The Legacy of Lucy Harte

by Emma Heatherington

  Andrea shouts to him.

  ‘Don’t you doubt it for a second, Simon!’ she says in her Spanish accent. ‘I hope there are plenty of lust-filled European romances to tell me about too! I need some romance to keep me going at this stage before I die of boredom with being fat and pregnant!’

  I can imagine her, totally drop-dead gorgeous with her neat bump and not one bit boring or fat at all.

  ‘Is she keeping well? Not long to go now,’ I say to Simon.

  ‘She is doing my head in, isn’t that right, darling wife? Ow!’

  I hear her hit him playfully and I take it as my cue to wrap up.

  ‘Simon, I am looking after Lucy’s little memory box carefully but I’d like to return it to you sometime soon,’ I tell him. ‘It’s all intact, all as it was, but it’s me that has changed for the better.’

  ‘No, no it’s yours now, Maggie,’ he tells me. ‘Look, just let it be a reminder of how far you have come. Put it away but take it out when you need some courage or strength along the way. You’re a strong, special lady, Maggie O’Hara, and I’m so glad I got to meet you.’

  ‘I’m a whole lot stronger now, thanks to you,’ I reply. ‘Your sister saved my life and then you came along and saved it all over again with her little list of things to do. I will be eternally grateful to you, Simon. I’ve always wanted to say thank you to your family, so I hope in a way this shows how much it means to me.’

  I can hear him choking up as we prepare to say goodbye.

  ‘You know, I was warned by so many people against meeting you,’ he confesses, and I hear the deep emotion in his voice as he speaks. ‘I was told by social services, by my father for years, by my aunt, even by Andrea at first, to just let it all go, that it would be too emotional to meet the person who lived after Lucy.’

  I nod my head, even though he can’t see me. I can only imagine how they would have felt if they had seen me walking, breathing, living through Lucy’s heart. Simon was the brave one and I’m glad he got some closure from it.

  ‘Losing her was unbearable,’ he continues. ‘I was supposed to forget that somewhere out there, another life was living because of Dad’s decision to donate Lucy’s young, perfect organs but I couldn’t forget it, not for a second, and when I heard her heart beat inside of you and saw your pain but your hidden lust for life, I knew he had made the right decision.’

  I gulp and close my eyes, trying somehow to imagine his pain.

  ‘Look after Andrea and let me know when baby Harte comes along,’ I say to him. ‘Look at this as your new beginning. He or she will be a real superstar, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Thank you, Maggie. I’ve exciting times ahead.’

  I am about to leave it at that, but there is one more thing I need to say to him.

  ‘Can I ask you one last favour, Simon, before I go?’

  We sound as if we are having the last conversation we will ever have and I know, of course, there will be many more, but I just need to clarify a few things as we close this chapter of Lucy’s precious young life.

  ‘Of course you can. You know you can ask me anything, Maggie.’

  I pause. I try to speak and then I pause again. I take a deep breath. I take another one. And another.

  ‘The next time you visit your dad’s grave,’ I say to him.… Oh God, I want to say this so badly but it’s killing me inside when I think of what that poor man went through all those years ago and the loneliness that followed. I shut my eyes tightly but the tears trickle through.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The next time you visit his grave,’ I whisper between sobs, ‘will you please tell him that I said thank you… please tell him thank you, from me, and that I think of him every single day now. Thank him for saying yes on the worst day of his life. Thank him from me for my life. He has taught me so much about human nature and I am so, so grateful.’

  ‘I will do that,’ replies Simon. ‘I will go do that right now. Are you okay, Maggie?’

  ‘I’m just really tired, Simon. Grateful, but tired.’

  My eyes are closing.

  ‘You go get some rest and we will talk again,’ he assures me. ‘We are forever connected and please don’t ever forget it. Goodbye, Maggie. Look after yourself, now, and good luck with your big run! I know you can do it! Do it just for you.’

  I put down the phone and I let the tears flow as I let Lucy and Simon go for now.

