The Life We Almost Had

by Amelia Henley

  A monkey in a cage being scrutinized without knowing.

  What was I thinking, coming here?

  ‘Dr Chapman is waiting,’ Sofia said, turning back to the building, her high ponytail swinging.

  ‘The second you want to leave, we will.’ Nell held out her hand to me and I took it.

  Inside it was thankfully cool. Light and bright. Shiny green plants rested on polished floors. The air tanged with the scent of oranges. I had been expecting the smell of hospitals.

  ‘I’m pleased you came.’ Oliver ushered us through to his office where we sat.

  ‘Sorry we’re late. We had a rough night at the hospital and overslept this morning,’ I said. ‘Adam… Adam had…’ I wasn’t strong enough to say it.

  ‘Adam had a cardiac arrest,’ Nell explained.

  ‘I’m so sorry. How is he now?’

  ‘Stable but Dr Acevedo says… he says…’ Again, I looked to Nell.

  ‘Dr Acevedo has given Adam a 3 per cent chance of recovering. Aside from his head injury, the water that he ingested when he nearly drowned has put a huge strain on his heart and after his cardiac arrest…’

  There were three bottles of Evian on the table. I picked up one and took a sip.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have any hope,’ I said once I had composed myself.

  ‘Doctors go from their past experiences. They can be very black and white.’

  ‘Do you think…’ I left my question hanging.

  ‘I honestly don’t know. Statistically, it doesn’t look promising for Adam; I wish I could tell you otherwise, but—’

  ‘We’ve been watching YouTube. There are so many cases of patients waking up.’ I was seeking reassurance that it did happen. That it would happen for Adam.

  ‘And there are an awful lot who don’t. The last thing I want to do is give you false hope. I can’t wake Adam from his coma, but we’ve finished our testing as best we can without a candidate and Adam fits our criteria perfectly. I’d love to tell you I could cure Adam but there isn’t anything at the moment that can do that. What I’d like to do is to explore his consciousness and see if there’s anything there. It would be ground-breaking if there is and we could develop accessible equipment that would benefit so many patients and their families. Most doctors would tell you Adam’s mind must be empty of thought but—’

  ‘Brain science research is proving that doctors aren’t always right.’ Nell jumps in. ‘Can we see where you carry out your research?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Anna?’

  Stalling, I took another sip of water before I stood. My heart was pounding. I followed Oliver into the corridor, unsure what we would be faced with. Rows of cages and animals? Brains in jars?

  ‘I won’t bore you with the details today, but these are our labs.’ As we walked, Oliver gestured to glass-fronted rooms. I couldn’t help stopping and gazing inside. Everything looked so normal. A man perched on a stool at a bench tapping the keyboard on his laptop. There was an array of computer screens and it was nothing like I had imagined.

  Breathing felt a little easier.

  ‘How long have you been here?’ Nell was asking all the questions.

  ‘The Institute has been running for seven years, but we’ve only been in this building three.’

  As we walked, Oliver told us about recent breakthroughs his team had made. Before now I had only thought of Oliver in conjunction with what he could do for Adam, but listening I realized that the research they were doing here could change many lives.

  Change the world.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine the day progressive neurological diseases are eradicated.’ Nell was fully engaged. ‘Dementia and Parkinson’s seem so commonplace now. We’ve almost accepted them as a normal part of ageing.’

  ‘I’m confident we’ll see big changes.’ Oliver opened a door. ‘Perhaps not all in my lifetime but it’s revolutionary, the progress that’s being made. Not just by us but worldwide.’ He gestured. ‘This is where you and Adam would stay.’

  I stepped inside the room. It resembled a hotel. Oil paintings of beach scenes on duck-egg walls. A coffee table and two comfortable armchairs beside open sash windows. From here, we could see the sea. Smell it. Hear it. Feel the breeze. There were four doors leading off from this one. Beyond the first one was a huge bed. Machines I recognized from the hospital.

