I blink back tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks.
‘I won’t let you go,’ a man’s voice whispers, but it isn’t Sam and there is no one else here.
From out of nowhere I have the sensation of being pushed. I’m falling. Panic grips me and I stagger to my feet. I’m stumbling, running, desperate to get away, and as an arm snakes around my waist, forcing me to stop, I spin around and lash out.
‘Jenna!’ Sam’s face swims into focus, and I cling onto the front of his raincoat, and he envelops me in his arms. I press my nose against his neck and breathe in his familiar spicy aftershave. He doesn’t let me go until I’ve stopped shaking.
‘What happened back there? You looked terrified?’ We’re sitting in Sam’s car and I’m huddled in his bottle green fleece.
‘I don’t know. I felt… strange. It’s happened before. Vanessa thinks my medication is too strong but Dr Kapur says he won’t reduce it again until after my six-month check-up. It’s nothing to worry about,’ I say with a confidence I don’t feel. I’m shaken to the core but I don’t know what else to tell Sam. How could I hear a voice? Feel hands pushing me? Be swamped with fear one minute and it’s gone the next? Sometimes it feels as though I am going mad.
‘It might be worth another chat with him. You look really pale, Jen. Do you want me to come to the hospital with you?’
‘No,’ I say, even though I do.
At first, after the transplant, I thought things would go back to normal. We nearly had enough saved for a deposit on a house. We’d have the three children we’d talked about. That was in the early days. The days I’d thought a new heart meant a new life, but the doctor shook his head and told me if I wanted to stay alive there’d be no future swelling of my belly. No kicking of miniature feet against my skin. No tiny person with Sam’s eyes and my hair wrapping their small fingers around mine as they guzzled milk. Sam said it didn’t matter, of course, but when he mentioned adoption I knew he still longed for a family
Statistically the survival and recovery rates for heart transplant patients are improving all the time, but even though I know them all off by heart I still Google them endlessly. Searching for a new miracle story. Someone who has defied the odds and is still alive after ten years, fifteen, twenty. The knowledge I might not be here in five years’ time is always at the back of my mind. I bury it under ‘aren’t I luckys,’ and ‘there are always exceptions,’ but five years seems impossibly short and yet sometimes longer than I dare hope for. How can I adopt a child knowing I might not be around to see them grow? Sam says we can still be a family of two but that would almost feel as though I’ve trapped him. He has the chance to meet someone new. Have children. And I want, more than anything else in the world, for him to be happy.
But today, it’s easy to wish things were different. Cold rain drips off my hair and trickles down my cheek and he leans forward and wipes it away with his thumb. My skin tingles. ‘I worry about you.’ His lips brush mine, warm and soft. His breath smells of mint and despite myself I entwine my fingers in his hair and kiss him back before I come to my senses and push him away.
‘Sam…’
‘I know.’ He leans back in his seat. ‘Friends.’ He twists the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life, and in his eyes, I watch his hopes die.
14
My stomach is full of the sandwiches you’d made for our romantic picnic. I have the best boyfriend ever. Overeating has made me drowsy. I can hear your soft snores as I try to drift off too. There’s a buzzing around my ear and I stir. I’m hot and sticky; one arm is covering my face, the other flops against my side. It’s an effort to open my eyes. The sun beats down from a blue and cloudless sky. Everything seems too bright. Too vibrant. It’s the kind of picture-perfect summer day that makes strangers smile at one another and agree nobody will need an umbrella today. Give it until the end of the week and they’ll all be grumbling the garden is too dry, the flowers are curling and browning. Why on earth is there a hosepipe ban when June was torrential?
I flap my hand making a half-hearted effort to shoo away the bee. My weight has shifted and I’m not comfortable any more. I wriggle my bottom, trying to find the indent I made on the ground before. The picnic blanket moves with me; it’s stuck to the bare skin on the back of my thighs.
I tense my calves, flex my feet and stretch my toes. My coral toenails look really summery. I should have painted my fingernails too but they always chip so easily. My feet splay out to the sides as I relax my muscles. Corn pricks the soles of my feet. A stream bubbles to my left. We’d stood on the rickety wooden bridge earlier, shaded by the giant willow tree, and played Poohsticks. I’d won, and you’d pretended to sulk.
