Page 58 of Tribute Act
It was close to lunchtime when he finally appeared, his expression wary. I greeted him as though nothing had happened, poured him a coffee from the pot I’d just made, and launched into a monologue of inane small talk. He looked a bit shell-shocked at first, but eventually he rallied, and it did the job of breaking the worst of the ice. More importantly, it made it clear that I had no intention of revisiting the embarrassing subject I’d raised the night before.
Presumably he was grateful for that.
After that, things went back to normal, more or less. Well, less. We were civil with each other, but we didn’t talk the way we had before. I went out in the evenings, round to Mum’s or up to the Bell for a pint. By the time I’d get back, Mack would be in bed. Sometimes I heard him playing his guitar in there, which he hadn’t done before.
Our interactions were few and, for me, painful. I adopted a distantly friendly persona that felt awkward as hell, and Mack just went very quiet. Occasionally I’d catch him looking at me with a melancholy expression that made me more angry than anything else, though I pretended not to notice it.
I thought a lot about those humiliating few moments, when I’d begged him to stay and he’d turned me down. He hadn’t said much but one thing was clear: he didn’t return my feelings. Well, fine. I was a big boy. I’d live. I had too much to do to sit around being heartbroken. I had a business to run, plans to make, and a ton of people relying on me to keep everything together.
Work kept me going. Work, work, and more work.
On the Wednesday night, Mack cornered me in the kitchen.
“Can I have a word?”
“Sure.” I’d just stacked the dishwasher, and I busied myself wiping down the counters so I didn’t have to meet his gaze. “What’s up?”
“I’ve got my scan tomorrow.”
I glanced up at that. “Yeah, I know. I was going to ask if you want a lift up to the hospital.”
He shook his head. “I’ll get the bus. It’s not till eleven so I’ve got ages to get there.”
I hesitated. “You don’t, you know, want someone to go with you?”
He looked away. “No, it’s fine.”
Of course. Mack didn’t need anyone, least of all me.
“The thing is,” he went on, “I said to Don I’d play that gig at the Sea Bell on Saturday, so I was wondering if it’d be okay if I stayed till then? I know it’s a couple of days more than you probably thought . . .” He trailed off and met my gaze, his own wary.
He thought I wanted him gone as soon as possible. Maybe that was a reasonable assumption, but the truth was, I felt sick at the thought of him going. Despite everything, I still didn’t want him to leave, and how pathetic was that? Hot prickles at the back of my eyes warned me how close I was to humiliating myself again. I turned away to the sink, running hot water over a cloth and wringing it out. Busy work.
“Yeah, no problem,” I said lightly. “I said at the start you could stay as long as you needed. Nothing’s changed.”
I began methodically wiping down the sink, swallowing hard against the stubborn lump in my throat. For what felt like ages, Mack was silent. Eventually he said. “Thanks. I really appreciate it. I’ll be out of your hair by Monday.”
Moments later, the kitchen door closed behind him.
I stood there at the sink, looking out the window at the cobbled, rain-slick streets of my hometown. It was a cold December day in Porthkennack, gloomy and grey, and it kind of felt like that in my heart too.
“I’ll be out of your hair by Monday.”
Mack’s scan was fine. I was at Mum’s when he popped round to tell her. His liver was growing back well, he explained, over the cup of tea Mum had pressed on him. The specialist was happy with his progress, and he’d been formally discharged.
“So that’s it?” Mum said, frowning. “You won’t be seen again?”
Mack shook his head. “Not here. They said I’ll need an annual checkup but I can do that through my own doctor.” He smiled at her. “The point is, I’m fine. Everything’s good.”
Mum didn’t look happy, and honestly, I wasn’t either. Would Mack follow up with his own doctor? He’d be stupid not to—and he wasn’t a stupid guy—but right now he didn’t even know where he was going to be living. I could see him putting a checkup off if he wasn’t settled somewhere when he needed it.
“What’s good?” That was Rosie. She stood in the kitchen doorway in her school uniform. She’d put on weight, lost the sallow cast to her skin and the shadows under her eyes. She’d have to keep taking the immunosuppressants, but other than that, she was not just better, she was cured. Mack’s liver had replaced her own diseased organ with a new healthy one that her body had accepted. And with her condition now under control with medication, there was no reason her new liver should suffer any future damage.
He’d saved her life.
“I’m good,” Mack said, smiling at her. “I had my scan today—everything’s fine. I’ve been discharged.”
She grinned. “That’s great!”