  ‘This is where Adam would sleep.’

  The next room was also a bedroom housing a double bed and a wardrobe. ‘This would be your room,’ Oliver told me. The other door led to a large bathroom with a freestanding shower and a bath. ‘It’s important that you’re comfortable, Anna. It’s a difficult time, the waiting.’

  ‘We read about Clem,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  ‘It’s partly why… The work I’ve done with consciousness is… it was inspired by my uncle who had Parkinson’s dementia but now… it’s even more important than I realized because of… because of…’

  He didn’t go on. ‘Your wife,’ I finished for him, understanding Oliver’s determination to see if something exists beyond the realms of what we already know.

  ‘Yes. Her passing has… Research had always been my passion but after she’d… gone I had so much time and enormous amounts of money if I’m honest. I wanted to set up my own institute. This is my… my pet project. It feels so personal. Until recently it felt so unachievable. But I’ve had a breakthrough.’

  ‘Tell us more about your study,’ I interrupted. I could tell Oliver was one for convoluted replies.

  ‘Of course.’ He led us through the final door. This room was colder, more clinical. I shuddered as I stared at the machine in the centre of it. I knew it was some sort of scanner, I’d seen them on Casualty, but never one this big. There was a flat surface for someone to lie on, which would then disappear into a large circular tube.

  ‘That looks like a Polo mint,’ Nell said.

  She had a point – if a Polo mint was hundreds of times larger than usual and stood vertically.

  ‘It’s a cutting-edge fMRI – a Functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging scanner that measures the blood flow to the brain as a proxy for neural activity. It’s larger and far more powerful than the standard machine. It has stronger magnets, which means a better resolution and a faster readout. The visual cortical activity it measures will be decoded to provide a layered image that will reproduce a reconstruction of …’

  ‘Whoosh.’

  Oliver trailed off as Nell ran the flat of her hand over her head in a ‘you’ve lost me’ motion.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Basically, scientists have created a way to extract information from different levels of the brain’s visual system and algorithms to interpret and reproduce any imagined images. With clinical trials so far – the work of Yukiyasu Kamitani, for example – the images are fed back via a computer and can then be viewed via the console room over there.’ He pointed to a small window, another room beyond it. ‘With the new tech in the fMRI scanner I mentioned before, I believe we will be able to see not just still images, but… I suppose the easiest way to describe it would be like watching a movie.’

  ‘So I can see on a screen what Adam is thinking?’ I was incredulous.

  ‘Potentially, yes.’

  ‘You keep saying potentially or in theory or possibly.’

  Oliver pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I wondered why, with all of his money, he didn’t buy a pair that fit. ‘I don’t want to promise you something that I can’t deliver. What I can tell you is that early indications are really positive but we’ve been lacking a test subject…’ He noticed the way I clamped my lips together to prevent myself furiously telling him Adam was not a test subject. Oliver had been so open about his lack of social graces and I knew he didn’t mean any harm.

  ‘I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Sorry. I don’t usually work with people.’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Nell said. ‘The concept that we can see on a screen—’

  �
��There’s more,’ Oliver cut in. ‘It should also be possible for someone – me in this case – to wear fMRI compatible VR goggles which, in theory, could incorporate any senses Adam might be experiencing. I don’t want to be viewing the results solely through a computer.’

  ‘Our friend, Josh, has one of those Occulus Quest VR gaming headsets,’ Nell said. ‘I had a go. It was so immersive. So real. As though you’re somewhere else. Is this similar?’

  ‘It’s so much more than that with the addition of sense recognition. Machines are artificially intelligent; they can’t pick up on the nuances, what a person is feeling. By connecting to Adam’s consciousness with the addition of these goggles, I can really absorb myself in Adam’s mind – if there’s anything going on, of course. I’ll be able to experience—’

  Taste, touch, feel.

  Know.

  It was all too much.

  I sank heavily onto the armchair, trying to imagine Adam here. My things in the next room.

