Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Not to mention I had an eidetic memory, as well as what they called hyperthymesia.
An eidetic memory is sometimes what people would call a photographic memory. After only seeing something once, maybe in an article or a book, I had perfect recall. Someone could show me the 485th page in an encyclopedia, and I could tell them exactly what was on that page, even eighteen years later.
That’s kind of how the hyperthymesia worked, too.
I could remember quite a bit of my life experiences in vivid detail.
Kind of like if someone reminds me of a date, my birthday for example, I could tell you exactly what happened on each of my birthdays since I was about four years old. Down to what I had on my birthday cake, and who gave me what present.
Which brought me around full circle to the details. The detail of that little heart with the word ‘yes’ in it.
I’d seen it over a year ago when a boy had been picked up in the office for being sick. The same woman had been wearing it even then.
“Do you have any more questions?” the doctor asked.
I looked over at my father, seeing that he still wasn’t with the program.
Then turned back to the nurse who was yet again looking at the floor, her face sad.
But not because of my mother.
Because of something else.
“What does the pink heart mean?” I asked softly, unable to help myself.
The woman’s head jerked up. Her eyes met mine, and she opened her mouth, then closed it when the doctor turned around and looked at her.
“Please?” I pushed.
I had a feeling that I’d want to know.
That I needed to know.
Something was urging me to find out… and I always followed my urges.
Always.
“Go ahead,” the doctor said, sounding annoyed.
The nurse pursed her lips, then opened her mouth and explained.
“The ‘yes’ means say yes to organ donation,” she said softly. “I had some pins made to help raise some money for my son, who’s dying of a disease that affects his small bowel.”
I swallowed hard, then looked down at my mother.
I looked at the doctor then.
“Is she a candidate for organ donation?” I asked.
“No.” My father finally decided to come back online.
“Yes, she is,” the doctor answered my question. “Other than the damage to her brain, her body is overall in perfect health. She’s the most perfect candidate there ever was.”
His words hit my heart like a sledgehammer.
God, so hard that it hurt.
“No,” my dad said again. “No, no, no.”
I smiled then, looking at my mother’s hand.
She was wearing the bracelet I’d made her in sixth grade.
The one with the thin blue line sewn into it that I swore would keep her safe just because I’d made it. I remembered the date I’d made it, too. I’d watched a video how to do it online, then read an article. January 27, 2012.
When I gave her my homemade gift, she’d just gotten ready for her shift. She had her gun in her holster, and her hair was brushed in an updo that made me want to pull it out and mess it up. Always so prim and proper. She had eagerly added the bracelet to her arm and happily admired it.
“Do you think everyone can give us a minute to talk privately?” I asked, looking the doctor in the eye. “We need some time to think.”
The moment they all filed out, my father looked at me with a ferocious glare.
“No,” he repeated again.
I pulled up an article online, then skimmed through it.
I did that over and over again until I knew as much as I could on such short notice.
Then I decided to out-stubborn my dad.
“With us donating her organs, she can save up to eight lives,” I said. “She could also help fifty people by donating her tissues.” I paused. “You know that burn case that you worked a few weeks ago? That man could’ve been saved if he’d had a skin donor.” I tilted my head. “Over 123,000 people are currently waiting for an organ transplant.”
My father covered his face with his hands.
“Mom told me, two years ago, when I asked why she had become a police officer and she said that she liked to save lives. Dad, she could save lives now. Just like she always wanted,” I whispered.
My dad didn’t cave easily.
In fact, it took almost all of the next twenty-four hours to convince him, but eventually he did.
Which led us to where we were right then.
“Ready?” the nurse who’d been wearing the pink heart pin asked.
She was wearing it today, too.
And she had one in her hand, holding it out to me.
I took it, looked once at my mom, then pinned it to her gown.
“I know you’re going to have to take that off here in a minute,” I said. “When you get there, save it for me.”