The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  The fury in Nathan’s voice during his phone call snaps at my heels, and as I run I imagine his fingers grabbing my shoulders, tugging me backwards, hot breath on my neck. The stitch in my side burns and I press my palm against my flesh, feet slowing, until I stop moving altogether. I stand with my back against a wall, hands on my knees, hunched over, grappling for breath, eyes fixed on the direction I have just come. My heart leaps into my mouth as a figure appears around the corner, but it’s not Nathan. I wipe my forehead with my sleeve while I think of what to do. I’m exhausted. Nausea spins in my stomach and I know I can’t make it home. Usually after a biopsy I rest for days, letting the energy the procedure has drained, physically and emotionally, seep back in.

  I didn’t bring my purse and there’s no cash at my flat so I can’t call a cab. Usually I’d ring Dad but I don’t know what I’d say to him. He called this morning but I had let it go to voicemail and as he stuttered out yet another apology I’d pressed hard with my thumb, deleting the voice that used to soothe and calm. I swallow hard. My throat stings and anxiety pounces, grasping me tightly as all the horror stories I’ve heard about transplant patients picking up infections in hospitals circle like sharks in my mind. I grow hotter and hotter with every passing second until I’ve convinced myself I have a fever when I know it could be panic, and I try to remember the things Vanessa has taught me. Straighten my spine. Breathe in deeply, push my stomach out. After a few breaths I feel calmer. Cooler. I close my eyes and try to picture myself in a beautiful garden, but instead I see Nathan’s angry face looming towards me. Did he hurt Sophie? Is it her body in the airfield? I snap my eyes open and force myself to carry on walking, pulling my phone out of my pocket and making the call I didn’t want to.

  It feels I’ve been sitting on the hard, wrought iron bench for ages and I’ve almost convinced myself he won’t come. Cars whizz past, windows down, bass thudding. None of them are him. The smell of soaps and bath bombs wafting out of the propped open door of the shop behind me is overpowering. Strawberry mixed with sandalwood, citrus with lavender. A headache creeps behind my eyes.

  At last he’s here and a rush of relief lifts me to my feet as I step towards the kerb and wave.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Sam,’ I say as I climb into the passenger seat.

  He’s crunching a humbug and he’s reached the chewy bit in the middle but he nods. I rest my head back as the indicator tick-tick-ticks and we pull into the traffic. As the engine thrums and music floats from the speakers there’s comfort in the familiarity.

  Sam keeps his eyes on the road. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Feeling weak after my biopsy. I went for a walk and lost track of where I was. I shouldn’t have ventured so far.’

  ‘Let’s get you home then.’

  Home. He means the flat, I know, with its empty rooms and almost bare fridge, but here, my body melded to the seat, the smell of mint, Ed Sheeran strumming his guitar, imploring ‘give me love’, I feel more at home than ever. I feel safe, and it pains me to think Callie didn’t have that too.

  ‘Sam? Do you have time to take me somewhere first?’

  The car crunches into the pub car park in Woodhaven. It seems a lifetime ago we stopped off here on our way back from the coast. As we judder over the rough surface a petal falls from the sunflowers on my lap that we had stopped at a BP garage to buy.

  ‘I don’t know why you want to come here?’ Sam says. ‘You’re supposed to be moving on?’

  ‘I know. But I can’t shake the feeling there is something I need to do, but maybe I’ve got it all wrong.’ I rub the fallen petal between my fingers. It feels like velvet. ‘Perhaps it is just that I need to see where Callie died and say goodbye to her properly. I think it’s just up there.’ I shield my eyes from the sun and point up the road. ‘There’s a crossroads, and beyond that, the tree. Why don’t you get a drink and wait here?’ I reach for the door handle.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Sam says, and I’m touched by his offer.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say as we step out of the car. ‘But I want to be alone.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ he snaps and I balk.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You’re pushing me away again. The way you do with everyone.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘The way you have with Rachel,’ he says.

