The Donor Page 2

  Meg sits up, her mouth open. ‘Can we meet her?’

  ‘That’s what she’d like.’ I hesitate. ‘You know we’re not supposed to? Samira says—’

  ‘It isn’t Samira’s heart,’ Meg says strongly. ‘It’s mine.’ Her eyes flash. I should be leading her up the right path, I know, not pressing her to go against Samira’s advice. But … Meg knows her own mind. She’s a young woman who wouldn’t be here without the kindness of a stranger. And now she wants to say thank you.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Karen didn’t put a phone number in her letter, so I write back to the address at the top of the page. She lives in a town about an hour from us. I suggest meeting halfway in a café on a retail park. I give her my mobile number, and two days later I get a text.

  Thank you so much – you don’t know what this means to me. See you on Saturday. Karen xx

  I feel warm inside. We owe everything to this woman, and it feels good to do something – however small – to say thank you.

  Steve isn’t coming.

  ‘I’m working,’ he said, but it isn’t only that. He thinks I’m making a mistake.

  ‘Karen just wants to see the life her son saved,’ I said. ‘It’s a sort of closure for her.’ And for me, I think. In many ways Meg has coped better than me with the transplant. Like her dad, she’s focused on the future, but I can’t stop dwelling on the past. I’m hoping that meeting Karen will change that, and I can start to move on.

  We get to the café early, and I switch off the engine and look at Meg. ‘Ready?’

  She nods, her eyes shining with a mixture of excitement and nerves. ‘Ready.’

  I see Karen straight away. She isn’t the only woman sitting on her own, but she’s the only woman with eyes so full of pain it hurts to look at them. The only woman whose grief can be seen in the hollows of her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes.

  She stands up as we walk towards her table, and her bottom lip trembles. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, and I’m struggling too, because what is there to say? What could ever be enough?

  It’s Meg who finds a way. Meg who steps forward, who gently takes Karen’s hand and places it flat against her own chest and holds it firmly in place. Meg is trembling, and I move to stand next to her, one hand on the small of her back. Karen’s face pales. She closes her eyes and I think that perhaps she is going to faint, but a sad smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Jake,’ she whispers.

  ‘Thank you for my heart,’ Meg says softly. And we stand there, the three of us, forever linked by the heart beating beneath Karen’s fingers.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat jolts us into action. I turn to see a waitress staring at us in alarm. She must wonder what on earth we’re doing.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Tea, please.’ Karen and I speak at the same time, and we laugh, the awkward tension disappearing. We sit at the table where Karen’s jacket is slung over a chair.

  ‘How about you, love?’ I ask Meg. ‘Diet Coke?’

  She takes a moment to answer. ‘I think I’d like a coffee, actually.’

  I widen my eyes. ‘You don’t drink coffee.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve been craving it for ages – it’s really weird.’

  ‘I used to say Jake was powered by coffee, he drank so much.’ Karen smiles bravely.

  Meg turns to her. ‘Tell me about him. What was he like?’

  ‘He was seventeen – he’d just passed his test – and he loved messing about with cars. He was always out in the garage, hands covered in grease.’ Ga-rarge, she said, with an ‘ah’ in the middle. She has a beautiful voice, clear and rich, with every letter given a place. Posh, I suppose you’d call her. Her handbag has the glossy sheen of an expensive brand, and the lining of her jacket is so lovely you could wear it inside out. I bite my lip, feeling awkward in my Primark cardigan.

  Karen is telling Meg about Jake’s love of practical jokes, about his DVD collection, and how gentle he always was with her sister’s children. Shyly, she taps her phone and tilts the screen to show Meg. ‘Here he is.’ Her voice cracks on the final word.

  I lean across and see a handsome boy grinning at the camera. He’s in one of those long thin boats you see on the river, pushing a pole into the water.

  ‘He—’ Karen struggles to get out the words. ‘He had a place … at Oxford university.’

  My eyes fill with tears, and suddenly it doesn’t matter that Karen speaks posher than I do. It doesn’t matter that her handbag cost more than all my clothes. I still have my child, and she lost hers. I push back my chair with a scrape, and bend awkwardly by her chair, wrapping her up in a hug. ‘I’m so sorry you lost him.’

