My brother, my kidney
by Rupan Malakin
[ fiction - october 11 ]
I hate Brian. I hate his comfortable gut and his unblemished skin. I hate his neo-classical mansion in Chiswick. I hate how he rolls his eyes when I speak. I hate his jokes to mum about the milkman, said in front of the whole family, as if one day he expects her to say, yes, your brother is a bastard, and then they can all finally understand why I am how I am. He even has more hair than me. So when, during the once-in-a-millennium occasion of him buying me dinner, he asks for my kidney, you can guess my response.
“My kidneys may be damaged,” I say, and take a slow draw on my pint.
Brian pushes his curry away. He must be sick. "My kidneys are damaged."
"Why don't you buy one?"
His eyes narrow, as if he’s caught me out. “Okay. Name your price.”
I take a forkful of madras and chew until I don’t even need to swallow. “It’s not about money. Everything my body’s been through, I don’t know if it’ll take major surgery. I need all the kidneys I can get.”
"Please, brother,” says Brian, his fat face creasing up. “I need you."
Next day, Mum says there’s nothing to discuss - if Brian needs my kidney then he can have my kidney. When I try to correct her, she reminds me how in kindergarten Brian stopped three kids bullying me in the sandpit. "Remember how he shielded you," she says. "He used his body to protect you."
On the other side of the kidney fence is Melissa, who only ever has swear words for Brian. She's a husky blonde who my family hate, mainly because of her previous addiction to crack, although those days are long gone. "Would that cunt give you his kidney?" she says. "I'll tell you the answer. No, he wouldn't.”
Mum wins the first battle, and I agree to go to the hospital to check if I’m a donor match. Brian’s hair has thinned, and his tailored suit is as loose as if he chose it off the rack. When I suggest the family resemblance between us is remarkable he forces a laugh, which I like, because we all laugh at the jokes of someone in a superior position. The doctor says we’re a six-for-six match and asks about scheduling the operation. When I say I’m still unsure, Brian gasps. The doctor agrees it’s a huge thing to do. Next morning Brian calls and suggests I think it over at his villa in St. Tropez.
I tell him that’s very kind, but we don’t have the money for the flights.
“We?” asks Brian.
“Well, I can hardly go on holiday without Melissa.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “All expenses.”
But despite glorious few weeks frolicking around the pool with Melissa, I can’t relax. I try to picture Brian’s oh well expression before I was sentenced to six months for the car misunderstanding, or his no surprises there smirk the last time I went into rehab, but neither makes me feel as uncaring about Brian dying as I would hope. And when he flies out for a few days, when I see how skeletal he looks, like some movie zombie taking a break from set, I know what I have to do.
“This would even be a blessing for you,” says Brian, huddled under the sun umbrella, a blanket around his shoulders despite the tropical heat. “I mean, you’ve had no luck stopping with the drugs yourself. So perhaps this is just what you need?”
Unbelievable.
I get up, go through to the kitchen, and mix a large Bloody Mary. When I get back, Brian nervously eyes my drink.
“I thought you had something to tell me,” he says.
“I did. Cheers!”
Mum calls the day before Brian goes into hospital to start dialysis. Between desperate moans, she says, "Would you give your kidney if it was for me?"
"Definitely," I reply. It seems the easiest thing to say.
"So why not for your brother?"
"They'll find a donor and then he won't feel beholden to me. You know how much Brian hates being beholden to people."
"Please," she says. "I don't want to lose both sons."
I relate this to Melissa.
"Motherfucker's brainwashed the bitch," she says.
Despite Melissa’s support, I can’t sleep. I keep picturing Brian at the villa, his grey face and jutting bones. Would he give his kidney to me? Probably. If only so he could remind me of the sacrifice at every opportunity. For days I go over the arguments, but always end at the same point – in their own way my family have stuck by me, and despite how annoying Brian is, it’s time to return the favour.
Brian has checked into a classy private hospital in Hammersmith. When I enter his room, he drags himself upright. He looks worse than me after a week-long binge.
"Well?" he groans, somewhat expectantly. "What have you decided?"
I smile. “What kind of brother do you think I am?”
Brian closes his eyes and grins. He presses a button on the side of the bed and summons a doctor through a little speaker.
And that’s it.
Just that.
I can’t believe it.
“So,” I say, “what is the going rate for a kidney?”
Brian laughs. “Good one,” he says.
I tell him I’m not joking.
Brian gives me a disbelieving shake of the head, as if, after all these years, he still can’t believe he’s related to such a cunt.
But the fact is, he never even said thank you.
