Jon was a lot of things that drove his teachers, and probably his parents, to despair. He was impulsive almost to the point of recklessness, particular almost to the point of elitism, and inquisitive almost to the point of unbearable nosiness. He was somehow both easily distracted and prone to fixate on something to the exclusion of all else depending on whether it caught his rather capricious whims, he was often unable to accurately determine when he crossed the line from sharing information to lecturing, and he was, when all was said and done, the sort of person who would cheerfully jump off a bridge, stow away in a boxcar, or attempt to sail to an island that appeared on no map in a toy box if his sister said it might be fun if she did so before he could suggest they move into the British Museum, hunt for pirates’ treasure, or attempt to fly using a pair of wings fashioned from wax, all of which she would cheerfully go along with also.
What he was not, however, was stupid or unobservant. Which meant he was not fooled by smiles, bright voices, or cheerful words. He knew his anxiety was bleeding into Melanie, but neither of them were talking about why—yet—so he didn’t know if she knew what was worrying him or just was picking up on the worry. Either way, it hadn’t been an easy week.
“Jonathan and Melanie Sims-King, report to the front office. Jonathan and Melanie Sims-King, to the front office, please.” The overhead loudspeakers crackled to life and repeated the message once more before shutting off with a squeal.
Jon was half out of his seat before the announcement had even finished. Mrs Howell frowned him and Melanie, who was also on her feet. “Take your things. You likely won’t be back.”
“Ooooooh,” chorused a few of the kids in the class. Others snickered. Mrs Howell turned her frown on the rest of the class, which only simmered down a little. Jon didn’t care. He had already gathered his books and papers hastily, not caring about order, and was shoving them into his bag as he headed for the door, Melanie on his heels.
As soon as they were out in the corridor, he reached over and took her hand. “Come on.”
“We didn’t do anything,” Melanie protested. She considered for a moment. “I don’t think.”
Well, that answered that question. “I don’t think it’s us, Melanie. I mean, I don’t think we did anything wrong, but…” Jon faltered, then repeated, “Come on.”
Melanie swallowed hard. “You…you don’t think it’s…”
Jon looked at her and saw in her eyes that the protest about their behavior had been a last ditch attempt to deny the thing they both knew had to be the truth. “I do.”
Melanie’s hand tightened in Jon’s. “Come on.”
They didn’t run. In the first place, they didn’t want to trip in their haste, and in the second place they didn’t want to get in actual trouble and possibly get detained before they could reach the front office and what was surely waiting for them. But they did go as fast as they could without drawing attention. They skirted a line of Year One students on their way from the Art room, if the rainbow splotches on shirts and hands were any indication, and made it to the front office. As Jon had somewhat expected, their dad was standing at the desk talking to the receptionist. He turned to them with a smile that didn’t quite hide the worry in his eyes.
“We’re starting half-term a bit early,” he said brightly. “Good thing you brought your things with you. Thank you for calling for them, Ms Dawson. Come on.”
Jon waved to Ms Dawson, who was new that year, and Melanie gave her a tentative smile; she waved and smiled back. The second they were outside the building, though, Melanie tugged on their dad’s jacket. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“What makes you think something’s wrong, Little Moth?” Dad asked, glancing down at her.
Melanie snorted and looked at Jon, who began ticking reasons off on his fingers. “You and Mum stop talking every time we come into the room or change the subject. She’s had her hair down instead of back in a bun, which she only does when she’s too tired to pull it back, no matter how easy it is. Cosy’s been sleeping in your room instead of ours. You’ve been setting aside part of dinner before you add salt. And when we do surprise trips, the surprise is where we’re going, not that we’re going, so you didn’t make vacation plans without telling us.”
Dad sighed and dropped the smile. “I always forget how perceptive you two are,” he mumbled. “Right. Yes, you’re right, something is wrong. Your mum and I thought we might be able to take you out for a nice lunch before we told you.”
“You don’t have to,” Melanie said.
“We know, but will you let us anyway?” Dad asked gently.
At that, Jon knew it was serious. He swallowed hard and tightened his grip on Melanie’s hand, but said only, “Okay.”
The Harlequin, which had been brought back from the brink of the junkyard by a mechanic who’d been incredibly patient with Jon and Melanie asking her questions about the work as an excuse to hang around and watch her, waited at the curb. Mum was sitting in it, and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to see that she had been crying. She had fixed her makeup, but her eyes were still pink. Jon’s heart hammered against his rib cage, and he felt Melanie hold on a little tighter. It made it difficult to get into the car, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care that he was eleven years old or that someone might be watching from the school windows. He was scared, and he wanted his sister.
“You told them?” Mum asked as Dad got into the front seat. She sounded disapproving.
“They guessed.” Dad buckled his seatbelt. “I think. Let’s go have lunch. I think we all need a good meal.”
The silence in the car was charged and heavy. Dad drove them to a restaurant Jon knew they normally wouldn’t have gone—a very fancy one that was technically in Stockport proper—and led them inside. Evidently they had planned this, because he gave his name to the person at the desk and they were immediately shown to a table. They took their accustomed seats at the table, the host assured them the waiter would be with them shortly, and then they were left alone.
