanging up.
I find mother in the theater room on her laptop. "Mom, we need to go. We need to go now!"
She casts a swift glance over me and my wheelchair, ensuring that I'm not hurt in any way. My panicked tone no doubt startled her. "Kenzie, what are you talking—"
"I don't have time to explain. Just get in the van!" It takes a few more minutes of coaxing, but I finally get her out of the house. From inside the van, I copy Trout's address from the notepad paper and input it into my phone's GPS. It displays that we're approximately twenty-four miles away from his home. It could be worse, I guess.
My nervousness begins to show in my actions; fingers rapping against the window, fidgeting with the DVD player, making popping sounds with my mouth. Mother looks at me in the rearview mirror, a little curious. "Wanna tell me what this is all about?"
I throw my head back and moan. "Mom, you wouldn't understand." The next thing I know, I'm thrown forward against my seat belt as she slams her foot on the brake pedal, pulling over to the side of the road. "No! What are you doing?"
"I'm not driving a mile more until you tell me what's going on." Her tone is kind but firm, and I reluctantly accept that she isn't going to budge. With a deep breath, I fill her in on my plan, cringing as the story unfolds, hoping she that doesn't tell me I'm completely insane and then straightway drive me back home.
She's silent at first; the low rumble of the engine is the only noise. I try to keep my breathing steady, but that proves to be difficult. Finally, mother's eyes flicker towards the rearview mirror. "My baby girl's gonna save the world one life at a time." The van shudders forward, and I feel the cool rush of relief flood my veins.
I check the GPS. "Turn right up here, mom."
As I close the app, I accidentally tap the gallery icon on the menu page; the photograph Aurora and I took on our last day of school pops up. It grieves my heart to look at it, to look at her, smiling, carefree, full of life. It's hard to believe that I've lived nearly six months without her. But the pain is still present; my heart aches for her now just as much as it did on day one.
This is for you, Aurora.
* * *
Ten minutes later, a monstrous house resting on a hill slides into view. A six-foot-tall iron fence encompasses the entire premises. At first glance, there doesn't appear to be an entrance. Mother drives the fence line for a few hundred yards until discovering a gated entrance near the end. A black video surveillance camera is perched beneath the small architectural awning, swiveling on its base to follow our movement. A metallic speaker box, much like the ones you see in a fast food drive-thru, is positioned in a bed of black elliptical shaped rocks.
"State your name and business!" a gruff voice booms from the speaker.
Mother leans out the open van window. "Um. My daughter is here to see . . ." She swings her head back inside the van. "What did you say his name was?"
"Trout. Benjamin Trout."
"Benjamin Trout!" She sticks her head out the window again.
No voice comes from the speaker, and for a moment I wonder if we'll even get a response. Then it crackles to life. "One moment, please."
What am I going say to Mr. Trout? I haven't even thought about it. Part of me is hoping to waltz in there and tell him my elaborate plan and he'll agree with me right on the spot, and then we'll get a heart, and Kalyope will be saved, and everything will end in happiness. But I know it's going to take a lot more effort than that.
The speaker crackles again. "Did you have an appointment?"
Mother leans out the window. "Well . . . no, but I—"
"Come back when you have an appointment. Good day."
Mother gives me the "we tried" look, but I firmly shake my head, letting her know that we're getting inside those gates even if we have to ram them with the nose of this van.
I lean forward, tapping mother's shoulder. "Tell the Wizard of Oz there that the girl from the hospital is here to see Trout." Mother narrows her eyes over me, probably wondering if such a weak statement will work, but she leans out the window anyway and yells those words at the speaker. That has to pique Trout's interest, not knowing which girl it is that's come to see him. He'll have to satisfy his curiosity. That's when I'll plead my case.
"You may enter." No sooner had the voice said those words do the iron gates open.
We drive up the narrow driveway, passing two impressive bronze statues of life-size horses; one in mid-sprint, the other bucking its rider off its back, then we drive by a long section of assorted flowers, where it finishes at the summit of the hill in a circular driveway—a fountain with fancy inlays is in the center. I hide a smile, thinking back to how Maverick paid for the McDonald's dinner by taking all of those coins from the mall's fountain.
I ask mother to grab the whiteboard, then exit down the ramp. Trout's home is massive: three stories tall, balconies extending forth from every bedroom, orange tile roofing, and Grecian-style columns supporting the upper stories. And I thought that I lived in a nice house.
