Page 77 of The Love of Our Lives
The biggest choice of my life.
The letter said she died unexpectedly – so that’s either an accident or an illness. If it was an accident, I know I can avoidit (I’m very good at avoiding death, after all) and if it was an illness, I can get it checked out – maybe do something about it. As long as it’s not something terminal, perhaps I could prevent it getting worse.
But ultimately preventing it would meanIdie. Suddenly I feel so utterly lost – so utterly desolate.
I didn’t actually see Fran in person this morning at least, thank god – she was up and away early on her honeymoon, not that that stopped her trying to call me; send a million messages saying how sorry she was and how bad she feels, and I imagine how confused Toby must be by her behaviour right now. But I just couldn’t face it; couldn’t face her, not after what she did.
What they did.
Simon came to see me this morning, of course, waited in the lobby for me.
‘Please don’t let one mistake ruin everything,’ he pleaded, as I walked towards the exit. ‘I love you so much, Emily.’
I shook my head. ‘No, you don’t. And it wasn’t just one mistake, was it?’
He said nothing, his eyes forlorn, but the answer was in his silence.
‘We could still make it work,’ he tried.
‘No, we couldn’t. Not now.’
As I stare out the train window, I think how wrong I was.
About everything.
Five hours later, and I’m sat in a private health clinic – it’s amazing what you can achieve with a little extra money and a desperate plea for a cancellation. I’m guided through the private health assessment for the first hour, then for the second, tested: bloods, body fat percentage, height, weight and bowel screening. I’m told I’ll get the results in just forty-eight hours. A part of me can’t help hoping it’s something terminal (as unlikely as thatwould be before donating a heart) because then the choice will be out of my hands. But I already have a suspicion I’ll be fine – from the vaguely surprised looks on the doctors faces at a fit and healthy thirty-year-old girl doing this sort of check-up, from every burst of energy I’ve felt in this life. And for the first time since I’ve been here, this healthy body makes me sad – because I know it will most likely have been a preventable accident that killed Emily; know that ultimately, the decision will be in my hands – as long as everything else is still the same.
So, the next stop is home, of course – my real home. Just in case, somehow, the other version of me is doing better. Because isn’t that another option? That we both survive, somehow?
Then I see Mum coming out the door, wheeling me down that awful ramp, and I’m as pale and sickly as can be, my red hair tied limply behind me. And I know in that moment that nothing is different. I am dying, and it’s the most painful thing to watch, but at least now I know the truth.
The decision about who lives is mine. And how can I look away from it? There Emily was, going through something terrible, yet still having the courage to change her story, change her life, and there was me with her healthy heart doing absolutely . . . nothing. And perhaps that’s why it all happened when it did – I always wondered about the timing.
Her mother asked me to keep her alive in her letter but maybe the universe is telling me to keep her alive quite literally. Emily wanted to live so damn much. I can feel it.
But oh god, my family – Jess, Mum, Dad, the boys.
My life.
Later, I let myself back into my building and trudge up the stairs. No one was waiting for me at the station earlier, of course – not Charlie, not William. At least Sven messaged this morning, to see how I was and to tell me that Adam’s gone away already,and as I read the words on the screen, my heart ached. I pushed him away one too many times, and now he’s gone.
When I finally arrive at the top, I stare across at his flat, which seems so silent and dark now – no happy clattering around, no light above the door telling me he’s in, no sound of him bouncing down the steps to his workshop. I see a thousand moments we’ve had in such a short space unfolding like ghosts behind that door – cuddled together on his sofa or cooking something terrible in his kitchen, that night under the stars on the terrace and lying tangled together in his bed, decorating our first Christmas tree and laughing with friends. Good times. The best of times, which I may never get again, because in just three months, I might have to go.
For good.
Pulling down the blind to the world, I slide under the covers and, with my clothes still on, I press my face against the pillow and shut my eyes.
Days and nights pass in a blur and I spend most of it in bed either sleeping or putting on a movie like I used to in my own life on darker days. I wander to the bathroom when I need it, or to the kitchen for the leftovers of whatever takeaway I’ve ordered, then back again – after all, I doubt a month more of eating shit will actually do anything much now.
I should probably feel better equipped to deal with the possibility of dying, given I lived in this exact way for years, never really going anywhere or doing anything. Simply existing. But then all of this happened, and I experienced everything the world had to offer, every shiny glittery wonder in store.
And just when I’d fallen in love with it all, I find out it might be snatched away completely.
It’s perhaps on the third day that I get the test results by email – and with bated breath I sit up in bed and open it.
All clear – as suspected.
Which means there was nothing wrong with Emily, and the choice is mine: keep her safe on the day of the operation and save her, or save me.
