Heartbeat Away Read online

  Laura Summers grew up in South London and was a teacher before becoming a scriptwriter for many popular children’s TV series.

  Her first novel, Desperate Measures, won the AMI Literature Award and was nominated for the Carnegie Medal and shortlisted for the Waterstone’s Children’s Book Prize.

  Praise for Desperate Measures:

  ‘An exciting adventure with plenty of drama and humour . . . Thought-provoking and moving.’

  Books for Keeps

  ‘A fabulous book . . . incredibly poignant.’

  Birmingham Post

  First published in Great Britain in 2011

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Laura Summers, 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Laura Summers to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 84812 109 6 (paperback)

  eBook ISBN: 978 1 84812 193 5

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

  Cover design by Simon Davis

  Cover illustration by Sarah Kelly

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Waiting

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Waiting

  Waiting

  Everyone dreams of something incredible happening to them. Something that’ll completely change their life, for ever. Take Leah, my best friend: she’s desperate to wave goodbye to the estate and live happily ever after on some sun-drenched tropical island, feasting on coconuts and barbecued fish. My stepbrother, Danny, on the other hand, has set his heart on playing for Man United in the Cup Final, scoring the winning goal. And I know at least three tone-deaf wannabes who are going to win some big TV talent competition and instantly become rich and famous.

  I’m no different. I’ve been waiting two years now for the big thing that’s going to change my life, but, unlike most people, I don’t really like telling anyone what I’m waiting for, in case they get the wrong idea.

  You see, I’m waiting for someone to die. Not any old person, you understand; not Mr MacNamara my maths teacher or Shannon Walters or Masher Crombie, or anyone else I know for that matter. This special person will be a complete stranger. They’ll never meet me – in fact, they won’t even know I exist. And, although I now spend most of my days wondering and imagining who they are and what they’re like, I’m never really going to know anything about them – they might as well belong in a parallel universe.

  So, as I lie here, too exhausted to move, they’ll be going about their life, rushing around doing whatever it is that they do all day, then falling asleep at night, totally unaware that I exist – terrified, but waiting.

  Waiting for them to die so that I can live.

  1

  ‘Becky . . . Becky . . . come on, love, wake up.’

  I slowly open my eyes. Mum’s standing over the sofa in her dressing gown. I’ve been sleeping down here in the sitting room because I can’t manage the stairs to my bedroom any more. It’s like hiking up Mount Everest in my slippers.

  She reaches across to the sideboard with all my cross- country trophies, and switches on the little table lamp. Her face is creased with sleep and her short hair’s sticking up all over the place. I glance at the clock on the mantlepiece. Twenty to two.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  My stepdad, Joe, is in the hall, talking on the phone in low tones.

  ‘Is it Gran?’ I ask. ‘Is she OK?’

  ‘She’s fine. It’s the hospital. They want you in right away.’

  ‘Now?’

  Mum nods and looks at me warily.

  ‘But it’s the middle of the night!’

  ‘They think they might have a new heart for you.’

  My clapped-out old one misses a beat. ‘But . . .’

  ‘We’ve got to get going right now. Gran’ll be here for Danny.’

  Mum’s holding a blue backpack. It’s the one we bought when I first went on the transplant list. I stare at it blankly. It’s so long ago, I no longer have any idea what I carefully packed inside.

  ‘Mum . . .’

  ‘What, sweetheart?’

  ‘I . . . I can’t go.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I can’t go,’ I say more firmly. Mum looks at me anxiously. ‘I’m not ready,’ I tell her.

  ‘Not ready?’ She looks at me aghast. ‘Becky, we’ve waited months for this!’

  ‘It’s night-time . . .’ I’m clutching at straws now. ‘I haven’t washed my hair.’ I burst into tears. Mum hugs me like I’m four years old, instead of fourteen. Every night for the past few months, I’ve been having the same nightmare. And each night it’s become scarier. I’m being chased by a pack of red- eyed wolves. Totally exhausted, I stagger down to a river, but something’s in there, something that churns the water in its excitement to be fed. On the opposite bank, everyone is shouting and yelling at me to get across because it’s my only chance, but I never find out if I make it, because every night I wake to the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I’m drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Becky,’ says Mum.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I look at her long and hard. She doesn’t answer.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ I say.

  ‘You’d be silly if you weren’t,’ she whispers, her voice shaking, as she hugs me tighter and strokes my unwa
shed hair.

