Chapter 10: The Rejection Scare
1877 Words
The fever started at 2:14 in the morning.
Maya woke first. She always did. A slight rasp in Maya’s breathing. A little faster than normal. Not an alarm. Just wrong.
She pressed her palm to Maya’s forehead. Hot. Too hot.
Caleb, she said. One word. He was awake before she finished.
He was out of the chair instantly, hand on Maya’s other side, eyes on the thermometer. He did not ask questions. He moved.
What is it, he said quietly.
Her skin is hot, Maya said. She slid the thermometer under Maya’s tongue. The beep was too loud in the quiet house.
100.4, Caleb read. He looked at Maya. That is not normal post op.
No, Maya said. She lifted Maya’s shirt to check the incision. Red. Swollen. Not infected yet. But not calm either.
Maya’s eyes opened, sleepy. Mommy, I am cold.
You are burning up, Caleb said. He adjusted the blanket. His voice stayed even. His hands did not shake. Not yet.
Call Dr. Chen, Maya said. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed her phone.
Caleb was already dialing. He had the number memorized. St. Mary’s Transplant. How can I help, the nurse answered in three rings.
This is Caleb Hale, he said. My daughter Maya had a heart transplant fourteen days ago. She has a fever, 100.4. Incision is red. She says she is cold.
Any shortness of breath. Chest pain. Dizziness, the nurse asked immediately.
Maya shook her head. No, she said into the phone. Just fever. And tired.
The nurse did not waste time. Bring her in now. Rejection can present as low grade fever in the first month. We will run labs. Do not wait.
Rejection. The word hit like a stone.
Maya ended the call and started dressing Maya in soft pants and a button shirt. Caleb packed the go bag. Extra oxygen. Medications. Files. The rabbit Maya slept with since surgery.
Two blocks, Caleb said as he lifted Maya from the bed. Four minutes to the hospital.
Maya buckled her into the car seat with shaking hands. Caleb drove faster than he should have. Not fast enough for the fear in his chest.
Rejection, Maya whispered from the back. She tested the word like it would hurt less if she said it.
Sometimes the body gets confused, Caleb said. Eyes on the road. It thinks the new heart does not belong. But we caught it early. Early is good.
Maya pressed her forehead to Maya’s. You are not alone, baby. Not for one second.
They reached St. Mary’s in three minutes. ER doors opened before the car stopped. Nurses came with a gurney. A nurse took vitals while they were still moving.
Temp 101.2 now, a nurse said. Heart rate up. Blood pressure low.
Maya walked beside the gurney, hand on Maya’s ankle. Caleb walked on the other side, hand on her shoulder. They did not let go until the cardiac doors closed between them and the doctors.
Then they stood in the hallway. Same lights. Same fear.
I should have seen it, Caleb said, voice flat. I should have noticed the redness yesterday.
You did not cause this, Maya said, leaning against the wall. Rejection happens. Dr. Chen said it could.
That does not mean I do not blame myself, Caleb said. He pressed his palms to his eyes. I signed the papers. I gave up legal rights. Now when something goes wrong, I am not even her father on the chart.
Maya crossed to him. She did not think. She just put her arms around him. He was stiff one second. Then he folded. His arms came around her back, hard.
Do not do that, she whispered into his shirt. Do not pretend you are not her father because a paper says so. The doctors know who you are. I know. She knows.
Caleb did not answer. He just held her tighter, like letting go would unravel the last two weeks.
An hour passed. Then two. A nurse came out with a clipboard. Labs show mild acute cellular rejection, she said. Grade 1B. Caught very early. Dr. Chen wants high dose steroids now. We will monitor closely.
Mild. Early. Maya clung to those words.
Can we see her, Caleb asked, voice rough.
Two minutes, the nurse said. She is sleepy from meds.
They went in together. Maya was pale against white sheets. An IV ran into her arm. New medicine dripping slow. Her eyes opened at their footsteps.
Mommy, she whispered. Daddy.
We are here, Maya said, sitting on one side. Caleb sat on the other.
Did I do something wrong, Maya asked, voice small. Is my body bad.
No, Caleb said too quickly. Your body is protecting you. It just does not know this new heart is a gift. It thinks it is a stranger.
Maya thought about that. Then she looked at both of them. Will I have to go back to surgery.
No, Maya said, smoothing her hair. This is medicine. Steroids. Strong medicine to tell your body to be calm. To say thank you to the new heart.
Will it hurt, Maya asked.
A little, Caleb admitted. Like shots. But you are brave. You walked the hall when your legs shook. You can do this too.
Maya nodded. She believed him. He was Daddy. Daddy fixed things.
After vitals, Dr. Chen came in. She looked tired but steady. Grade 1B rejection is common, she said. About forty percent of transplant kids have an episode in the first three months. We treat aggressively. Most respond in forty eight hours.