  It’s now time for me to get on with the rest of my life.

  Chapter 33

  ‘You look fresh,’ says Kevin on the morning of the mini marathon a few days later. ‘Feeling any better?’

  I have been complaining to everyone who will listen to me of sheer exhaustion since my return of a tiredness that I just can’t shake off no matter how much I rest up, but I’m not going to let that beat me, not today especially.

  ‘I’m good to go!’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been eating well, I’ve been resting and I’ve been exercising, so I’m as fit as I am going to be. The tiredness will have to just wait.’

  ‘Are you totally sure?’

  ‘Sure, I’m sure!’ I reply. ‘I was probably jet-lagged and tired out after all my travelling lately, not to mention the heavy emotional journey I’ve been on, but I’ve been really looking forward to this, big time.’

  A hot soak in the bath, some celebrity magazines and a few early nights, plus a surprise call from Gerard this morning to wish me well, has got me psyched and is helping me deal with this exhaustion. His exhibition opens in Toulouse in just a few nights and I am planning to turn up and surprise him. I have booked my flights and packed my bag and he has no idea.

  ‘Perhaps you will make it to see me soon?’ he said this morning in his glorious accent that still drives me wild.

  ‘Yes, for sure,’ I promised him. ‘I’m making plans to get back to you as soon as I can.’

  I can’t wait to see his face when I get there.

  We finish our registration with the other runners, pin our numbers to our chests and the crowds are gathering to cheer us all on, including my mum and dad and my brother and his wife, who have flown in to put the final touches to their wedding celebrations at Loch Tara.

  Vivienne has planned the most exquisitely tasteful party for our immediate family and a few old friends from down the years. There is a marquee in the garden, a barbecue ready to be fired up and a string quartet and jazz band all set for a lake-side gathering that I really can’t wait for. My parents are beside themselves with excitement and to see them happy is the most magical thing of all.

  They wave at me in the distance like two giddy school children and for just a second their faces blur as my head does a quick spin.

  Whoah. That was scary. But then they are back again. I stall. Phew. It’s okay.

  ‘Are sure you are feeling okay, Maggie?’ asks Kevin, adjusting his wrist bands and the sweat band on his head. ‘You look like you’re about to faint. You don’t have to do this, you know? If you’re not feeling great –’

  He points me to a chair at the side of the road, but I refuse.

  ‘I’m fine, Kevin. Stop fussing. My parents are watching.’

  I smile at them and wave. My mother is taking photographs. My mother never takes photographs.

  ‘Sip on some water,’ says Kevin, so I do that to please him. The cool water trickles down the back of my throat and brings me round slightly, but I can’t deny it. I feel like shit.

  ‘I’m so up for this run,’ I lie to him, but I’m feeling breathless and we haven’t even started.

  ‘You don’t look like it. You’re freakin’ me out.’

  ‘You’re freakin’ me out by fussing!’ I reply. ‘Look, I’m just tired, but I won’t let that stop me, not a chance. It’s my big start on the new me. I’ve done Lucy’s list and now this is one of the things I want to do for me.’

  He doesn’t believe me, but he knows not to push it.

  ‘Okay, then, let’s jog lightly to get the muscles warmed up,’ he says. ‘Did you
do your stretches this morning?’

  ‘Exactly as you said, Captain! I’m stretched and warmed up and ready to hit the road.’

  We start to jog on the spot and he looks so serious in his full running gear, with every gadget you can think of attached to him, that he makes me feel giddy.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ he asks me. ‘You won’t be laughing when you hit the last leg and you are so near yet so far and you’re begging for mercy.’

  He jumps onto the ground and does some weird type of yoga pose.

  ‘You just look so focused it is funny,’ I say again and now I am definitely pushing it. Kevin takes his fitness challenges very, very serious, it seems.

  ‘Never mind me and focus on your own preparation. Did you make a playlist, like I suggested?’ he asks me.

  ‘Of course I did.’

