Something shifted in his face. But before either of us could say the thing hanging between us, he caught my wrist.
“My mom brought up the donation again.”
Margaret had always been kind to me. When morning sickness knocked me flat, she arrived with bags of groceries and a pair of tiny yellow socks, because, as she put it, “That child is going to drown in pink if somebody doesn’t step in.”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll listen to you.”
I frowned.
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Not this time.”
“Daniel, what happened?”
He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.
“She doesn’t want me to do it.”
“She said that?”
“More than once.”
“Did she tell you why?”
He stared down at his unsteady hands.
“She can’t bear the thought of any part of me belonging to someone else.”
I sat down beside him.
“She’s losing her son. I can’t blame her for whatever comes out of her mouth right now.”
“I know.”
“Then maybe she just needs time.”
“She needs something to be angry at.”
He looked at me then, and his eyes were very clear.
“And I don’t want that something to be you.”
I squeezed his hand.
“You’re asking me to stay out of it.”
“I’m asking you not to carry her grief on top of your own.”
A few weeks later, Daniel started asking for time alone with Dr. Whitaker.
The first time, I teased him.
The second time, I lingered in the doorway.
“What are you two planning?”
Daniel sank back into the pillows.
“Something I need to take care of.”
“Without me?”
