Please? Ian said. We did the turkeys for Marigold, the church for Corrina; this one could be for me.
Then the next one is for Van, Corrina said.
They were kind enough to include me even though I had as much power as a can of soup. We were a unit by then, known around campus. I knew we would always be friends the way I knew R.E.M. would never break up. I took notes as they figured out how to find and move an organ through space.
All we have to do is set up a mental formula that can identify the kidney for us, Corrina said. If that, then this. A divining spell of sorts.
The next afternoon Ian burst into my dorm room, where I, Corrina, and Marigold were arguing over ordering pizza or sandwiches, and said he had found a kidney. Its location had come to him in a dream. It’s in Seattle, he said, and belongs to a nurse who died in a three-car pile-up.
Pizza, said Marigold, or I’m fucking out of here.
On May 15 of my junior year, Jessica Freeman, PTA organizer and mother of Katie Freeman, owner of the much-discussed and prayed-for organ, opened her freezer to fetch that night’s dinner. Instead of a Cornish hen she found a cooler that contained a kidney. She fell into an unconscious heap on the floor.
Of course doctors at Vanilla Presbyterian subjected the kidney to a battery of tests, all of which it passed. They consulted every kidney list in America and found not one missing organ. They gave up trying to figure out where it came from because, as Ian predicted, they were too thrilled.
Unexplained things happen all the time in Vanilla, reasoned Jessica Freeman in a three-page spread in the Wafer; it is after all America’s most holy campus. The Freemans signed off on having the kidney sewn into their daughter.
The Wafer, led by my old roommate, Sara, who was now a senior reporter, conducted “Katie Watch,” chronicling the girl’s journey to transplant. On the day she was wheeled in to surgery, Sara snapped a picture of Katie giving the thumbs-up sign. The next day, when Katie emerged from the recovery room, Sara snapped a picture of the girl’s joyous thumbs-up. Katie was a thumbs-up kind of girl, incapable, it seemed, of having her picture taken without giving one.
The next day we stayed in the room Ian and Marigold now shared and drank beer, got high, ate candy, played board games, and congratulated ourselves. We were secret, important heroes. On the second day, when Corrina insisted we play Monopoly instead of Scrabble, Marigold said, Surprise, Corrina is telling us what to do, and Corrina said what begins all fights: What is that supposed to mean?
You’re a bully, said Marigold, ripping a piece out of his Fruit Roll-Up.
Corrina turned to me. Do you think what he thinks?
Ask your puppy dog, said Marigold. That’ll be an accurate read.
Hey, I said.
Ian said, Hey.
Marigold said, Corrina wants to have a church vanish, it vanishes; she wants to hack a couple lacrosse players half to death, it happens.
That was for you, Samuel. Corrina rescinded Marigold’s nickname when things were dire.
Guys, I said. How about we cool it?
Van, how about you put yourself on the line once, for anything? Marigold said.
All right, Ian said, let’s go outside, Mar.
Corrina rolled her eyes. Give it a rest, Ian.
Give what a rest? Ian said.
Corrina looked surprised at herself and seemed unwilling to elaborate. She and Marigold exchanged glances as if they had reached an agreement on something they had discussed without us. Corrina said, Why don’t you two just make out and get it over with? The whole fake friendship thing is cloying and inauthentic.
You’re high, said Ian.
Being high doesn’t change the truth, Marigold said.
Here’s a stand, I said to Marigold. You started a fight. Now you’re trying to misdirect.
Why don’t you cry and write your feelings in your journal, Vanessa?
I keep notes for you jerks in that thing.
Corrina said, Everyone is high. We need to calm down.
Corrina! Telling us what to do again. How terrifyingly shocking. I am petrified with shock. I am heart-wrenchingly shocked!
Guys, said Ian.
If I didn’t guide us, Samuel, you would be stoned and sleeping through college.
Guys, said Ian, louder. We looked over. He was slumped against the bed, holding his side. Something’s wrong, he said. I think I ate too much candy.
Ian was admitted to Vanilla Presbyterian in the middle of the night May 25 of our junior year. Corrina, Marigold, and I sat in the blue-lit waiting room for two hours, our worry every so often interrupted by the sliding doors of the ER, revealing a new patient or one of us back from a cigarette.
Marigold said, He probably has mono or, like, appendicitis.
Corrina said, Mono. Her eyes had not left the doors to the back hallway since Ian disappeared behind them.
The woman above us on the swiveling TV said, I’m tired of losing confidence over static cling.
Should we call his mom? Marigold said.
No one answered.
I don’t just write about my feelings, I said.
Corrina put her hand on mine. I’m sorry I try to run everything.
Even if you did just write about your feelings, Marigold said, that’s fine. I’m a jerk.
At 5 A.M. Marigold and Corrina were asleep on each of my shoulders when a furrowed doctor stood at the lip of the waiting room and surveyed it for anyone relevant to what he had to say. We were the only people there.
We asked him to repeat it because at first it felt like too big of a coincidence: kidney failure. The doctor said Ian’s kidney was too damaged to function, having been weakened over time by stress, alcohol, genetics, and other cumulative external factors.
We blinked at him, confused. We were still wearing winter hats though it was May, our pants with busted hems, our shirts stapled.
The doctor frowned. It’s too much for one kidney to take.
Kidney? Marigold said.
The woman on TV was ecstatic. Now I can join my coworkers without a care in the world!
I won’t know the extent of the damage until surgery. I’d like to get him prepped immediately.
Corrina sat forward. But what about his other kidney?
The doctor seemed to make several corrections in his tact before speaking again. You are his family, right?
We said the word yes together.
Ian has only one kidney, the doctor said. And that kidney is doing its best. It is high-kicking like hell and busting out those diseases and pizza bagels that Ian makes late at night and boy oh boy is it giving the old college try, but not this college, some other college, where people fail out and sports teams get beat into the ground.
Pardon? I said.
Ian has only one kidney, the doctor said.
On the swivel TV, the talk-show host delivered an end-of-program sermon, summing up key points.
Sometimes in our life, she said, our partners expect us to breathe for them. We should not let them co-opt our breath. She said, He needs to have surgery immediately to repair what we can of the kidney. You can speak with him now but not for very long. She said, His mother won’t be able to get here in time. She said, Now let us take a few moments to pray for Katie Freeman, whose family and friends are in need of a gift from God.
Ian’s room was quiet considering the chaos in our minds. He was under a blanket, staring at the wall. We hesitated in the doorway; a recent fight and grave illness had made us all strangers. He looked over and smiled.