by Dani Atkins
Alex had bristled slightly but had said nothing. If this conversation had been taking place face to face instead of over the telephone, Gillian might have been daunted by the steel in his eyes. As it wasn’t, the specialist nurse pushed her point home.
‘I know how tempting it is to draw these people into your life, Alex. They’re your tangible connection to Lisa. I realise that. We all realise that. But having the letters go through us is for everyone’s protection.’
Alex sighed softly. Her reaction wasn’t unexpected, but she was measuring what was happening here against their normal working practices, and even she had to admit that their case was far from typical.
‘You said yourself that everything about this has been unusual. That it’s extremely rare for all the recipients to make contact, much less for everyone to want to continue writing to each other.’
‘You’re right. It is highly unusual,’ Gillian agreed.
‘So perhaps in this instance you need to let all of us decide to go forward by ourselves from now. What’s the worst that could happen? What is it that you’re so worried about?’
For a long time he thought her silence meant she wasn’t going to answer him. In the end, he almost wished she hadn’t.
‘I’m concerned that sooner or later someone is going to suggest taking things to the next level. You have to understand that meetings between recipients and donor families are very sensitive situations. These people might disappoint you; you might disappoint them. What if you feel they’re not worthy of having received Lisa’s donation? What then? Please, Alex, think about this very carefully, for your sake and Connor’s. You think you know these people, you think you’re ready to meet them, but I’m not sure if you realise how much this might hurt you both. At least promise me you’ll think about it.’
That at least had been an easy promise to make. Since Molly’s first letter he had thought of nothing else. For she was the one he wanted – no, needed – to meet more than any of the others.
And now he was going to.
12
Molly
It was there on the mat when I got home from work, nestled between an electricity bill and a flier from the local Chinese takeaway. I bent to gather up the rest of the post, keeping the one I most wanted to read on the top of the pile.
I launched my coat in the direction of the banister rail and kicked off my shoes in the hallway, before making my way to the kitchen. It was a small rebellion that I took uncommon pleasure in. Tom had been a compulsive neat freak and my habit of leaving a trail of belongings through the house used to drive him crazy.
The kettle seemed to be taking an incredibly long time to boil, but finally I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and drew the stack of post towards me, my lips curved in a smile of anticipation. I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed this little ritual: pacing myself so that I didn’t dive straight in to read the message. The front was an eye-catching vibrant blue, the domes of Santorini’s iconic churches perfectly matching the colour of the sky. She would have taken ages picking out just the right postcard to send; it was the same with any greeting card. I’d truly never seen anyone deliberate longer over a Hallmark purchase than my mother.
I read it through twice, my smile growing broader as her excitement and enthusiasm radiated off the card like glare on the ocean. Mum was having the most amazing time. She’d made friends on board the cruise ship and being a solo traveller didn’t seem to be worrying her at all. With every postcard – and there had been many over the last few weeks – I quietly congratulated myself that I’d persuaded her to book an extended voyage. After months of looking after me while I recuperated, she had definitely earned this holiday.
I flicked through the rest of the mail, refusing to lose my happy glow by opening anything in a brown envelope. Afterwards I wondered what would have happened if I’d thrown away the junk mail without looking at it properly. It would have been so easy to have lobbed it into the bin without noticing the handwritten white envelope that had somehow slipped inside a leaflet from a plumbing company. It fell out onto the table, right side up, and I instantly recognised the bold lettering. Was he as decisive in real life as his handwriting appeared to be, I wondered?
Alex’s letters had become something I looked forward to perhaps a little too eagerly. Whenever I received one, this new heart of mine would flutter, almost as though it recognised his writing. It was an unsettling thought and one I did my best to ignore. His letters were genial and comfortable to read; hygge on Basildon Bond paper. He had a relaxed, chatty style, and he unfailingly began each one by asking about my health, paying more than just lip service to the question ‘How are you?’
