The Donor Syndromeby Thomas R. Willits |
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| conclusion |
Renford returned to Donors, Inc. nearly a year later, although he wasn’t there to pick up more medication. He had read through the contract a second time, and a third in fact. But he wasn’t bothered with that either. He wasn’t there to raise any complaints or demand his finger back. He knew that was behind him now.
“I’m afraid we can’t help you, Mr. Upshaw,” Doctor Rosenburg informed him. He put down the forms Renford had completed out in the lobby and stacked them neatly in front of him. “We have a strict policy here at Donors, Inc. One donation per patient. No exceptions.”
Renford leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll put you out of business,” he claimed. “I know too much of what goes on here. I could tell someone. They’ll investigate, and you’ll be thrown in jail. That woman I saw last time. I’d bet she’d testify.”
Rosenburg’s eyebrow raised. He took out a small folder from behind his desk and opened it so Renford could see. He pulled two papers out and glanced through them. When he found what he was looking for he adjusted them so Renford could see.
“This is your daughter’s school, correct?” he asked. He showed a picture from the street and in the middle of the shot was his daughter, Amber, eleven years of age on her way home. “And in the middle is your daughter?”
“You sick-” he began but Rosenburg brought the picture under it out and placed in on top.
“And this is where your wife works?” he added. The picture clearly displayed his wife opening her car door to return home. Her briefcase was strung over her back and her key in the lock. “Do I have reliable information here, Mr. Upshaw?”
Renford was silent and kept his eyes glued to the photo. He had no idea what they were capable of here at Donors, Inc. They pulled out all the stops, as it seemed. He glanced up, shocked and tried to remain calm.
“I think we understand why you can’t go to the authorities. Would I be correct in saying so?”
Renford nodded without delay. They’ve got me by the balls.
“As for the woman you mentioned,” Rosenburg continued. “I wouldn’t count on her cooperation.”
Now just what was that supposed to mean?
“Why? Did she violate her contract?”
“I can’t discuss confidential matters.”
“Listen, Doctor,” Renford pleaded. “The money ran out. I should have donated more, I realize that now. Ninety-five thousand’s nothing these days. I lost my job. I have nothing left. We sold everything we had. They found a mole on my wife’s back. It’s malignant and it’s already started to spread. The costs are insurmountable. You mentioned you have a one donation per patient limit, well I think that’s crap! You know I’m a confident man. I’ve seen hard times. I’ve been through more than you could imagine.”
He raised his left hand to demonstrate. “This,” he said displaying his nub between the ring and index appendages, “is what I’m capable of. If I can do this I can do anything I put my mind to. I have more to offer. There’s still plenty of me left, Doc. Just give me a chance and I’ll prove it.
“I’ve got another rule I go by and that is the only things you regret in life are the things you didn’t do. I don’t want to regret what I couldn’t do to save my family. I won’t live like that. I refuse to except your answer, Doctor. You must give me another opportunity. I beg of you to reconsider. Please... please.”
Renford grew silent and the doctor stared at the photo of his wife next to her car. He glanced at Renford once more before gathering up all the documents and returning them to their rightful folder.
He tapped his finger on the desk and examined the list of items which had been checked off on the form. “This goes against my better judgment,” he admitted. “But you are very convincing. I can understand why you had once lived at such a high stature. You are truly driven to succeed.”
“Thank you, Doctor. You don’t know what this means to me.”
Renford relaxed in his chair and smiled.
Rosenburg returned his grin gratuitously, “Oh, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea. About four hundred thousand dollars.”
* * *
Six months passed and Renford was coming to terms with his most recent donations to the clinic. All the proper measures were taken to explain the newest missing items from Renford’s body. He had been found in an alley, mugged, beaten, two toes on his right foot and three on his left, gone without a trace. Another two fingers had been lopped off, one on the left and one on the right. And also, part of his manhood had been taken: his left testicle.
The police had taken him to the hospital where surgeons were baffled at what they’d seen. All the missing parts had been properly sewn closed and there was little or no bleeding. Real precision work, one doctor acknowledged. The police questioned Renford over and over but he never wavered from his story and they discovered no evidence to suggest anything had occurred otherwise.
