There are a million things standing in the way of a match. One of the biggest factors is the person’s size. The donor needs to be of a similar height and weight to the recipient. You can’t put the liver of a three-hundred-pound man, for example, into a petite teenage girl. A transplant isn’t as simple as, “Oh, you’re next on the list, here you go,” and then they pull a liver off the shelf and pop it in like a new set of wiper blades.
There are ups and downs. Calls from doctors saying, “We’ve got a potential match,” only to later be followed with no dice. Those ups and downs can be torturous. Case in point, a few months back we got the call we’d been waiting for. A young woman had fallen at Mount Monadnock, up in New Hampshire. She’d suffered devastating head injuries. We were told to drive Aubrey to Mass General ASAP. Which, again, is troubling — someone’s darkest time could potentially provide nothing but joy for you and your family.
Aubrey, always with a smile, tended to handle the stress better than her big, tough cop of a daddy. In this Mount Monadnock case, when the doctor came out, his strained face told me everything before he even opened his mouth: The transplant was a no-go. He was Asian but spoke perfect English. “Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt, I’m afraid we’re unable to perform the operation.” My heart, Ginny’s heart, they both plummeted. “An error occurred during the preservation phase. I’m afraid we’ve deemed the liver unsuitable. It would be too risky. I’m very sorry.”
What can I say to that? Go off on him? Yell and scream about his incompetence? Tell him I’d like to perform a preservation phase across his Chinese ass, which doesn’t even make any sense, but I’m angry. We finally had the pieces in place, the stars had aligned. “We’re all on the same team, Rob,” Ginny often reminds me when she senses I’m about to lose my shit with the doctors, probably close to embarrassing the both of us. “They want what’s best for ’Brey, same as we do.”
So that’s what’s tough. The uncertainty. The not knowing. That I could wake up, thinking we’ve had a good couple days, and then, boom, she could die that very morning. Or be saved, instead. I’m a cop, used to being in control. I solve problems. There’s nothing more gut wrenching than looking at my little girl lying in bed, her face sallow, her eyes weak, knowing she’s suffering, frightened, and yet there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I can’t call in backup, can’t use my badge to garner extra favors, can’t flash my overheads to bypass all of the horseshit.
I was reliving that Harvard blanket, cheddar Goldfish, Clark-Bar-Bites-on-the-couch moment when I stopped my cruiser in the middle of the road, took out my phone, snapped a few pictures of those deer, all tranquil and unfazed. The snow was coming down heavy, those fat sorts of flakes you dreamed of as a kid, where you’d stick out your tongue, trying to collect a mouthful. I took a dozen shots, then drove off, figuring I better get back to town before the evening rush. I was destined to a night of distraught, sidelined drivers, indifferent tow-truck operators, and EMTs chock-full of caffeine and gallows humor.
I swiped through the photos as I drove, hoping to find a good one for Aubrey. As I scanned back and forth between the road and the pictures, my eyes locked on the final shot. There were two does, same as the others, but in this photo, almost melted into the background, ghostlike in the trees, was a buck, probably a six- or eight-point. His silhouette was vague but absolutely discernible. Aubrey loved nature, same as me, so I texted, “Hey Pumpkin, look what Daddy just saw.” I hit SEND and simultaneously felt the explosion as ripping, scraping metal screeched like a thousand fork tines across a thousand china plates. The air bag punched me in the face. The other vehicle careened off the road and into the field as my patrol car entered the first of countless spins — brakes useless, steering wheel useless, at the mercy of the boulder that abruptly stopped my cruiser.
Between the air bag and my reshaped hood, I couldn’t see jack shit. But once I realized I was only startled, not injured, my cop instincts kicked in. I got out, squinting beneath my hat brim, the snow hammering now. Twenty-five yards away, planted between two maples, was the small, mangled car. A Focus, maybe? A Jetta? Hard to say, but a vehicle that had no business on the road in these conditions. There was no movement from inside, which shot a red-hot flash straight through my brain.
I reached across my chest for the mike clipped to my jacket but then paused, thinking of that damn text I’d just sent Aubrey. My heart started rabbit-thumping. I unzipped my jacket halfway to get some air, felt the snowflakes dissolve against my blazing cheeks. If that driver was hurt bad... or worse... Jesus, it would all be on me. I held off radioing in, which contradicted two decades of training and experience. First rule — Police 101 — always call dispatch. I deliberately chose not to do that.
Instead, I trudged across the slick road, nearing the curve where the collision had happened, saw the tire tracks. Both sets. Tracks don’t lie, also Police 101. They spoke as clearly to me as someone whispering in my ear, saying, “You messed up big time, Rob.”
I’d been police for twenty years. And I’d been a good cop. A clean cop. Except once.
I’d been running radar near the Great Meadows Wildlife Refuge, a rural area and a perfect place to take a nap. Occasionally, someone set the detector off, teenagers usually, ripping down the long straightaway, trying to max out their speedometers. A year ago, a couple of black guys rolled by, only going five over, not even worth my while. But something was off. And I’m not racist, but did I suddenly find myself profiling? It’s possible. Two black guys in that area was unusual, for one thing, New York plates, for another, and they had that cornrowed hair, which, personally, I’d never fully trusted.
I pulled them over, called in the plates. Tags came back clean. When I approached the vehicle, the driver already had his license and registration in hand. He was polite, didn’t ask what he’d done wrong, kept his hands on the steering wheel where I could see them. He’d been well coached, had been through this routine before.
His license was clear, nothing outstanding, not even a parking ticket. “I got turned around, Officer,” he said. “Been at my cousin’s house in Jamaica Plain, was trying to get back to New York. I’m all ass-backwards out here.”
I returned his license, his paperwork, and then something self-congratulatory stirred in me. Like I felt good because I wasn’t going to give this black kid a ticket. White cop lets black kids go. It was all going in that direction until I spotted something poking from the center console. Just the tiniest comer of a plastic baggie, barely hanging out.
I was a cop. Had a cop’s eye. Was trained to scan an area, assess a situation. Didn’t even know I was doing it half the time. “What’s that?” I said. “That Ziploc there?”