Heartbeat Away Page 3

  He doesn’t answer me straight away. He presses the long elegant fingertips of his two hands together and inspects them thoughtfully for a few seconds.

  ‘Becky, most kids your age will never have to face even a tiny fraction of the difficulties or dilemmas that you’ve been through over the last two years. Transplant surgery is traumatic . . . even when it’s successful.’

  ‘But I feel so different.’

  ‘You’re on a cocktail of extremely strong drugs. Some of their side effects are psychological, I’m afraid. You’ll get mood changes. You will feel different, but it’s perfectly normal in the circumstances. To be frank, I’d be a little concerned if all this didn’t affect you.’

  ‘So I might have different likes and dislikes or do stuff I didn’t do before the transplant?’

  Dr Sampson nods. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But I don’t feel I’m just me any more. I’ve got a part of someone else inside me.’

  ‘It’s natural you feel a link to your donor – guilt even. They were a living person and you’ve got their heart. It’s a huge emotional thing. Life-changing. But the organ you’ve received from them is just purely that – a muscular pump to transport your blood around your body.’ Dr Sampson looks at me with his serious blue eyes. ‘Would you like to talk to someone about all this? In depth, I mean?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ I say. ‘No . . .’ I shake my head and give a small sigh. ‘No . . . I don’t think so . . .’

  ‘You’ll feel better when you get back to school, Becky,’ Mum interrupts, eyeing me anxiously. ‘I think she just needs a bit of normal routine, Dr Sampson. Let things settle down a bit.’

  Dr Sampson nods. ‘We do allow our patients to write to their donor’s families,’ he tells me. ‘A letter can be passed to them but mustn’t have any details of who you are, where you live or any questions about your donor. But don’t be upset if you don’t hear back,’ he adds quietly. ‘Some families aren’t ready to respond. You’ve got to remember they’ve lost someone very precious.’

  11

  Over the next two weeks, I try to compose a letter to my donor’s family. It’s difficult to put into words how I feel, and once I’ve tried to express how grateful I am, I don’t know what else to say. What can I say? I’m alive; my donor’s dead. Just by writing to his or her family I’m rubbing this cold hard truth in their faces. I’m worried I’ll say the wrong thing and upset them more.

  After all the odd things that have happened to me recently, I desperately want to know more about my donor, but, even if I knew where to start, I’m not allowed to ask. I’m a stranger writing to other strangers and we have to remain this way for ever. I come to a stumbling halt on my fifth attempt, the day before Christmas Eve.

  It’s late. I’ve been going round and round in circles, trying to put the right words in the right order, and in the end I bundle all the letters into the back of the drawer in my desk. I get into bed, deciding I’ll try again after Christmas. This time of year is bound to make everything worse for them. Christmas is about being with your family.

  As I shut my eyes, thoughts of Dad flood into my head. I try to picture his face, but it’s so long since I’ve seen him, his features appear blurry and faded like in an old photograph. A lump forms in my throat as I wonder where he’s living now and whether he ever even thinks about me. Throughout the night, I dream about him coming home again.

  When I wake quite late the following morning, my room is unusually bright. I lift the curtain and peek through the window to discover our street draped in a thick white blanket of snow.

  The peacefulness outside is punctuated only by the excited shrieks and yells from neighbouring kids having snowball wars and rolling huge lumpy snowmen in their back gardens.

  ‘Becky, it’s been snowing!’ yells Danny, banging furiously on my bedroom door as if it’s a national emergency. ‘There’s tons and tons of it!’

  ‘I know, you dingbat!’

  He bursts into my room dressed in about six layers of clothing including two hats, one jammed down on top of the other. I suppress a giggle as he rushes over to my window, peering out to check that the view from my room is no different to his. He whoops in delight. ‘Whaaaaahay! I’m going to make a giant snowman! Big as this house! Race you out there!’

  For a second, I feel a tingle of excitement. Then, as I stare out of my window, I have another vision. I’m inside some sort of van, being driven through an icy, snow-covered street. I’m celebrating. There’s joking and laughing until, without warning, we skid out of control and come to an abrupt halt. I’m frightened now. Someone’s yelling. Distressed, I finally realise it’s Danny.

