Page 43 of The Love of Our Lives

The train back to Edinburgh goes by in a shell-shocked blur. I barely look out the window, barely touch the chicken sandwich I made myself buy at King’s Cross. And as the train rushes northwards under the leaden sky, it all sinks in.

Maybe this was why I was here all along, and it wasn’t a glitch. Maybe Emily isn’t properly gone at all – and I could stop her dying at the end of all of this.

Which would mean, I’d die instead.

Me, Maggie.

Because there is only one working heart between us – this one here in my chest – and I need it in the future or my old self will die: it is a medical certainty and I knew how lucky I was to get that call.

But what if I simply stop whatever happened to Emily from happening the day of the transplant? What if I change things?

Because I know that the skiing accident didn’t happen the first time with Charlie, I felt inside myself that that was a proper deviation from Charlie’s life, so why not for Emily too?

The evidence is right there, staring me in the face: people can be killed here, like they can normally, and if they can be killed, surely they can be saved too.

My mind was just in complete denial of it all.

There I was, simply assuming that Emily was still going to die at the end of this, when the truth is, I might have a choice.

The biggest choice of my life.

The letter said she died unexpectedly – so that’s either an accident or an illness.

If it was an accident, I know I can avoid it (I’m very good at avoiding death, after all) and if it was an illness, I can get it checked out – maybe do something about it.

As long as it’s not something terminal, perhaps I could prevent it getting worse.

But ultimately preventing it would mean I die. Suddenly I feel so utterly lost – so utterly desolate.

I didn’t actually see Fran in person this morning at least, thank god – she was up and away early on her honeymoon, not that that stopped her trying to call me; send a million messages saying how sorry she was and how bad she feels, and I imagine how confused Toby must be by her behaviour right now.

But I just couldn’t face it; couldn’t face her, not after what she did.

What they did.

Simon came to see me this morning, of course, waited in the lobby for me.

‘Please don’t let one mistake ruin everything,’ he pleaded, as I walked towards the exit. ‘I love you so much, Emily.’

I shook my head. ‘No, you don’t. And it wasn’t just one mistake, was it?’

He said nothing, his eyes forlorn, but the answer was in his silence.

‘We could still make it work,’ he tried.

‘No, we couldn’t. Not now.’

As I stare out the train window, I think how wrong I was.

About everything.

Five hours later, and I’m sat in a private health clinic – it’s amazing what you can achieve with a little extra money and a desperate plea for a cancellation.

I’m guided through the private health assessment for the first hour, then for the second, tested: bloods, body fat percentage, height, weight and bowel screening.

I’m told I’ll get the results in just forty-eight hours.

A part of me can’t help hoping it’s something terminal (as unlikely as that would be before donating a heart) because then the choice will be out of my hands.

But I already have a suspicion I’ll be fine – from the vaguely surprised looks on the doctors faces at a fit and healthy thirty-year-old girl doing this sort of check-up, from every burst of energy I’ve felt in this life.

And for the first time since I’ve been here, this healthy body makes me sad – because I know it will most likely have been a preventable accident that killed Emily; know that ultimately, the decision will be in my hands – as long as everything else is still the same.

So, the next stop is home, of course – my real home. Just in case, somehow, the other version of me is doing better. Because isn’t that another option? That we both survive, somehow?

Then I see Mum coming out the door, wheeling me down that awful ramp, and I’m as pale and sickly as can be, my red hair tied limply behind me. And I know in that moment that nothing is different. I am dying, and it’s the most painful thing to watch, but at least now I know the truth.

The decision about who lives is mine. And how can I look away from it?

There Emily was, going through something terrible, yet still having the courage to change her story, change her life, and there was me with her healthy heart doing absolutely .

. . nothing. And perhaps that’s why it all happened when it did – I always wondered about the timing.

Her mother asked me to keep her alive in her letter but maybe the universe is telling me to keep her alive quite literally. Emily wanted to live so damn much. I can feel it.

But oh god, my family – Jess, Mum, Dad, the boys.

My life.