Sometimes I wondered if we were crossing a line here. How easy would it be for polite interest to spill over into censure if he felt I wasn’t taking good enough care of his late wife’s heart? I shook the feeling off, because I didn’t want to think anything bad of this man – or his son. It had been upsetting to learn that my donor had been a mother, and I’d cried the first time Alex had revealed how difficult his little boy was finding life without his mum. I must have drafted half a dozen replies to that letter, but in the end I hadn’t found anything to say that could comfort a young child who was pining for his lost parent. Connor was the same age as the kids in my class, and I witnessed on a daily basis how their mums were the sun they orbited around. You could see it in the way they ran towards them at the end of the day, and in the hugs that were waiting for them. My heart – Lisa’s heart – ached to think of her little boy never knowing that moment again.
I’m not sure what I was expecting from Alex’s letter that day. More of the same newsy chatter we’d been exchanging over the last month or so, I guess. Our language had become freer now that it was no longer scrutinised by the Donor Records Department. Alex had told me that he was also in contact with several other transplant recipients, and in unguarded moments I found myself wondering if his correspondence with them was as natural and friendly as ours. A small stab of something that surely couldn’t have been jealousy jabbed uncomfortably at my conscience.
‘Oh.’ The word sounded strange in the silence of my kitchen. I wasn’t in the habit of talking to myself, but here I was, shaking my head and once again speaking out loud to absolutely no one. ‘Ooh, no. I’m not sure about that.’
*
‘Christ on a bike!’
Kyra’s profanity jarred slightly, possibly because I’d spent most of the afternoon rehearsing the end-of-term Nativity play with Class One.
‘Please tell me you said no,’ she continued, sliding the invitation back across the wine bar table towards me.
I lifted it like it was a playing card, my eyes troubled as I read it again before dropping it back into my handbag. It wasn’t yet six o’clock and the bar was still virtually empty. Even so, I drew my chair a little closer towards hers and lowered my voice before replying.
‘I’ve not said anything yet.’
Kyra’s perfectly threaded brows drew together. The frown brought temporary lines to her forehead that nature wouldn’t be leaving there for at least another fifteen years. ‘But you’re going to turn him down, Mols, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not seriously thinking of going?’
I reached for my glass, really wishing it was filled with rioja like Kyra’s, instead of Diet Coke. Although I was allowed to drink on my medication, in moderation, this was the kind of conversation where it was best to stay sharp. Besides, it was so long since I’d drunk anything, I was bound to be a complete lightweight.
‘Lots of transplant recipients meet their donor families. You see it all the time on YouTube and the Six O’Clock News.’
‘I tell you what else you see on the news, stories about women who go missing after meeting up with some crazy person they’ve been “innocently” communicating with.’ She unnecessarily air-quoted the word ‘innocently’ for emphasis.
I shook my head and focused on the flames curling lazily around the pile of logs in t
he bar’s open fireplace. ‘I’m not sure how you’ve got hold of the idea that Alex is unstable.’
Kyra’s mouth opened and closed as she searched for the words that would convince me I was making a mistake here. ‘I’m not saying he’s a nutter or anything like that. But you have to admit that this’ – she pointed an accusatory finger towards the invitation now tucked inside my leather tote – ‘this is not exactly normal.’ She took a large mouthful of red wine before continuing. ‘The man is grieving, I get that, and it’s not that I don’t feel sorry for him, because I do, but I simply can’t see how this is going to help either of you.’ Like a heron diving for a fish, her hand swooped into my bag and plucked Alex’s invitation back out. ‘He’s inviting you to a gathering of his friends and family to celebrate his late wife’s birthday. Doesn’t that sound a bit odd and creepy to you? Am I the only one who can hear the Twilight Zone theme tune playing in the background here?’
My lips twisted into a reluctant smile. ‘I admit it is a little strange.’ Kyra’s eyes widened meaningfully. ‘Okay, very strange. But he’s not suggesting we meet at his home – which would definitely be weird. He’s holding this party, for want of a better word, at a planetarium. Apparently it was one of his wife’s favourite places, and it’ll be a great opportunity to look round it after hours. And besides, I’m not the only recipient he’s asked. He’s invited all of us.’