  ‘Come on, Becky!’ he’s shouting. ‘Why are you just sitting there like a big fat lemon?’

  I look up and shudder. My heart’s thumping and Danny’s jumping up and down in excitement by my window. One of his two hats falls off onto the floor and he scoops it up and jams it back on top of the other as, through the window, I glimpse a small girl with long, dark hair, standing in the road, crying.

  And I don’t know why, but tears start to prickle in my eyes too. For a brief moment, I want to rush out there and tell her it’s all right. Not to cry. Confused, I quickly turn away so Danny doesn’t see my face.

  ‘You coming out to play or what?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I mumble, quickly wiping my eyes with the back of my hands.

  ‘You’re so boring, Becky! Your head could fall off and you wouldn’t even notice!’ he shouts, running out of my room and charging down the stairs.

  I look back out of the window but the girl’s gone. Was she real, I suddenly wonder, or did I imagine her too? Bewildered, I fling open the window and crane my head left and right in case she’s further along the street, but there’s no sign of her. I tell myself that she must be one of the neighbouring kids from along the road.

  Downstairs, Danny runs out of the front door, slamming it noisily behind him. He dances onto the lawn, scoops up huge handfuls of snow and flings them joyfully into the air. I watch him for a minute, deciding that snow is for tough, bounce-proof kids like him to roll around on, get soaked by and catch colds in. I realise I’m shivering, so I lean back inside and close my window, but it doesn’t help.

  As I try to block out the memory of that girl’s tearful expression, I pull on an extra jumper and glance around my room. It still doesn’t seem right. I can’t relax. Carefully and quietly, so no one will hear, I push my desk back to where it was a few days ago. This looks worse.

  Suddenly I know exactly what’s wrong. It’s been staring me in the face since I got home from hospital, but I haven’t twigged. My wallpaper. Huge sugary-pink tea roses splattered onto a pale peachy-pink background. I chose this wallpaper when I was seven and Dad was living with us. I’ve loved it for years. I still love it. It’s a link to him. I bite my lip to stop myself from getting upset, because, despite all this, I realise it just has to go. Right now.

  12

  I hurry downstairs. I can hear Mum and Joe’s voices from the sitting room. A few months ago, I’d over-heard Mum telling Gran that she was dreading Christmas this year because I was getting so weak. She hadn’t said a single word to me about how worried she was, but she didn’t need to. Day by day she’d become quieter and quieter, while Joe made up for her long brooding silences by forcing himself to be unnaturally jolly. I realise now she’d been wondering if I’d still be alive on Christmas Day.

  Now my operation has been successful, it’s as if a huge heavy cloud has been lifted. They’re both like a couple of over-excited kids at a party.

  I peep around the door and see them giggling as they wrestle an oversized Christmas tree into position in the corner of the room. They don’t notice me, so I quickly tiptoe back down the hall and yank open the door to the cupboard under the stairs, where Joe stores all the tins of paint.

  Urgently, I start rifling through the tins. Although I have no idea what I’m looking for, I know none of them is quite right. Then
I see a big tin at the back, half hidden by a pile of buckets. Banging my knuckle in my hurry, I drag it out, then frantically rub the dust from the front. It’s a chalky blue emulsion. Underneath my unease and panic, I feel a strange stab of relief. It’s the perfect colour. I reach into the cupboard again, snatch a roller and the paint tray, then bundle everything upstairs to my room like a thief.

  Mum is going to kill me when she finds out, I think, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop even if I want to.

  13

  ‘Becky!’ calls Mum from the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute!’ I call back, wiping a smudge of blue paint from my face as I warily check out my handiwork. It isn’t the most professional job in the world, I have to admit, but all my wallpaper is well and truly covered. Unfortunately, so is some of my carpet, and my desk and wardrobe are splattered with several random blobs. Despite the mess, despite how I loved my room as it was, despite not understanding why I’ve just done what I’ve done, I feel so much better. I can breathe now. My room’s the colour of the sky on a clear cloudless day. I shove the paint tray, roller and the empty tin of paint under my bed, and head downstairs to the kitchen.

  ‘Joe’s been shopping,’ says Mum with a grin, nodding at a load of brown paper carrier bags sitting on the table.

