Sweet Lucia
On WGBX, an interview with a woman whose 16 year old daughter died by suicide, her donated organs saving two lives.
The recipient of her lungs, a 30 year old man with cystic fibrosis, now able to dive the reefs of Raja Ampat. He sent a postcard from Indonesia, the woman says, which didn’t topple me, since she never wanted to travel far. She loved Frozen, and wanted to go to Disney. That was far enough for her, but I was single mom.
Much more difficult to receive, a card in her mailbox with a photo of a little girl, her attention transfixed by a chocolate cake with six candles.When my daughter turned six, the woman says, voice cracking, she asked for a pet turtle and her aunt gave her a terrarium with a rock painted green because she wasn’t sure I -
I can’t even imagine, interrupts the host. And I’m sure our listeners understand, since this is every parent’s nightmare. Which is why today, we have someone special on the line with an important message!
A man coughs and clears his throat. My heart is torn, mami, knowing you lost your angel for my sweet Lucia to live.
The woman inhales. Is this hard for you? the host asks. It must be so hard for you. For our listeners who haven’t figured it out yet, on the line is Lucia’s father. Lucia underwent a heart transplant a year ago - eight hours, a miracle of modern medicine. She was 5 at the time, and the surgery saved her life. So, how does it feel right now, to hear from the father of the little girl who has your daughter’s heart?
There’s a boomy grunt, like someone’s been punched in the gut. A minute later, the mics are cut.
*
WGBX shifts quickly into the second interview, a 20 year old UC Santa Cruz student who claims that heteronormative white people are complicit in the erasure of anyone who doesn’t look like them. If you’re straight, white, and not screaming in the streets right now, something’s wrong, she says. While you drink wine and shop online, bodies that do not look like yours are being harmed. Black bodies, queer and brown bodies, fat bodies, disabled bodies. I’m here today to make you uncomfortable. I’m here to complicate the narrative. I’m here to remind you of your violence.
The host scoffs. Hon, pray tell? Explain to us what you mean, since I’m sure my listeners have questions. Are you telling our white listeners that they are criminals, ignorant of their crimes? Are you saying that being white is…inherently violent?
I know when someones mocking me, she answers, crisply. But I assumed it would be different with you, since, well, you know. And I don’t labor to explain to deaf ears, so I guess we’re done here.
Shoot, says the host, clicking his tongue. So, to all you white folks out there, sounds like she is saying that the God-given color of your skin should rob your peace. That if you’re living a quiet life, God forbid a happy one, that you’ve done something wrong. That the world’s social ills are the fault of a specific demographic. Hmmm, sounds oddly familiar to me, and not in a good way. He snickers into the mic, and clicks his tongue again.
The young woman’s voice drops. That’s not what I mean. She leans in to the mic, her saliva popping. If the dead can’t lift us, they’ll haunt us, she hisses. And you should know this.
The host laughs. One thing I know is that I don’t need some damn college kid telling me what I know.
You’d be singing a different tune if your audience wasn’t a bunch of white fascists who have weaponized their privilege by -
Her mic is cut.
*
Commuters scald their tongues on coffee. Before they can change the station, a pop song with a nasty bass line replaces their discomfort. Mouthing lyrics, they imagine themselves rich and well-sexed. Suddenly cool. When the song ends, they return to their long list of anxieties.
*
The UC student spends the rest of her evening with her 38 year old boyfriend, who is queer because he sleeps with other women. He praises her for speaking truth to power, says it was physically painful to hear the Black host argue against his own interests. What a fucking clown! He’ll make salmon for dinner while she relaxes, he tells her, sliding a hand over her ass.
From the balcony of his 7th floor apartment, she leans over the balustrade and stares down at the street. The drink he made her isn’t good - the ice tastes like something in his freezer. She’ll take tomorrow off to recover, she decides. Call her mom and complain about tuition. Her mom should be generous with her, considering what she does for her brother. Filling his fridge and meds every week, washing his sheets. Yes, she’s privileged as a white woman, but compared to her brother, she asks for nothing. Zilch. And she’s working hard to burn it all down.
Her boyfriend drowns the salmon in beurre blanc and it gives her bad indigestion. She doesn’t dare complain after last time, so she gives him head and leaves early. Back at her dorm, ChatGPT diagnoses her with gallbladder disease. She swallows a glass of water and two sleeping pills. Though they don’t improve the quality of her sleep, the pills erase the memory of all the spirits that visit her. She’ll wake exhausted, but she won’t remember their endless pains.