‘And since when were you interested in astronomy?’ Kyra challenged.
‘I’m not… especially.’ It was the truth, yet it felt strangely like a lie. Had last summer’s insomnia and the middle-of-the-night stargazing brought about this new interest? Was that why Class Six had a frieze of the galaxy on their wall instead of one with fields and farm animals?
‘I’m sorry, Molly, I know you don’t want to hear this, but it all sounds a little too Mary Shelley for my liking.’
It took a moment or two for me to follow her train of thought, and when I got it, it was hard to suppress my shudder. ‘That’s not what he’s doing.’
‘He’s gathering all of you together. You’ve gotta admit, it’s kind of weird.’
I glanced around the room, trying to avoid her laser-sharp gaze. This wasn’t the reaction I’d expected from her. Given how many internet dating sites Kyra was signed up to, and the number of blind dates she happily went on, this degree of caution seemed misplaced and extreme.
In the early days, when I’d been worried about saying the wrong thing, I’d shared several of Alex’s letters and my replies with her. Out of all my friends, Kyra was the one person I’d been certain would understand my conflicted feelings about meeting him. Was she massively overreacting to Alex’s invitation or actually seeing something dangerous here that I couldn’t?
‘I’ve not made my mind up yet, either way,’ I said, anxious not to ruin either the evening or, worse than that, our friendship.
She met my eyes. ‘Yes, you have.’
It could have been an awkward moment, but Kyra averted it by leaning over and squeezing my hand affectionately. ‘Just be careful, Mols, that’s all.’
She got to her feet in a single graceful move that I was sure had drawn the attention of every red-blooded man in the room. ‘Another round?’ I nodded as she turned towards the bar. ‘And when I get back you can hear all about my latest disastrous blind date. If there are any good men left out there, I sure as hell don’t know where they’re hiding.’
It was an effort not to glance back down at Alex’s invitation, but somehow I managed to resist.
*
‘Ugh.’ I sighed with frustration as I yanked down the zip of yet another dress. I threw it onto the pile scattered across my bed, which was starting to resemble a jumble sale stall. There were very few things left hanging in my wardrobe to try on, and the taxi I’d booked was now only twenty minutes away.
I’d finally decided to accept Alex’s invitation several days ago, so there’d been plenty of time to find something suitable to wear. Why had I left it to the last minute? Because subconsciously you always intended to cancel? suggested a knowing voice in my head. I ignored it and returned to the depleted rail in my wardrobe. There were only two dresses remaining. I immediately discarded the red one, whose plunging neckline had always been a little too daring. That left me with the dove grey woollen dress with the cowl neck, totally different from the vintage fifties-style dresses I usually went for. I stepped into it, enjoying the feel of its soft cashmere against my skin. I’d only worn it a couple of times, and as I fastened the button behind my neck I remembered how Tom’s eyebrows had shot up appreciatively at the way it clung to my curves. I turned back to the mirror in alarm. Sexy was definitely not the look I was aiming for this evening, but at least the high neckline hid my scar. The last thing Alex would want to see was a visible reminder that his wife’s heart now lived in my chest instead of hers.
*
‘Interesting place. Brought my kid here last summer,’ commented the cabbie as he pulled up outside the planetarium. I paused in the act of extracting a twenty pound note from my purse and looked towards the enticingly lit frontage.
Buttery yellow lights gleamed invitingly through glass double doors and the short flight of stone steps seemed to beckon me in. Even so, I lingered on the forecourt in the bitingly cold October wind long after the cab was just tail lights disappearing into the night. Several people were forced to weave around me on their way inside, and every time someone passed me I stole a glance at their face, wondering if there was an invitation from Alex in their coat pocket or handbag too.
