The Transplant” - Sage Theune

The Transplant 6DJH7KHXQH¶

7KHÀUVWWLPH,WRRN\RXUIRUP,ZHQWWRWKHSDUN\RXU parents brought you to when you were young. I sat on your favorite bench and picked the dandelions that grew below it, brushing their small and velvety petals against the whorls of \RXUÀQJHUWLSVWKHZD\\RXGLGZKHQ\RXZHUHVPDOO<RXU hands are beautiful, you know. Out of all the people I’ve beFRPH\RXKDYHP\IDYRULWHSDLU<RXUÀQJHUVHVSHFLDOO\³ORQJ DQGGHOLFDWHÀQJHUVDVGDUNDVWKHULFKVRLO\RXWDPSGRZQ around your potted plants. It’s a shame how you use those ÀQJHUVVXIIRFDWLQJWKHPLQPHPEUDQHWKLQJORYHVWKDWEDUHO\ GXOOWKHVHQVDWLRQRIÁXLGVDQGZDVWHDV\RXWRLODZD\IRUWKH sick, the bloodied, the ones with the cracked skulls and bileUDZWKURDWV,UHPHPEHUORRNLQJDW\RXUÀQJHUVWLQWHGVRIW pollen yellow, and thinking: when these hands are truly mine, I’ll give them a better fate.

The mothers down the hill began to stare up with wary eyes and I remembered the way you hold yourself: still, deliberate—the kind of posture not welcome from a childless man at a playground. I knew the possibilities that lay within a paranoid 911 call and although they were tempting, I was not yet ready to have you face them. I pocketed the dandelion and left.

You don’t know this, of course, but your parents still live in the same house, three blocks away from that park. The denim collar of your jacket brushed against the body’s neck as I walked. Your clothes were easy to recreate, much easier than many of those before you. Take the girl who always wore expensive silk dresses; I dissolved away from your world and practiced for days before I got all the details right, all the lace and petticoats. But with your simple clothes, it was almost instant, like a magician pulling a scarf from a hat (although you

36 and I both know the secret behind that). I don’t think your jacket suits you, but it is a part of you, so I wore it happily in its awkwardness. The day was overcast and cool, of course. You never would’ve gone to the park in the heat.

The house you grew up in is pretty, but as I approached it, the sickness that settled in your belly startled me like the sting of a papercut. Your mother was moving inside, washing dishes from the brunch she made of berry salad and goat cheese omelet. When she passed the window above the sink and spotted her son standing on the sidewalk, she dropped the china and barely heard it shatter. She ran outside to embrace you, her thin arms tight and inescapable, her heart pounding furiously against your chest.

Your father was at the same IT job he’s had since you were three, so it was just the two of us. I sat at the table while she hurried to make you scrambled eggs, the meal she always assumed was your favorite. They’ve since replaced the old table, the one you used to peel the paint from when they weren’t looking. It was when your father discovered the barky patch of gray plaguing the sunny blue of the table leg that things got truly bad—but you know that, of course. If you’re curious, you consumed exactly 1073 calories in the week following his initial outburst.

But she fed you that day because I had returned you to her and she was antsy for absolution. She was a good cook, but on your picky tongue, the eggs felt slimy and bland, reminiscent of the mornings before therapy where it was the only thing you were allowed to eat. Still, I smiled and praised the food as I ate. When I met her eyes, they were pink and shining. “You seem wonderful,” she said, hurrying to sit down on the other side of the table. You wouldn’t be surprised if I told you that the word really lingering on her breath was normal. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

I put down the fork on the clean plate and folded your hands the way she’d made you when you felt the urge to grab,

WRÀGGOHWRSLFN´,WZDVVSXURIWKHPRPHQWµ,VDLGLQ\RXU deep and even voice. “I passed by Callaway Park and couldn’t help but miss you two. I’ve been thinking lately about everything you did for me, and how I didn’t appreciate it at the time.”

“That’s great,” your mother said, the lines by her eyes crinkling as she smiled. “That’s really great. We’ve missed you too, Elijah, and we only ever wanted the best for you. I’m glad \RXÀQDOO\VHHWKDWµ

She reached her hand across the table and grasped yours. I resisted your muscles’ instinct to recoil and instead savored the deceptive warmth of her pale hand covering yours. I could feel her eagerness to reclaim you thrumming through WKHOLQHVRIKHUSDOPV7KHSROOHQRQ\RXUÀQJHUVKDGUXEEHG off by then.

“Dad will be home in a few hours,” she said. “Won’t you stay and let him see you? He’ll be so excited.”

,SUHVVHG\RXUÀQJHUVLQWRWKHYDUQLVKHGWRSRIWKH new table. At that very moment, you were working, trying to preserve the pulse of an eleven-year-old girl struck by a car while playing hooky. The sweat on your face shined cyan unGHUWKHÁXRUHVFHQWOLJKWVRIWKHKRVSLWDO\RXUVFUXEVVPHDUHG with blood. Your feet hurt and you were so, so tired. You were losing her. They always told you that you were too sensitive for the ceaseless work of warding off death, but you weren’t thinking of them as you grabbed the paddles off the wall and pressed them to her tiny chest. Her body convulsed beneath your taut knuckles.

Your mother had hung daisies in the window of the kitchen. The room smelled of berries and rosemary. I cradled my head in my hands and beamed. “Of course I will, Mom.”