Unfortunately, the stoop is elevated and there's no ramp, so mother helps me up the three brick steps, leaning her weight on the back of my chair to lift the front wheels up and over the first step—the process repeating for the other two steps. She grunts, and I feel her labored breathing rush down the back of my neck, hating myself for being such a burden.
Once on the stoop, I rap my knuckles against the door; a woman answers almost immediately, greeting us with a cheerless expression. Before she can say anything else, I hear Trout's voice from inside the house. "Thalia? Thalia, who's at the—" Trout's face moves in behind the woman. "Oh. It's you."
I figure it's not wise to waste his time, so I start right in with the introductions. "Mr. Trout. I'm McKenzie. We've met before. And this is my mom."
"Yes. I remember you."
I grab the whiteboard from mother's hand, keeping my handwritten notes out of sight for now. I don't want to scare him off. He might think that I'm just a gold-digger who's out for his riches with no true intention of helping the children at the hospital. "May we come in? I'd like to propose a business proposition to you . . . sir." I feel as though using formalities might play in my favor.
Trout motions Thalia aside, who I discover is his maid, and we move through the front door. The inside is just as grand as it is on the outside. Trout leads us to the back of the house where it opens up into a seating area surrounded by full panel windows. A gracious amount of sunlight floods the room.
"Please." Trout motions us towards a crème colored sofa. Mother takes a seat on it, while I remain seated in my wheelchair, whiteboard still in hand. Trout takes a seat across from us on the edge of a chaise lounge, clasping his wrinkled hands together. "You said you had a proposition?"
"Yes." For some reason, I can't bring myself to show him the whiteboard. What if he doesn't like it? What if he says it's foolish? What if he laughs? Mother rubs my back, her long nails running up and down my shirt. I know she's trying to urge me to speak, so I take a breath and flip the whiteboard over in front of my wheelchair. Trout squints to read my rushed handwriting, then leans back and sighs deeply. I can't tell if it's a good sigh or a bad sigh.
"I see," he says. "Your friend still needs that transplant, hmm?"
I swallow hard. "Yes."
He sighs again, turning his head to face the window: a breathtaking view of hundreds of acres stretching towards the horizon, where the sky merges with a vast lake.
"If you'll just hear me out, I think you'll agree this can work and save lots of lives." My voice comes out babyish, almost whiny. I should probably dial back the desperation.
Trout returns his gaze to me. "Speak."
"We start our own organ distribution center right here in Camden, Maine."
"We?" He emphasizes that word strongly, almost like he's offended that I would even suggest such a thing. "And how do you suggest we go about doing that, I wonder?"
I draw his attention to my notes, glancing back and forth from the board to his face as I explain myself. He isn't displaying the slightest bit of interest. I feel my palms moisten, and a part of me wants to just shut up, roll my wheelchair out of here, and go home, but I continue.
Trout rubs his hands over his face after I finish speaking. "And why would I invest tens of millions into a project that hasn't even proven itself?"
"Because of the children." He eyes flare open at the mention of children. Maybe now I have his interest? "Please." My voice is back to sounding desperate, but I don't care this time. "I know this can work. I just need someone to help me get everything started."
"And by everything you mean you want me to write you a check for fifty million dollars?"
My gut tightens. Maybe I haven't harnessed his interest after all?
Trout goes back to staring at the whiteboard once again. I feel like flipping it over so he can't disparage my plan any further. "Plan". It's not even worthy of being called that. The final hurdle, the hardest hurdle, the most unrealistic hurdle is starting to seem impossible to surmount. I guess I shouldn't have expected things to result in any other way. I mean, I'm a girl in a wheelchair requesting millions of dollars from a total stranger. What was I thinking?
McKenzie, you're so naive.
Trout points to the name at the top of the whiteboard. "Kalyope? Is that your friend's name?"
"Yes, sir. She's at the hospital right now living out what may be her last few hours."
Trout fidgets in his seat, running his fingers through his silvery beard, while deep in thought. "You know something, child? You're a dreamer. You yearn for ludicrous achievements, while having no knowledge on how to achieve them, and you certainly have no concept of business endeavors in the slightest." His blue eyes flicker from the whiteboard to mine. "But this might actually work."
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