It's two days later, and it's 2:44 A.M.
Since Mum left my room, I haven't gotten out of bed.
I know she and Dad are worried about me. Dr. Monzales, too: "It's totally to be expected that you'll have down days, Rosa, but let us help. You can talk to me. Let me call for Dr. Bailey."
But I don't want to talk to anyone. And I am okay. Or I will be. There's something I have to do, and I've been gearing up for it.
Now I'm pushing myself into a sitting position. I'm easing my legs onto the floor. I'm instructing the room, "Lights on."
2:44 A.M. Surely there's no one in the park.
Stumbling a little, the vinyl cold beneath my bare feet, I make my way around the bed, to the keypad by the window, and press the up arrow. The gentle whirring as the blind retracts is almost drowned out by the rush of my pulse in my ears.
Awkwardly, because it takes effort to coordinate my arms, and I still have trouble closing the fingers of my right hand, I pull my T-shirt up over my head. Then I take off my underwear. And I look at myself in the window. Naked.
My reflection is trembling.
I look at myself and I think of Frankenstein: The beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart…
I squeeze my eyes shut.
But I have to look.
Like the parent of a difficult child, I force them-my eyes-to do what they're told. To stare at that reflection. To get used to it. Because this is reality now.
And this is what my reality looks like, in full, in 3-D.
Her hips are slightly wider than mine. She has a round face with a neat nose, upturned at the tip. A low forehead, what with all that hair, which now reaches my shoulders. High cheekbones. Dimples in her cheeks when I pull a smile. A long neck, with a mole at the clavicle. Small, curved breasts. A flat stomach. I twist slightly. A skinny bottom. My heart races. Shh, I tell myself. It's only you.
And I don't feel horror. Or disgust.
She was American. Eighteen. Loved. Left by a near-drowning accident in a permanent vegetative state…The sum of my knowledge does not amount to much.
Now, as I look at myself in the window, I think about her parents. I guess I understand why they wanted their identities to be kept from me. And why, under the terms of the donation agreement:
The parents of the donor will receive full updates on medical progress until the recipient is discharged from hospital.
But as Mum and Dad wanted, too:
There will be no contact between the parents of the donor and the recipient.
I think:
Imagine knowing that your daughter's body is out there, and seeing her.
But imagine knowing your daughter body's is out there, and not being able to see her.
Which would be harder?
And:
Having another girl's body and knowing essentially nothing about her.
Having her body and knowing everything.
Which would be harder?
And what, exactly, in theory, would I want to know…?
Right now, I need to focus on what I can know.
And so I scour what I can see of her-of myself.
Then I sit down, and I explore every inch. I touch my toes, my chest. I even part my pubic hair. Because if this is going to be my body, I have to know it.
When I decide I have been as thorough as possible, I get back into bed. I pull the duvet right up to my chin. I was scared. But I did it. And now I do feel more hopeful.