Pull yourself together, I told myself sternly, stamping my cold feet on the gravel drive when my toes began to protest at my flimsy footwear. I straightened up and tightened my grip on the bouquet in my hand. The white lilies looked almost too perfect to be real under the glow of the planetarium’s floodlights. They had called out to me from a metal trough in the florist’s earlier that day. Arriving empty-handed to something that was technically supposed to be a party had felt wrong. Even if the person whose birthday we were honouring wasn’t going to be there themselves – for obvious reasons.
I’d had every intention of buying a potted plant and had actually picked out a gorgeous pink orchid when my eye had fallen on the lilies. Before I knew it, the orchid was back on the shelf and I was carrying the bouquet of lilies to the till. It was only now, seeing them against the black of my coat, that my brain made the too-late-to-be-useful connection between white lilies and funerals. These were flowers for dead people and I couldn’t believe how insensitive I’d been, thinking they were a suitable gift for Alex. I looked around for a bin to chuck them into, but of course there wasn’t one. I was still deliberating about what to do when the chimes from a distant church announced the half hour. Punctuality had always been a thing with me, and I definitely didn’t want the head-turning attention of being the last to arrive. I decided I’d just have to leave the flowers with my coat and dispose of them later.
‘I’m meeting some… people… here, for a private event,’ I explained to the smartly dressed woman on the reception desk. I stopped myself at the last moment from saying ‘friends’, which would have been just as wrong as admitting the truth: Hi, I’m meeting a group of strangers, and the only thing we have in common is the dead woman whose birthday we’re here to celebrate.
The woman unfolded and extended her arm as though directing me towards an emergency exit on a plane. I glanced to my right and saw a small printed sign with Alex’s name and an arrow pointing upwards. ‘The Stevens reception is being held in our Stargazer Room. First floor, last door on the right,’ she confirmed.
‘Is there a cloakroom or somewhere I can leave my coat?’
‘You’ll be able to leave it upstairs.’
I was okay as my heels clipped across the marble-floored foyer, but when I got to the foot of the stairs the trepidation set in. It slowed my feet and made my pulse race. The staircase was steep and I hesitated at the bottom tread for such a long time that a yo
ung man behind me grew impatient and with a pointed ‘Excuse me’ squeezed past and ran on up.
I was being ridiculous, I knew that. I’d made the decision to come tonight and could hardly bottle out now. But after vacillating for days between accepting and declining Alex’s invitation, why was it only now occurring to me that Kyra might have been right all along? This was a weird thing to be doing. And I didn’t even want to consider what my transplant coordinator would have said if he could have seen me now. One thing was certain: this wasn’t the normal way for anyone to meet their donor family for the first time.
By the time I was halfway up the stairs, my heart was thumping so heavily I wondered if the staples holding my breastbone together were up to the job of containing it. Oddly, although I was terrified about the forthcoming meeting, it didn’t feel like it was fear that was making my heart race; it felt more like excitement.
I found the door and came to a stop before it. Through the polished oak I could hear the muted hum of voices. There was no laughter, no music, none of the usual soundtrack that accompanies a party. This truly was going to be one of the strangest experiences of my life. Was I supposed to knock or walk straight in? I raised my arm, knuckles poised, when suddenly the door opened. A waitress clad in black, carrying two empty platters, stood before me, and behind her, half hidden in the shadows, was a tall man with sandy-coloured hair. His eyes widened at exactly the same moment as the breath caught in my throat.
‘Molly,’ he cried, as though he already knew it was me. Which was odd, for we’d never exchanged photographs, and I had no Facebook account for him to have stalked.
‘Alex,’ I replied with equal certainty.
The room behind him appeared full, although every guest had fallen silent at the opening of the door. Like a convention of tango dancers, they all turned my way with perfect synchronicity. This was hardly the inconspicuous entrance I’d been hoping for.
‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ Alex said, the warmth in his voice unlocking the frozen room behind him. Conversations resumed, but heads were still turned my way. l felt like the new girl in class on the first day of school.
