Comin' Home to You (15 page)

Thinking that thought caused Nicky’s eyes to squint. Clint, his actual younger brother’s face came to mind. One would expect Clint to be a well-respected member of the Roaring 20’s, considering his pedigree, but the truth was that it was debatable whether he was even a member. He didn’t do anything, except a few menial tasks that he still groaned about doing. Nevertheless, Scar still paid him, as he was his brother and father of Austin. However, he had been drawing the ire of Scar lately. Clint had made careless and selfish purchases with the practically free money he was given. Last month, Clint bought an expensive and rare boa constrictor that escaped just days after its purchase, as well as a small pill bottle full of ecstasy that he went through quickly. Scar didn’t know about this until Austin complained one day of being hungry and not having food in the house. A lot of the time, the boy only ate was when he was at his grandfather’s home or whenever he asked his uncle to take him out for food. When Scar heard about it, he shoved Clint up against the wall, verbally berating him for letting his son go hungry. Clint responded by childishly threatening to kill him. Just hours ago, Scar screamed at Clint over the phone for not coming to his son’s game. Their relationship was becoming more rancorous by the day.

It was worth a shot. No one held onto a grudge longer than Clint. No one was nearly as chaotic and capricious as he either. Even if it was his own brother, Clint was psychotic enough to do it. Pulling out his cell phone, Nicky decided to give him a call. It only rang once before he answered.

“Nicky Suarez.”

“Hey Clint. I was seeing if you wanted to meet me at Lee’s for a beer.”

“Why the fuck would I feel like doing that?”

“I’m buying, man. What do you say?”

Some shouting could be heard in the background, probably from Ali. “I have beer here.”

“I wouldn’t be asking you there if it wasn’t important.”

“Shit, it must be important if it’s comin’ from Mr. Nicky Fucking Suarez. What’s so damn important that you want to drag me out of my house so damn late?”

“I need a private word with you. Just us.”

“Just us? What kind of fag thing is that? Just us? You ain’t suckin’ my dick, faggot.”

There was a reason not many people liked Clint. He was illogical, sporadic and offensive for no reason. Nevertheless, he had to get through to him, even though his remarks pissed him off. “Clint. It’s important.”

“I bet it’s important, faggot.”

“Listen, I need to talk to you about business. There could be some money made here.”

That piqued his interest. “What kind of money?”

“I can only talk about it in person. Meet me at Lee’s at 11. Come alone.”

Some more screaming could be heard. Clint could be heard yelling back before speaking. “You better not try to suck my dick.”

Nicky hung up the phone before he could spit out a vile comeback. But this was his only chance of completing the job without getting his own hands dirty. Finishing off his beer, he glanced upward to the blackened sky before going inside.

Containing an air of swagger and entitlement, Owen felt slightly out of place in the luxurious waiting room for Dr. Sen's office. Upscale magazines lay on ebony side tables and the lighting overhead was dim, but just bright enough to give the waiting patients a quaint and homey vibe. It looked more like an expensive and gaudy office for a lawyer rather than a doctor. Relaxed in a chair with a comfortable leather back and cushion, he patiently waited for his name to be called. Owen was plainly dressed in a blue Texas Rangers tee, blue jeans with tears in the right thigh and knee and brown cowboy boots. Sitting three seats to his left was a man who looked close to his age. The whites of the man’s eyes had a yellow hue in color, something Owen recalled as a symptom for jaundice. He briefly remembered Ali having a bout of jaundice at her birth. The man to his left had an overall depressed look on his face as he twiddled his thumbs. Owen knew that face. He was on his way to death’s door. It was only a matter of time.

The man caught him staring, so Owen felt compelled to say something. “Hey, how ya doin'?

The man squinted his eyes and replied in a tone that could be deemed offensive. “How am I doing? You’re seriously asking that?”

Owen quickly figured that was a tasteless question. “Alright...sorry to bother you.”

“Yeah, I’m doing lousy. Really fucking lousy.”

The overhearing receptionist gave a disapproving eye at the man, but remained quiet.

Owen scratched at the stubble on his face. “I know how you feel.”

“Do you now?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Hmm, well, then what is it that brings you here today?”

He really didn’t want to respond. The man was noticeably prying for information. Yet, Owen decided to take a shot in the dark, hoping that by answering, he may develop a sense of camaraderie with the blunt man. “Cirrhosis. I was told I had it a few days ago.”

“Cirrhosis is the reason anybody would come in here. What caused yours?”

Stammering, Owen couldn't find the right words to say. Instead, looking away seemed to be the best option.

“Not answering?” asked the man. The reason why came to him quickly. “Alcoholic…should have known. I've seen your types in here before. You walk in here saying you’ll change, acting all sorry for destroying your liver by binge drinking vodka or whatever the fuck you drink every night. So you get on the waiting list, somehow survive to get a new one, and have a whole new liver to fuck up! Meanwhile, other people who don’t deserve it die waiting. It happens. Bunch of bullshit.”

