The scent of iodine and sterilized steel had become my perfume. It clung to my hair, my clothes, and the very pores of my skin. For two weeks, I had existed in the purgatory of this elite private hospital corridor, sitting on a bench that seemed designed to drain the warmth from the human body.
Julian paced in front of me, his Italian loafers clicking a frantic rhythm against the linoleum. Inside the VIP suite, Beatrice Caldwell, my mother-in-law, was fighting a losing battle against end-stage renal failure.
“Clara.”
Julian’s voice shattered the silence, sharp and desperate. He dropped to his knees in front of my chair, gripping my cold hands in his. His eyes were bloodshot, swimming with a plea that looked terrified.
“The doctors say Mom doesn’t have time,” he choked out. “Dialysis isn’t working anymore. Her heart is failing, Clara. She’s drowning in her own fluids.”
I swallowed, the dryness in my throat tasting like ash. “I know, Julian. It breaks my heart.”
“We can’t wait on the national list,” he urged, his grip tightening until my knuckles ached. “That could take years. She doesn’t have years. She doesn’t have weeks. But you… you’re a match.”
