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“Except to the family who lost someone,” he said. “What’s their experience like?”
“It’s hard to say. Everyone copes differently. Have you thought about reaching out to UNOS?”
Grayson nodded. “I have, but at the same time, I don’t know how I’d feel if they’re not interested in hearing from me. The paperwork I have says I can write the family of my donor a letter, and while I think that’s nice, what if they don’t read it, and then my questions go unanswered?”
“Which are?” Littleton asked.
“What type of person was my donor? What did they like? Is my new love of Italian food something they enjoyed, or did my palate change from surgery?” Grayson shrugged.
“They may or may not have the answers, unless you try.”
Grayson nodded. His life had this odd imbalance. If he leaned too far to the left, he’d fall. Same with the right. The problem was, neither side had the answers he sought to understand his feelings.
On his way home from his appointment, he stopped at the bookstore and bought another journal. His current one only had a few pages left, which he figured he would fill tonight before he went to bed.Reid had started journaling as well. Documenting what was important to them—how they felt, their goals, achievements, and failures—gave them an effective outlet. At times, Grayson had struggled with bouts of depression, often brought on by his daily intake of meds, knowing that if he missed a day, he’d be one day closer to death. His own mortality weighed heavily on his mind. It was scary and at times even crippling.
Before he left the section, he chose another journal for Reid and then wandered over to the self-help section, not knowing what it was he looked for, but he hoped someone had written a book about their journey from transplant recipient to living with someone else’s heart. No one had. At least not a book for sale in the store.
It had started to rain while he was in the bookstore. He opted to take the subway home instead of walking. If he walked in the rain, his mom and Reid would kill him for being irresponsible. Saving them from jail time was definitely a bonus.
Halfway home, his earbuds died, and he could hear the conversation taking place in front of him. Two young women sat there, with their heads bent together, talking about how they’d looked up one of their dates online to see what they could find out. Grayson thought the idea was brilliant, and if he had a sister, he’d tell her to do the same thing. Everything was online these days.
A thought occurred, and despite the voice in his mind telling him this was a bad idea, Grayson proceeded anyway. He took his phone from his pocket, opened a web browser, and typed:people who died on or around April 9th in the United States.
Casting such a wide net was a crapshoot, especially since he only knew one thing for sure—his donor had come from the US. The other he guessed based on when he’d had his surgery.
The main hit was notable deaths worldwide, and it listed over ten a day. He’d have to figure out a way to narrow his search. There was no way to obtain this information from UNOS unless the donor’s family gave him permission. He’d have to do it the old-fashioned way, with the help of the internet and obituaries.
All he wanted to know was what his donor was like, and then maybe he could figure out what was going on in his chest.
Grayson opened another browser and typed in the URL for the local newspaper. He clicked on the obituaries, waited, and then stared at the search bar. He had to know the name of the person he sought. He couldn’t put in a date range or a specific date.
Grayson closed the app with a bit more aggression in his finger than needed. He clutched his phone and leaned his head against the window of the train. There had to be a way to find out who had passed locally without having to wait for UNOS.
When his stop was announced, he was so deep in thought that he almost missed it and barely escaped through the closing doors. He rode the escalator up, and when he got outside, he saw a line of taxicabs parked out front of the station, and he made the choice to take one home. Getting home was more important now. Grayson needed to be in front of his computer, with a wider screen, so he could search more effectively.
At the front desk of the apartment building, the receptionist handed Grayson three boxes and a stack of bridal magazines. The sight of them made him smile. Now that they had their location, other things would start to fall into place. They still had time to figure out their guest list, what they were going to feed everyone, and, more importantly, what colors they were going to wear. Grayson thought a traditional black tux would be ideal, but some magazine had told him that black and outdoor spring weddings weren’t always the posh thing to do. Reid thought a suit in linen would be good. Truth was, he’d wear whatever Reid told him to, as long as the scar on his chest was covered. It wasn’t as gnarly as it was when he’d had surgery, but he still saw it as a bright-red line, even though it had faded.
Somehow, he managed to unlock their door without dropping any of the boxes or the numerous magazines that undoubtedly showed the same dress in each one. They had so many of these catalogs, all withdog-eared pages. Reid had asked him not to look, and he hadn’t. He’d never disrespect her by peeking.
After making something to eat, he sat down with his laptop, a pen, and a pad of paper. He stared at the screen for a moment and then typedWho passed away in Washington, DC, along with the date range he’d come up with.
A few names came up. He copied the first one into the obituary section of the local newspaper and read, then read the next, and then the next. Each time, Grayson found something to eliminate the deceased—age or disease, or a wording such as “overdose.”
He searched a few more newspapers but hit roadblocks each time. Mostly because searching for someone who might have donated vital organs was hard, and he honestly wasn’t sure he knew what he was looking for.
And each time he did a search, he grew more and more depressed. On the verge of giving up, he scrolled through a newspaper from beyond DC, and a familiar name caught his attention: Warren and Lorraine Bolton. Grayson clicked and read the first line, about how they had lost their son-in-law, Rafe Karlsson, in a Boston accident.
He’d known the Boltons all through high school but had lost touch after graduation. Grayson had spent many days and some nights, although no one knew about those, at their house, just on the outskirts of the city. He hadn’t thought about them in years.
Grayson continued until he saw which daughter had lost her husband.
He swallowed hard when his eyes landed on her name.
Nadia.
The girl he had dated in high school, until they went their separate ways when they’d left for college, essentially losing touch. Nadia had gone to Boston College, far away from her parents and siblings, needing to spread her wings. Grayson had chosen American. It was close to his mom, and while he wasn’t a mama’s boy, he didn’t want to be too far from her. Before they left for school, they’d agreed it would be best tobe single so they could enjoy college without worrying what the other thought.
Nadia and Grayson had dated for two years, and while the initial heartbreak hurt, they both had moved on. They kept in touch for the first semester, and then communication gradually decreased. Grayson had never been upset about losing Nadia. They were going in two different directions, and it was easier than having a long-distance relationship.
