by S.L. Jordan

It takes some people a lifetime to discover their purpose. I can’t tell you how old I was when I found out my purpose. I know it was early. I was born with a distinct purpose.

Here I was, fourteen years later and we were on the eve of that destiny being fulfilled. Across the room he was curled into a tight ball, I could barely make out his small frame, underneath the thick layers of blankets. My parents carefully splayed out around him. Dad was  knocked out in the hospital recliner stretched out between us. While mom had pulled the roll-a-way as close to his bed as possible, flanked his side. Unconsciously her hand desperately gripped his as she teetered on the cusp of sleep. The soft glow of the hospital lights creating a halo encircling them. As always, I was off to the side fluttering around the edges of their family. The little big sister.

The rise and fall of his chest was in sync with the beat from the heart monitor. As brash as it sounded in the silence, it was a comforting tone. Some nights, it was the only thing that could lull me to sleep, the one sound we all found comfort in. 

I was born to be a savior. A savior baby, if we were being specific. My older brother has a rare genetic disease, Fanconi Anemia, and I’m his scientific miracle. Two actually. First, I am an exact genetic match for Jamil. Second, I somehow dodged the genetic curse passed down from my parents. My birth was a literal shot in the dark. The doctors warned my parents they might have two children with FA on their hands, but with limited options they did not prepare them to sit back and watch their only child die. The one they actually planned for. 

That’s where I came in, robust and with a set of pipes,  prayer answered. They used a surrogate the second time around. For the last 14 years, I had been stuck, prodded and poked more times than I could count. Fatigue, being one of the major symptoms of FA, kept Jamil restrained to his bed. On his good days, we could use his wheelchair and have some type of normal life. I was the girl in a bubble, restricted in my activities, where I could go, everything. God forbid I caught a common cold somewhere. I was quarantined for weeks if I even sneezed too much. They said it was for my safety, but I knew better, it was for this. This exact procedure. 

Just as my nerves settled, I heard a soft clanking. “Jamilah” floated softly between the beds and into my ears. Our eyes met across the room. Mom shifted, and we froze. Once she settled back to sleep, he struggled to arrange the various tubes running into his arm to sign, “R U ready?” he asked.

I taught myself ASL when I was six. Jamil spent some much time in the hospital with tubes down his throat that I wanted a way to  talk with him, and not just at him. My parents only learned the basics, so it afforded us privacy. It was our thing, one of the few things that made us feel like siblings. 

“Ready to be a savior? St. Jamilah at your service.” I signed jokingly.

“No, to be free …”

His response took me by surprise and caused me to stutter, my hands froze mid sentence. Leave it to Jamil to cut through the fog and get straight to it. “Hey, I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Why waste it with small talk” was his motto.  Honestly, I was afraid. Terrified it would work and terrified it wouldn’t. As a family, we were so set in our roles. My helicopter parents. Jamil as the dependent, and me – the mortal deity. Could we change? Would my mother’s smile ever reach her eyes? Could dad quit his second job? Would the late night whispers stop floating through the vents?

We spent the rest of the night fingers dancing through the air, making plans for after. The closer we got to dawn I could see the droop in his fingers. I feigned sleep so he could rest.  

I continued to sit there watching the hands of time tick by, I can’t help but wonder what “after” would look like. Were our plans just dreams deferred? Will the transplant take? When the saving was over, then what? Will my life be my own? The soft swoosh of the door opening was the sound of our new life calling.

Author’s Note: This is the first draft of a story I submitted to Spider Road Press in 2019.