Page 51 of The Love of Our Lives

As tears fall down Charlie’s face, all of William’s words come flooding back to me, and I feel scared. Because maybe it was all a false win up north and the baby actually wasn’t OK.

Perhaps this is where we were headed all along, and no matter how much we want things to work out, we can’t make it happen from willpower alone.

And then I hear it.

The smallest of whimpers, the lightest of cries.

Charlie’s eyes go wide. ‘Are they OK? Is everything OK?’

Then a nurse walks over, a baby in her arms, and she is smiling.

‘It’s a healthy baby girl,’ she says, before laying the baby on Charlie’s chest. And my heart explodes with happiness as I look at Charlie looking at her daughter in amazement.

‘Hello, little one,’ Charlie whispers.

There’s commotion over at the door, people talking, and then suddenly Sven appears in the room. His face is ravaged with shock, his brown eyes wide as he stares over at us.

‘Oh my god . . .’ he says, moves quickly over. ‘Is everything all right? Is it . . .’

But Charlie just smiles up at him, their daughter in her arms.

‘Everything is great,’ she says. ‘I’d like to introduce you to someone.’

Sven crouches down to look at her, tears welling in his eyes, and then he gently lifts the baby into his arms. He grins at Charlie, at me.

‘Thank you, Emily,’ he says eventually, frown lines appearing on his brow again. ‘Thank you for being here.’

I swallow. Because it was an honour really, seeing life be brought into the world like this. Playing some part in it.

‘My pleasure,’ I say, as Sven brings the baby back to Charlie, and they hold her together.

‘Hope,’ Charlie says, looking down at her, then back up at Sven. ‘Hope Emily.’

And then my heart is melting all over again, and I clutch Charlie’s hand a final time. ‘I’m going to give you guys some privacy,’ I say, before gently slipping from the room.

Out in the corridor, I find Adam sitting on a chair, but he immediately stands up straight when he sees me, his eyes searching mine. When I checked my phone finally, all I could see were phone calls from him and Sven.

‘A healthy baby girl,’ I say immediately, and his face melts with relief.

‘Oh my god,’ he says, dragging one hand through his hair. ‘When we picked up all the messages down the mountain . . . I’ve never seen Sven move so fast. It was the tensest drive of my life, after that other one up north.’

‘But everything is OK,’ I say, holding on to his hands now.

He smiles at me, holds my hands back. ‘All because you were here.’

I swallow. ‘I didn’t do much really.’

He shakes his head. ‘But you did, you really did. I just can’t imagine life without you in it, Emily . . .’ he tails off, like he’s going to say more, but doesn’t.

My stomach twists.

‘Hey Adam,’ we hear Sven call behind us, ‘you need to see her.’

‘Absolutely,’ Adam says, looks back at me, ‘you coming?’

I pause, my emotions all over the place.

‘Do you mind if I go do something quickly?’

‘Sure,’ Adam says, tilts his head slightly. ‘You all right?’

He just looks so happy right now, so full of this moment too, and I don’t want to spoil it at all. But there’s something I really need to do while I’m here.

Someone else I really need to see.

‘I’m great,’ I say, ‘And I won’t be long, I promise.’

‘All right,’ he says with a grin, before heading into the room.

Walking away from obstetrics a few seconds later, I feel drained suddenly, so very tired from the events of the day.

But I don’t have time to rest right now, and head quickly in the opposite direction, towards a ward I know much better – an area that was always my destiny really.

Because of course my old heart would eventually fail me.

I don’t remember much about the moments before I collapsed – all I know is that Dad found me on my bedroom floor and called 999.

And when I woke up in the hospital sometime later, I knew there was a good chance I’d never leave again.

I’d been in the wheelchair for a good six months by the time I was admitted here, on oxygen too. I spent all my time at home, in my room largely, drawing or sleeping but still hoping somewhere inside of myself that I might get that elusive heart, that I might get a chance to live a little longer.

But then I did get it and I did nothing with it – nothing at all. Because all I saw were my limitations, and how I could hurt people just by living my life.

And as I head towards the ward where I know my other self will be, walk the length of the corridor with this healthy body and all this life flowing through me, I see how misguided I’d been.

About what keeping Emily alive actually meant, and also how little I was helping anyone by doing nothing.

Because the truth is, what people actually need help with, is pushing out their comfort limits, not just staying in them.

Like with Jess in Amsterdam, and Mum revolving her whole life around me.

When Cat was around, she did that for all of us.

And by breaking free of my own boundaries, I could help them do the same. ’

Coming to a stop, I take a breath as I walk up to the window, which looks into the ward.

I have the strongest urge to suddenly turn and run away from all of this – just pretend it’s not happening, pretend again that this is my life now and it’s all just going to keep going.

But that would mean I was letting fear reign still, and as I finally look at myself on the bed through the glass, I know with certainty that I won’t let it anymore, and I need to make my decision very soon.

My other self appears to be sleeping, her face so pale now it’s almost wax-like. Her red hair spills like blood across the pillow and she’s hooked up to a number of machines, which limp painfully along.

