What's Your Magic Number?

Mandy opened the freezer and took out a box of toaster waffles. There was only one left. She shoved it, still frozen, into her coat pocket. As she closed the freezer door, she caught a glimpse of the only three photographs she had of her parents: one on her third birthday with her mother, one with her dad when she lost her first tooth, and one with her siblings and her dad fishing. She always wondered who had taken that photo.

She grabbed the huge stack of papers off the kitchen table and crammed them into her messenger bag. Accepting a job as a marking assistant at Wesleyan had seemed like a good idea. She needed money. But with finals in two weeks, term papers of her own due, and six shifts a week waitressing at Dave’s 24-Hour Diner, marking stacks of English Lit 101 papers was robbing her of precious sleep. Refined sugar and caffeine had become her fuel of choice. She needed to get through the next two weeks. But first, she needed to get through today.

The upholstery on the seats of the 6:30 crosstown bus smelled like a dishcloth left in a heap on the counter. She opted to stand. Standing might help her shake the last of the sleep from her brain.

When she was young, Mandy had been an early riser. She would watch as her two older siblings scrambled out the door in much the same way she did this morning. Her sister, Melissa, eight years her senior, was nineteen when their dad died and could have moved out, letting Aunt Linda take in her younger siblings. But she hadn’t. Instead, Melissa became their legal guardian and worked two jobs to pay the bills. Mark made himself scarce most of the time, while Mandy, at eleven years old, took on the household duties: laundry, cooking, and cleaning.

These days, she rarely heard from her siblings. Melissa lived two hours away in Albany with children of her own, and Mark worked on an oil rig off the coast of Texas.

Munching on her now-soggy, lint-covered, cold waffle, Mandy ran through her schedule for the day: breakfast shift at Dave’s, turn in marked essays to Prof. Coolen, afternoon classes, dinner shift at Dave’s, then home to finish her Postcolonial Literature final paper. No spare minutes. Not one.

Heaving open the cold glass door of the diner, she saw some of the morning regulars—Aunt Linda being one of them.

Linda was her mom Lucy’s twin sister. An eccentric seamstress and a spinster with no kids.

Linda sat in Mandy’s section, wearing a nubby gray cardigan, gazing out the window, muttering to herself. Her frizzy, dull brown hair was mostly shoved up into a bun, some of it caught in the arm of her wire-framed glasses with hazy, smudged lenses.

Mandy sighed, tied her apron, and turned the corners of her mouth into the shape of a smile.

“Good morning, Aunt Linda. The regular this morning?”

“Yes. Coffee first. I’m waiting for someone,” Linda grumbled, not looking up at Mandy.

Mandy started a fresh pot of coffee. While she waited for the percolator to spit out the last drops, she closed her eyes, wishing she were still in bed.

As many twins are, Linda and Lucy had been inseparable—until Lucy married. Linda hadn’t liked Steve; she was jealous that he “took her sister away.” Nineteen years ago, when Lucy disappeared, Linda was convinced that her sister was dead and that Steve was responsible.

When Steve died in a car accident, rumors spread that Linda had something to do with it. The police found no evidence of foul play in either case. But the rumors caused people to keep their distance from Linda. She didn’t have any friends and usually dined alone.

Mandy wondered what it would have been like to grow up with parents. She shuddered and pushed those thoughts aside. She was grateful for her independence, her too-busy day, and for Melissa, who had saved her from growing up with crazy Aunt Linda as a parental figure.

She grabbed an empty cup and the full pot of coffee and turned to make her way to Linda’s table.

The door of the diner opened, and for a moment, Mandy thought she had fallen asleep at the coffee maker and was dreaming. Aunt Linda strode through the door wearing cherry-red acrylic-framed glasses and sporting a tweed coat with heels. Her brown, highlighted hair was flat-ironed and shiny.

Mandy froze as she watched the woman walk along the booths to where Linda was sitting. Now she was sure she was dreaming. There were two Lindas—the usual one and a posh one.

