My eyes snap to his. “No, I don’t think I did.” I look to Fletcher. “Was she from here?”
Fletcher’s posture is hunched, his body leaning closer to the fireplace in the center of the room he’s standing next to, stretching his hands closer for warmth. The light illuminates his tired, worn face. “Athena?”
I nod.
“No, she was from Portland.” His attention shifts to the television as he mumbles, “He met her when he was down there living with his mom.”
I smile at Atlas and hand him a napkin. “I bet she was amazing.”
Atlas’s dimples return. “I think she was. But I don’t know.” He gives a light-hearted shrug of his tiny shoulders and sets the fork down on the table. And then he disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with Fletcher.
With my cup in my hand, I draw in a careful breath. “Why’d you give us the money?”
Fletcher lifts his eyes from the television. “What money?”
“For the bar.” I keep my eyes on his, curious as to why he’d do that. Looking around this place, you wouldn’t think he had forty thousand dollars just lying around, and why give it to us? We weren’t family. He could have given the money to Atlas, or even his kids.
For a moment, he doesn’t reply. His breathing shifts, his eyes colder than before. “You guys needed the money.”
“But that’s a lot of money,” I point out, my cheeks feeling like they’re on fire. Maybe it’s from the fire, or maybe I feel bad asking this. Maybe it’s an insult to ask?
“It was,” he agrees. He seems to work through a thought process. Frowning, he leans into the framed mantel, his arms crossed over his chest. “I knew your parents really well, and it’s what they would have done for my boys, had they needed it.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry, my heart pounding. He’s right, though. My parents would have done anything for anyone at the drop of a hat. Their hearts were gold.
Standing, I push myself away from the table. I wish I was as worthy as they were. Willing to do anything for anyone, but all I did was take someone else’s life.
Tickler - A chain that is dragged along the bottom of the ocean in an attempt to scare fish up from the bottom and into nets.
On Sundays, the bar is closed. Believe me when I say it’s a much-needed day off for all of us there. A time when I usually spend the day in bed with Netflix. Only today, after I leave Fletcher’s house, I contact my transplant coordinator by email and let him know I’d like to make contact with the donor’s family. This isn’t the first time I’ve been in touch with Derrick. He checks up on me, and Avie. It’s his job as the coordinator to make sure I’m adjusting well. For a while, I went to a support group shortly after I turned eighteen and decided nope, not going to college. Avie was pissed and made me go. Still, six years later and still no interest in college, and what am I doing with my life?
Maybe something in this donor, or their story, might spark something inside me? I can hope, right?
After sending the email to him, I don’t expect to hear back for a couple of weeks. I imagine the process is going to take a while. While I’m on my laptop in bed, I think about Lincoln, and that gets me thinking about Athena. I’m curious about her. Wouldn’t you be? What was her relationship with Lincoln like? What was she like?
I look on Facebook first. I knew from the one photograph I saw of her that she had long blonde hair, and it’s clear from the profile picture that I’ve found her.
Athena Hardy. Lives in Portland, Oregon.
I click on her name.
It comes up with two things that interest me. Her cover photo is of a fishing boat—Lincoln’s. And the last photograph she posted was October 31, 2012, and it’s one of her smiling, holding her belly standing on the beach:
Today we meet our pumpkin! Happy Halloween! #babyboyhardy
I stare at her photo, her happiness captured in a second, and later shattered. She was young. Twenty-two. She was attending college and seemed sweet, loving, and insanely cute. Same dimples as Atlas. She had been passionate about whales and spent a lot of time in Sitka, Alaska, where it appears she has family.