Page 78 of The Life We Almost Had

Four

My heart is racing too fast.

Three

I want to stop. I’ve changed my mind.

Two

I have to know.

One

Adam, I’m coming for you.

Chapter Forty-Three

Oliver

Oliver stares at the scanner through the window, his senses on high alert as he listens for signs that something is happening, watching to ensure Anna isn’t trying to climb out of the machine in panic, but she is still and silent.

‘Sofia?’ he asks quietly. He knows his assistant is studying the computer screen, while he stares through the window – he can’t tear his eyes away from the machine in the other room.

‘There’s nothing.’

‘Nothing as in it’s not recording or nothing as in the equipment isn’t doing what we thought?’

‘Either? Both? I can’t tell.’

‘What are you seeing?’

‘Darkness. Nothing but darkness. But we can’t expect it all to run smoothly the first time, can we? You know what Edison said: “I haven’t failed, I’ve just found ten thousand ways that didn’t work.” Let’s leave her for the thirty minutes and see if anything changes.’

But it doesn’t.

The computer screen remains black.

Chapter Forty-Four

Anna

My head is spinning. I’m dazed, disorientated. There’s a sense of having been picked up and dropped somewhere else entirely, and in a way I have. I am back at home in the UK. In bed. On the wall is the black and white framed photo of our wedding day. Adam’s forehead touching mine. My flower crown circling my head. On the bed next to me, my husband.

‘Adam.’ I burst into noisy tears.

‘Hey.’ He scoops me into his arms. At first I am stiff. Scared that if I move, Oliver will take it as a signal that I want to be brought back but I can feel my body is still, the movement only in my mind.

Adam’s mind.

The place where we’ve met in the middle.

I cling to him and he rhythmically strokes my back.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, but that only makes me cry harder. It isn’t okay. It isn’t okay at all. I try to calm myself. I’ve lost all concept of time, unsure how long I’ve been here. How long I have before I’m back in the Institute with my husband. My husband who can’t talk, laugh, move. Who can’t press me close to his body and whisper my name into my hair.I don’t want to waste a single second.

‘Adam.’ I wriggle backwards so I can see him properly. My fingertips brushing his face, his collarbone, his chest. Tracing the map-shaped birthmark on his arm, reassuring myself he is here, he is real and solid. I search his eyes for a sign that he knows that our meeting is only fleeting, that this is not our reality, but there is nothing.

‘Adam, I…’ What can I say? What should I say? What would be the point of telling him that this version of him, of us, is one his mind has conjured. That his real body lies broken in Alircia, kept alive by machines. I look around the room. The Yankee candle I always burn in the evenings is flickering on top of the drawers. I inhale; instead of the sterile smell of the scanner – bleach and disinfectant – there’s the aroma of lavender. It’s so real. I am incredulous that it isn’t. I tug the corner of the duvet towards my face to wipe my tears; it smells of Comfort fabric softener.

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