Linda ambled out of the booth and stood, slouching, before—herself. It was like one of those makeover shows, before and after.

Mandy slowly walked toward the table. She didn’t seem to be dreaming.

The women turned toward her as she approached.

“That’s her,” said Linda gruffly, tilting her head toward Mandy. “The youngest.”

“Mandy!” the other Linda smiled and clutched her leather-gloved hands to her chest.

Mandy looked from one woman to the other, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Aren’t you going to say hello to your mother?” Linda, the real one, asked.

After she got a mop and bucket and cleaned up the spilled coffee and broken glass, Dave told her to take the rest of her shift off.

Mandy really wished she’d had a full night’s sleep. Her brain felt like mush, and she was only catching some of the words her mother was saying. It was like when someone goes to the doctor and, after hearing the word "cancer," can’t register anything else. Except the word wasn’t "cancer"—it was "mother."

Mandy sat in the booth across from the other women in silence. Lucy’s words faded in and out in a haze as Mandy tried to make sense of what was happening and whether it was real.

“Sorry… Palm Springs… Daniel… half-sister… Madeline… sick.”

Mandy’s heart pounded loudly in her ears, her emotions running on speed cycle. Shock. Confusion. Trepidation. Shock. Fear. Shock. It was all too much. She felt her whole body flush and stood up to leave.

“Wait! Please sit down.” Lucy reached out, smiling. Mandy thought her smile looked—desperate. She sat back down.

“Madeline’s condition is getting worse, and she needs a liver transplant. Her time is running out. Her dad and I are not good candidates, and her best chance for survival is a transplant from a blood relative.” The corners of her mouth quivered while the rest of her face was frozen in a predatory smile. “I know I haven’t been involved in your life, but your Aunt Linda has told me that you’re such a kind and generous person. So, I thought maybe you would consider being your sister’s liver donor. We’d be willing to pay you fifty thousand dollars for your trouble…” She trailed off, trying to read Mandy’s reaction.

“Are you out of your mind?” was the first thing out of Mandy’s mouth. “I haven’t seen you since I was three years old, and the only reason you came to see me was because you want to buy my liver?!”

“Not your whole liver, silly. Just part of it. It’s like hair—it’ll grow back,” her mother laughed awkwardly.

“You can’t be serious. I don’t even know you.” Mandy stood up from the table.

“Oh, darling, I’m your mother!”

“I don’t have a mother.” Mandy went behind the counter, grabbed her things, and left.

“Can you believe it?” Mandy asked her friend Hilary as the two girls walked to campus. “The nerve of her! She left us alone, fending for ourselves all these years. Dad died, and she never even bothered to call. And now—now!—she shows up and dumps this on me!”

“Right?! The nerve!”

“Like, who does she think she is? Strolling in to ask me to ‘save her daughter.’ I’m her daughter! She never gave a single thought to my well-being!”

Hilary passed Mandy a crumpled tissue so she could blow her nose. Mandy had been bouncing between yelling and crying, and Hilary was doing her best to make sense of it all.

“Oh! I’m so angry! I’ve never been this angry in my life. All this time, I thought my mother was dead. But no! She’s not dead at all! She’s been living her rich life with her rich husband and her new daughter. I don’t think she thought of me even once—not until now, when she needs something from me. How am I supposed to find time to have a major surgery and recover when I’ve got bills to pay—not to mention school?”

“Well, she did offer to pay you… Wait—are you actually thinking about donating your liver?” Hilary asked, confused.

“Not my whole liver,” Mandy exhaled, exasperated. “How can I not? Am I supposed to let the girl die? If I don’t do it, it’s like I’m a murderer! I’m just—so—angry about it!” She shook her fists above her head.

“Well… she sounds pretty desperate. And kinda rich. Do you think you could talk her into a hundred thousand? Maybe two?”

Mandy looked at Hilary and raised her eyebrows.

“Sounds like you’re in the driver’s seat. What’s your magic number?”