Page 50 of The Love of Our Lives

Two weeks to live

Suddenly there are only two weeks left and there is somewhere I need to go; somewhere I’ve been avoiding up until now because it would make everything far too solid – far too real.

But I’m almost out of time so when Adam mentioned he might go on a hike with Sven, I immediately said that was a great idea: Charlie’s due date is still four weeks away, after all, and I think it will be good for Sven to have some time with his friend up in the hills before it all begins for them.

And I need to spend some time with someone important too.

The crematorium is quiet when I arrive; empty. The summer air is warm against my skin, so very strange in a place that feels like it should be cold and dank, and I weave my way down the pathway I know like the back of my hand.

Then finally, I see it, the rose bush we had planted in her name. It seemed like the right thing at the time, eternalising Cat as a flower. Because she was always so alive and kept growing til the very end. My brilliant sister.

My heart.

And as I stand in front of her grave, I finally allow myself to cry: I weep for me, for all the future moments we lost – laughing over TV shows, talking for hours on the phone as we got old and wrinkly together, having meals together with our partners and possibly even children.

I just wish I could ask her what I should do – what she would do in this situation. Because she loved living more than anyone, so wouldn’t she choose to keep living back in her old life, surely?

And suddenly, faced with the prospect of being in the ground like this, turning to dust like this, I know I can’t do it; won’t do it. Not now that I know that this love between Adam and me is real and true – the most perfect thing I’ve ever found and could perhaps find again in my old life.

How can I just give it up for Emily? When I think about it, the past is the past, and what really gives me the right to go and change any of it? And yes, I didn’t make the most of it as Maggie, but does that mean I don’t get a second chance?

Does that mean I have to die for it?

A noise behind me makes me stop – turn.

And there she is – Jess, and she’s looking at me with this slight air of confusion, like she’s trying to work out who I am, this stranger crying by her sister’s grave.

But why is she here? I didn’t know she ever visited other than anniversaries with me.

Wiping away my tears, I turn to her, my heart thudding like crazy in my chest. This is the first I’ve seen of any of my family in a while.

And I’ve missed her so much.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘Hello,’ I reply, pause. ‘I was just . . .’ I wave vaguely at the rose bush, uncertain what the hell to say. It feels like she must be able to see right through me.

But then Jess gives me a curious look. ‘Did you know her? Cat, I mean. I’ve not seen you here before.’

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘well, I moved away, to London.’

Jess stares down at the rose bush. ‘She had a lot of friends, I suppose, and I was a bit younger . . . I didn’t really meet many of them, in the end. But she told me about them sometimes, all the fun you guys would get up to on weekends away and stuff.’

It’s so strange hearing Jess speaking about Cat like this, like they had their own little dynamic between the two of them. And I suppose they did – and it was just as awful for her. Losing a sister like that.

Cat was a guiding star for both of us – I can see that now.

That’s why Jess was scared to move to Amsterdam and uncertain of her big choice.

All she really needed was a little push, a little inspiration from someone following their heart too.

And I could still do that for her; I will do that for her, when I get back home. If I get back home.

‘You had another sister, I think?’ I say, before I can help myself.

Jess nods, somewhat sadly.

‘How . . . how is she?’ I say, swallow. ‘She had a heart condition, I think?’

Of course I know exactly how I was at this point, but I still need to hear it out loud. Just in case something has miraculously changed.

But then Jess shakes her head. ‘Not good,’ she says, as a fat tear falls from her eye, and in that moment, I know that it’s no different.

My old heart is starting to fail.

As Jess covers her face with her hands, in an unexpected display of emotion from her, I find myself walking over and enveloping her in my arms.

‘Oh god, I’m sorry,’ she says, pulling away sharply, in a way that is so much more like Jess – strong, guarded, resilient.

‘That’s all right,’ I say, aching to hold her again, to breath in that family scent of home again. Real home.

She sniffs, wipes her nose with a tissue. ‘Anyway,’ she mutters, like she’s been caught out, ‘I’d better get back to my boys; they’re waiting for me with my husband in the car.’

As she turns and walks up the pebble pathway, I think, I love you so much, and I miss you so much it kills me – our aimless chats, our movie nights and how you always kept pushing for me to live – and I’m sorry for the pain you’re going through, because of me.