  ‘You’ve been having cosy chats about me again, have you?’

  ‘How could you accuse her of stitching you up at work, Jen?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. It was right before my biopsy and… Anyway I know it wasn’t her, Linda said—’

  ‘It shouldn’t have needed Linda to say.’

  ‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘I’m not the one you should be apologising to.’

  ‘I feel I owe everyone an apology at the moment. It’s hard to know where to start. Look, Sam—’

  ‘I can’t do this any more, Jen. This trying to be friends. It’s too bloody hard.’ He looks down at his feet as he toes the gravel. ‘I’m sorry, Jen. I’m going to get a pint. Let me know when you’ve finished and I’ll take you back to yours.’

  He strides away and despite everything that’s been said it’s his referring to our flat as ‘yours’ that makes me want to cry.

  The tree is an oak, large and solid; a tangle of dried grass and daisies pepper the dusty soil covering its roots. I run my fingers over its rough bark looking for the damage Callie’s car must have caused, but there’s only the slightest scuff. How quickly nature eradicates signs of life. It’s almost as if she was never here at all.

  I place both palms hard against the trunk and close my eyes. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet and I lose my footing, landing heavily against the tree as the truth hits me as hard and painful as a brick.

  51

  ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it!

  ‘NO!’ you roar and although we’ve had some blazing rows recently I’ve never heard you quite so angry. I press myself close to the door and my fingers grip the cool metal handle. I wish I could jump out but you’re driving way too fast.

  Windscreen wipers swish-swish-swish as the rain hammers down, and the headlights barely pick out the road in front of us.

  ‘Slow down,’ I almost whisper. The roads are treacherous. ‘Slow down. Please.’

  There’s a rumbling as a lorry thunders past, its bright white headlights making the red sequins on my dress glisten like drops of blood. The vibrations cause the glovebox to fall open, the catch has never worked properly and, as I start to push it shut again, I see it. My iPhone! The one you’d taken from me. No wonder I hadn’t been able to find it when I searched the house. I glance sidewards, your eyes are fixed on the road ahead, and I slip the phone into my bag. I had stupidly left the old pay-as-you-go one I had been using in my desk drawer today and I am massively relieved I am, once again, contactable.

  I know you think you’re doing the right thing, trying almost to pretend it didn’t happen, but it did and we can’t go back to the way we were before. I’m not the same person. And neither are you, not if you’re honest. How could you be after what I have done?

  The muscle in your cheek tics and you’re clutching the steering wheel so tightly your shoulders almost touch your ears. You raise your left hand and tug the cravat from around your neck and as you toss it to the floor you knock your buttonhole. Petals tumble like tears.

  ‘I thought tonight you were making an effort?’ you say. ‘But tonight wasn’t about us returning to normality, was it? Be honest. Do you think things can ever be normal again?’ There is so much heartbreak in your voice.

  ‘I don’t see how they can. I’m trying, but I can’t forget. Every time I close my eyes I see…’ I swallow hard and touch my still-tender cheek. ‘I had to lie to my parents. Telling them I walked into a cupboard. What a cliché. I’m lying to everyone. I can’t do it any more. I just can’t. I have to leave. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to leave
,’ you say. ‘You can make a choice, Callie. We can change jobs, move away and start again. If you agree to break contact completely it can be a fresh start.’

  ‘Nathan,’ I say and your furious gaze meets mine. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘But we were happy once. We can be again. You could choose me?’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ You turn to look at me and as our eyes lock there’s a split second where I catch a glimpse of the old us.

  There’s a horn, the squealing of brakes, the screeching of tyres and I clutch the door handle with both hands.

  ‘Nathan!’ I scream.

  52

  My senses roar back to life and I’m blinking in the brightness. Nathan was driving. My anger blazes as hot as the sun in the sky. Now I’m here, at the scene, the details are diamond sharp in my mind. The red sparkly dress Callie wore to the wedding reception. Nathan’s lemon cravat.

