Lucia
On WGBX, an interview with a woman whose 16 year old daughter died by suicide, her donated organs altering 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, the woman says, which didn’t make me cry, since scuba isn’t something my daughter ever wanted to do.
Much harder, the card in the mailbox containing a photo of a little girl, her second-hand heart thumping with excitement at a cake with six candles. Two teeth missing, she says, just like her at that age, when she asked for a pet frog and her cousin gave her a tiny yellow -
A surprise for you, interrupts the host. Someone special on the line with a message.
A man coughs, clears his throat. My heart is torn, mami, knowing you lost your angel for my sweet Lucia to live.
The woman makes a sound like she’s been punched.
Is this hard for you? asks the host. This must be so hard for you.
The woman begins crying so hard she can’t make words.
Her mic is cut.
*
WGBX shifts quickly into the second interview, a 20 year old UC Santa Cruz student who alleges that heteronormative white people are complicit in the erasure of marginalized identities. If you’re straight, white, and comfortable, something’s wrong, she says. A genocide of identities unlike your own, and you can’t ignore it. Your silence is violence.
That’s one hell of an allegation, sighs the host. Any chance you can tell our listeners why being straight and white is their fault?
I hear sarcasm, the student says, crisply. And I won’t do the labor of explaining to deaf ears.
Dang, the host says, clicking his tongue. Why should someone let their God-given traits rob them of happiness?
That’s not what I mean. Her voice drops, and she leans in so close the mic captures the stretch of her saliva. Of all people, you should know. If the dead can’t lift us, they’ll haunt us instead.
I don’t need a white lady telling me what I know, he laughs, drily.
You’d be singing a different tune if your grandmother was here, she snaps.
Her mic is cut.
*
Commuters scald their tongues on coffee, a pop song with a nasty bass line replacing their discomfort. Mouthing lyrics, they picture themselves rich and well-sexed, suddenly cool. They turn the volume up.
*
The student from UC Santa Cruz spends the rest of her evening with her 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. He’ll make salmon for dinner while she relaxes, he tells her, sliding a hand over her ass.
From the balcony of his apartment she watches the city teem with people who understand very little. She’ll need to take the day off tomorrow. Rest is radical, she assures herself. Tomorrow, she’ll call her mom and complain about tuition, hope her mom is generous.
The beurre blanc smothering the salmon gives her indigestion. She doesn’t dare complain after last time, so she leaves early. Back at her dorm, she kicks off her shoes. ChatGPT diagnoses her with gallbladder disease. She swallows a pill. It doesn’t help her sleep any better, but she won’t remember all the times she wakes up. She’ll wake exhausted, but it’s better than ghosts. The sedative kicks in and she sinks.
*
The mother of the dead teen spends her evening staring into a drink, trying again to figure out the moment she lost her daughter, pretending she could survive the answer. 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 this. She rings 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 the name of the man. Her lips move but make no sound, feet swaying where her mother drinks.
Her mother grips her glass and curses the house. Always a draft. Always that horrible image. She touches the back of her neck - bitterly cold - before refilling her glass 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 white girl. Self-righteous bitch, if she only knew. But he won’t waste time listing grievances, that’s for white people.
He takes the last swig of coffee and pulls into a parking spot. Two more years working an extra job 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, he stops. He can hear a voice - which happens sometimes - though there isn’t anyone there. He waits a few seconds, but there’s nothing more, and 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 green water. He checks the listener statistics of the afternoon show - always better when there’s drama. He wanted to ask the mother how she made the decision to donate, whether the recipients were informed of the cause of death, but he couldn’t get her to stop crying. His hug made it worse.
The producer used the term “harvesting organs,” which gave him goosebumps. He pulls a sweater over his head, wondering if little Lucia inherited a heart that remembers.