  I think about my nightmare and realise I have a choice. I can stay at home, wash my hair and slowly die over the next few months, or I can go to the hospital, let someone cut out my heart, sew a dead person’s heart in its place and then, just maybe, make it safely to the other side.

  Wherever that may be.

  2

  Joe drives us through the rain to the hospital. He and Mum start by chatting brightly, but after a while they run out of steam and fall silent, so he puts the radio on. A cheesy pop song blares out about someone giving someone else their heart. Mum glares at him, he catches on and quickly changes stations, tuning into a late night phone-in ‘for all those broken-hearted souls out there’.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she hisses.

  Slumped in the back of the car under a fleecy blanket, I watch a large drop of rain slowly trickle down the window.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ I whisper breathlessly, ‘it doesn’t matter,’ but she flicks the radio off and we drive on in silence for the rest of the journey. There isn’t much traffic and most of the shop-fronts have their metal shutters rolled down. We pass a group of people making their way home after a night out, laughing and joshing each other without a care in the world.

  There is a girl, much older than me but with long dark hair, just like mine used to be before it was all cut off because it’s easier to manage. She has her arm round her friend’s shoulder and they’re dancing along the wet pavement, singing in the rain. I catch her eye as we drive past and she impulsively smiles and waves. I slowly wave back, but instantly feel mean. She has no idea that I’m desperately wishing I could swap places with her, right now.

  It’s nearly three o’clock when we get to the hospital. Even though it’s the middle of the night, the place is bustling with people. Joe goes off to find me a wheelchair, then we check in at the reception before they wheel me up to the Cardiac Unit.

  I’m glad Mum is allowed to stay because about an hour later, when the nurse puts the clear plastic mask over my face, I suddenly panic. I’m expecting to smell gas or something, but there’s nothing. I have a terrible thought. What if the anaesthetic doesn’t work and I’m still awake while they operate?

  3

  ‘It’s all over now, Becky . . . Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.’

  I don’t have the faintest idea who’s talking to me, or what is all over, but my throat feels sore and my mouth is as dry as a pre-school sandpit.

  ‘Shall I get you some ice to suck?’ asks a different, chirpier voice.

  I’m not sure about this either, but I nod anyway, then direct all my energy into forcing my eyes open. I immediately wish I hadn’t. The sitting room is bright. Much too bright. The TV is on and beeping, but the programme is rubbish – just wavy lines and numbers. And someone has stolen my sofa. Totally confused, I look down and see thin plastic tubes attached to my wrist, arms and goodness knows where else. Some of them are linked to the TV.

  ‘How you feeling, love?’

  I’m sure I know that voice. Feeling slightly nauseous, I make a huge effort and slowly turn my head. Mum and Joe are sitting by the side of my bed. Behind them, standing in the doorway to a corridor and staring at me, is a tall boy with dark hair and dark brown eyes.

  ‘What have they done to Danny?’ I asked, bewildered.

  ‘He’s at school,’ says Joe.

  ‘You’re in the hospital, remember?’ adds Mum, stroking my forehead. ‘The nurse said you might feel a bit groggy when you first wake up.’

  I stare curiously at the large piece of wadding covering my chest, wondering how something so light could hurt so much. From down the corridor I can hear the sounds of doors banging and clattering, unknown voices, and phones constantly ringing. I take a deep breath, sucking in the smell of disinfectant tinged with boiled fish that hangs in the air. Two and two are slowly starting to make four.

  ‘Dr Sampson said it all went really well. Textbook stuff. Your mum and I had a good long chat with him yesterday,’ says Joe. There’s black stubble on his chin and dark circles under Mum’s eyes.

  A young nurse bustles in holding a glass containing ice cubes, followed by a woman with a stethoscope round her neck who smiles, says I’m looking good, then starts to check some of the wires attached to me. The boy’s gone. A little girl, hunched in a wheelchair and clutching an enormous furry pink rabbit, is wheeled past the doorway by a porter.

  ‘Yesterday?’

  ‘It’s Wednesday afternoon. You’ve had your new heart for over forty-eight hours,’ says Mum happily. ‘You’re not to worry any more, Becky,’ she adds. ‘Everything’s going to be all right from now on.’

  * * *

  After Mum and Joe have gone home for the first time in two days and I’m finally alone in my room for a few minutes, I look down at my chest again, covered by the piece of wadding. Inside me, my new heart is beating away, rhythmically and steadily, slowly bringing me back to life. My new life.