Later, I let myself back into my building and trudge up the stairs.

No one was waiting for me at the station earlier, of course – not Charlie, not William.

At least Sven messaged this morning, to see how I was and to tell me that Adam’s gone away already, and as I read the words on the screen, my heart ached.

I pushed him away one too many times, and now he’s gone.

When I finally arrive at the top, I stare across at his flat, which seems so silent and dark now – no happy clattering around, no light above the door telling me he’s in, no sound of him bouncing down the steps to his workshop.

I see a thousand moments we’ve had in such a short space unfolding like ghosts behind that door – cuddled together on his sofa or cooking something terrible in his kitchen, that night under the stars on the terrace and lying tangled together in his bed, decorating our first Christmas tree and laughing with friends.

Good times. The best of times, which I may never get again, because in just three months, I might have to go.

For good.

Pulling down the blind to the world, I slide under the covers and, with my clothes still on, I press my face against the pillow and shut my eyes.

Days and nights pass in a blur and I spend most of it in bed either sleeping or putting on a movie like I used to in my own life on darker days.

I wander to the bathroom when I need it, or to the kitchen for the leftovers of whatever takeaway I’ve ordered, then back again – after all, I doubt a month more of eating shit will actually do anything much now.

I should probably feel better equipped to deal with the possibility of dying, given I lived in this exact way for years, never really going anywhere or doing anything.

Simply existing. But then all of this happened, and I experienced everything the world had to offer, every shiny glittery wonder in store.

And just when I’d fallen in love with it all, I find out it might be snatched away completely.

It’s perhaps on the third day that I get the test results by email – and with bated breath I sit up in bed and open it.

All clear – as suspected.

Which means there was nothing wrong with Emily, and the choice is mine: keep her safe on the day of the operation and save her, or save me.

I hear the knock on my door a few moments later, a familiar male voice saying, ‘Emily, are you in? It’s William.’

I’m surprised to hear from him after the last time we spoke. But then I feel that overwhelming sadness take over me and I sink back down in bed. Pressing play on the film I’m only vaguely watching, I lie against the pillows once more.

But he comes again the next day, and when I still don’t answer, I hear something drop on to the hall floor. Once I think he’s gone, I tentatively go to see what it is – a red envelope. Ripping it open, I find a Christmas card inside with a reindeer on it. Just like I did with him .

To Emily , it says inside, please come dancing with me , Best, William .

Although my heart catches briefly, I just don’t see the point in any of it anymore. Not if I might die anyway. Placing the card on the side table, I head back to bed.

On the fifth day, I receive one with a snowman on it, which feels a little odd in late March. To Emily, please come on a walk with me, Best, William .

And while my heart begins to thump at the prospect of fresh air, I quickly push the thought away.

I start to think about my family while I’m doing nothing; what they’ll do if I die in the hospital. No heart, no second chance. What kind of legacy would that leave the boys with anyway? To have one aunt die, then another?

I know Jess has never actually had them tested because it absolutely terrifies her, the very idea that they might have the same condition as me. And maybe if I had had a second chance in my old life, I could have shown them that there was life after diagnosis; life in the face of death.

But I might never get that chance now.

On the seventh day of being inside, I get another card with a lonely Christmas tree in a forest. To Emily , it says, and I instinctively know this will be the last, because there’s only so many times you can try; only so many times before it starts to break you a little bit too.

Please come back into the world, it says, like you made me do. Love, William.

My heart is thudding in my chest but he just doesn’t get it; doesn’t understand what I’m dealing with.

A few minutes later I hear a shout of pain, then the words, ‘Emily, help me!’ echo up from downstairs.

Immediately I’m back on my feet, pulling on a grey sweater. Then throwing myself out the door, I’m leaping down the stairs two at a time.

Please be OK, please be OK.

Shit, I should have gone to see him quickly, I should have just popped my head out the door even, I should—

But when I get to the bottom, I’m surprised to see him standing there in the hallway, very much OK. A tiny box sits in front of him and his eyes twinkle when he sees me.