A large bunch of flowers lies on the desk beside her, from Mum, of course, because she always liked to make sure I had fresh flowers.

I think she thought she could will me back to life somehow, make my heart bloom again.

And as I hear a quick tread of feet down the corridor, I brace myself for seeing her.

I don’t know how to explain why I’m here but I turn to Mum anyway, smile gently at her surprised expression.

‘It’s you,’ she says.

‘It is.’

There are a number of other patients on the ward, so I suppose it doesn’t seem all that strange that I’m looking in. Still, I should probably try to explain myself, and I never could lie to her.

‘My friend just had her first baby,’ I say, ‘then I went for a wander and ended up . . . here, somehow.’

Mum nods, and I notice how tired she looks suddenly, how utterly drained.

‘I’ve not seen you at the shop lately,’ she says after a moment.

‘I know, I meant to come down but I had a lot of things on my plate and—’

She holds her hand up quickly. ‘Don’t worry at all, I thought you’d just been out and about . . . having fun.’

She looks through the glass now, and I try to decide what to do.

I suppose I could make my excuses now; walk away. But something stops me and I know it’s now or never. After all, this might be the last time I speak to Mum before I die. Or it might not.

I don’t know yet.

‘Is she your daughter?’ I say, as she gazes at my other self through the glass.

It’s funny because I never remember her watching me like this; she was always right there above me, close to me.

I suppose I never saw all these other moments when I was asleep – the ones where all she could do was worry and wait.

‘She is,’ Mum says slowly. ‘Heart failure . . . she needs a new one now, or . . .’ she tails off and I swallow.

How can I put them through more pain? Here she is, right in front of me, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it will kill her if she loses another child. I can’t do it.

‘She seems . . . peaceful, right now,’ I say eventually, unsure what else I can possibly say – what comfort I can offer.

‘She is peaceful, yes,’ Mum replies, sighs.

A beat.

‘I just wanted more for her than that.’

I pause, look at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘It must have been a terrible thing,’ she continues quietly, as though she’s not even talking to me anymore, ‘losing her sister like that, but she let it dictate everything. I’m not sure she ever knew she was allowed to go out and live, and I don’t think I helped with that, if I’m honest. I just couldn’t stand the thought of losing her too .

. . and now here she is, an inch away from death, and she can’t die now. I won’t let her die. Do you know why?’

I shake my head, alarmed almost by this openness from her. In the shop we always just talked clothes and nothing else, like it was her little getaway place from the real world.

‘She hasn’t experienced all the great parts yet . . . all the best bits,’ Mum says finally, ‘so that’s why we have to get her a heart. That’s why this can’t be the end for her.’

I find a small tear spilling from my eye, as I fight back my surprise – that she wanted me to live big as much as anyone.

Then I got the transplant, and nothing changed, but maybe that’s also because I didn’t try to change.

I let Mum run the show because I felt guilty.

And I just wish I could tell her right now, that if I get that chance again, I’ll take it.

I’ll take it and run with it for everyone’s sake.

I can have just as big a life as anyone else, limited heart or not, because in the ways that mattered, it was never limited at all, I’m seeing now.

And I don’t see how I can die on them now; don’t see how I can rip their lives up again.

Two lives.

One heart.

No one should have to make this choice.

I’m starting to feel a little dizzy from it all, a little lightheaded – the lights above are shining too brightly and everything sounds a bit muffled around me. Suddenly it’s like my legs are giving way beneath me and I hear Mum saying something like, ‘Are you OK?’.

I’m groggy when I wake sometime later, somewhere in the hospital. I’m in a bed at the end of a ward it seems. There are patients in the other beds. My head hurts and my mouth is dry.

What the hell happened?

I shouldn’t be in a hospital bed because there’s nothing wrong with me. Is there?

With some panic now, I push my hand up shakily as a nurse with a streaked grey bun passes.

‘Oh, you’re up.’ She smiles and turns briskly, makes her way over to me.

‘What happened?’ I say, as she flicks through a chart.

She lowers it and looks at me. ‘You fainted, dear. We didn’t see any bands on your wrists about any sort of condition and you appeared fine otherwise, so we popped you in here until you woke. The woman you were with keeps asking after you though.’

I feel confused. ‘I fainted? How long have I been out?’

‘Oh, not long, only ten minutes or so.’

This is all so odd. Adam must be wondering where I am.

‘Well, I feel OK now,’ I say, keen to get going as soon as I can.

‘I’m sure you are,’ the nurse says, ‘but I’ll need to check you over quickly before signing you out.’

‘All right,’ I say, still feeling lost.

‘Oh, and I just wanted to check.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

‘No,’ I say immediately, ‘of course I’m . . .’

Then it hits me, like a giant wave rearing up and over me, and this deep sense of ‘knowing’ settles in my womb and in my heart; this overwhelming love and affection for what’s there.

What they created the first time too.

And I know instinctively that this is the sensation I’ve been waiting for. This is what it’s all been building to, and in this moment, surrounded by the most peaceful and joyous of feelings, I know exactly what choice I will make.

Which life I have to choose.