My Husband Forced Me to Donate a Kidney to His Mistress

The arsenic bottle was small, amber glass with a faded label. I found it wedged behind my pillow when I returned from giving Kaysen his afternoon bottle.

I stared at it, my pulse a dull thud in my ears. I had never seen it before. I didn't touch it.

I should have run.

Edith collapsed during dinner. One moment she was lifting her wine glass, the next she was convulsing on the Persian rug, foam flecking her lips. Zain dropped to his knees beside her, his face drained of color. Mrs. Brennan called 911.

I stood frozen in the doorway, still holding the water pitcher I'd been asked to refill.

The paramedics stabilized her. Zain rode with her in the ambulance. I was left standing in the foyer, watching the red lights disappear down the drive.

He returned three hours later. I heard his car on the gravel, the slam of the door. I was in my room, sitting on the edge of the bed, still trying to understand what had happened.

He didn't knock. The door crashed open, rebounding off the wall.

"Where is it?" His voice was raw.

"Where is what?"

"The poison." He crossed the room in two strides, yanking open the single drawer of my nightstand. He found the bottle immediately. Of course he did. It had been placed there to be found.

He held it up, his hand shaking. "Arsenic. They found it in her blood."

"I didn't—" I stood, backing toward the wall. "Zain, I've never seen that before tonight. Someone put it there."

"You tried to kill her." His eyes were black, empty of anything I recognized. "Because of your delusion about Kaysen. Because you can't accept that you're nothing."

"She's setting me up," I said, hating the pleading edge in my voice. "Just like she did with my father. Zain, please—"

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into the bone. "We're not calling the police. I won't have this family dragged through another scandal because of you."

He pulled me out of the room, down the hallway. I tried to wrench free, but his grip was iron. He dragged me through the kitchen, past a wide-eyed Mrs. Brennan, and down a narrow staircase I'd never noticed before.

The wine cellar was cold, the air thick with the smell of oak and fermentation. Bottles lined the walls in neat rows, labels facing out like soldiers. Zain shoved me against the tasting table in the center of the room. I caught myself on the edge, splinters biting into my palms.

He selected a bottle from the rack. Not wine. Whiskey. The label read 120 proof.

"You don't drink," he said, twisting the cap off. "Edith told me. Some moral high ground you cling to."

"Zain, don't—"

He grabbed the back of my neck, forcing my head back. I clamped my mouth shut, turning my face away. His other hand found my jaw, prying it open with brutal efficiency. The bottle touched my lips.

The whiskey was fire. It poured into my mouth faster than I could swallow, burning my throat, flooding my sinuses. I choked, tried to spit it out. He held my jaw shut, tilting my head back further.

"Swallow."

I couldn't breathe. The liquid went down wrong, searing my windpipe. I gagged, my body convulsing. He let go. I collapsed forward, vomiting whiskey and bile onto the stone floor.

He waited until I stopped heaving, then grabbed my hair and forced the bottle to my lips again.

This time I fought. I clawed at his wrist, kicked at his shins. It didn't matter. He was stronger, and he was methodical. He poured until the bottle was half empty, until my vision doubled and the room tilted sideways.

I don't remember him leaving. I remember the cold of the floor against my cheek. The taste of copper and alcohol. The way the darkness at the edges of my vision finally swallowed everything whole.

***

I woke to fluorescent lights and the steady beep of a heart monitor. My throat was raw, my stomach a knot of agony. A tube snaked out of my nose.

A nurse noticed I was awake. She didn't smile. "You're at Mercy General. Charity ward. Someone dumped you at the ER entrance around 3 AM. Your BAC was .41. You're lucky to be alive."

Lucky.

I closed my eyes.

Two days later, the lawyers came. Three men in suits that cost more than I'd earned in a year. They stood at the foot of my bed like a tribunal.

"Miss Foster," the lead attorney said, opening a briefcase. "Mrs. Matthews is in renal failure. The arsenic poisoning caused irreversible kidney damage."

I said nothing.

"You are, remarkably, a tissue match. Mrs. Matthews is willing to forgo pressing attempted murder charges if you agree to donate a kidney voluntarily."

The word 'voluntarily' hung in the air like a noose.

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we proceed with criminal charges. Given your prior incarceration and the evidence—the bottle found in your possession—you'll be convicted. Twenty years minimum."

Twenty years. Kaysen would be a man. I would be nothing.

The lawyer placed a pen on the blanket beside my hand. "The surgery is scheduled for Friday. Sign here."

I picked up the pen. My hand didn't shake. There was nothing left inside me to shake with.

I signed my name on the line, selling pieces of myself to the woman who had already taken everything.