“Mum,” Melanie began.
“Let’s eat first,” Mum said.
Jon glanced at Melanie and saw that she was thinking the same thing he was, so he said it first. “I don’t think we can until we know, Mum. Please. Are you sick?”
Mum exchanged a look with Dad, then sighed and laid down her menu. “All right,” she said calmly. Too calmly, in Jon’s opinion. “Yes, Little Flame, I’m sick. And I won’t pretend it isn’t scary and upsetting. But it’s going to be all right, just…”
She took a deep breath, evidently meaning to continue, when the waiter came by to fill their water glasses and introduce himself. He took their orders for drinks and left them with the menus, and while Jon wanted to press Mum to continue, he made himself study the menu first so that when the waiter came back with lemonades and rolls, he was able to order in as steady a voice as he could currently manage.
Once they were alone again, Mum folded her hands on the table. “Do you remember the last time I was very sick? You were quite small.”
“Just about,” Melanie said, a little hesitantly.
Jon nodded slowly. It was hard not to remember, because that had also been when Mama died, but as she said, they had been much younger then, so the details were…fuzzy. “You had to have your kidneys replaced. Mama was a match. Melanie and I asked if we could donate and the nurse—I-I can’t remember her name—she said we weren’t big enough.” Another memory popped into focus. “She said it might not work and you might need another one, but…I thought that was just back then.”
“Jon, what a memory,” Dad said with a faint smile. “I had forgotten about that. Nurse McCall was very kind about answering your questions.”
“I remember,” Melanie said. “You said nurses ought to rule the world and I said I would vote for her when I got older.” She fidgeted with the glass of water. “Is it your kidneys, Mum?”
“Yes,” Mum said forthrightly. “I’ve been as careful as I can be, and they were hoping that giving me a new kidney would put things right, but unfortunately my body is starting to have problems again. But, it’s not the end of the world. I’m not going to die tomorrow or anything. I’ve been put on the list for a new kidney, possibly two if I’m lucky, but most likely just one. It’s not going to be as fast as it was before because I don’t have a targeted donor, but as soon as they find someone who’s a match for me and I get to the top of the list, they’ll let me know.”
“Can we donate this time?” Jon asked. “Are we big enough now?”
Mum shook her head. “Not to safely donate to an adult. And there’s the simple fact that we aren’t sure if you’d be a good match.”
“Why not?” Melanie demanded.
“We never had your blood type checked,” Dad answered. “Have you learned about that in school yet?”
“It’s part of the next unit in science.”
“Well. Here.” Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out his notebook and pen, then began drawing a little diagram. “So blood is made up of something called antigens. The two most common ones are A and B. You can have one of them, or both of them, or neither of them. If you have just one, your blood type is A or B. If you have both, your blood type is AB, and if you have neither, it’s type O. With me so far?”
Jon and Melanie nodded. Dad continued. “Now, there’s also a protein that’s in some people’s blood but not in others. If you have it, your blood is positive, and if you don’t, you’re negative. So we have eight different blood types. Now, you get one set of antigens from each parent. If one of your parents is AB, then you’ll get either an A or a B from them. And if one of your parents is positive and passes that on to you, you’ll be positive.” He finished drawing the complicated chart. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Melanie said, hesitantly. She touched the lines on the notebook, which looked like one of the logic puzzles their maths teacher gave them to keep them busy when they finished their regular assignments during class. “So…what are you?”
Dad winced. “Well…that’s the trouble. I’m A positive. Your mum and your mama are both B negative.”
Melanie wrinkled her nose. “So Jon and I are…AB positive?”
“Maybe, but not necessarily. You might be A or B—or even O. Same with Jon. Your papa was A negative.”
“So there’s a one in four chance we could help,” Jon summed up. “Why don’t we at least get tested? Then we would know.”
“When you’re older.” Mum’s voice brooked no argument. “Unless one of you needs an organ transplant, you can find out when you’re eighteen and not a moment sooner. It’s going to be all right, it just might take a while. Now, then. Pass the butter, please, and I want to hear how school is going.”
Jon felt a little better. Not much, but a little. Mum’s tears had been real—but she had probably been scared, and it had been unexpected. And he knew, with the quick insight of those who love, that there was some guilt there, because Mama had died to give her the kidney that was currently failing…and maybe a little bit of fresh grief, because it was like losing Mama all over again. And he could understand that, to a point. But Jon had her eyes, in shape at least, and something of the shape to her face—enough to irritate Grandmother Sims, anyway—and it wasn’t like they had rushed to remove all traces of her presence from the house after she died. They wouldn’t lose her just because Mum didn’t have her kidney inside her anymore. And Mama, so far as he remembered anyway, had been very practical about everything; she’d known even back then it might not work.
He fully relaxed when Melanie coughed up what Mrs Howell had said before they’d left and, when they confessed that she always sort of talked to them—or at them—like that, Dad had to physically restrain Mum from getting out of her seat and storming back to school to tear her a new one. While neither he nor Melanie enjoyed what happened when Mum went on the warpath, it did at least mean that she was acting like herself.
Things would be rough for a while, but they would get better. Even if Mum was sick, she was—and would continue to be—just fine.