  At last I am going to be strong and well enough to do all the things I haven’t had the energy to even think about over the last two years. Soon I’ll be able to go out with my friends, even start cross-country training again. I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly. I can’t wait to feel the freedom of running flat out in the open air and knowing nothing bad is going to happen to me.

  A rush of euphoria floods through me, making me tingle with excitement and forget all the pain I’m in. My ordeal is over. Despite all the dangers, I’ve made it safely across to the other side of the river. I’ve done it. Well . . . not on my own, I’ve got Dr Sampson and his team to thank for that. And someone else, of course.

  My donor. I don’t even know his or her name. All I know is, this person shares the same blood group as me, and a few hours before I received their heart, their life ended. And it suddenly hits me: while my family is over the moon and celebrating right this minute, somewhere else my donor’s family is suffering and grieving. As the enormity of this and everything that has happened over the last few days starts to sink in, tears roll down my cheeks and, before I know it, I’m sobbing uncontrollably. The numbers on the monitor race up, higher and higher. It starts beeping angrily, and two nurses rush in.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell them as they hurriedly check me out, then, visibly relieved, reset the machine. ‘Really. I’m fine.’

  4

  Today, as the effects of the anaesthetic are wearing off, I’m beginning to feel I’m back in the land of the living. The nurses are still checking my temperature, blood pressure, pulse and oxygen levels every two hours, but Dr Sampson arrives and tells me how pleased he is with how it’s all going, and a physiotherapist called Sahasra comes to see me.

  She explains her name means ‘new beginnings’, which is very apt because she’s planning one for me right here and now, by helping me stand up for the first time since the operation.

  I ache all over, despite the painkiller flowing through the drip into my arm so I kick up as much fuss as I can, hoping she’ll have pity and leave me in peace.

  With a cheerful smile, my protests are totally ignored as Sahasra slowly helps me up. She might as well ask me to go ten rounds with a world champion sumo wrestler.

  I’ve just made it to my feet when, from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of someone else in the room. The last thing I want is an audience.

  ‘I feel like a performing monkey,’ I say, glancing over her shoulder at a dark-haired boy about my age, as Sahasra encourages me to gently walk a few paces on the spot. The boy doesn’t take the hint. I don’t care how ill he is, I think irritably, I’d never dream of staring at another patient the way he is at me.

  Lying back in bed a few minutes later, I feel as if I’ve just been run over by a train. Several times.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow and we’ll try something a bit more energetic,’ Sahasra promises with a smile. ‘A little walk, maybe, and a few gentle arm exercises.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I reply, looking up and realising my audience has got b
ored and gone. ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘Got to use that wonderful new heart,’ she retorts as she walks out of the room.

  5

  Within a week, all the tubes and drips attached to me are taken out, I’m walking up and down the corridor and they’ve weaned me from liquids onto proper food again. The meals aren’t too bad, so long as they don’t give me any meat. I used to love Mum’s roast dinners, but now just the thought of eating a ham sandwich makes me feel queasy. Instead, I seem to have developed a passion for peanut butter. I used to hate the stuff.

  I have to start taking tons of tablets every day. Dr Sampson tells me the main ones are called immunosuppressants and I’ll be on them for the rest of my life, because they stop my body trying to attack or reject my new heart. The big problem, he says, is that they lower the strength of my body’s immune system – the thing that protects me against infections – so when I’m back home I’ll have to tell Mum if I feel unwell or think I’m running a temperature, because an infection could lead to my new heart failing.

  Not surprisingly, I don’t want to think about this. I feel safe in the hospital, the ward is cleaned every single day, everyone has to wash their hands and arms up to the elbows with the anti-bacterial soap before they come near me, and visitors are banned if they have a cold.

  With each passing day, I’m feeling stronger and more like my old self before I got ill . . . until the morning Dr Sampson breaks the news that I’ll be going home later that day.

  ‘You don’t look very excited, Becky.’ With a mock frown, he turns to the two medical students by his side and shrugs. ‘Our patients have such a fantastic time here they never want to leave.’

  The students smirk politely as Dr Sampson turns back to me. ‘Well, spill the beans, Miss Simmons – what’s up?’

  ‘I suppose I’m just a bit nervous,’ I mumble, but I know it’s more than that. I’m petrified. When I go home, there will be germs everywhere.

  ‘All your test results were excellent. In fact, they couldn’t have been better. Your new heart is working beautifully. You’re far too well to be stuck in hospital, Becky,’ he says. ‘You need to be out there, getting your life back on track.’