  ‘Do you have to be in the scanner too?’ I asked. ‘Could Adam merge with—’

  ‘God no. It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘I’ve seen The Fly and—’

  ‘There’s absolutely no danger of anyone’s teeth falling out or them growing wings.’

  ‘But… will Adam…’ My questions clogged my throat. There were so many things I wanted to ask, but I was almost afraid of the answers. ‘Is… is it dangerous?’

  Oliver fell silent.

  ‘Is it?’ I probed.

  ‘It shouldn’t be. I’m almost certain.’

  ‘Almost?’ Almost wasn’t good enough.

  ‘An fMRI is safe for the majority of people – there isn’t any radiation. The magnets can affect certain medical conditions but nothing applicable to Adam. I’ve a contact at the hospital and I’d already checked Adam’s suitability before I approached you. However, as yet it’s untested. Our fMRI uses much stronger magnets than a usual machine and it may carry a small risk.’

  ‘How small?’

  A 3 per cent chance of survival.

  ‘Negligible. We’ll be monitoring Adam’s heart rate throughout for signs of distress. The person who takes part would be taking a risk, albeit tiny. It’s unprecedented. We’re taking an unknown leap into someone’s – Adam’s – mind without knowing how sharp his memories, his feelings might be. I can imagine it will be draining but I’m hoping tiredness is the only side-effect.’

  I dropped my head into my hands. It was all so overwhelming.

  ‘Anna, I don’t want to rush you and I’m not putting any pressure on you, but Adam’s prognosis… it isn’t great, and given his cardiac arrest last night, well… If you want to do this, we might not have much time,’ Oliver said.

  If there was anything on Adam’s mind now, did I really want to know what it was? Mentally I drew up a list of pros and cons. He could be thinking of me, of our unborn child he did not yet know had gone. If the worst did happen, I could be secure in the knowledge that he loved me until the very end. But he could be angry with me. If I had taken the swimming lessons he always urged me to take, he might not be in this situation right now. He might blame me and the pain of that would be unbearable. But then, he might need something and I could make it easier for him. But what if he was in so much pain he wanted to die? How would I cope with that?

  My mind went back and forth; the trial is a good thing. A bad thing. Not being able to decide either way.

  The third thing to consider, of course, was that there might be nothing inside Adam’s head. A blank canvas. That the space Adam’s hopes and dreams once occupied was now empty.

  At least I would know for sure.

  The minutes ticked by.

  A 3 per cent chance of recovery, Dr Acevedo had said.

  If I didn’t agree to the trial, would I regret it? If Adam… I could hardly bear to think it, but if he didn’t survive, would I always be wondering? Hating myself for missing my one chance to know?

  A 3 per cent chance of recovery.

  I was running out of time.

  Yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or no.

  Part Four

  ‘I am a scientist, but I still believe in miracles.’

  OLIVER CHAPMAN

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Anna

  It is late. Nell has gone back to the apartment to sleep. Oliver has given me overnight to think things through and I sit here now, back at the hospital, back by Adam’s side. Remembering.

  ‘Seven years. It’s been seven years since that night on the beach,’ I whisper.

  I had laid on the damp sand with Adam, his thumb stroking mine. Dawn smudged the sky with its pink fingers while the rising sun flung glitter across the sea. We’d faced each other curled onto our sides, our bodies speech marks, unspoken words passing hesitantly between us; an illusory dream. Don’t ever leave me, I had silently asked him. I won’t, his eyes had silently replied.

  But he did.

  He has.

  Will he ever wake up?

  I stroke his cheek. His skin is dry.

  My mind drifts over my memories, which are both painful and pleasurable to recall. We were blissfully happy until gradually we weren’t. Every cross word, every hard stare, each time we turned our backs on each other in bed, gathered like storm clouds hanging over us, ready to burst, drenching us with doubt and uncertainty until we questioned what we once thought was unquestionable.

  Can love really be eternal?

  I can answer that now because the inequitable truth is that I am hopelessly, irrevocably, lost without him.