*
The mother of the teen dead to suicide spends her evening staring into a drink, wondering if she’ll ever have peace. The social worker from the Organ Procurement Team used the term “legacy of generosity.” A chance to transform a tragedy into the gift of life, she’d said, folding her hands. Your choice, of course.
Though her memory of that day is a living nightmare that can stop her heart cold, she remembers the smell of the woman - talcum and coffee. How ink from her pen had stained the desk. She pours a second drink to ease the feeling of being watched, even though she’s alone in the house. Not the first time she’s felt it. She calls her boyfriend, who doesn’t answer, so she cuts the lights and drinks in the dark.
*
The straight, white ghost of the 16 year old girl, still in pajamas, swings from a rope above the kitchen table. Abused by her mother’s boyfriend for a decade, she repeats his name. Her lips move but make no sound, feet swaying where her mother drinks.
Her mother grips the glass and curses the house. Always a draft. Always that horrible image. She touches the back of her neck - bitterly cold - before refilling her drink and picking up the phone.
*
The host of WGBX is sipping coffee, driving to his second job. He’s still pissed about being lectured by that little white bitch. He takes a big breath and relaxes his forearms. His granny would tell him to swallow bitter herbs, never chew.
He takes the last swig of coffee and pulls into a parking spot. A few more years of working two jobs until he can retire early with his boyfriend, hopefully somewhere tropical. Serenity to accept, courage to change, wisdom to know the difference, he prays aloud, collecting his stuff before heading in.
Halfway up the steps to the group home, he stops. He can hear them again, now that he’s sober. He waits a few seconds, but there’s nothing more.
He can’t be late.
*
The shift at the group home is slow. No one wakes in crisis, or needs meds. He sits in the common room, on an uncomfortable couch, imagining a strip of hot white sand and clear green water.
He checks the listener statistics of the afternoon show. Always a good bump when there’s drama. He wanted to ask the mother whether there were ethical concerns about donating organs from suicide. Why she chose to bypass her anonymity? Why she chose to be so public? But the onslaught of her tears cut the interview short. Frustrating, that she couldn’t hold it together; she’d said she was ready. He wanted to push her, dig deep, keep his listeners engaged. Instead, the studio trashcan was full of disgusting wet tissues by the time she left.
A few days before the show, his producer had suggested he ask about the timeline for a successful harvest. How long before organs go bad? But he’d refused. The word ‘harvest’ left him with goosebumps. Harvest was a word was for chicken eggs and unhusked corn, not human organs in a cooler.
Pulling a sweater over his head, he wonders if Lucia inherited a heart that remembers. Whether pain can travel like that, from body to body. He wonders why the young teen took her life, whether Lucia can feel that terrible ache.
The thought makes him nauseous, so he closes his eyes and imagines green water, white sand.
*
Later tonight, before bed, Lucia’s father bags up Anna and Elsa, his daughter’s favorite dolls. He’ll replace them with something else, just no more Frozen characters. Strange, how attached she is to those things.
He cracks a fresh Modelo, feeling shitty for sticking to the script, for calling that lady ‘mami.’ He would never use that word for a white lady. He could hear her weeping before they cut his line. Tomorrow, he’ll go to confession.
He turns on Fox News and nurses his beer. Shakes his head at all the illegals pouring in. He’s nothing like them. He has light skin, he’s a Christian, and he works hard.
Even Lucia speaks perfect English - his doing. When she speaks Spanish, he wants to cry.
*
Yesterday, he was the first person on the dive to spot the Tasseled Wobbegong. His second visit to Indonesia is even better than the first. Hard to believe, but he doesn’t ask too many questions anymore. He takes a big breath and salt air fills his lungs. Lowering the mask over his face he jumps in, flippers first.
*
Sweet Lucia sucks her bottom lip, a habit that came with the transplant. She’s dreaming of flying. In her dream, she can see the roof of her house, the park with the metal slide, the man with the same MAGA hat as her dad. And his old dog with the gray beard. She dips below the trees, then launches up fast like a rocket. Above the clouds, she floats on her back. Everything up here is blue, like the ocean. She closes her eyes for a second before flipping over and racing for the horizon.