Despite his newest missing appendages Renford walked adequately enough to make it to his next appointment at Donors, Inc. He wanted to see Doctor Rosenburg, no he demanded to see Doctor Rosenburg. He appeared to be having a relapse, his face was pale and sweaty, his eyes dark and exhausted. They were filled with pity, but not for himself.
“Are you out of your mind?” Rosenburg asked alarmed. “You checked the bottom square on the form. Do you realize what that entails?”
“Of course,” Renford spat. “I’ve already made up my mind. Don’t try and talk me out of it. Save it for the new donors you swindle. I know what I have to do.”
Rosenburg showed him the form anyway so he could see. “You checked the last box on the form. This box is for terminal patients. It’s reserved for people who have little or no time left to live. You have the rest of your life. You’re in perfect health, minus a few fingers and toes. There’s no reason to subject yourself to this kind of handicap.”
A slow, maniacal scream emitted from the patient sitting across from Rosenburg. His eyes suddenly came to life, his face flushed with color which turned his pale and limpid tone into a fresh foray of wicked candor. “IT’S MY BODY!” he croaked. “And I choose to use it how I want.”
I’ve got it figured out, Renford thought with anger and spite. You think it’s difficult to live like this but you’re wrong, Doctor, you’re wrong, wrong, wrong. I’ve got it figured out now. I can learn to live without. It’s no different than selling the boathouse, or the Porsche or the Humvee because they’re just frivolous things, things to distract you from the real Road of Life. I’m going to put all my eggs into one basket. I’m cashing in all my chips for the big payoff. You think I’m getting the worse end of the deal, Doc. but you’re wrong. I’m getting the better deal because I don’t need those things. I don’t need any of them.
“I want the full boat,” he said, fully composed. “That’s my final offer.”
Rosenburg tried to speak but only found himself staring at the form which had been checked off on the final box labeled Terminal Patient Donor Procurement. The packaged deal, so it would appear. He laid the form down and studied Renford very closely.
“I’ll need an hour to prepare and then we’ll begin,” he said without any emotion whatsoever. “And then I never want to see you in here again.”
* * *
Two days later...
The thing the staff wheeled out of the recovery room resembled anything but a fraction of humanity. It was strapped to the wheelchair to keep it from falling out and it loomed up at one of the nurses when it came to.
An obscene eye fluttered open and fixed on the nearest woman to Renford’s chair. He wreathed and hissed against his restraints and appeared to be only vaguely aware of his surroundings and what had happened over the past forty-eight hours. The confusion was probably justified because of all the anesthesia and immunnosuppressants he had been pumped full of and if that didn’t explain it then the reflection staring back at him from the hanging mirror in the waiting room certainly did.
“Greater than the sum, Doctor!” Renford shrieked. “I am greater than the sum of my parts! The whole is greater than the sum. Determination breeds success! Success breeds determination!”
Doctor Rosenburg had emerged from an obscure vortex on the left side of the room from what Renford could understand. Although it was merely the doorway to the medical rooms and labs beyond, his partially impaired vision combined with his state of mind had caused him to become delusional.
From what surroundings he could see he appeared to be in some twisted world which had mutated and fractured. There were living, breathing, vile creatures watching him and his natural instinct was to get as far away as he could. They were reaching for him, pulling at him. Soon they would begin to eat him.
“Not as bad,” he hissed. “Not as bad as you think! I finally figured it out, Doctor. Finally figured it out!”
“He’s going into shock!” one of the nurses screamed.
Renford’s right hand seized the nurse by her wrist and nearly ripped it off. His strength was incredible. Then, when he saw he had nowhere to go, he began to claw at his face which left deep, red, vertical trenches. They strapped his remaining arm to the chair and hauled him back into recovery.
There were more drugs back there. There were always more drugs.
“A pity,” Rosenburg remarked, shaking his head all the while. “To take advantage of the system like this.”
Rosenburg returned to his office and gathered all of Renford Upshaw’s paperwork. He was leaving tonight for a flight to Central America on American Airlines. He initialed all the forms and did a final check of the donor list. It read:
Terminal Patient Donor Procurement:
1 lung (left) 1 kidney (right) 1 lobe of liver (left) 1 islet of Langerhans (from upper portion of pancreas containing insulin) 1 pint of blood 2 full legs, removed at the hip, including feet, minus five phalanges, 1 full arm (left), including hand, minus 2 phalanges complete bone marrow transplant from hip remaining genitalia, minus 1 testicle (left) full cerebral hair, including follicles. 28 skin graft removals from back, chest, and abdominal regions 1 eye (left) 2 ear lobes 4 vertebrae, 9th, 14th, 17th, and 21st Total contract reimbursement: $3,750,000.00
Money was of course, no consequence at Donors, Inc. They had an endless supply. The real value was in the donations. Rosenburg initialed at the bottom of the page and signed off on the contract.