  ‘Please wake up.’ My mouth brushes against his ear. ‘I want you. I need you.’

  But does he feel the same? Oliver could hold the answer to that question if I am brave enough find out. What if Adam doesn’t make it and I am left forever wondering?

  I turn over the possibility of life without him but each time I think of me without him, no longer an us, my heart breaks all over again.

  If only we hadn’t come here. Stepped on board the yacht.

  My chest tightens.

  I am back in the water. Current dragging me down. Waves crashing over my head.

  Breathe.

  I am kneeling on the hot sand beside an unresponsive Adam, begging strangers to save my husband’s life.

  Breathe, Anna.

  You’re okay.

  It’s a lie I tell myself, but gradually the horror of that day begins to dissipate with every slow inhale, with every measured exhale. It takes several minutes to calm myself. My fingers furling and unfurling, my nails biting into the tender skin of my palms until my burning sorrow subsides.

  Focus.

  I am running out of time.

  A 3 per cent chance of survival.

  Gently I kiss Adam’s forehead before picking up my pen and pad from his bedside table. I’ve been trying to write a letter to my mum but the words won’t come. If the trial goes ahead, I shall insist on being the one taking part. Oliver has no right to Adam’s thoughts. His emotions. He has no right to any of it.

  ‘The person who takes part would be taking a risk, albeit small,’ Oliver had said. ‘It’s unprecedented. We’re taking an unknown leap into someone’s – Adam’s – mind without knowing how sharp his memories, his feelings might be. I can imagine it will be draining but I’m hoping tiredness is the only side-effect.’

  It’s not only connecting to Adam’s consciousness that carries a risk; there are the stronger magnets in the fMRI machine, the ultra-fast processor, the software, none of which I fully understand. What I do know is that I am putting myself in danger and I need my mum to know why in case something so awful happens I never get to see her again, but my notepaper is still stark white. My pen once again poised, ink waiting to stain the blank page with my tenuous excuses.

  My secrets.

  But not my lies. There have been enough of those. Too many.

  I want her to know everything. How I thought I didn’t love Adam anymore. How I kissed another man.
The baby we have lost.

  Why I am so desperate to see him once more and make it right.

  All of it.

  I’m almost certain now I should do the trial, but I wish I knew what Adam wanted; a glance towards his impassive face gives me no clues. My eyes flutter closed. I try to conjure his voice. Imagining he might tell me what to do. Past conversations echo in my mind as I search for a clue.

  If you love someone, set them free, he had once told me but I brush the thought of this away. I don’t think it can apply to this awful situation we have found ourselves in. Instead I recall the feel of his body spooned around mine, warm breath on the back of my neck, promises drifting into my ear.

  Forever.

  I cling on to that one word as tightly as I’d clung on to his hand.

  I loved him completely. I still do. Whatever happens now, and after, my heart will still belong to him.

  Will always belong to him.

  I must hurry if I’m going to reach him before it’s too late.

  A 3 per cent chance of survival.

  There’s a tremble in my fingers. I begin the letter, which will be both an apology to Mum for the risk I am taking, and an explanation, but it seems impossible to put it all into words – the story of Adam and me.

  Us.

  I really don’t have time to think of the life we had – the life we almost had – but I allow myself the indulgence. Memories gather: we’re on the beach watching the sunrise; I’m introducing him to my mum – his voice unsteady with nerves as he says hello; we’re meeting for the first time in that shabby bar. Out of order and back to front and more than anything I wish I could live it all again. Except that day on the yacht. Never that day.

  Again the vice around my lungs tightens. In my mind I see it all unfold and I feel it. I feel it all: fear, panic, hopelessness.

  Breathe, Anna.

  In and out. In and out. Until I am here again, pen gripped too tightly in my hand.

  Focus.

  I made a mistake.

  I stare at the words I have written so intently they jump around on the page. It’s the harsh truth. I had thought that I wanted to live without him.