  There’s another cough. The waitress is standing with our drinks, looking even more confused than when she took our order.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, with an awkward laugh. ‘It’s all a bit emotional here.’

  We stay in the café for two hours, talking and crying, and ordering more pots of tea. My stomach rumbles and I realise it’s lunchtime. I glance at the list of sandwiches, chalked onto a blackboard above the counter. Karen follows my gaze.

  ‘Shall we have something to eat?’ she says. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll get this,’ I say quickly, even though we can’t afford to eat out whenever we want to.

  ‘I insist.’ Karen moves a hand across the table to touch mine. ‘You don’t know what it means to me, to meet Meg, to feel Jake’s heart keeping her alive.’ She stops short, her lips pulled thin as if she’s holding back tears.

  ‘Well then,’ I say. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

  Karen has a roast beef sandwich, and I order soup. Meg asks for baked beans on toast, and I give a short laugh. ‘Surprise surprise.’ I catch Karen’s eye and explain. ‘It’s all she’s wanted since the transplant. She barely touched them before.’

  Karen takes a sharp intake of breath. Her face has turned pale.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just …’ Karen shivers, like someone just walked over her grave. ‘First the coffee, now baked beans …’

  ‘Did Jake like beans?’

  ‘He loved them,’ Karen said. ‘One Christmas we went to one of those cash–and-carry places and wrapped up a huge tin of them – the sort they buy in restaurants. A stupid joke, but …’ She’s on the edge of tears again, but this time I don’t move to comfort her. A prickle of unease moves across the back of my neck.

  Steve and I joked about Meg’s sudden craving for beans. We knew from Samira that transplant patients often behave differently after surgery.

  ‘It’s a very traumatic process,’ she told us. ‘A big change for both mind and body, so you should be prepared to see some changes in Meg.’

  It never occurred to me that the cravings – the differences – might not have come from the surgery, but from the heart itself.

  ‘It’s called cell memory,’ Karen says, as if she can read my mind. Her gaze is intense, and I have to force myself to hold it. ‘The organ holds on to the features of the person it came from, and transfers them to the new body. There are lots of studies on it.’

  The new body. My blood runs cold. Meg, I want to say, her name is Meg. But I don’t. I listen to Karen tell me incredible stories of transplant patients who find they can speak languages they’ve never learned, and remember places they’ve never visited. Surely that isn’t possible?

  ‘Doctors can’t explain it,’ Karen says, ‘but too many people have seen it, for it not to be real. Some things are bigger than science.’

  Meg is wide-eyed. I squeeze her hand. ‘Don’t let it worry you, love.’

  ‘Worry me?’ She frowns, confused at my words. ‘It’s incredible!’ She looks at Karen, and one hand creeps to her chest. ‘It’s like I’m two people now. Me, and Jake.’ Tears spring to her eyes, and when I look at Karen I see she’s crying too.

  And sud
denly I have the strangest feeling that they are the mother and daughter, and I am the outsider. I force a smile, and eat my lunch. Karen finds tissues and hands one to Meg, who blows her nose, then tucks in to her beans.

  ‘Could we …’ Karen says hesitantly, when we’ve finished eating. ‘Could we do this again sometime?’

  No.

  The voice whispers in my head, taking me by surprise. Where did that come from? Karen’s son saved Meg’s life – why shouldn’t she see Meg again?

  Say no.

  The voice is urgent, like the feeling in your chest when you walk past a dark alley late at night, or step too close to the cliff edge on a summer walk. But those reasons are valid. Sensible. You can see the risks. Why am I hearing a warning now?

  ‘I know we’re not supposed to,’ Karen says, a flush filling her cheeks, ‘but I’m finding things so hard without Jake and Michael—’ She breaks off, pressing her lips together as if she’s holding back a sob.

  ‘Michael?’ I glance at Meg, who gives a tiny shake of her head. She doesn’t know either. This is the first time Karen has mentioned a Michael.

  Karen takes a deep breath, then looks up. ‘My husband,’ she says softly. ‘He was in the accident with Jake. I lost both my boys that day.’

