Chapters (47)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Part Two
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Part Three
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Acknowledgments
- Excerpt from Survive the Dome
- Prologue
- 6 Months Later
- One
- About the Author
- Back Cover
Mom gives me a skeptical look, but Dad clears his throat, breaking the moment.
“So,” Dad says after a moment. “How are you feeling? Heard you tossing and turning last night.”
Thank God that’s all they heard, I think.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Are you hurting?” Mom asks.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Is your pain gone?”
“You mean the pain I told you wasn’t a problem yesterday?”
Dad doesn’t reply. He knows that I know what he’s talking about.
“Yes, Dad.”
“What pain?” Mom asks.
“It was nothing.”
“It was something,” Dad interjects.
“Maybe we should call Dr. Moore?” Mom suggests.
“Might be a good idea,” Dad agrees and pulls out his phone. “I’m sure she can fit us in.”
“I said I’m fine, guys, really.”
A phone vibrates softly.
“What’s your schedule like today?” Mom asks Dad.
“I have a class to teach, but I can get the TA to do it. You?”
“A thesis defense, but that’s in the morning. Can you do the afternoon?”
“Morning is better for me. I need to attend a funding meeting across town for the new lab.”
The vibration hums again. It takes me one more vibration to realize that it’s coming from my phone.
The area code is 617. That’s Boston. But it’s not a Boston number I know. Curious, I answer.
“Hello?”
“Andre?” asks a female voice on the other end of the phone. “Andre Cobb?”
“Speaking.” I stand up and walk into the adjoining living room. Mom and Dad continue arguing over schedules.
“Claire, Claire McIntyre,” she says, as if I’m supposed to know that name. The silent pause I give tells her I don’t.
“Of course,” she says to herself and sighs. “I’m the mother of the boy who gave you your liver. Think you have time to chat?”
The words feel like a punch in the gut—a sucker punch. I remember what Dr. Moore said when we got the donor liver. It’s a perfect match, she had said hurriedly on the speakerphone. Poor boy died in a car accident, but his liver is intact. Get here now.
It was a whirlwind experience. We got to the hospital at 5:30 p.m., and I had a new liver by the next morning. Dr. Moore kept saying how lucky I was, how generous the family was. How they wanted to remain anonymous.
And here the mother, or a woman claiming to be the mother of the donor, is calling me.
“Something tells me, Mrs. McIntyre, I’m going to want to hear what you have to say.”
She chuckles. “You’re as smart as I thought you’d be. Can you make it downtown tonight?”
“I’ll be there.”
Five
It’s rare to see Isobel Powell-Ito pouting.