  That fucking bastard was driving. He crashed the car. I’d seen the anger on his face and felt Callie’s fear as she screamed his name. Did he unclip her seatbelt? Deliberately kill her? He must have run off and left her dying in a ditch. What a fucking coward.

  I stalk back to the pub. Sam is sitting in the car, fiddling with his phone. He doesn’t speak as I climb in and fasten my seatbelt. He twists the key in the ignition and the wheels spin as we leave the car park in a cloud of dust. From the speakers Ed Sheeran and Taylor Swift tell us everything has changed, and Sam snaps off the stereo. But I don’t fill the silence. My thoughts are toxic. Corrosive. Burning away at my gratitude, until all I feel, in this moment, is cold, hard, hate. For all the people who have lied to me. For all the people who have saved me. Left me to live this half-life. Not quite mine. Not quite Callie’s. I know now what Callie has been trying to tell me: Nathan killed her, and I don’t think she’ll rest until he pays.

  God, I’m going to make him pay.

  53

  I had dozed fitfully on the sofa last night, convinced I wouldn’t sleep at all, but as I wake, still furious with Nathan, I recalled an earlier dream I once had of him and Callie. It has birthed an idea. It’s barely light as I unlock the door to the vet’s practice, locking it behind me. I don’t have long. Linda’s always in early. The rising sun shines pale stripes through the slatted blinds but I don’t open them. I dart to the box on the wall and disable the alarm, holding my breath as it beep-beep-beeps but the code hasn’t been changed and the lights flash once, twice, three times. I’m in.

  The stockroom is dark but I daren’t switch on the fluorescent lights. They buzz long after they are switched off and I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been here. Find out what I’ve taken. They won’t miss anything until the next inventory. With shaking hands I unzip my bag and pull out my mobile and using the torch app I navigate my way across the room. The dangerous drugs cupboard is locked and I punch in the combination.

  The bell rings as the front door opens.

  Shit.

  It closes.

  A sneeze builds and I stick my hand over my nose to try to contain it.

  There’s the click-clack of Linda’s heels in the corridor outside. I scrunch myself against the wall – please don’t come in here for anything – she pauses.

  My throat tickles and I swallow frantically trying to suppress a cough. There’s the sound of heels again as Linda passes by and I hear the opening of her office door, and the slam as it swings shut behind her.

  I quietly open the door of the cupboard and locate what I am looking for straight away. I drop the vials into my bag and inch by inch I open the door, my heart beating a tattoo. As quietly as I can I creep down the corridor and slip out of the fire exit, circling around the car park the long way so I am shadowed by the surrounding wall. I can’t risk Linda seeing me. Would she call the police if she knew what I had taken? The vials barely weigh anything and yet my bag feels heavier than it did before, and as it slides down my shoulder I hitch it back up.

  The exhaust fumes from a passing bus make my empty stomach contract as I sneak out onto the street. It’s eight o’ clock now and the road is busy. Cars speeding past, people walking to work, stifling yawns and staring at smartphones, but I feel the burn of their eyes on me. Watching me. Judging me. I half-expect someone to stop me and label me as the thief I am. I grip the strap on my bag a little tighter. Convinced everyone knows what it contains. What I am planning to do.

  I keep my head down, eyes fixed on the pavement and I move as quickly as I can, but my muscles are achy and I’m so, so hot. My breath is faster than the steps I take and I increase my speed.

  The sound of my blood whooshing in my ears drowns them out at first. The footsteps. Increasing in pace as I do. Someone is following me. I turn my head slightly and there’s a flicker of movement in the corner of my vision. I sense rather than see someone reaching out to grab me.