  I bring my hands to my mouth, but I can’t stop the cry that escapes me. Life is so unfair. That poor woman. I try to imagine life without Steve and Meg, but I can’t – my world would be empty without them.

  ‘Of course you can see Meg again,’ I say.

  I ignore the voice in my head that tells me I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.

  Chapter 3

  Helping Out

  I blink my eyes, gritty from staring at a screen for too long. I’ve been reading about cell memory, and my head is spinning. The article I’ve just read is about a woman in America who got a heart from a man who was shot in the face. Soon after the operation – without knowing anything about the man who died – she began having nightmares about flashes of light, fired at her face.

  Another article told of a vegetarian who suddenly craved meat, and a footballer who got keen on dancing. Features that had clung to the hearts as they were removed, only to be passed to their new owners.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ I say out loud. I’m no scientist, but surely cravings for salt and vinegar crisps aren’t held in an organ’s DNA?

  But there’s no doubt about it. Meg has changed. She’s a night-owl, when she used to be a lark. She’s drinking coffee, when she used to drink tea, and Irn-Bru, instead of Diet Coke. All her life she’s wanted to be a teacher, now suddenly she’s looking at courses to teach outdoor pursuits.

  ‘It’s all perfectly normal,’ Samira says, when I share my concerns. ‘A big operation makes patients look at their lives – they often change direction.’

  Jake liked outdoor pursuits, I want to say. But I can’t tell her I ignored everything she told me, and answered Karen’s letter. I can’t tell her we met up, that Karen bought us lunch, that I’ve agreed to see her again. I can’t tell her any of that.

  ‘There’s absolutely no evidence that cell memory is real,’ Samira says.

  ‘Then how do you explain the case studies I read?’ I tell her about the gunshot to the face, and the dancing footballer.

  Samira sighs. ‘Nurses talk. Doctors, too. They’re not supposed to, but it happens. Snippets of detail here and there, in the operating theatre, on the wards. Patients don’t even know they’re hearing it, but they pick up bits. Later, their mind spits it back out again like it’s coming straight from them.’

  I want to believe her. I don’t want to think that, inside Meg, beats a heart that carries enough of Jake’s personality to change my little girl’s.

  ‘Your footballer,’ Samira says, ‘he probably heard someone talking about a dancer as he was going under.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say slowly, ‘but why would the doctors talk about someone liking beans. Why would they even know that about a donor?’

  Samira laughs. ‘Lots of kids like beans, Lizzie.’

  ‘Meg used to hate them.’

  ‘So she’s changed her mind! There’s nothing to suggest that came from Meg’s donor.’

  I let it drop. I can’t push any further in case Samira begins to wonder.

  The following Sunday I’m cooking tea – if you can call bunging a frozen pizza in the oven cooking – when the doorbell rings.

  ‘Can you get that, love?’ I ask Steve.

  He’s home early for a change, and I promised Meg she could choose tea. I’m normally quite strict about meat and two veg, but pizza and chips doesn’t hurt once in a while. Call it a celebration for Meg’s first week back at school.

  I check the chips and turn them over so they crisp up nicely. I hear the front door open, then voices, too quiet for me to hear above the extractor fan. It’ll be the Red Cross people – they dropped in an envelope earlier this week. I look around the kitchen but can’t see it. Bugger. Now we’ll have to give them a quid, instead of shoving in a few coppers and handing it back sealed.

  I bend down to put the chips back in the oven, just as Steve comes into the kitchen. ‘There’s a pound coin in my purse,’ I say, without looking.

  ‘Hello, Lizzie.’

  I’m so surprised I let go of the baking tray, burning the back of my hand on the rack above it. ‘Shit!’ I snatch it back, cradling it in my other hand as I stand up, closing the oven door with my foot.

  Karen Edwards is standing in the door of my kitchen, her face a study of concern. ‘You need to get that under the cold tap,’ she says. When I don’t move, she crosses the kitchen and steers me firmly to the sink, running the tap and holding my wrist so the water cascades over the burn.