Suddenly I know I have to survive so I can have more of those seemingly small moments with Jess and the boys again. Even better ones, now I know how big they truly are.

And what the hell would my family do if I died? How could I do that to Jess, to all of them, after everything they’ve already been through?

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out.

Charlie calling.

For a moment, I’m not sure if I should pick up here – I’m in a crematorium after all, in front of my sister’s memorial.

But then, Charlie’s pregnant and alone today – I was thinking I should pop over anyway, and I get that horrible jolt again that I’ll never actually get to meet her baby.

‘Hey,’ I answer. Holding the phone to my ear, I start to walk towards the exit.

Silence, and then a groan.

‘Charlie,’ I say, walking faster now, ‘are you OK?’

Another pause, then, ‘No, the baby’s coming, I think . . . but it’s too early and Sven’s not—’

Another groan.

‘OK, stay where you are,’ I say, ‘I’m coming for you.’

‘No,’ she says sharply, ‘I’m in a taxi already. But can you meet me at the hospital? Oh god, I’m so scared.’

‘Of course,’ I say, ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

I’d thought that after seeing Charlie in the hospital up north, I’d be more prepared for this. But as I run quickly through the corridors, it all comes rushing back to me – the white walls, the blue linoleum I’ve tread down so many times before, for tests and appointments, discussions with doctors.

And I know that somewhere else in this building, my other self is lying in another bed right now, dying.

But just for this moment, I push it all out of my head again, as I round the corner on to the ward reception gave me.

I jumped in a taxi as quickly as I could, leaving Adam a voice message for whenever they came into signal again.

And I just pray that they’ll get it soon.

Because this baby has to be OK – I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t.

I don’t know what Charlie would do if it isn’t, and I can’t help wondering why life has to be like a horrible game of Russian roulette at times.

Why some things go well and some things go so very wrong.

There’s no rhyme or reason to it, no way we can always mould things to what we want.

Life is fragile and precarious and can be extinguished in an instant.

And as I see the ward number, I can feel my heart thumping, please be OK, please be OK , all the while knowing that if the worst happens, I will be there for her no matter what.

Walking into the room, I can see Charlie already on a bed, her face contorted with pain; several doctors and nurses around her.

I rush up and take her hand in mine.

‘I’m here,’ I say, as she rides through what must be a contraction, ‘I’m here.’

Eventually she opens her eyes again, which are red and swollen. ‘They’re saying we need to get the baby out now,’ she says, her voice ragged. Sweat pours down her face and her hair sticks to it. ‘Will you come in with me?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I’ll be with you the whole time.

‘Heart rate’s dropping,’ one of the nurses is saying now, and Charlie grips my hand even harder.

A moment later, the doctor signals that it’s time to go and they’re moving the bed out on its rollers along through corridors.

And then we’re running along them, with the most surreal feeling tearing through me.

I’ve been the person on the bed before, the person to be rushed through the corridors.

Yet right now, I’m the one who’s OK, who can be here for Charlie when she needs it.

Moments later, we’re in an operating theatre.

It’s large and white and it feels as though hundreds of medical people are in here, even though it’s probably only more like ten.

They move around with quick, deft movements in order to prep Charlie for the C-section.

I get into scrubs while they administer her epidural, and then she’s lying back on the bed as they pull up the sheets at her middle.

‘Ready to make the incision,’ one of the doctors says, and I look into Charlie’s eyes.

‘You’re going to be OK,’ I say, with more conviction than I actually feel. ‘You and the baby are going to be OK.’

Silence, as the doctors move behind the sheet.

More silence and muttering.

Then someone says something about the baby’s head being impacted, whatever that means, and I’m not sure if Charlie heard it too but I hold her hand even tighter.

Minutes pass, and there’s more movement from the other side of the sheet, people changing position and Charlie is jolted slightly. I just thought this would all happen so quickly – aren’t C-sections supposed to be fast?

I can’t bear it if it goes wrong at this point. On this fault line between life and death.

‘Baby’s out,’ someone says, and I try desperately to see something, to hear something.

Why isn’t it crying?

Surely it should be crying.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.