Part 4: Grief Needed Someone to Blame
Two days later, Violet came to the house.
I found her standing in Cecelia’s nursery, folding a pink blanket that had already been folded perfectly.
“Violet?”
She didn’t turn around.
“Did they take everything?”
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
“From Mark,” she added.
I swallowed.
“They’ll only recover what can actually be donated.”
She held the blanket more tightly.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No.”
“You seem okay.”
“What exactly am I supposed to look like?”
She turned toward me.
“His heart. His skin. His eyes. Pieces of my son are going to strangers.”
“They don’t transplant whole eyes.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Corneal tissue can sometimes be donated.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“Does using a medical term make it less horrible?”
“No.”
Her face crumpled.
“How am I supposed to live knowing pieces of my child are somewhere with people I’ll never meet?”
“Because Mark chose it.”
“You agreed.”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me.”
I could feel my own anger rising.
“Honoring what he wanted doesn’t mean losing him hurt less.”
Violet looked down at my belly.
Then she said the thing that would stay with me for weeks.
“You still get part of him.”
My hand immediately moved over Cecelia.
“Don’t.”
Her eyes lifted.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t bring my daughter into this.”
She left without another word.
I told myself she was grieving.
I told myself to be patient.
At Mark’s memorial, patience became harder.
One of his uncles hugged me near the flowers.
“Mark was helping people right until the end.”
His aunt nodded.
“You must be proud of him.”
“Proud?”
Violet’s voice cut through the room.
I turned.
“Violet.”
“She doesn’t get to be proud of this.”
The nearby conversations stopped.
Violet looked directly at me.
“My son could barely walk across a room in those last weeks. And now everyone expects me to believe he calmly made all these decisions?”
“He did make them.”
“You agreed to it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I carried out my husband’s final wish.”
Her eyes filled.
“At least you’re finally being honest.”
My pulse pounded.
I could have defended myself.
I could have told everyone exactly what Mark had said on the porch.
I could have described the conversations, the paperwork, his insistence.
Instead, I said, “We’re not doing this here.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Because this day is supposed to be about Mark.”
I walked away.
I thought refusing to fight was an act of kindness.
By the end of the evening, I realized my silence had created room for suspicion.
Mark’s aunt approached me near the door.
“Sally, can I ask you something?”
I already knew I wouldn’t like the question.
“What?”
“Was Mark taking medication near the end that might have affected his judgment?”
I stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Violet just wondered whether maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“He knew exactly what he wanted.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“Yes, you are.”
She lowered her eyes.
“You’re asking whether I pushed my dying husband into a decision he didn’t understand.”
She said nothing.
That night, I went into Cecelia’s nursery.
I opened my laptop.
And for the first time, I inserted the flash drive.