  ‘Great,’ I say, forcing a smile.

  ‘Ta da!’ he trumpets, whipping out Christmas decorations like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. You name it, he’s bought it – sparkly baubles, foil lanterns, metres and metres of furry, shiny tinsel, masses of fairy lights, a couple of blow- up reindeer and at least three snowmen.

  ‘And finally!’ he announces proudly, producing a huge, tacky Santa doll and flicking the switch on its back.

  ‘Ho ho ho! Merry Christmas one and all!’ it croaks repeatedly as its head lolls from side to side and its arms flap manically up and down, like a demented red-coated furball.

  ‘That is sooooo gross!’ I tell them. ‘It’ll freak the pants off Danny!’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Mum says firmly. ‘He’ll love it!’

  ‘It’s Christmas, Becky!’ Picking up the Santa, Joe starts prancing up and down the kitchen. Laughing and pretending to protest, Mum’s swept up in his arms and they dance around the table. As I squirm with embarrassment, Danny rushes in from the garden, half soaked and covered in snow.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asks, darting a wary glance at Mum and Joe.

  I shrug.

  ‘And what’s all that blue stuff on your hands?’

  I instantly hide my hands behind my back and try to hush him, but Mum has noticed. She unhitches herself from Joe’s arms and looks at me.

  ‘Becky? What have you been up to?’

  ‘Um . . . Nothing. Much.’ But it’s useless lying. ‘I . . . just fancied a change.’

  ‘What sort of change?’ Her voice is suspicious now.

  There’s no point in delaying things. ‘I’ve given my room a bit of a makeover,’ I say uneasily.

  Mum throws a look at Joe, then rushes upstairs.

  ‘Becky!’ she yells down a few seconds later. ‘What on earth’s got into you?’

  14

  Joe sees the funny side, but I can tell Mum is planning on being cross with me for the rest of the day. Although I do feel guilty about painting my room, I just can’t explain to her, or even to myself, why I did it. Fortunately, Gran and her sister, Auntie Vi, arrive a couple of hours later, so Mum parks her annoyance to concentrate on welcoming them.

  ‘Ooooh, lovely! Just like Santa’s grotto, isn’t it?’ laughs Gran, as she and Auntie Vi fight their way through all the tinsel.

  ‘Thought we’d push the boat out, now Becky’s well again,’ says Joe. He takes Gran’s overnight bag and gives her a hug.

  ‘Quite right too,’ she replies, glancing at me. ‘You’re looking a picture of health, Becky, isn’t she, Vi?’

  ‘A picture,’ Auntie Vi echoes.

  I manage to avoid kissing them both, in case they have colds. Auntie Vi lives near Gran and has three mangy cats that are always jumping up on her kitchen worktop or are fast asleep on the breadbin. She is carrying a huge, battered cake tin.

  ‘Just a few mince pies, dear,’ she says, handing me the tin. Hesitantly, I peek inside. There must be at least forty pies jemmied in there.

  ‘Thanks, Auntie.’

  ‘The other tins are in my shopping trolley.’

  I throw a glance at Mum, who fires back a ‘You mind your manners’ look.

  ‘Auntie Vi,’ she says warmly, ‘you really shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.’ She means it.

  ‘There’s nothing quite like a homemade mince pie,’ chips in Gran, cheerfully.

  Too right, I think, desperately trying not to visualise the cat hairs embedded in the pastry.

  Despite Auntie Vi’s dodgy pies, this Christmas turns out to be wonderful. The snow outside makes everything inside that bit more cosy, Mum forgives me for painting my room, and her and Joe’s good mood quickly spreads to us all.

  For the first time in over two years, the house is full of laughter and fun, and Auntie Vi and Gran playing charades is the most hilarious thing I’ve seen since Masher dressed up as his mum one open evening and managed to fool Mr MacNamara . . . for about ten minutes.

  On Christmas Day, as it gets dark outside, we all snuggle on the sofas in the sitting room. Gran is sipping a glass of sweet sherry and reminiscing about the last time she saw her and Auntie Vi’s sister Ruby, who lives in America now, while Danny and Auntie Vi battle it out on his new extreme sports Wii game. Joe pretends he’s listening and watching but is really nodding off. Mum leans over to me and whispers, ‘Happy Christmas, Becky,’ and I realise that I do actually feel OK for the first time in ages.