  Almost without thinking I dart across the road. There’s a squeal of brakes and I’m frozen in terror in the path of an oncoming car. Seconds feel like minutes and I see every tiny detail as though the world is moving in slow motion. The driver’s terrified face as he leans back in his seat, arms stretched straight. The gasp of bystanders. Blaring horns. The car swerves but doesn’t mount the pavement, which is full of pedestrians; a lady pushing a pram, an elderly man leaning heavily on a walking stick. I’m still directly in the car’s path. Still unable to move. There’s the clatter of a bike as a cyclist falls to the ground as he tries to avoid the inevitable collision.

  A scream.

  I close my eyes and wait for the impact.

  54

  My head jerks, twisting my neck, and sharp pains shoot through my upper back as I am yanked back onto the path from which I have just stepped. The car that almost hit me continues down the road, much slower now, and the cyclist stands and pats himself down as though checking for injuries. The tension in my muscles starts to dissipate and I begin to shake. It’s only as my vision sharpens, and my hearing returns to normal, that I realise someone is still gripping my arm and I try to shake it free as I turn to face them, but their fingers dig a little deeper.

  ‘Rach?’ I swallow hard.

  ‘What the fuck, Jenna? You just stepped out in front of a car?’

  ‘I didn’t see it.’

  Disbelief flashes in her eyes. ‘This is a main road. There are always cars. Are you OK? You look like shit. When was the last time you slept?’

  I shrug.

  ‘You weren’t trying to… you know. Hurt yourself?’ she asks.

  ‘God no. Who do you think I am?’

  She studies me silently and I don’t blame her for not answering. I don’t know who I am any more. She releases my arm and I shift my bag onto my other shoulder, conscious of the vials inside.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asks. ‘I thought it was you as I got off the bus. I tried to catch you up.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re still working for Linda…’ I say and my tone is terser than I intended.

  ‘I need the money. Did you come to apologise?’

  ‘To her?’

  ‘To me!’

  ‘Oh right, sorry,’ I say but my apology sounds hollow, even to me. Distracted, I look past her up the road, towards the surgery. Worried Linda will have been drawn outside by the cacophony of car horns. ‘Rach, I have to go. We can catch up another time?’

  ‘Sorry, Jenna.’ Her eyes glisten as she sadly shakes her head. ‘I don’t think we can.’

  I am home before nine o’clock and I am still feeling shaky after the near miss with the car. It takes every ounce of strength I have to drag the telephone table in front of the door and, after I have ensured the chain is pulled across, once, twice, three times, I make my checks. There is no one lurking under the bed or hiding in the wardrobe. In the lounge I pull my sleeve over my hand and use the cuff to wipe my sopping brow before falling onto the sofa. There’s hours to go before Nathan comes home from work. Before I need to leave. I wedge a cushion under my head and think about Callie. What I’m going to do. F
or her. I press my hand against my heart. For us.

  My body is heavy. Hot. My muscles ache and my hair is damp with sweat. I tell myself it’s just a cold but I’m feeling progressively worse with every passing minute. Like I’d thought yesterday, I’ve probably picked up a bug at the hospital. My throat is scratchy.

  It’s just a cold.

  But I’m all too aware that since the second this heart was implanted, my body has been conspiring to reject it. There’s only so long the immunosuppressants can stop my body doing what it’s supposed to do naturally and repel what it sees as a foreign body. As I think about my medication I remember I’d been in such a rush to leave this morning, in such a state, I’d completely forgotten to take my tablets. But one missed dose shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t make me feel this ill.

  ‘Hang on, Callie,’ I tell the thump-thump-thump of my heart. Is it my imagination or is it growing slower? Weaker. No! It’s just a cold. I try to push myself to sit up to fetch my pills but my body is too heavy and I slump backwards, and I fight to keep my eyes open, but I can’t.

  55

  It’s half past four when I wake drenched in sweat. The afternoon is dark and gloomy. Outside the lounge window, storm clouds are bunching together in the gunmetal sky. My throat is so raw it feels like I’ve swallowed a wire brush and I cough so hard my chest burns.