By Karen Harrington

John O’Shea, sixty-five, sitting in a borrowed wheelchair. Husband to Viv. Brother to Tony. If midnight is the end of his life, it’s 11:00 p.m. He imagines an observer watching him. The person sees a man relaxing on the porch of a restored house. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

Viv found the house and they threw everything at it. A forever home on a truck driver’s salary. Hidden, working in the shadows while they scraped wallpaper and upgraded sconces, the disease moved across his lungs like the creep of an unknown mold. His life has become fallow. He can’t even drive. He’s a car with no wheels. 

Viv always says it won’t be long. They are on The List. She says it with a full exclamation point. The List, John! The who-gets-to-live list. 

~

Tony, playing dominos one day, said, Let’s hope it’s from a motorcyclist. 

Why’s that?

A young donor.

Old men don’t own motorcycles?

Tony shrugged.

After Tony left, John dreamt of a young man on a Harley, hair whipping back, leather-gloved hands, an elaborate tattoo across his back. Riding through time, not knowing his life has an expiration date. Someone must die for John to live. That wretched list. It’s not so much a list as a cruel waiting room. 

~

John rolls the wheels of the chair forward. Pops over an acorn just to hear it crack. The sound of his young self on a BMX trying to make a gunfire pop over fallen acorns. But the cannula delivering a steady stream of oxygen tugs against his hoodie and falls out. Not so fast, John. You’re still in the waiting room, just closer to the door. A breathless second. Once he’d made Viv breathless. Would passion return? Would he go fishing again? Does he really like to fish? He thinks, dying men have so little to do except ponder answerless questions.

Cannula back in place, John gazes across the street as a silver car slides up in front of the neighbor who seems to never shop for food. Always gets it delivered. A young man in a bright red shirt emerges, carrying a to-go sack. What will it be today? John O’Shea narrows his eyes. Ah, it’s Taco Bell day. 

Viv steps out, gentle fingertips to his shoulder. 

Live más, John says.

What?

Nevermind.

Three long months on the list and he is chosen. 

As if to make the whole situation a drama, the call comes in the night. Is that why it’s called the dead of night? The cyclist in the dark, careening toward the fulfillment of a last donation. That family getting a different kind of call. Gratitude and ennui settle heavily in John O’Shea’s soul. 

Hurry, hurry, drive fast toward the lung. He makes a joke to Viv. Don’t get in an accident on the way to saving my life. She wipes away a tear. She’s daring herself to think of them together, he knows. They already had the difficult life-or-death conversation. Down this path, we are together. Down this one, we are not. He’s urged her to get a dog in that case.

For what? 

So you can say excuse me when you burp. Recite the grocery list. Tell it some piece of absurd news. You could say these things to a dog. One of those crossbreeds that look like they’re actually about to speak words.

John.

Like a Labradoodle.

She’d put her hand on one hip. His disease made her humorless. But truly, across the vast continent of their marriage, she did the talking and he did the listening. Worse fates befall men.

~

The fluorescence at the hospital entrance is diffused by a halo of frosty air. A pair of lit wreaths adorn the doors. The season teased him. Will you ring in the New Year, John O’Shea? Maybe. He is sober with contemplation. There is Tony. His face is expectation personified. John wants to erase his expression as much as he wants a deep breath. 

On a gurney, under lights and faces framed by light blue caps, John unspools his mind as anesthetic floods his veins. He succumbs and dreams. Fishing. Driving. Taking a walk. Using his passport. Getting his own damn taco.

He awakes, the cannula still there. Eyes wide as a Christmas morning child.

I’m so sorry, Viv says. It didn’t work. 

This is no time for her to be short of words. He knits his brows. 

The doctor said the donor organ had something called an infarction. A blood clot. So there was no surgery. Don’t worry, we’re still on The List. 

No exclamation point this time, Viv?

What?

Nothing.

The poor penultimate lung donor. Wanting to do one last thing. Stifled at the end. Control of how you leave the Earth is an illusion. He would laugh if he could, but laughter craves oxygen. He closes his eyes and daydreams, settling back into the imaginary organ donor waiting room. Imagines himself fishing, driving, walking on a beach. 

Viv leaves the room to take a phone call. 

Then, eyes open, saying, Tony, will you do something for me?

Anything. 

Help me get Viv a dog.