The Donor Syndrome

by Thomas R. Willits

part 3 of 4

Three months later Renford stammered into Donors, Inc. on a Friday afternoon with an attitude to please. He was heated. The past few weeks had really been difficult. He couldn’t stop scratching, and he had developed what amputees refer to as Phantom Limb Syndrome, although in Renford’s case it was Phantom Appendage Syndrome.

The receptionist tried to calm the belligerent man with her award-winning personality but appeared to be failing miserably in that regard. She was ready to call security and have Mr. Upshaw hauled away. But she didn’t have to as it turned out.

“May I help you?” a voice from the doorway provided.

Renford turned, startled. He saw Doctor Rosenburg standing in the entryway to the back.

“Yes,” he cried, helplessly. “I need to see you right away. No forms, no signatures. I need to see you now.”

Rosenburg sighed, then backed away so Renford could enter. “Please,” he offered and gestured with his hand. “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

They joined in the medical room and Renford immediately climbed onto the bench. Rosenburg checked Renford’s hand and the small scar closed around the knuckle. It appeared to have healed nicely.

“This is some of my best work,” he remarked. “Yet you seem troubled.”

“The damn thing won’t stop itching!” he cried. “I can’t sleep at night. I wake up and I feel like my finger’s still there. Then I reach for it and it’s gone.”

“It’s all in your head,” he soothed. “You have to get control of this. Take it one step at a time. The loss of something like this is tremendous to the body.”

Renford felt hysterical. He felt like crying. His eyes fixed on Rosenburg and he spoke as firmly as his crackling voice would allow, “What did you do with it, you prick?”

Rosenburg flinched but tried to remain calm. Security was only one press of a button away but he felt he could still deal with Renford. The patient was upset, true, but Rosenburg felt he could still be reasoned with. The doctor had a real feeling about this one.

“I’m prescribing you Xanex,” he started to say and scribbled on a nearby pad. Meanwhile Renford appeared merely to be irritated with what he was hearing. “The nurse outside will fill your prescription. I’m recommending you get some extra sleep for the next few weeks. And take some time off work.”

“You’re not listening to me!” Renford shrieked. “I made a mistake. I didn’t think things through. Tell me where it is. Is it still here? In this building?”

Of course Renford wanted to believe that, that his finger hadn’t been sold to someone else and that he could simply ask for it back and have it reattached without much fuss. But his rational reasoning told him he was outta luck, Bucko. They’ve got your finger and they’re going to give it to someone with special needs. The idea stuck in his mind like mice to a glue trap: part of him might belong to someone else now. He tried to imagine what it would be like to shake that hand. Creepy, real creepy.

“I’m afraid you already know the answer to that. It’s impossible for me to give you that information. But let me remind you of the contract. It is binding, and you were paid, were you not?”

Renford didn’t answer and Rosenburg took that as a sign to continue. Renford was still thinking about the handshake. Someone with special needs.

“Normally I don’t ask why people need the money. I’m sure everyone has their reasons. Take my brother-in-law for instance. He just doesn’t know when to quit. He lost his car, house, family, his job and all on account he couldn’t kick an online betting habit. There are people that can help you, Mr. Upshaw, if you need to see someone.”

Renford looked at his hands and of course his eyes settled on the missing middle finger on his left. He wept hoarsely.

“My sister’s kid had an accident about six months ago,” he explained. Rosenburg sat back in his chair and listened. “He fell into the pool and no one saw until... until he floated back up. They pulled him out but he hadn’t been breathing for over five minutes. They revived him, but he was left with permanent brain damage. I had to do something. I had to help her.”

“I understand,” Rosenburg soothed. “That’s terrible. You were brave for doing what you did. I’m sure your sister and her son would agree, if you could tell them. But I do remember a stronger side of you when we last met. A side that said, ‘determination breeds success’. You were successful once, weren’t you, Mr. Upshaw?”

“I lost everything over a year ago,” he pleaded. “All I have left are a few retirement accounts that won’t mature for another decade. If my company hadn’t been traded... I’d never be here. It angers me so much.”

“I understand. Now you must be strong again. Remember how you were before you came to visit us. Take that with you.”

His sobs subsided.

Renford looked at Rosenburg solemnly. What did he expect? It’s not like he was going to get his finger back. He pushed his self-pity aside, thinking about his sister and her kid. He could be strong if wanted to be. He knew that much.

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“No. You have to go on.”

He thought about the finger once more before leaving and wondered what they had done with it. He couldn’t help but imagine it floating in a jar of water preserved for study at a later date on some ambiguous shelf. Or did it belong to a new owner? Someone with... special needs? Was someone else using his finger right now? He felt sick just thinking about it.

“You’re not a normal donor clinic, Doctor,” he said. “I know that much. Some of the items on your list would be considered... unnatural for donation.” He held up his left hand. “I think this counts.”

Rosenburg shook his head. “It didn’t seem to bother you when you took the money.”

Renford laughed, not so hysterical this time. No, the price was too good.

Renford stood up, ready to leave. He started for the door and Rosenburg rose to see him out. “Hang in there, Mr. Upshaw,” he consoled. “You’ll find you’re stronger than you know. And it might not hurt to read through the contract you signed with us. In case you feel like negating it. I would consider it a wise suggestion. Good day, Mr. Upshaw.”

Renford passed a woman in the hall who was not a nurse or part of the staff here at Donors, Inc. He saw her cradle something in her right hand, delicately. He only caught a glimpse, but he thought it was her left hand bandaged at the wrist. Only there was no hand where one should be. Only a stump with fresh gauze and medical tape. She never looked up when Renford passed by her. She merely held it and slipped into another room followed by a member of the staff.

An entire hand? Renford thought. What am I complaining about? She must have real troubles.

* * *

Proceed to part 4...