Page 96 of The Love of Our Lives
But it could still be a coincidence, right? Lots of things probably happened on that day.
I know exactly what will confirm it.
‘My phone,’ I say, panic flooding me now. ‘Where is it?’
‘Maggie,’ Mum says now, resting her hand on my arm, ‘you really have to rest, try not to strain yourself.’
But I don’t care about straining myself – this is too important.
‘Please, Mum,’ I say, looking at her. ‘I can’t explain it right now; I just really need to look at something.’
‘OK,’ she says eventually, reaches into her bag. A second later I have it in my hand, and then I’m stabbing in my pin code, searching the internet for her name. And then I see it – an obituary.
With the name Emily Perin at the top.
I open it.
And through my tears I see a picture of her smiling face flashing up on the screen, or should I say my face – it was only moments ago, after all. Then the article below about an Emily Perin, who died tragically on 25July one year ago of a brain aneurism.
Brain aneurism.
Which means I couldn’t have stopped it; could never have done anything at all.
And now I’m weeping as I read the rest, about how she was an only child, and leaves behind her devastated parents and partner.
Adam.
Except this time, I’m crying for the real Emily – not just one on paper, but for the girl who I know really lived her life, who, when faced with a life that made her sad, had the tenacity to go change it, not really knowing what would be there on the other side, or who she might meet along the way. The girl who found her passion in life and in the world around her. The girl who allowed herself to love again after the worst hurts and be loved back by the most amazing man. The girl who got pregnant and learned to live in the smaller moments, before realising those were the biggest of all; right up until her final second.
I know it because I saw it; all of it.
Call it a parting gift from her or a glitch in the universe, but I felt it with every fibre of my being, every high, every low, every wonderful moment this world has to offer.
And I know now that that was why I was there.
What the reason was all along.
‘Maggie,’ Jess is saying now, holding my shoulder as I sob; tears of grief, tears of absolute devastation, but at the same time, something I’ve never experienced in this body before.
‘Maggie, are you OK?’ she’s saying through the fog of it all.
And then that feeling surges up through me – a mixture of vastness and newness and most importantly, hope.
And as Jess grips my shoulder, all I can do is smile up at her through my tears, and say a simple, ‘Yes.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
AFTER
It takes a day or two to be released from the hospital, even though I keep reassuring the doctors over and over that I’m absolutely fine. I know I need to take it slow again, now that I’m in my old body, but at the same time, I don’t. I’ve spent a whole year running around carefree, finally feeling intensely alive, and then being convinced that I’m about to die – that I have this endless feeling of wonder about the body I’m still in.
That I have more time – time to see the people I love, time to pursue my interests, time to enjoy pasta and cake and champagne, if it’s called for.
Because in whatever long, stretching years (because they are long when I really think about it now) I have left, it would be an insult to Emily and her unborn child to waste one moment – one second.
The first thing I do – the first thing I have to do – as soon as I’m discharged from the hospital, is go see her. Because the obituary also mentioned a remembrance spot and as I read where it was, it all made total sense.
Mum started fretting, of course, when I headed out alone into the sunny afternoon, talking about coats and medications and being careful. But I simply turned to her and told her calmy, but firmly, that I would be absolutely fine. And even though she didn’t look entirely convinced, I’m sure I saw a hint of smile when I walked away down the street.