  Of course I didn’t.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ he says, launching into some light sit-ups. ‘I have mine all ready – I’ll start off slow with a bit of Fleetwood Mac, build up to some classic eighties rock to get the adrenaline going and then cruise to a selection of pumping dance tracks to get me across the finishing line.’

  ‘Bully for you,’ I say to him, ever so slightly jealous of his pinpoint preparation, but then again, he has done this a million times before so he knows every trick in the book.

  ‘Right! Let’s do this,’ he says, checking his phone and setting the time as the announcer asks for all runners to approach the starting line. ‘You are going to fly through this, Mags. I just know you will. Think of Lucy. Do it for Lucy, but most of all do it for you.’

  For a change, I am not thinking of Lucy. I am not thinking of Simon, nor am I thinking of me. I am thinking of Simon’s poor dad, who made such a huge decision on the day he lost half his family and who has let me get this far in life. I will do this for him. I will think of him every step of the way.

  But then, no, it’s back again. The wave of nausea… the scary blurred vision. I think I am going to be sick. The dizziness is back again too. I take a deep breath.

  ‘Maggie, are you okay?’ Kevin asks me. ‘You’re really, really pale, love. Look, just sit it out. You can do the next one. These races are two a penny and we can sign up for one in just a few weeks’ time.’

  ‘I’m okay!’

  ‘Don’t do it if you don’t feel well. You’re pushing yourself to do this, I can tell. Maggie, do you hear me?’

  I won’t let it beat me.

  ‘I’m just nervous,’ I tell him and I drink more water, then jog lightly again. ‘I’ll be okay once we get started. Let’s do this.’

  Kevin and I start off slowly to begin with for the first mile and then he ever so slightly picks up the pace, which I match accordingly, just like we had agreed in our training sessions.

  ‘You’re doing good, Maggie. No rush, no panic. Take it at your own pace. Am I going too fast?’

  I shake my head at him and smile. I am so not doing good. The dizziness keeps returning and I feel so sick. My heart is racing. It feels like it might jump out of my chest. I should really stop, but I don’t. I keep going….

  By the second mile, I am really getting worse but we had discussed this in training and apparently feeling nauseous is common and it’s mainly a mixture of adrenaline and anxiety when faced with such a challenge.

  I give Kevin two nods as we approach the third mile – which is an agreed signal to say that he can run ahead if he wants to. I don’t want to hold him back, as I know he wants to beat his own personal best.

  ‘Do you want me to stay with you? Are you definitely okay?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Maggie, is that yes or no? Shit. Maggie? You’re scaring me. Do you need to stop?’

  I start to slow down now and I can’t deny it any longer, I am finding this really tough. My feet trip along as I slow way, way down. I put my hands to my head and slow down further. I wonder what song Kevin is listening to. He is probably on his eighties selection at this stage and I wish I had been smart enough to make a play list. It may have distracted me from this sickness and the jabbing pains I am having in my chest. And this tiredness that just won’t go away… and the dizziness…

  I have to stop now. I… I really have to… stop.

  ‘Maggie, can you hear me? Maggie!’

  His voice sounds so distant. I can just about see his face. I try to focus, then I bend over and put my hands on my thighs, but my vision starts to blur and now I can’t see properly at all.

  My God, what is happening? I can’t see!

  ‘Kevin!’

  I reach out for him. I don’t know if any sound is coming from my voice, but I try again.

  I touch his arm.

  ‘Kevin!’

  I can’t hear anything and the world goes white. And then I fall down.

  I hear birdsong.

  I blink slowly, but the light is too strong so I close my eyes again and focus on the sweet, chirping sounds that fill my ears, drowning out the bleeping noise that has irritated me in the distance for what feels like days now.

  A woman’s muffled voice takes over and I recognise that also. She has been here before, lots of times. I like her voice. She says nice things to me even though I cannot see her.

  ‘It’s stuffy in here,’ she says. ‘Do you mind if I open a window?’

  I wish I could answer, but I can’t. I have no idea where I am or what I am doing here.