‘I never lose,’ you’d said, making your voice growly and cross before you pressed your mouth hard against mine, crushing my body against yours.
I smack my dry lips together as I listen to the trickling water. The cool box is out of reach and I’m too hot to move. I promise myself five more minutes and then I’ll have a drink and a paddle. I think I doze because the next thing I know my skin is burning, and a headache pounds behind my eyes. A film of sweat coats my body. There’s the sound of a tractor in the distance and I hope the farmer isn’t heading this way.
My elbow digs into the ground as I try to lever myself up, but a shadow is cast and your weight presses down on me, skin as sticky as mine. Hot hands run up my body, fingers ease inside my bikini top. My nipples harden and I groan.
‘It’s too hot for that. Get off,’ I protest even though we both know I’m easily swayed. Who could say no to you?
‘How about this?’
Something moist touches my bottom lip and I stick out my tongue – strawberry – the sweet smell reaches my nostrils and I salivate as the fruit is pulled away.
‘Feed me,’ I demand opening my mouth wide like a baby bird, and the soft berry is placed gently on my tongue. I roll it between my back teeth, and bite. The juice floods my mouth and trickles down my throat. I can’t remember ever feeling quite so happy.
The brightness of the sun makes my eyes water. I squint; I’ve left my sunglasses on the top of the fridge again. I can’t see your features; you’re nothing but blackness hovering in front of a white-hot sun but I feel you. Oh, how I feel you.
I chew, swallow and lick my lips.
‘Another strawberry, baby?’
I wonder if you want some. If you’ll eat them off my naked body like last time. ‘Please.’ I’ll never have enough. I crave them almost as much as I crave you.
‘Do you want me?’ Warm fingers trail up the inside of my thigh.
‘Always.’
‘For ever? You know I’ll always look after you.’
‘Let me think about that. For ever is a long time,’ I say but I smile to show I’m joking.
‘You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.’ Your fingers seek out my ribs, and I squeal as you tickle me, and I’m laughing as I push you off and spring to my feet.
‘Only if you can catch me,’ I shout over my shoulder as I run, giggling, as you begin to follow me.
‘You can’t get away from me!’ you call, and in that moment I wonder why I’d ever want to.
15
My first day back at work and I’m already exhausted before I start. Last night in bed I couldn’t settle. I was awake in the early hours cuddling Sam’s fleece that I had still been wearing when he dropped me off. My mind tried to replay the events in the churchyard like a DVD on a loop but as I tried to recall the details they became as opaque as a childhood memory, and I’m not sure now whether I imagined the whole thing. Sleep when it came was disturbed and when I woke I couldn’t believe I’d dreamed of bloody strawberries. I’ve always hated them and the taste clung to my tongue long after I’d woken.
Chewing spearmint gum I stand in front of the veterinary surgery at 7.45 a.m. and it feels like the first day back at school after the summer holidays. There is a fluttering deep in my gut as I think about steppi
ng inside but coming back is the right thing, I think. If I didn’t do this, what would I do? Who would I be?
‘Jenna!’
Hands grab my shoulders and my heart springs into my mouth.
‘You coming in or what?’ Rachel grins. Her face, round and freckled, looks delighted to see me, and I follow her swinging brown ponytail through the glass doors. Inside, disinfectant stings my nostrils, and I begin to relax. I can’t imagine why I thought it would all be so different. I’m the one who has changed.
‘So you didn’t answer my calls yesterday.’ Rachel waggles a finger in front of her face as if she’s cross, but I know she isn’t really. She’s the last person to ever hold a grudge. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good. Really well.’ It’s not a lie; physically I’m fine, but she narrows her eyes, and I know she doesn’t believe me.
‘And what we talked about Saturday? The donor? Have you thought any more about what I said?’
