Page 15 of The Love of Our Lives
Over the course of that hazy summer, I’d get all these messages and pictures from Cat, of her and Fraser out on bikes together, or off up hills under skies of neon pink and parma violet, him playing his guitar beside a fire they’d built together. They would head out to his gigs until late, and Cat would get to dance the night away to her new favourite music.
I wanted to go too, of course; was desperate to just let go like Cat did, but my condition always stopped me, even then.
‘Maybe next time,’ I would say each time she asked.
Then, as the summer started to draw to a close, the news came that she and Fraser were moving in together, after only a few short months. I was happy for her, of course, but I couldn’t help feeling a little jealous too, and it spurred me on with my own packing for art school – the halls of residence was all booked, the future was imminent and, with Cat trail-blazing the way, I had the feeling maybe anything was possible.
It’s funny how life does that, shines light all over you one minute, then takes it away the next.
Now, as the sun sinks down in a final burst of orange and blue ahead of me on the beach, the memories fade back, and I think about the date on the clock in the bedroom again.
‘The twenty-seventh of July,’ I whisper into the salty air.
Two days short of a year before my transplant.
I just wish I could make sense of this all somehow. I wish I knew what the hell was going on. Because right now all I know is that I’m in someone else’s body, in someone else’s flat, two years in the past. And somewhere across town is another version of me; a sicker version of me, before I got my new heart.
I am there, and yet I am also here, in the life of someone called Emily.
How can that be happening?
And, more importantly,whyis it happening? Why now?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day begins largely the same: wake up in Emily’s room, check my hands, see they’re still not mine, check the clock, see we’re still two years in the past, just a day on now. Time is running normally here.
It’s just me that’s different.
Desperately, I start searching around the flat. There isn’t much other than some clothes and bags in her bedroom, including a Mulberry. There are some boxes of papers in the hall cupboard and odd trinket about the place too. But where is her phone? Or her laptop? Something that might actually give me some concrete information.
I shower next, mainly to see if it might calm me down, but also because I really have no idea when the last time this body was washed – and it’s started to show. As I step in the shower and hot water rushes over this new body, a thought dawns on me; I look down at the centre of my chest.
Nothing.
No scar splitting my chest in two, just beautiful skin for miles. The stomach is taut too, as though this body has been at that gym in London a lot, and looking down at the arms, I can see the same effect – lean, lightly muscled limbs. So very different to my scarred, softer physique, and I can’t help thinking how different this Emily person’s life must be to mine.
Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. That’s what they diagnosed me with, when I was twelve:a genetic condition, I read online,which causes the heart muscle to be thickened, and can eventually lead to sudden death. All cases differ, andsome barely impact on a person, but, for whatever reason, my condition was severe, and as with all cases, progressive.
I guess I wasn’t too affected by it in the early years – I went to school, went to parties and played sports; had a full life. If it wasn’t for a great-aunt on Dad’s side dying of it a few years back, we might not have known what my fainting spells were. But we did know, and Mum took me to the doctors immediately. I think they screened Cat and Jess as a precaution more than anything else, and their results thankfully came up normal.
And Cat and I were no longer two peas in a pod.
I remember being completely floored. With only eleven months between us and matching red hair, we were more like twins than sisters really, and we already did everything together: same year at school, same sports, same friends. We even chose to share the same room. How could this be any different? I just wanted to be well again, like her; live exactly like her.
But as the doctor’s concerns grew bigger, so did Mum’s attempts to ensure my life got smaller – sports rapidly decreased, parties were frequently cancelled and going anywhere even vaguely far away from a known hospital was an absolute no-no for our family. I suppose, looking back, it’s a wonder Cat didn’t rebel even more. My prognosis became grim, and the doctors couldn’t say if I would drop down dead in two years’ time or two months’ time.
Tomorrow.
But it didn’t change the dreams I had – it didn’t change the fact that I wanted it all, just as much as her. But the one time I tried to live like Cat, I ruined everything.
After washing, I get dressed in the one grey t-shirt I find in all the colour, and a pair of slightly too-short denim shorts. Then I pull the covers back up on the bed and place the little clock back on the side table. If there’s one thing I’m not going to do, it’s mess another person’s life up: because the more I think about it,the more I’m convinced that this is all surely going to stop soon, and I can chalk it all down to some glitch in the universe’s fabric. I just have to wait it out, so that when this person – this Emily – does come back to her life and I go back to mine, everything will be exactly as she left it.
I can’t help wondering, though, if the Maggie I saw in the garden could have been Emily – as if, somehow, we’ve done some sort ofFreaky Fridaybody switch. But at the same time, I heard her speaking just like me. Those were my words about the Sistine Chapel, and no one else’s. There wasn’t even a hint of someone else being there.
So where has Emily gone?
I go to find food next – more out of basic necessity given I can’t recall the last time I ate properly – at the little purple café with the gold outline of a pineapple on the front. And after chatting with the friendly girl with bright-purple hair and red glasses called Zoe, I establish that Emily even has a regular order here: double shot latte and a pain au chocolat. I’m surprised, given Emily’s physique seems to suggest a slightly different diet, and I opt for a more familiar porridge in the end anyway. I know I had all that ramen and Prosecco two days ago when I thought it was a dream, and nothing bad happened, but still, I just feel too weird eating it.