  ‘I – I’m fine,’ I say, when I’m able to speak. My hand throbs, but it isn’t the burn that’s closing my throat, making it hard to form words. It’s Karen’s grip, tight around my wrist, holding me in place. She’s so close I can smell her perfume – musky, expensive – and feel the swing of her hair on my neck.

  ‘Do you have a first aid kit?’ She’s talking to Steve, as if I’m a child.

  ‘Um, I don’t think so.’

  Karen makes a faint tutting noise – so faint that I’m not sure if I’ve imagined it.

  ‘It’s in the bathroom,’ I say, although the shelf of out-of-date aspirin and dusty dressings can hardly be called a ‘kit’. ‘But really, I’m fine.’ I turn off the tap with my free hand and turn my body so Karen has to release me. ‘This is a surprise.’ I paste a smile on my face.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you? My dropping in, like this?’ She addresses her question to Steve, whose reply is polite, even though I can see the doubt in his eyes. I didn’t tell him Karen wanted to see Meg again, and I don’t know what he’ll say if Karen brings it up now.

  ‘Of course not. It’s good to meet you.’ There’s an awkward pause. ‘Um, I’ll tell Meg you’re here.’

  No!

  It’s still there – the warning voice in my head that I can’t explain. I remind myself of everything Karen has lost, and paste a smile on my face. ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  Karen looks around the kitchen as I boil the kettle, her gaze resting on the calendar, the photographs on the fridge, the pile of bills on the side.

  ‘Pizza for supper?’ she says, seeing the boxes.

  ‘We hardly ever have it,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Everything in small amounts, isn’t that what they say?’ She’s agreeing with me, so why does it feel like a criticism?

  There is a sound of running feet on the stairs, and Meg bursts into the kitchen. ‘Karen!’ They hug, then Karen puts a hand flat on Meg’s collarbone. They exchange a smile, then Karen takes back her hand. The whole thing lasts only a few seconds, but I can tell that this is a ritual, now. Karen will feel Jake’s heart every time she sees Meg. It’s why she came.

  ‘Are you staying for tea?’ Meg says.

  Karen looks at me. ‘Oh, I don’t
think—’

  ‘There’s plenty, isn’t there, Mum?’

  I’m cornered. ‘Masses. Do stay, Karen.’

  So she stays. Not that she eats much. She pushes her chips around her plate, and cuts up her pizza into tiny pieces, leaving the stuffed crust for Steve to eye hungrily.

  ‘I’ve been googling what you said about cell memory,’ Meg says. I look up in surprise. I haven’t said anything to Meg about my own research, and only mentioned it to Steve in passing. ‘It’s incredible,’ she adds. Looking at me and her dad in turn, she begins to tell us about the exact same case studies I spoke to Samira about. ‘And she actually saw the gunshots in her dream,’ Meg finishes, with a dramatic flourish.

  ‘How weird,’ Steve says. I had expected him to shoot the theory down in flames, but there’s no hint of disbelief in his face, only amazement. Despite him telling me it was a bad idea for me and Meg to meet Karen, there’s no sign of concern now. He’s not one for small talk, but now he’s chatting away to Karen like they’re best mates. I feel a prickle of jealousy.

  ‘Have you noticed any other changes since your transplant, Meg?’ Karen has put her knife and fork together, her plate still almost as full as when I set it down. ‘You mentioned the cravings for beans, and the changes to your body clock – is there anything else? Are you watching the same sorts of things on television, for example?’

  Meg thinks, a piece of salami speared on her waiting fork. ‘I ended up watching a Western the other night, when I couldn’t sleep, and I was surprised by how into it I was!’ She laughs, but Karen lets out a little sound, halfway between a breath and a cry.

  ‘Jake loved Westerns. Always did. Anything with Clint Eastwood, in particular.’

  Meg stares at her, open-mouthed. ‘This had Clint Eastwood in it!’

  So do eighty per cent of the Westerns they show on Freeview, I think.

  Karen holds up both hands in an I rest my case sort of way, and I glance at Steve. He’s looking at Meg with a new expression in his eyes, like he’s never seen her before. I know that face. It mirrors my own. Meg is our daughter. We’ve known her for fourteen years – we know her better than anyone else. But now it’s like she’s becoming someone else.