Page 91 of The Love of Our Lives
‘It’s you,’ she says.
‘It is.’
There are a number of other patients on the ward, so I suppose it doesn’t seem all that strange that I’m looking in. Still, I should probably try to explain myself, and I never could lie to her.
‘My friend just had her first baby,’ I say, ‘then I went for a wander and ended up . . . here, somehow.’
Mum nods, and I notice how tired she looks suddenly, how utterly drained.
‘I’ve not seen you at the shop lately,’ she says after a moment.
‘I know, I meant to come down but I had a lot of things on my plate and—’
She holds her hand up quickly. ‘Don’t worry at all, I thought you’d just been out and about . . . having fun.’
She looks through the glass now, and I try to decide what to do.
I suppose I could make my excuses now; walk away. But something stops me and I know it’s now or never. After all, this might be the last time I speak to Mum before I die. Or it might not.
I don’t know yet.
‘Is she your daughter?’ I say, as she gazes at my other self through the glass. It’s funny because I never remember herwatching me like this; she was always right there above me, close to me. I suppose I never saw all these other moments when I was asleep – the ones where all she could do was worry and wait.
‘She is,’ Mum says slowly. ‘Heart failure . . . she needs a new one now, or . . .’ she tails off and I swallow.
How can I put them through more pain? Here she is, right in front of me, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it will kill her if she loses another child. I can’t do it.
‘She seems . . . peaceful, right now,’ I say eventually, unsure what else I can possibly say – what comfort I can offer.
‘She is peaceful, yes,’ Mum replies, sighs.
A beat.
‘I just wanted more for her than that.’
I pause, look at her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘It must have been a terrible thing,’ she continues quietly, as though she’s not even talking to me anymore, ‘losing her sister like that, but she let it dictate everything. I’m not sure she ever knew she was allowed to go out and live, and I don’t think I helped with that, if I’m honest. I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing her too . . . and now here she is, an inch away from death, and she can’t die now. I won’t let her die. Do you know why?’
I shake my head, alarmed almost by this openness from her. In the shop we always just talked clothes and nothing else, like it was her little getaway place from the real world.
‘She hasn’t experienced all the great parts yet . . . all the best bits,’ Mum says finally, ‘so that’s why we have to get her a heart. That’s why this can’t be the end for her.’
I find a small tear spilling from my eye, as I fight back my surprise – that she wanted me to live bigas much as anyone. Then I got the transplant, and nothing changed, but maybe that’s also because I didn’t try to change. I let Mum run the show because I felt guilty. And I just wish I could tell her right now,that if I get that chance again, I’ll take it. I’ll take it and run with it for everyone’s sake. I can have just as big a life as anyone else, limited heart or not, because in the ways that mattered, it was never limited at all, I’m seeing now. And I don’t see how I can die on them now; don’t see how I can rip their lives up again.
Two lives.
One heart.
No one should have to make this choice.
I’m starting to feel a little dizzy from it all, a little lightheaded – the lights above are shining too brightly and everything sounds a bit muffled around me. Suddenly it’s like my legs are giving way beneath me and I hear Mum saying something like, ‘Are you OK?’.
I’m groggy when I wake sometime later, somewhere in the hospital. I’m in a bed at the end of a ward it seems. There are patients in the other beds. My head hurts and my mouth is dry.
What the hell happened?
I shouldn’t be in a hospital bed because there’s nothing wrong with me. Is there?
