He Asked for My Heart

"What about the 100th wish?" I stared at the metal hook on the wall. Three years ago, when the very first wish card was hung up, he had personally tightened the screw. Now, the hook was still there, but it was completely empty. I reached out and touched it. The metal was ice-cold. My fingertip slid down the curve of the hook, grasping only empty air. "Ninety-nine is enough." Julian brought over a glass of warm water and set it in front of me. An A4 sheet of paper lay spread out on the table. It was filled with dense medical jargon, with a deadline marked in red ink at the very bottom. Every single one was a preparatory procedure for an organ transplant. His assistant, Mark Chandler, walked in carrying a brown cardboard box and set it on the floor. "Mr. Foster, all of Ms. Jennings' things have been packed up." I squatted down to rummage through it. Inside were three years' worth of Polaroid photos, arranged chronologically with numbered labels in the top right corners. I flipped to the very last photo at the bottom. It was taken at Obsidian Sands. He was holding me from behind, both of us smiling. The edges of the photo were frayed from being touched so many times. I pressed my thumb against his face in the photo, my fingernail turning white from the pressure. I held it there for a very long time. Then I let go and tossed it back into the box. At the very top of the box lay a proposal in a blue cover. The title read: "Claire Jennings' Unfinished Life." I flipped to the exhibit list. In the remarks column for Exhibit 47, it read: The recipient's first outdoor activity after surgery can be shot here. The hand flipping the pages froze on that line. My fingers pinched the edge of the paper, leaving a sharp crease. I closed the proposal. "The layout is quite nice." Julian walked over, placed his hands on my shoulders, and gently pulled me away from the box. "You always liked lively places. After you're gone, I'll donate these to a charity for exhibition." As he spoke, his gaze swept over the box, but he didn't touch the photo from Obsidian Sands. He didn't touch it even once from start to finish. A long silence fell over the room. He pulled a document from his briefcase and laid it out on the table. It was the organ donation consent form I had signed six months ago, bearing my signature in the bottom right corner. He uncapped a pen and handed it to me. "This is the supplementary agreement for designated donation. You promised me under the auroras." I stared at the tip of the pen. A wave of nausea surged from my stomach. Clutching my mouth, I rushed into the bathroom, leaning over the sink to dry-heave. Nothing came out. Julian followed me in, pulling out a tissue while patting my back with his other hand. His palm was warm. The first time he had patted my back like this was in the Coral Isles. I had been seasick and vomiting all night. He had swept my hair to one side, pressing his palm to my back while whispering that he was there. Now, he was still patting me. The pressure was just right, and the rhythm was steady, just like that night. Except ten minutes ago, that same hand had handed me a pen. "The doctor said nausea is a symptom of the final stage." His voice drifted down from above. "Hang in there. It'll be over soon." It would be over soon. My dry-heaving stopped. I stood frozen before the sink, far quieter than when I was throwing up. His hand continued to pat my back, rhythmically. I slowly straightened up. When I had bent over earlier, my left hand had instinctively shielded my lower abdomen before I reached for the sink. I didn't know if he had noticed. He stood behind me, his hand resting between my shoulder blades, his expression unchanged. I let my hand fall, keeping it draped protectively over my lower abdomen. "What if I don't want to donate anymore?" The hand patting my back froze. The warmth of his palm still lingered on my shirt. He slowly withdrew his hand, and the crease where he had pressed my shirt slowly smoothed itself out. He walked out of the bathroom. The door was left open. In the mirror, there was only me, and a small, empty reflection of light on the faucet.