On his computer he brought up Renford Upshaw’s account and started the transfer. In a few moments everything was complete. He punched up the flight for Guatemala and put him on the eight o-clock red eye. Not as first class but as baggage.
Renford would have to disappear in the meantime while he healed from the mass donor procurement and there would also need to be an explanation for the unfortunate torture to his body. He would recuperate in a remote hospital while information was given out that he had been captured by terrorists. In due time he would return home.
He picked up the photo he had taken out earlier and glanced at Renford’s wife. She was attractive, beautiful to the point of extreme. He thought about what Renford had said before. The only things you regret in life are the things you didn’t do.
And maybe he was right. Maybe he was right about a lot of things. And maybe Rosenburg was going to pay that wife a visit and see how that mole was coming along.
* * *
Two days later a man entered Donors, Inc. and presented his badge to the receptionist. A few minutes later the senior doctor saw him in and they spoke privately in his office.
“My name’s Agent Berkowitz,” he informed. “I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me?”
“Certainly,” Rosenburg responded. He flashed his best smile and Berkowitz tried to place whom he resembled. Someone likable, he knew; someone famous. “Anything I can do to help.”
“Have you ever seen this gentlemen?” He presented a picture of Renford Upshaw on the doctor’s desk.
“Why, yes. That’s Mr. Upshaw. He visited us over a year ago. Donated about a pint of blood. Nice fellow. As I recall he mentioned he had a run of bad luck.”
“I see.”
“Why?” Doctor Rosenburg inquired. “Is something wrong?”
“He’s gone missing.”
“Why that’s terrible.”
“Yes.”
Berkowitz brought out another photo. A photo of a woman. Rosenburg recognized who it was.
“That’s Mrs. Fullerson. She came here about a year ago as well.”
“Really?” Agent Berkowitz asked. “I’m going to cut to the chase, Doctor. We found her dead in her apartment. Hanged herself. We also found she was missing her left hand, but no one knows why. No medical records, no insurance bills. Not a trace to explain the accident.”
“Quite strange.”
“She didn’t leave a note either,” he continued. “But we did find this.”
He reached into his pocket and unfolded the brochure. Across the top read, DONORS, INC. He turned it so Rosenburg could see.
“One of our pamphlets.”
“Yes and Upshaw’s wife found one too in his office at home, which led me to see you.”
“Well I can understand why this would be a good place to start. Especially with a missing person on your hands. But I don’t see how I can help.”
“Your donations,” Berkowitz started, “wouldn’t include hands or fingers would they?”
“Excuse me?”
“Renford’s wife said he had been attacked a year ago. Lost several fingers and toes. But he couldn’t identify his attacker. Before that he had lost a finger in an incident at work.”
“And so you’re accusing me? I’ll have you know I’m board certified and licensed in five states. I’ve been practicing medicine longer than you’ve been alive. I’m appalled you’d even suggest it.”
“I have to ask.”
Rosenburg didn’t appear better by his remark.
“And the last time you saw either of them?”
“I could check the reports if you like,” he answered. “But I’m sure it was over a year for both.”
“I see. Then that is all I have. Thank you for your time.”
“If I can be of any more help, don’t hesitate.” That same smile.
Berkowitz nodded and gathered up his photos and the pamphlet. Suddenly it hit him. Doctor Rosenburg reminded him of a lovable Dick Van Dyke. But that smile may have been at least partially creepy. Perhaps an evil Dick Van Dyke would be more appropriate.
On his way out he conjured up a crazy notion that both Mrs. Fullerson and Mr. Upshaw had visited the clinic and had sold pieces of themselves for money. The idea made him shiver. At least at first. As with all things, it usually begins with an idea.
I wonder how much it would be. Berkowitz entertained. How much would they pay for my arm or leg? How much could I get?
Copyright © 2008 by Thomas R. Willits