Most, Maya heard. Not all.
What are the odds, Caleb asked. CEO voice.
Eighty five percent this resolves with increased immunosuppressants, Dr. Chen said. If it progresses to 2A or higher, we discuss biopsy. But we caught this at the first sign. Fever. That is why we told you to watch for it.
Watch for it, Caleb repeated. He looked at Maya. We watched.
You did everything right, Dr. Chen said. You brought her in fast. You knew the signs. That is why she is stable.
After Dr. Chen left, the room went quiet. Only the IV pump and Maya’s breathing.
Maya did not sleep. She could not. Chair pulled close, Maya’s hand in both of hers.
Caleb did not sleep either. He stood at the window, shoulders tight.
I keep thinking about the papers, he said finally. If I was still her legal father, I could sign for the biopsy myself. I would not have to ask you first.
Maya looked up. Do you want to make decisions without me.
No, Caleb said, turning around. I never wanted that. I want to make decisions with you. I want us to be her parents. Not exes trading custody of a medical chart.
Maya pressed her lips together. Ex hurt tonight. More with Maya sick.
Then do not act like an ex, Maya said quietly. Act like her father. That is what you are. Papers or no papers.
Caleb crossed the room and knelt by the bed. He took Maya’s other hand.
I am scared, he admitted to Maya. To their daughter. I am scared this heart will not be enough. I am scared I will not be enough.
Maya squeezed his fingers. You were enough when you drove us here in three minutes. You were enough when you learned her med schedule. You are enough now just by staying.
Maya stirred. Her eyes fluttered. Are you fighting, she whispered.
No, baby, Maya said quickly. We are talking.
About me, Maya said. She had heard everything.
About how strong you are, Caleb said, thumb over her knuckles. About how proud we are.
Maya smiled faintly. I am tired of being strong. Can I be scared for a minute.
Caleb’s chest cracked. Yes, he said. You can be scared as long as you need. Mommy and Daddy are scared too.
Maya’s eyes filled. I do not want my body to be bad. I want to keep the new heart.
Your body is not bad, Maya said, kissing her forehead. It is learning. Like you learned to walk again. Like Daddy learned to sleep on the floor.
Maya laughed once, soft and tired. Daddy snores, she said.
I do not, Caleb said. He gave her a small smile. He lied. He snored. They both knew it.
Maya closed her eyes again, steroids making her drowsy. Hold my hands, she mumbled.
Maya held her left hand. Caleb held her right. They sat like that while night moved slow.
At 5am the nurse came for vitals. Temp down to 99.8, she said. Heart rate better. Steroids are working.
Maya exhaled a breath she had held for three hours. Caleb closed his eyes. Thank you, he whispered. To the nurse. To the medicine. To something bigger.
You can rest now, the nurse said. She will sleep. We will watch her.
Maya did not move from the chair. Caleb did not move from the floor. Neither would sleep until the fever broke completely.
At sunrise, light came through the window. Maya was still sleeping. Her color better. More pink.
Caleb stood and stretched, back cracking. He went to the family room and poured two coffees. Black. The way Maya liked it. The way she drank it in their old kitchen.
He came back and set one beside Maya’s chair. She looked up, surprised.
You remember, she said.
I remember everything, Caleb said. He sat on the floor beside her and took her hand. I remember how you take your coffee. I remember the way you bite your lip when you are scared. I remember signing at three in the morning and hating myself for every second.
Maya wrapped her hands around the warm cup. I remember too, she said. I remember you carrying me over the threshold. I remember you crying when they said her heart was failing. I remember thinking we could survive anything as long as we had each other.
We can, Caleb said, squeezing her hand. Rejection or no rejection. Papers or no papers. We survive because she needs us to. And because I do not know how to stop loving you.
Maya looked down at their joined hands. At Maya sleeping between them. At the monitors beeping steady.
I do not know how to stop either, she admitted. I tried for three weeks. I signed my name. I gave you freedom. But I never gave up you.
The confession hung in the quiet room. Honest. Dangerous. True.
From the bed, Maya mumbled, Daddy, are we home yet.
Not yet, baby, Caleb said, kissing her knuckles. But we will be soon. And we will walk to the tree again. Together.
Maya smiled in her sleep. Her fingers tightened around both of theirs.
The rejection scare was not over. Forty eight hours would tell them more. Biopsies might come. More steroids. More fear.
But in this moment, with fever dropping and dawn coming, Maya and Caleb remembered one thing clearly.
They were not roommates. They were not exes.
They were parents. In a hospital room. Holding their daughter’s hands while her body learned to love a stranger’s heart.
And no piece of paper could change that.
End of Chapter 10
- Writer