‘Her name was Callie,’ I snap but am instantly apologetic. ‘Sorry, Rachel. I didn’t mean…’
‘It’s OK, Miss Moody Pants. I know you’ll be back to your sweet-natured self once your medication is reduced. In the meantime,’ she sighs theatrically, ‘it’s a hard job being your best friend but someone has to do it, don’t they?’ She shakes her head sadly, and I shove her shoulder, and all of a sudden there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
‘So now you’re back at work there’s no excuse to miss the pub quiz any more. No one else is quite the font of knowledge you are when it comes to the arty stuff that no one else gives a toss about.’
‘I’m sure you’ve done well in the crappy pop music round.’
‘Better than the depressing singer/songwriters you listen to.’ She feigns a yawn, and a laugh bursts from me. It’s been such a long time since I heard the sound I self-consciously clap my hand in front of my mouth.
‘How’s everything been here?’ We’ve hardly talked about work at all since I’ve been off.
‘Nothing’s changed, except Linda’s been really stressed out and snappy. John’s hardly coming in at all and it’s tons of extra work for her.’
Linda and her husband, John, own the practice but John semi-retired last year and it will be odd not seeing him every day, cracking jokes. Raiding the biscuit barrel in-between consultations.
‘She’s even started buying plain digestives instead of chocolate ones now John’s not coming in. Can you imagine? It’s almost staff cruelty. I’ll have to hand you back your senior veterinary nurse crown. You can lead the revolt.’
‘Not yet. I’m sticking to part-time hours for a while.’
‘That’s good.’ Rachel beams. ‘I’ve got used to the extra money each month.’ Her eyes widen. ‘Oh God, Jenna. I didn’t mean good that…’ she falters. ‘It’s just, with Liam and everything.’
‘It’s OK. Really. I understand, and if you’re ever short you know you can ask,’ I offer, but I know she won’t. She’s too proud.
We automatically fall into our default roles. Rachel switches on the ventilation unit, and I fire up the desktop, flick through the CDs and push the button on the ancient CD player, and the lid creaks open. Some things never change.
‘Abba?’ Rachel shimmies across reception and raises an eyebrow as ‘Mama Mia’ starts. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Jenna?’
‘I just fancied something uplifting.’
‘Says the girl who once said she’d rather slit her wrists than listen to Swedish pop?’ She twirls around and hip-bumps me before she grabs a pen, holding it in front of us, and we sing into it as if it’s a microphone.
I feel happier than I have in ages.
‘Someone sounds pleased to be back.’ Linda click clacks across reception in her heels and hugs me, and I feel the bumps of her spine beneath her clothes. She’s lost so much weight and the dark circles under her eyes make her look paler than usual.
‘Are you OK, Linda?’
‘I should be asking you that.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘John sends his love. He’ll pop in later in the week and see how you’ve settled back in.’ Linda and John never had children, and John’s always had a soft spot for me, showering me with sweets when I was small, and as I got older, pressing five pound notes into my hand whenever they came around for dinner. He’s softer than Linda but I love working for them both.
‘You mustn’t overdo it today, missy. I’m not convinced you should be back at all.’ She studies my face. ‘If this is too much we both understand. Don’t feel obligated to be here.’
‘I don’t. I’ll be OK if I build up gradually.’
‘If you’re sure? We’re keeping Kelly on for the time being. She’s eager to stay permanently so don’t worry about leaving us short-staffed.’
I haven’t yet met the temporary nurse who has been filling in for me. Rachel says she’s lovely, but then Rachel thinks everyone is.
The bell tinkles as the front door opens and the first patient of the day rockets through the door, claws scratching and panting heavily.
‘Johnson!’ I can’t resist dropping to my knees to fuss the boxer dog who slides backwards as he tries to gain traction on the sterile white tiles.
‘Lovely to see you back, Jenna.’
‘Thanks, Mr Harvey. Is Johnson OK?’
Mr Harvey bought Johnson after his wife died, and although the dog has proved to be a real handful, he’s stopped Mr Harvey’s son crying himself to sleep every night.
‘No disaster for once. Just his boosters today.’
Mr Harvey signs the consent form, and Rachel leads Johnson to a consulting room as he jumps up, trying to catch his red fabric lead in his mouth.