“I wouldn’t dare screw up a second chance at this. There’s too much to live for.”

“Yeah, yeah. Your remorseful fake shit doesn’t fly with me. How about you do all of us a favor and get the fuck out of here. Some of us really need a new liver, and some of us won't abuse the gifts we are given.”

This man had hit a nerve in Owen. He had a quick temper anyway. “Alright, smartass. How about you tell me why you are in here? Did you share a needle and pick up something? You look skinny and weird enough to do that shit. I bet you aren’t as high and mighty as the words you are preaching.”

“Fuck you. I didn’t come here to argue with some dick.”

“Just trying to make friendly conversation as I wait.”

The disgruntled man shook his head in disbelief. A flash of sadness came across his face, but he quickly sucked it up. Owen could tell the prick of a man was thinking about the reason he was in here. It must have been depressing, as for a moment, it looked like the man might let loose a tear from his eye. After a moment of silence, the man finally came to terms with his emotions, then spoke. “My wife had Hepatitis C and passed it onto me.”

“Well, that's real smart of you.”

The man shook his head in frustration and his eyes glared with irritation. “Hepatitis C isn't something you can just know you have. My wife had it for at least two years before giving it to me. She didn’t fucking know.”

Realizing he was actually the one being an ass, Owen decided to verbally back away. “I'm sorry man.”

“You should be. You were rude and inconsiderate.”

“So, your wife, is-”

“She killed herself once she found out about it. Anything else you want to know about my life, asshole?”

Owen sighed quietly and closed his eyes. He timidly signified no by shaking his head. Going about his own business in silence, he realized the man’s cold words were right. He received his disease by overdrinking and a past of drug use. The man to his left obtained his condition innocently out of love. Despite the guy coming off as an ass, he had a point. Owen didn’t deserve a new liver if he was just planning on ruining the next one.

Either way, he felt rude and selfish. His questions and his manner of asking them were insensitive. If he were to get lucky and receive a new liver, quitting drinking was just something he couldn’t do. Slowing down his consumption was a more obtainable goal. He had to make a positive impact on Austin’s life, since the boy’s other relatives were nothing but lowlife pieces of shit. Being alive was the only way to ensure that his grandson stays on the straight and narrow. If he were ever to go meet his maker, Ali and Ben were the only two influences he could trust, though Ali needed a swift kick in the ass. He needed to rebuild their relationship from the ground up. She was still his daughter and was just as needed in his life. There was still a lot of work to do.

The waiting was figuratively killing him. His appointment was at 2:00 p.m., but it was thirty minutes past the slotted time. Nevertheless, he did his best to relax, hoping that he would see the doctor at any minute. However, an uneasy feeling of restlessness set in. He had been thinking about the future of others, but had ignored his own. He asked himself thousands of questions.
What if I am too late to get on the waiting list? How badly off do I have to be before I am selected? What if I don't survive a surgery? Can I ever drink a beer again? What bars are close by?
Needing something to avert his attention from his own dark and toxic thoughts, Owen flipped through many of the magazines in a rack next to him. Their topics ranged from home and gardens, beauty, fashion, and one about the city of Dallas itself. None of them caught his attention. Having not turned in his medical history yet, he looked over it again. This marked the fifth time he had read through it. He answered every question truthfully. His mother’s cancer, his father’s heart attack, how much he drinks per week, and any past drug use was answered with complete honesty. At this point, lying wasn't going to help matters.

Impatiently, Owen rhythmically tapped his fingers on his knees to the tune of some pop song he heard on the radio during the drive to Dallas. He didn't know the name of it, nor cared, but considered the beat to be catchy. His music taste didn't stray far from country or rock, but every so often, he would listen to top 40, just to hear what's new in the world. Most of the time, he regretted it. For this song though, he wanted to hear it again.

A door opened down the hallway, much to his bored delight. From his vantage point in the waiting room, he could see over the receptionist’s desk and out into the hallway where the examination rooms were. He noticed an Indian man, clad in a white dress shirt with an ugly red tie and beige slacks exiting the room. Following him was a fairly tall blonde woman, though her black pumps definitely added to her height. The striking lady was wearing a skin tight black dress under a white doctor's coat. He couldn’t quite discern her eye color from his seat, but her lips caught his eye in their luscious and crimson tone. Owen also noticed her large and voluptuous breasts. He smiled, wondering if they were real or fake. She looked like she spent every waking moment at the gym when she wasn't working or sleeping. Her aura and beauty were enough to realize that she was a goddess.