  ‘Open it, yes,’ says the whispered voice of a man, which sounds like home. ‘Open it and let her hear the birdsong. It might help. Do anything. Do anything which might bring her back to us.’

  My eyes flicker. The whiteness… then black… a ceiling light… a green hue…

  I remember the run and the people and the voices and the faces of all my family, but who is here with me? Am I alive? Where the hell am I?

  ‘Open your eyes, Maggie. Listen to your heart and open your eyes.’

  It is her. It is Lucy. I can hear her and see her somewhere in my hazy, dream-like state. I try to reply, but I cannot speak and she smiles at me as she floats away, further and further away from me, waving goodbye – waving and waving until she totally disappears.

  ‘Oh my God, she is opening her eyes. Nurse! Nurse, she is opening her eyes!’

  It’s the man’s voice. A voice I once loved when I was a child… the voice of home and warmth and familiarity from when I was just a little girl. I open my eyes and I see him cry and he is holding my hand up to his face.

  It is my brother.

  It is my big brother by my bedside and he looks like he has been here for a very long time.

  ‘You’re back, Maggie,’ he says, as tears drip from his cheeks onto my hands. ‘Oh thank God! Mum! Dad! She is okay! Maggie, you are going to be okay!’

  I look out onto the windowsill and the little bird flies away.

  I have been at enough hospital appointments to automatically sense if the news I am about to hear is good or bad.

  I can tell that by the mood in the air, by the hopeless dread, by the silences in between questions and answers.

  I can tell that this time it’s bad.

  Mr James, a new consultant with the reddest hair I have ever seen, is flicking through my notes, glancing up at me every so often and pausing a lot. He goes to speak, but doesn’t, then does again. That’s not a good sign.

  ‘You mentioned stress, Maggie,’ he says eventually. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how stressed would you say you have been in the run-up to this… to this incident?’

  I look at my mum, who, just as she did when I was a child, speaks for me.

  ‘Her husband left her and she had to move house, then she took time off work and travelled a while. She met with her heart donor’s family too. Ten out of ten for stress. Definitely ten.’

  ‘Mum!’

  Mr James puts his pen down.

  ‘You met your donor’s family?’ he says, taken aback. ‘That’s quite rare. Was this arrangement supervised or monitored by a third
party?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I tell him, finding my own voice at last. ‘Look, I have been through a lot, yes, but what we all really want to know now is what happens next? To cut to the chase, Mr James, how long do I have left?’

  The consultant takes off his glasses and takes a deep breath.

  Deep breaths – not good. Glasses on and off – not good.

  ‘You are in your eighteenth year since transplant,’ he reminds us. ‘Every single day from now on should be treated like a bonus, with absolutely no stress, whatsoever. I urge you to do the things that rest your heart, Maggie. Go to the place where you find yourself most at peace. Cut out any negativity, and for goodness sake, don’t attempt any more mini marathons. Not at this stage of your condition.’

  ‘Every single day is a bonus?’ I say to him.

  ‘So, what you are really saying is…?’ My father tries to get the man in front of us to tell us clearly, to just spit it out.

  I don’t have long left. My dad needs to hear it. He needs to hear the black and white of it all.

  ‘What I’m saying is that you should make every second count,’ says Mr James. ‘I’m sorry. That’s as much as I can tell you all. I wish I could be more specific, but I don’t have a crystal ball. Your heart is very, very weak and unless a new donor comes along in the meantime… what I’m saying is, it could be days, it could be weeks, it could even be a couple of months…’

  We wait for ‘it could be years’ to come next.

  It doesn’t.

  I cough, just to break the silence.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ I say to the consultant. Ironic, really. Time. It’s all we need in life, really, if we want to get stuff done. The clock ticks on the wall and I want to cover my ears. I don’t know how much time I have, do I? That’s scary. That’s really scary.

  I can hear both my parents sniffle as they gather their coats and I bite my lip and shake the consultant’s hand with a wry smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says to me.

  ‘Don’t be,’ I whisper, and I mean it.