There’s a steady stream of patients all morning – I’d forgotten how busy it gets – and I’m glad of a break when Linda sticks her head out of her office and asks me to make drinks. Heaping spoons of coffee into mugs and adding splashes of milk, I lean back against the kitchen counter. The kettle gurgles and spits and above the noise I hear the phone ringing, and I scoot back to reception to answer it, but by the time I get there it has stopped. Back in the staffroom I tip water into the mugs and distribute the drinks. I am on my hands and knees in front of the fridge wiping up milk that has seeped from its carton when Kelly sloshes her coffee down the sink and swills out her mug. Rachel follows with her and Linda’s drinks.
‘Trying to give us diabetes?’
‘What’s up?’
‘They’re full of sugar.’
‘I didn’t… I don’t remember. Sorry. This has been more tiring than I’d thought,’ I admit.
‘If you want to leave early I’ll cover you?’ Kelly offers.
‘Thanks.’ We head back to reception and I gather my things together. ‘I’ll just hang on and say hello to Mrs Bainbridge. She has Casper, her Jack Russell, booked in at 12.00.’ He’s such a sweetie. So is Mrs Bainbridge. It’s hard to believe it’s nine months since I’ve seen her. I have missed our chats. She had sent me flowers and a get well card via Linda, and I want to tell her how touched I am she’d thought of me. I know she can’t really afford flowers on her pension. Several times I’ve paid the excess on her insurance policy for Casper’s treatment, without Linda knowing.
The bell tinkles and we both look towards the door. The smile on my face freezes. My stomach floods with anxiety as Casper scrambles towards me, panting hard, his pink tongue lolling to the side. Sweat pricks my armpits and my vision tunnels. Mrs Bainbridge stands in front of me, and I can see her lips moving out of the corner of my eye but I can’t rip my eyes away from Casper. From the saliva spilling from between his needle-sharp teeth.
‘Jenna?’ Kelly’s face looms towards mine.
I can hear my name but it’s as if I’m underwater. I press my palms against the front of my desk and wheel my chair backwards and run to the loo. Nausea swirls and I scoop cold water into my palms and splash my face before pulling out a rough blue paper towel and dabbing my skin dry. In the mirror my
reflection stares back at me, bright red hair and haunted eyes. Why am I so scared of Casper? He’s a third of the size of Johnson, and anyway, I love all dogs.
A fist thuds against the door. ‘You all right in there, Jen? Kelly said you looked terrified.’
‘Fine thanks, Rach,’ I call, but I’m not fine at all. My legs are shaking so hard I sink down onto the lid of the toilet and drop my head into my hands. What’s happening to me? Since seeing Fiona, the medium, on Saturday these ephemeral feelings that swamp me, snatching my breath and accelerating my pulse, are becoming darker. More frequent. There’s an almost constant unease gnawing at the pit of my stomach. I can’t stop thinking about this second energy, and I’ve never believed in stuff like that before. I’m not sure I do now, but still. Something has changed, and I don’t mind admitting I’m scared of it, this foreboding that’s ingrained itself into my being. What does it mean? I’m not in danger, am I? And in my mind I think I hear a scream, short and sharp. But I can’t be sure.
16
My eyelids are glued together with sleep and I prise them open and yawn. Napping in the daytime always leaves me feeling sluggish. The sun is still bright outside, shining through the slatted blinds that cover my lounge window, casting tiger stripes on my laminate floor. My body is stuck to my leather sofa and, as I peel myself to sitting, I drop my head in my hands remembering what a disaster my first morning back at work has been. Stumbling into the kitchen, my bare feet sticking to the tiles, I fill a glass with lemon squash, slouching against the sink as I drink, letting the sourness chase away the last whispers of tiredness. The swirling lines of my mind map catch my eye and I stare at it transfixed, ignoring my buzzing phone. It will be Mum or Dad stressing about how my first morning back went. I did text them both when I first got home to reassure them it went well but they won’t be placated until they’ve actually spoken to me. The way they fuss you’d think I’d been mountain climbing. If I call them they’ll realise straight away something is wrong, particularly Mum, and I can’t face them knowing I fled the surgery in tears after my encounter with Casper. I can’t face the ‘I told you it would be too much’ conversation that would inevitably follow.
The Gift Page 7
