Page 88 of The Love of Our Lives
Jess nods, somewhat sadly.
‘How . . . how is she?’ I say, swallow. ‘She had a heart condition, I think?’
Of course I know exactly how I was at this point, but I still need to hear it out loud. Just in case something has miraculously changed.
But then Jess shakes her head. ‘Not good,’ she says, as a fat tear falls from her eye, and in that moment, I know that it’s no different.
My old heart is starting to fail.
As Jess covers her face with her hands, in an unexpected display of emotion from her, I find myself walking over and enveloping her in my arms.
‘Oh god, I’m sorry,’ she says, pulling away sharply, in a way that is so much more like Jess – strong, guarded, resilient.
‘That’s all right,’ I say, aching to hold her again, to breath in that family scent of home again. Real home.
She sniffs, wipes her nose with a tissue. ‘Anyway,’ she mutters, like she’s been caught out, ‘I’d better get back to my boys; they’re waiting for me with my husband in the car.’
As she turns and walks up the pebble pathway, I think,I love you so much, and I miss you so much it kills me – our aimless chats, our movie nights and how you always kept pushing forme to live – and I’m sorry for the pain you’re going through, because of me.
Suddenly I know I have to survive so I can have more of those seemingly small moments with Jess and the boys again. Even better ones, now I know how big they truly are.
And what the hell would my family do if I died? How could I do that to Jess, to all of them, after everything they’ve already been through?
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out.
Charlie calling.
For a moment, I’m not sure if I should pick up here – I’m in a crematorium after all, in front of my sister’s memorial.
But then, Charlie’s pregnant and alone today – I was thinking I should pop over anyway, and I get that horrible jolt again that I’ll never actually get to meet her baby.
‘Hey,’ I answer. Holding the phone to my ear, I start to walk towards the exit.
Silence, and then a groan.
‘Charlie,’ I say, walking faster now, ‘are you OK?’
Another pause, then, ‘No, the baby’s coming, I think . . . but it’s too early and Sven’s not—’
Another groan.
‘OK, stay where you are,’ I say, ‘I’m coming for you.’
‘No,’ she says sharply, ‘I’m in a taxi already. But can you meet me at the hospital? Oh god, I’m so scared.’
‘Of course,’ I say, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
I’d thought that after seeing Charlie in the hospital up north, I’d be more prepared for this. But as I run quickly through the corridors, it all comes rushing back to me – the white walls, the blue linoleum I’ve tread down so many times before, for tests and appointments, discussions with doctors.
And I know that somewhere else in this building, my other self is lying in another bed right now, dying.
But just for this moment, I push it all out of my head again, as I round the corner on to the ward reception gave me. I jumped in a taxi as quickly as I could, leaving Adam a voice message for whenever they came into signal again. And I just pray that they’ll get it soon. Because this baby has to be OK – I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t. I don’t know what Charlie would do if it isn’t, and I can’t help wondering why life has to be like a horrible game of Russian roulette at times. Why some things go well and some things go so very wrong. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, no way we can always mould things to what we want. Life is fragile and precarious and can be extinguished in an instant. And as I see the ward number, I can feel my heart thumping,please be OK, please be OK, all the while knowing that if the worst happens, I will be there for her no matter what.
Walking into the room, I can see Charlie already on a bed, her face contorted with pain; several doctors and nurses around her.
I rush up and take her hand in mine.
‘I’m here,’ I say, as she rides through what must be a contraction, ‘I’m here.’
