Donor, the
“I’d known since the corner of Buchanan Street and Argyle Street but I didn’t want to let on. He was about ten metres behind me now. Every time I turned my head slightly to the left or right, he stopped and pretended to look in a shop window. Either he wasn’t very good at it or he didn’t care if I saw him.
The cold air pinched at my left cheek. I hadn’t looked, but I could feel the shape of my father’s hand imprinted there. Prick. I should have hit him back. Why didn’t I? Maybe because I’d never seen him so out of control. Oh, dull composed father of mine.
‘Georgie, your mother is never coming back,’ he’d said when I was three and again and again till I was ten. ‘She likes bad things. We should count our blessings,’ or some such shit.
‘Georgie, you’re sick, darling. You need dialysis.’ ‘I know the whole list thing is hard, but we need to be patient.’ For the first time ever, he completely lost it: yelling and screaming in the hospital, trying to hit that wretched feral stray who was my mother.
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