Page 53 of The Love of Our Lives

The Day

The morning starts like any other. I open my eyes, see early golden light reaching in under the blind, then I turn to look at Adam who is still asleep in bed beside me.

Except today I really look at him, at the slightly lighter strands in his dark hair and the freckles across his nose, at the tan on his face and arms, that more vulnerable paleness across his torso.

And I think of how we made love, not only last night as the summer sun finally sank down on my last night of this life, but once again a few hours ago at dawn.

But I didn’t cry, didn’t alert him to the fact that there was anything wrong.

Because the truth is, there sort of isn’t, and in this one year, I have experienced more joy than I ever thought possible.

The past week has felt like one long celebration of life, first with baby Hope’s party, a perfect day filled with laughter and light.

We didn’t tell anyone about the pregnancy yet, of course – it was far too early for that at only a few weeks along, but the following day resulted in another celebration anyway, as we found out about William’s engagement to Ruth.

And so we had another picnic in the Meadows with bubbly and good food and good company, and as I looked around the blankets, filled with all our friends, I realised how very perfect life could be.

Just this, right here, in a place I loved, with people I loved – or some of them at least.

Then the day before came, starting with a run at dawn, before the world woke up, and as the sun glinted over the rooftops, I saw a beauty in the pink and gold clouds I’d never seen before.

I got a coffee from the Purple Pineapple, the best tasting of my life.

Then Adam met me for breakfast and we chatted away about everything and nothing, before going for a hike into the Pentlands.

We took cheese sandwiches, crisps and lemonade for lunch, and ate it all in a grassy sun spot under a perfect blue sky.

Later in the day, I called Mum just to hear her voice, then Dad, then Jess, and I whispered goodbye to each of them.

Because they’ll be in the hospital all day today, watching, waiting, and I’m so desperately sorry for what they’re about to go through, so devastated that I can’t say goodbye properly, but I can’t do anything about it.

I’ve made my choice and I know deep inside of myself that it’s the right one – no matter the terrible cost to my own family.

Then in the evening, I asked Adam if we could eat dinner up on the terrace, pizza of course, with every topping we could think of. And as we demolished it with a small glass of chilled wine, I felt oddly content. Oddly full.

Yet not oddly at all.

Because as it turns out, I didn’t really need all the big stuff, in the end – all the museums and the cathedrals, the skyscrapers and the lights, the mountains and the river rapids, as glorious as those things can be.

All I really needed, all anyone really needs to live life, is right in front of them – every day is an adventure in itself, every moment an opportunity and a gift.

Which is what the photography portfolio I got accepted into art school with was all about, I realised – the everyday, and the beautiful mundane.

And that was what pulled it all together: you don’t need a lot of time, you just need this day, this moment.

And it’s about living in that moment; even if it might seem small, even it might seem inconsequential.

It’s about taking that dance class because you fancied it, it’s about saying hello to that lonely neighbour and inviting in the stray cat; it’s about trying new flavours and savouring an amazing coffee.

It’s about getting out there in the world and figuring out what you actually want from it.

It’s about making mistakes and learning from them, it’s about living on your own terms and doing things that light you up inside, it’s about loving fiercely and letting yourself be loved in return. It’s about following your heart.

Even if you only have a year left.

Even if you have five minutes left.

And when you do that, you inspire other people to do the same – you lift them up just by being. Just as I did for William, I’ve realised. Just as he did for me.

Just as Emily has been doing for me this whole time.

I get up out of bed now, but not before gently kissing Adam on the forehead as I go, and as he murmurs a ‘see you later, love you,’ I know that’s the last time I will ever hear his voice – he’s heading off to the workshop early this morning after all.

Then I slip back into my sweater and shorts, and head back quickly across the hall.

Because I have a plan for today – and the plan is this: stay in my flat and do not leave it for anything. Seal myself off from the world, and stop whatever accident happened to Emily the first time around from happening today.

Save her life and the baby’s, and let mine go.

I know what being alive really means now.

I’ve seen it with my own eyes, and tasted it with my own tongue.

And I know that I would rather have one year of living fully like this, than twenty safe years of not really living at all.

I have finally learned to follow my heart to the end, and maybe that has to be enough.

Now it’s Emily’s turn to go on and live with Adam and their baby.

And I’m going to make sure she gets to.

So I pull down all the blinds and bolt the door.

I unplug all electricals and turn my phone off.

Then I head into the bedroom and sit on the end of the bed.

We got the call about the heart at twelve noon that day, which means I only have to get through another few hours before I’m out the other side. Before I go, and she comes back.

Then she’ll wake up here, in her room, like nothing happened. And walk straight back into her life.

It has to work.

I can feel it inside of myself too, this build – this surge – like change is coming. Like all of Emily’s memories and experiences are coming to a boiling point. My dreams have been filled with them this week, of images that are not mine, all jumbled together.

It is coming.

Minutes pass; hours. And I think about how this was essentially my life before, just staying in one room like this.

Scared of the world and everything in it, and I count my lucky stars that this happened to me, even as my heart races in my chest as I try to imagine what it will feel like to finally go.

To finally disappear.

Will Cat be there to meet me?

I’d like to think so.

I think about my parents, Jess, Graham and the boys.

Cat. I think of a memory of us as young girls, screeching through the forest in waterproofs, I think of my parents hugging me between them one Christmas, I think of Adam, kissing me good morning, every morning, and I try to draw them all close to me in these last moments – everything I hold dearest.

I cling on to that thought as I wait, that shred of comfort, as I place my hand across my belly and I stare out the window, concentrate on the leaves waving in the breeze. I focus on the green shape of them, the blue behind them, which seems to be getting hazy for some reason; blurry.

I feel a little nauseous suddenly, maybe one of those pregnancy symptoms again.

Then it hits like a sledgehammer: the most intense pain in my head.

Blinding agony.