  Going back to school might not be too bad after all, I think. I’m healthy now, getting stronger by the day, and although I’ve changed a bit since my transplant and a few odd things have been going on, there’s nothing I can’t handle.

  I’m at the top of the stairs on my way to bed when it happens. When he happens. Suddenly his face is in front of me. He’s staring at me, with fierce dark eyes and his mouth twisted in anger. My heart misses a beat as I realise that it’s the boy from the hospital.

  I do the only thing I can think of. I scream.

  15

  ‘Becky, what’s the matter?’

  Mum and Joe charge out of the sitting room and crash up the stairs, the panic showing in Mum’s eyes.

  ‘Did you fall?’

  ‘I . . . I thought I saw someone,’ I tell them, struggling to stop my voice shaking.

  ‘What d’you mean, you saw someone? Who?’

  ‘A face – a boy’s face.’

  ‘What boy?’ Joe looks puzzled. ‘Has Danny been mucking about?’

  ‘Not Danny. This boy was staring at me and then he was gone!’

  ‘Come on, Becky, you’re imagining things – there’s no one here.’ Mum puts her arm around me as Joe checks out the landing and peers into the bedrooms and the bathroom. I bury my face in the warmth of her jumper, trying to block out what I’ve seen.

  ‘There’s no one in here, Becky. It must have been a trick of the light or something,’ Joe calls.

  ‘You haven’t been knocking back Gran’s sherry, have you?’ asks Mum suspiciously.

  ‘Course not!’ I scan their faces. Biting back the tears, I realise they don’t believe me.

  ‘Everything all right?’ calls Gran from downstairs. She and Auntie Vi are peering up at us from the foot of the stairs.

  A sleepy-eyed Danny pads out of his room. ‘What’s all the racket?’

  ‘Go back to bed, Danny, there’s nothing wrong.’

  ‘Then why are you all shouting?’

  ‘We’re not. Becky just thought she saw someone, that’s all. But she didn’t.’

  ‘Was it a ghost, Becky?’ asks Danny, wide-eyed with excitement. ‘Did it have its head under its arm?’

  My heart starts to pou
nd.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Danny, there’s no such things as ghosts,’ Mum says firmly, as I feel myself breaking out in a cold sweat.

  ‘I want to see the ghost too. It’s not fair. It’s always Becky.’

  ‘There are no ghosts in this house, Danny. Sorry to disappoint you. Now back to bed.’ Joe starts guiding Danny back to his room.

  ‘Spirits of the dead,’ I hear Auntie Vi say in a loud whisper. ‘Can’t make their way over to the other side. Something’s stopping them.’

  ‘That’s enough, Vi,’ says Gran. ‘You’re frightening the children.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ says Danny.

  And she isn’t. I’m already terrified.

  16

  I see the boy once again before I go back to school.

  I’m busy searching through the bottom of my wardrobe for my French textbook. I’m not sure why, but I turn my head and he’s there, standing just inside my bedroom doorway. I gasp as his fierce expression catches me unawares, and my heart thumps louder and harder, not just through fear, but almost as if it recognises him.

  I’m petrified, but I have to speak to him. I try to say something, but my mouth’s dry and the words won’t come out. Another second and he’s gone. My blood runs cold. Could this boy be my donor?

  Shocked, I try to push away this thought, but it refuses to budge and won’t let me ignore it. Auntie Vi’s words about ‘spirits of the dead’ ring in my ears, giving me goosebumps. My head aches as I try to make sense of it all. If my donor’s haunting me, I reason desperately, why am I seeing other things too – that park, the house with the shutters and that dark-haired girl?

  I head into the bathroom, bend over the sink and slosh cold water onto my face. As I look up, instead of my own reflection in the mirror, I’m staring at a boating lake with a bramble-covered island. Terrified, I try to squint away the image. When I open my eyes again, it’s gone, but for a few moments I’m sure I can still hear the persistent slap-slap of water as it laps against the concrete rim of the lake.