The well-dressed Indian man leaned in to kiss her, and she reciprocated. It was quick and to the point. If any true passion was in that kiss, Owen didn't notice. After saying his goodbyes, the Indian man exited the hallway and left the office, walking by Owen. He had a chance to size up the paramour of the beautiful doctor before he exited the stage. He was of average height. His facial features weren’t bad for someone of that ethnicity. Not that Owen had a racist bone in his body, but he never was physically attracted to people of Middle Eastern origin, though he admitted that he had not seen a great deal of those people personally, especially in the area he lived. But what Owen could read off of the man was that he screamed pompous douche. It was just one of those things he could tell.

The idol of Owen’s newest fantasies entered the waiting room. She talked to her receptionist for a moment before turning around and greeting the man with Hepatitis, a fake smile on her face.

“Mr. Somersby, how are you today?”

“Hanging on.”

She nodded, but said nothing else to him. Her eyes said that they would talk about it later. She turned her head to Owen, with the same hesitant smile on her face. “Mr. Tomkins?”

Mr. Somersby rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Watch out, ma’am. He’s a huge dick.”

Owen could see the woman rolling her eyes and sarcastically sounding out the word 'okay' to herself. “Mr. Tomkins, please follow me.”

Following suit, he followed her down the hallway. While the lighting was similar to the waiting room in its dim nature, he could see her behind well enough to feel his loins burning. He tried to take his mind off of her and forcefully made his eyes wander elsewhere. On the walls were multiple photos of the blonde doctor. One was of her being presented her diploma from college. A genuine and proud grin was shown in the picture. Another picture showed her wedding day, where the same Indian man she kissed earlier stood by her side as the groom. In that picture, her smile was not as vibrant. A small disappointment came to Owen's heart. He doubted he had any chance in hell of getting with the blonde bombshell anyway. To her, he was probably backwoods trash. He shouldn't even be thinking of such things. This woman was going to be the one to determine the best course of action for him and the one to hopefully save his life, if it came to that scenario. If anyone deserved respect and to not be a target of his nefarious and lecherous perversions, it was her.

After being motioned into an empty examination room, Owen took a seat on the padded teal bench. She closed the door behind her and motioned Owen to hand over the medical history chart that he forgot to give to the receptionist. She gave it a once over while commencing the meeting. “So, Owen Tomkins. My name is Dr. Tamara Sen. Doctor Myers may have already told you. I specialize in surgeries involving the gastrointestinal tract. A branch of that is hepatology, which involves the liver. While the liver is not directly involved in the digestive system, it’s the organ in which I perform the most surgeries. I take great pride in my work and I do believe you won’t find anyone better at this operation, if surgery is indeed in order.”

He was perhaps listening too intently. Her accent, or lack thereof, intrigued him. Why it did, he couldn’t explain. “Where are you from, ma'am?”

Dr. Sen was thrown aback. “Excuse me?”

“I'm sorry. I was just wondering about your accent.”

“That seems like, the last thing you need to worry about with your condition.”

“Is it...western? Arizona? Nevada?”

The doctor wanted to bite her lip, but remembered her crimson lipstick at the last second. Her eyes showed clear irritation from his lack of caring. “Mr. Tomkins. I…ugh, I’m from California originally. Now that I have satisfied your interest, how about we focus on finding what we can do to make sure you live longer and not worry about petty inquiries like my accent?”

“Fine. I'm sorry. Continue.”

“Great. So, where was I?”

“You were going to tell me what brought you here to Texas.”

If this moment was a cartoon, a dark cloud would be able to be seen coming from her head. “Is your life not that big of a deal to you, Mr. Tomkins? Obviously, it's not. You would much rather play jokes like a prepubescent child instead of learning how what can be done to save your life.”

Maybe she was right. But he also didn't expect the woman who would perform his surgery to be so striking. Flirting made him comfortable. “Alright. I’m sorry. I was just trying to get to know you. Knowing you a bit better just helps me feel a bit at ease. I won’t ask any questions or anything like that again.”

“Let's hope so. Anyway, let's go over your biopsy.”

Ten minutes later, Owen and Dr. Sen had gone over exactly what was wrong with his liver, how the waiting list worked and many other things that he had difficulty comprehending. He wasn't a learned man by any means, even though he was proud of his psychology and English class he passed at a community college at age 27. He had always aspired to gain more knowledge, but even this was well over his head.

Things started to click in his brain when she moved the focus of the topic to the waiting list. “Before we go any further, we need to discuss the waiting list. We, and by we, I mean all of us gastroenterologists and hepatologists involved in the medical group, have a point system that more or less states that the closer you are to death, the more urgent surgery will be a necessity. We also take in such scenarios as survivability of surgery, as well as nutrition and longevity after a successful surgery. We don’t want to perform a liver transplant if you plan on destroying your new one. You have to understand that for us to give an alcoholic who has already damaged his liver a new one, we’re putting a lot of trust in the recipient to better his or her life.”