My mother wants to have a serious talk.

This is going to be I’m-a-little-short-this-month-talk. I respect a woman who can be honest and to the point. I just don’t respect my mother.

The oven beeps, the last batch of cupcakes are cooked. Sweet coco aroma fills the kitchen. Our boys will be so excited when they come home from school. I’ve only decorated half, trying to sculpt little graveyards on each cake-top is not a small feat. But I’ve been doing this for years. My puffy marshmallow ghosts and chocolate spider webs are a Halloween tradition. I’ve instilled many traditions here, unlike my childhood. The end of Halloween marks the beginning of the Christmas holiday for me. I love Christmas.

“They look great.” Mark kisses my cheek. “Why are you baking so early?” He pours a steaming cup of coffee.

He smells better than the cupcakes; I love his cologne. He’s freshly showered and shaved now; he was on a conference call from seven this morning. How is it possible after all these years, I can’t get enough of this man. I suck a little frosting from my finger.

“I know that look, Lauren.” He runs his hands down my bare arms. “I have a meeting in twenty minutes, I can’t be late. But tonight…”

“You’re turning me down?” I laugh and grab his ass. “I’m baking early because my mother wants to talk.”

“Oooh.” He makes a face as though he’s in pain and reaches for his wallet.

“No, Mark. She has enough. I mean when does it stop? You pay her expenses and her secondary medical. The gambling is her problem. She’s lucky you’re generous.”

He smiles. “She’d lucky to have you, Laur. Most daughters would have turned their back a long time ago.” He sips his coffee, and pops open his briefcase.

I watch Mark and our boys sometimes and imagine what would happen if I wasn’t here. I think I need a backup disk. Like a computer. It should be possible to do a backup of mom-information and replay incase of absence. I would label them all: Didn’t Make the Team, or First Broken Heart. Especially for my oldest son: Condoms Are Your Friend. God, that girl is all over him, like a piece of chewing gum stuck in long hair. I can’t deny the hormones of young love.

Mark leans for a quick kiss goodbye. Quick isn’t what I give him. We end up beside the briefcase on top of the kitchen table. After our breakfast treat, he pulls up his suit trousers; tucks in his shirt and smiles. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

I kiss his mouth. He has it all backwards.

~*~

My mother lets herself inside, a bad habit for sure. I pour the coffee. I’m not sure what to serve at a soliciting-talk, but I think coffee goes with most occasions. I thought about baking a cake. Eating delectable sweets seems rude when I know the answer will be no this time. If she would just stop going to the casino, things would be fine.

She takes the seat at the head of the table. Another bad habit. Placing her purse on an empty chair, she folds her hands.

“Lauren,” she begins. “I’d like to ask you for one last favor.”

Here we go. I raise my mug to my lips. “One last favor,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I was wondering if I could have one of your kidneys.”

I spit my entire mouthful of the hot beverage across the table.

 

“Um, no, Mom. I’m using them.” She’s kidding.

“You’re not using both of them.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. They alternate. The right one is a little lazy and the left one picks up the slack.”

“I’m serious.” She scowls.

“So am I.”

Her face softens. “It seems my kidneys are failing. Dialysis will be my only alternative soon. A transplant would alleviate the need.”

I stare, trying to comprehend how she could really mean this. “Mom, we don’t know if we’re a match. Living with one kidney is fine, but suppose one of my boys ever got sick and needed one. I can’t just give you one of my kidneys. They have lists, organ donors.”

I respect organ donors. The ones whose driver’s license offers body parts. Not me—mine’s blank. Not because I don’t want to help anyone, it’s because I picture myself dead, and some surgeon plucking my eyes out. I shiver.

“Family donors offer the least chance of rejection,” she says.

“Mom, they have medication for that. Anti-rejection drugs or something. Steroids. Really good stuff.”

“Lauren, I gave you life. The least you can do is give me a kidney.”

“Like what, Mom? Spare parts? Do you think giving birth to a child entitles you to send out a recall notice?” My stomach twists inside out. I will remain calm and state the facts.

“All my life Mom, I’ve yessed you to death and now, I won’t. You used me from the time I could fold a basket of laundry until I could get a part-time job. College was never a prospect for me; I was too afraid to leave you alone. I married Mark. A goldmine in your eyes. A kind, generous man who supports you and your bad habits. My business is finally seeing success. I’ve given you everything. My kidney is not an option. I’m sorry.”

“Then I’ll ask your sister.”

~*~

The hospital feels eerie at five in the morning. Mark promised he’d get the boys off to school. He’s a nervous wreck, he hates hospitals, and he begged me not to do this. But I told him this is the last thing I will ever do for my mother. He shyly supports my decision.

My sister is parking the car. Correction: my newly-announced “pregnant” sister. I told Mark, I may be losing a kidney, but I’m gaining a niece or nephew. “Don’t put your bitch on,” he told me.

He’s right; when I get nervous, I do put my bitch on. When I’m near my manipulative, selfish mother, I do put my bitch on. But this is the last favor for her. The surgeon said this was a high-risk procedure for her. My mother doesn’t care. Being attached to a dialysis machine three times a week would cut into her time at the casino. She’d rather they cut into her. And me.

Not permitted to eat or drink after midnight and without coffee this morning, adds to my disposition. Coupled with a short time in catholic school, my mind repeats the commandment. Honor thy father and mother.

The admission lady inside the cubicle doesn’t smile. She should. I bet she had coffee. Copious amount of coffee. And she probably has two kidneys, happily working together to produce cheerful yellow urine. Little golden bubbles swimming inside the toilet. Pissed off has new meaning to me. I’m even obsessed with the sound of pee. She’s obsessed with the insurance card. She makes copies and more copies. “Pre-cert?” she asks.

“Do I need a pre-certification? No. I’m giving away a kidney. This is a charitable donation. I should get a hospital discount. Shit, the surgery should be free.”

She glares at me. I squint. “What are you some kind of insurance-Nazi?” I shoot out of my chair and stand at attention. I salute, while clicking my heels together.

I think she’s about ready to call the psych ward. Good. Admit me to that floor and load me up with tranquillizers. She still peers at me. I don’t like her. She doesn’t have one drop of compassion for my extreme act of kindness. “I want to see a manager,” I announce.

What I’d really like to see is a bartender. And make it a double.

She stands. “We’re done here.”

I lift the infamous insurance card from my wallet and hold it up. I rip it in two. Then four. Then eight. Now, it’s too damn thick to rip. I throw it up into the air. Insurance-card-confetti. “Bye,” I say and blow her a kiss.

 

 

 

don’t put your bitch on

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