Page 22 of Tribute Act
Six days later, Mack came back.
He arrived at the house on the Thursday evening and announced that he definitely wanted to go ahead.
After that, things moved fast.
The surgery date was quickly arranged—it was sobering to realise how pressing the doctors considered the procedure to be—along with a bunch of other presurgery appointments. Over the two weeks leading up to surgery, it felt like Rosie and Mack were constantly at the hospital having something tested or scanned or measured. Mum and Derek were at pretty much every appointment, which left me holding the fort at the café.
It was fine. Someone had to keep our employees in work and our customers coming through the doors, but yeah, there were times, occasionally, when I wished it didn’t always have to be me; when I wished I wasn’t constantly on the outside of what was happening with my sister. In my worst moments, I’d wonder if Rosie thought I didn’t care and that I was more concerned about keeping Dilly’s running. I knew she thought I was obsessed by the business—she was always rolling her eyes when I went round to hassle Mum and Derek about incomplete paperwork and unpaid bills. But right then, quite honestly, I couldn’t have cared less about it. It was just that looking after the café was the only way I could contribute to our family crisis. It wasn’t as if I could tag along to the appointments.
Not like Mack.
And God, what kind of a dick was I to feel resentful of that? Mack was giving her his fucking liver.
I wasn’t really resentful. But sometimes I’d go round in the evening, and I’d walk into the living room, and there they would be, the four of them, and they’d look up, and I’d feel like . . . an interloper.
And sometimes, just sometimes, the idea would flash across my mind—He’s the interloper, not me.
It would be a fleeting thought, banished an instant later. I knew it was dickish and stupid and untrue to boot. Unkind. But sometimes—well, yeah, that was how I felt.
A couple of nights before the surgery was due to take place, I went round to the house after closing up the café, like I’d been doing every night that week. When I walked in, the four of them were midconversation—or rather, Mum was midrant. She had a determined expression on her face and her voice had gone up in pitch, the way it did when she was agitated. Derek was sitting, silent and plainly uncomfortable, on the sofa beside her, and Rosie was slouched miserably in her favourite armchair.
Mack, who appeared to be the victim of her rant, looked hunted.
“It’s six weeks’ recovery time,” Mum was telling him. “It makes sense. You need someone to take care of you, and you’ve admitted yourself you can’t afford to stay at the B&B any longer.”
“What’s up?” I asked settling myself down in the only remaining vacant chair.
Mum glanced at me. “We’re talking about where Dylan’s going to stay after the surgery. It’s obvious he should come here. We’ve got loads of room, and I’ll be running around after Rosie anyway. I may as well run after two as one.”
“But I’m not going to be bed-ridden,” Mack protested. “I don’t need a nurse.”
“Then why not stay here?” I asked. “There’s a spare room, and Mum would love to have you. You can’t stay at the B&B for six weeks.”
“That’s what I said!” Mum exclaimed. She sent Mack a reproachful look. “I don’t know why you won’t let us help you.”
Mack stared at his hands while a dark red flush crept up his neck. He appeared as uncomfortable as Derek, ready to crawl under a rock.
Like father, like son.
Of course, being me, Mr. Fixer, I had to step in and try to make it better. Smooth over Mum’s offended hurt; offer another explanation. Mediate.
I turned to her. “I can understand where Mack’s coming from—he doesn’t want to take up your time when you need to be concentrating on Rosie. She’s going to need all your attention after surgery.”
Mack glanced up, his expression grateful. “Yeah. That’s it.” He offered Mum his usual diffident shrug. “Rosie should be your priority when we get out. You can’t be running after me as well.”
“I don’t mind,” Mum said, but there was a note of doubt in her voice now.
“Besides,” Mack went on firmly, “I’ll be up and about pretty quickly and—”
For the first time since I’d arrived, Derek spoke up, interrupting Mack midsentence, his tone flat and uncompromising. “The doctor said you need to factor in a full six-week recovery period, son.”
Mack’s gaze snapped to his dad, his expression hardening, till eventually, Derek flushed and glanced away. The hostility coming off Mack was palpable.
“She also agreed that someone who’s young and in decent shape might recover faster than that,” Mack pointed out. “And frankly, Dad, I don’t intend to hang around here for six whole weeks.”
“I know you can’t wait to leave,” Derek said bleakly, “but you can’t just go running off the day after your surgery, or even the next week—first, you need to give your body a chance to get over this. They’re cutting out half your liver, for Christ’s sake! It’s a major operation. Not something to take lightly.” His voice went hoarse on the last words. Then he added, more briskly, “Besides, like they told you, you won’t be discharged till they do the three-month scan to check your liver’s grown back properly.”
Mack exhaled sharply. “Listen—” he began, and somehow I knew he wasn’t going to give in. For whatever reason—and yes, I could guess why, we probably all could—he didn’t want to stay under the same roof as Derek. But no way could we leave him to fend for himself after surgery. He was mad if he thought we’d let that happen.