Page 13 of Tribute Act
Mum’s worry over Rosie’s health had been well-founded. The doctor had thought she was suffering from depression at first, but when she’d started showing signs of jaundice and lack of coordination, further tests had led to a diagnosis of a rare condition: Wilson’s disease. Her body had been accumulating copper for years, and by the time she was diagnosed, her liver had already sustained serious damage. Damage so serious it couldn’t be repaired. Now she was on the waiting list for a liver transplant.
When the doctors had told us it was possible to get a transplant from a live donor—a person could give away over half their liver and it would regrow to its original size within three months—we had all been sure that was the answer. Mum, Derek, and I were all willing to donate, and family members were the most promising candidates. But in our case, it had turned out that not one of us was a match. And nor were any of the other more distant family members or friends who’d been tested. So now our hopes were pinned on the donor list. And with every day that passed, it seemed like Rosie got a little worse, and we all got a little more desperate.
I’d been so certain that I’d be a match. As soon as Mum had first mentioned the possibility, it had felt inevitable to me. It just made sense—Rosie and I were siblings, plus I was the right age and in good health. I didn’t have a second’s hesitation about going under the knife. The idea of giving up half my liver hadn’t troubled me at all, even though I had a bit of a phobia about general anaesthetic. I’d have been able to deal with that to save my sister.
When they told me I wasn’t a match, I’d been devastated. Worse, Rosie had been distraught. I’d taken one look at her face and known that, up to then, she’d been as convinced as I had that everything was going to be okay. After all, when hadn’t her big brother been able to sort out any problem?
Well, her illusions had been well and truly shattered.
The door of Mum’s house was open as usual, and as soon as I stepped inside, the homely smell of shepherd’s pie greeted me. I shucked my jacket and hung it up in the porch before wandering through to the living room. Derek was back from the pub. He was lounging on the sofa in front of the TV, beer in hand. He glanced up at my entrance and smiled. He had a great smile, did Derek. You could see how he’d ended up as front man of a band. It wasn’t so much that he’d been particularly good-looking. He just had that elusive charisma people talk about. A glint in his eye that people responded to.
“I hope you’re not hungover from your night out,” he said. “Lorraine’s made your favourite.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Famished actually.”
He chuckled, and I walked past him to where Rosie sat, curled up in her favourite armchair, staring at her phone with her earbuds in. She pulled the buds out as I approached, muttering an unenthusiastic “Hey.” Her face had a yellowish sickly tinge I’d grown used to. Between that and the bruise-dark circles under her eyes, she looked exhausted.
I dropped a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair—dark like Derek’s rather than the light brown I’d inherited from Mum—smelled of apples. It was the same shampoo she’d always used, the one Mum used too, and for some reason, the smell of it made me suddenly sad.
“How you doing, kiddo?” I said.
She shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen of her phone. “Fine.”
I suppressed a sigh at the monosyllabic response and turned back to Derek, dropping down onto the sofa beside him, Yawning, I asked, “What was the score on the Arsenal game?”
“One-nil.”
I chuckled. “You’ll be happy.”
“Should’ve been at least three-nil but a win’s a win. I’ll take it.”
I nodded at the TV. “What you watching?”
He made a face. “One of those singing competitions. Bloody awful. Is this what we’ve come to with music?”
On the screen, a young and very beautiful girl was toiling through a Whitney Houston song.
“She’s a good singer,” I pointed out, though I didn’t disagree with him.
Derek snorted. “She’s singing it to death. She doesn’t even know what the song’s about.”
We watched her complete the final tortuous bars of the song to rapturous applause. When the camera flicked to the head judge, Derek cursed and switched off.
“Hey, it was just getting to the good bit!” That was Rosie. She glared at Derek.
“I’m not listening to that bloody idiot,” Derek ranted. “What he knows about music could be written on a postage stamp with room to spare.”
“He knows more than you do,” Rosie muttered.
Derek’s jaw tightened at that. “What, because he puts out mediocre records that sell to the idiots who watch this rubbish?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Rosie replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And he makes a shed load of money doing it, so I think he knows a bit about the business, Dad.”
“Not everything’s about money, Rosie.” That was Mum. She’d emerged from the kitchen bearing a handful of cutlery and a bottle of brown sauce. She plonked it all down on the low coffee table in front of the sofa then came round to kiss my cheek.
“Jonathan, love,” she said fondly. “It’s good to see you. I like your hair like this.” She was smiling, but I could see how tired she was.
I shrugged. “It’s the same as usual; it’s just that I haven’t put any styling stuff on it.”