“I do,” Maggie says. “About your health records.”
She nods, her wide eyes scanning the room. “Can I ask a question first?”
“Of course.”
“How long do I need to fast before the surgery tomorrow?”
“Twelve hours would be optimal.”
A hint of a smile crosses Nadia’s face. “So that gives us time to eat a little, no?”
“It does.”
“Let’s start with the caviar. But also? Gesture a lot. Like we don’t speak the same language.”
“Got it.”
“And pretend you’re speaking to other people when you can. Like don’t always look directly at me.”
Maggie agrees. For the next half hour, she and Nadia peruse the various tasting stations. The Tajimi-ushi-variety Kobe beef topped with Alba white truffles — the bite-size portion probably cost more than Maggie’s car — melts in the mouth, forcing both closed eyes and some kind of involuntary vocal reaction. Maggie bides her time. She doesn’t immediately ask about the kidney donation. There are two reasons for that, though they are somewhat closely related. One reason, the most obvious, is that she and Nadia are bonding in perhaps the oldest way known to mankind — breaking bread together. They enjoy the rare delicacies, relish them, close their eyes and savor every bite. Nadia’s joy in the experimental tasting is childlike and endearing. Maggie can feel Nadia’s trust grow with each bite. Maggie lets herself get immersed in this experience as well — Reason Two — channeling her father, who expressed his appreciation for modern life with gusto and enthusiasm.
“We live in the greatest era in human history,” her father would tell his daughters. He would then explain that there was less war, pestilence, disease, crime, starvation than any time ever. Then he would move on to food. “The vast majority of humans have known very little variety in taste. Empires rose and fell, people were conquered and slaughtered, merely to add spice and flavoring to their palates. Think about it. A hundred, two hundred years ago, only the most elite of elite got to experience one or two other cultures’ food. Now all of us can walk through any city and within a mile you can eat Chinese, Indian, Thai, French, Italian. You can have lamb from New Zealand, pompano from Florida, barbecue from Texas. If you told even the richest king that would be possible, he would have never believed it. What we take for granted is nothing short of a miracle.”
So, keeping that in mind, Maggie and Nadia laugh. They share. They analyze the various delicacies. They stay with food, skipping the stations with “pharmaceuticals” and “gurus” to guide you through whatever psychoactive drug experience you might imagine. They also bypass the various alcohol tastings, though a few of the vodka ones tempt Maggie more than she wants to admit.
Finally, Nadia says, “Ask your questions.”
A waiter takes Maggie’s mother-of-pearl spoon. “Tell me about your kidney transplant.”
“Why?”
“Because it could be relevant to your medical clearance.”
“I was already cleared medically.”
“Then humor me.”
“It was for my brother,” Nadia says a little too quickly.
“How old is he?”
“Now? Thirty-one.”
“Is he your full sibling?”
“Yes.”
“What did he have?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Your brother needing a kidney transplant at age twenty-five is pretty rare,” Maggie says. “His illness is most likely something genetic.”
“So?”
“So there’s a decent chance that you, as his full sibling, especially one who was a genetic match for a transplant, might be susceptible to a similar illness.”
“I’ve been medically cleared,” Nadia says again. “The rest doesn’t matter.”
“I’m your physician. I need to know your complete medical history.”
“No, you don’t,” Nadia says, and there is a little bite in her tone. “You’re here to give me a boob job. I donated a kidney. That has nothing to do with this.”
“I’m not sure why you’re so defensive about this.”
“And I don’t know why you’re so nosy,” Nadia replies.
“This isn’t idle curiosity. If you donated a kidney to your brother, he was obviously very ill. Like I said before, since you are a genetic match—”
“Stop please.”
Nadia shuts her eyes and keeps them closed. One tear escapes and runs down her cheek. Maggie takes Nadia’s hand and leads her through the room. Men stare at them, openly looking them up and down, inspecting them, nodding their approval. Maggie doesn’t like it, but now is not the time to care or get caught up in the rich-man version of street catcalls. When they get out of the ballroom, Maggie turns left and leads Nadia to a quiet area down the hallway.
“Nadia?”
Her eyes are shut tight. “I’ve told no one.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s been six years.”
Nadia finally opens her eyes. They’re wet and red.
“It’s okay,” Maggie says again, putting a gentle hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m on your side. Always.”
“You’ll tell Oleg. Or Ivan.”
“Never. Do you hear me? Never. I won’t tell anyone. That’s a promise.”
Nadia releases a long deep breath. Maggie waits, gives her a little space.
“They gave me a totally new identity. Nadia isn’t my real name.”
“What is your name?” Maggie asks.
She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you. I might trust you, but that doesn’t mean my family has to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m Nadia Strauss now. That’s all that matters. Please. I want you to call me that.”
“Okay, sure, no problem.”
“And I do have a thirty-one-year-old brother. And a mother. I had three other siblings and a father, but they’re long dead. We were poor. Not poor like Americans. You Americans don’t really know poor. You have no idea what poor is. We wouldn’t eat for days, until it feels like your stomach is stuck to your spine. We literally had nothing but each other.”
“Where was this, Nadia?”
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes stare past Maggie. It’s a look Maggie sometimes saw in combat. The thousand-yard stare. Nadia’s voice is distant now, detached.
“I was sixteen years old. My mother loved me. No one forced me. You do what you do to survive. You in the West think you have problems. I see it on social media now. People seeking” — she spits out the next words with pure contempt — “self-help, whatever that means. Self-care. Searching for, ugh, fulfillment. Whining, complaining, not feeling satisfied with their perfect lives.” Nadia shakes her head in disgust. “How come starving people never need self-help or self-care? If you really want to cure your sleep anxiety over... over I don’t know what... try not eating for five days in a row. Try sleeping on a dirt floor in the winter with no heat. Then let’s see how much you worry about ‘fulfillment’ in your big house with two cars in the driveway.”
Nadia turns her gaze back toward Maggie. Maggie stays still.
“You can figure out the rest, can’t you, Doctor McCabe?”
Maggie probably can. “Tell me anyway.”
“My mother woke me up one morning. She took me into the concrete building. No warning. No time to think or prepare myself. Probably for the best. They’d already run blood tests on everyone in my village. I was a match. They flew us out. They laid me down on a table. My mother took my hand. I had two kidneys when they put me to sleep. When I woke up, I only had one. Don’t look at me like that.”
Maggie tries to keep the horror off her face, but she doubts she’s successful.
“You think my mother forced me.”
“I didn’t say—”
“She didn’t. I understood. Even if they’d given me a choice, I would have done it.”