Someone Else's Life (36 page)

Holly

I step outside the hospital door, and the sun is blinding. It’s a new day, and it’s beautiful—crisp and fresh and clean. A clean slate, I think, taking a deep breath, the fresh cold air alive in my lungs. A second chance.
For both of us
.

I spot a pay phone and fish some coins from my purse, crossing my fingers as I dial Dad’s cell.
Please pick up
 …

Hello, this is Jack’s phone …

My heart aches to hear his voice—even his voice mail—and again I can’t believe I ever left.

“Dad—I—it’s me … I’m coming home.” My heart swells. “I love you.”

I smile as I hang up, rushing to catch a cab that’s just dropping a family off.

“Where to, love?”

“Just a second.” I reach into my bag for the hotel address—I need to pick up my stuff before heading to the airport. I can’t wait to get home, to feel Dad’s arms around me, have him tell me that everything will be okay—that he’s excited about becoming a granddad! To be back with my family.

My eyes fall on the little pink address book nestled in the corner of my bag, glinting in the sunlight.

My family
 …

Rosie

“Welcome to London. You may now unfasten your seat belts and turn on your mobile phones,” the flight attendant announces as Jack and I scramble into the aisle, only to get stuck behind people slowly retrieving their luggage from the overhead bins.

“Come on, come on!” Jack mutters as the queue inches its way off the plane.

We hurry into the airport, only to be stuck in yet more queues for passport control, baggage collection, customs … I watch Jack, his eyes closed in exasperation, the strain etched in the lines on his face.

I almost leave my luggage behind.

Finally we’re outside and into a taxi, speeding away from the airport, heading south. Jack stares out the window, his face blank, his fingers tapping impatiently on the door handle. It seems to take forever. I stare out at the green fields, the patchwork landscape, heading home.

It’s weird hurtling through the familiar countryside, the familiar towns, with Jack by my side. It’s like we’re out of place, like he’s been inserted here from another world—his world—though of course this is his home country too, he’s even been to this town …

“Oh, my God,” he says suddenly, and I look at him. He’s as white as a sheet.

“What?” I ask anxiously. “What’s wrong?” Then I realize. Outside, the enormous white walls of the hospital loom ahead, tall and foreboding.

“Oh, God,” I say quietly as the taxi pulls up outside. “
This
is the hospital she’s in?” I stare at him incredulously.
“Here?”

He nods, the lines on his face catching the shadows.

“I should’ve realized, I—” He shakes his head as we pass the familiar sign and pull into the car park.

ST. ANNE’S HOSPITAL, MAYBRIDGE

Where it all began.

Holly

I stare at the house and check the address again. This is it.

Behind me, the cab pulls away and disappears around the corner. No going back.

I gaze down the street at the neat little cottages crammed together like sardines, with their identical walled-in front yards. A plastic gnome sits fishing in a frozen pond, his painted smile wide and jolly despite the cold, and I grin, thinking of Josh.
Yoda
.

I take a deep breath and walk carefully up the driveway, my feet crunching treacherously in the gravel. I bite my lip as I reach the door, raise my hand to knock.

What if this is a mistake?
I hesitate, shoving my hand back into my pocket and looking up at the door. There is an iron horseshoe hanging above the doorframe, and a little handwritten sign tacked inside the glass window:
No junk mail please
with a smiley face. This is real. This is my nana’s house.

I close my eyes and touch my fingers to the horseshoe for luck, and before I know it I’ve rung the bell. I stare at the door, my heart hammering.

Nothing.

I wait for a minute, holding my breath. Braver now, and slightly hopeful that there’s no one in, I ring the doorbell again like a kid playing chicken—peering through the window as the bells resound through the empty house. I close my eyes, swallowing my disappointment, dizzy with sudden relief.

It’s a sign. I’m not meant to find her. She’s not meant to know.

I take a last long tender look at the house, smile, and turn away—just as a car sweeps into the driveway.

I stare at it, totally exposed, frozen to the spot. The door opens and a small white-haired woman steps out, shrugging her handbag onto her shoulder. The lady from the church. My nana.

“Hello.” She smiles, locking the door and walking toward me. “Can I help you?”

“H-hi,” I stammer, my feet as immobile as the plastic gnome’s. “I’m …”

I’m what?
Hey, surprise, I’m your long
-
lost granddaughter?
She’d probably have a heart attack right here on the driveway!

“Sorry, do you live here?” I check. “You’re Laura Fisher?” I don’t wanna give the
wrong
old lady a heart attack!

“I am.” She smiles. “Forgive me, you look familiar, but … do I know you?”

“I’m …” I stare at her, lost for words, dumbstruck by her sparkling blue eyes, her easy smile. She’s old—so old—and yet there’s something youthful in her eyes.

“I’m Holly,” I say finally.

She looks at me afresh, recognition sparking in her eyes.

“Of course you are!” She beams, her whole face lighting up. “Hello, Holly!” she smiles, her eyes twinkling at me. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Rosie

The sliding doors hiss open with a blast of warm air, but Jack just stares at them, unable to move, his face unreadable.

“Jack?” I say gently. “Jack, are you okay?”

I touch his arm and he looks up, startled.

“Yes,” he says, “yes, I’m fine—it’s just …” He hesitates, his eyes sweeping over the door, the entrance, the reception within. “Jeez, the last time I was here …”

I nod. “I know,” I say quietly.

Memories slide across his face, clear as our reflections in the glass as we step inside. The warm air breezes through my hair as our footsteps squeak on the shiny lino and I’m bombarded with smells—cleaning fluids and disinfectant and mashed potato … and a million memories hurtle back at me: broken arms and ankles as a child … that awful night of the prom … visiting Mum … my encounter with Jamila just a few weeks ago … I glance at Jack, unable to even imagine what he’s going through.

Somehow we arrive at the reception desk.

“I’m here to see my daughter,” Jack tells the receptionist. “Holly Woods? She had an accident.”

The receptionist checks her computer screen.

“Woods?” she says. “I’m sorry, Ms. Woods was discharged earlier this morning.”

Jack stares at her. “She’s not here?”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, do you know where she went?”

She looks up at Jack, then glances at me. “No, sorry, I don’t.”

Jack looks as if he’s about to burst.

“Hang on—Nurse Willows!” My heart jumps as she calls over our shoulders toward the entrance. “Miss Woods was your patient, wasn’t she? Do you know where she was heading to?”

We both turn as a blond woman looks round, pulling her coat on over her uniform.

She starts to speak, then stares at me.

“Rosie! What are you—”

“Hi, Sarah,” I say, my cheeks burning as I glance anxiously at Jack, whose face is draining of color.

“Sarah?”

Holly

I stare at Laura, dumbfounded. She’s been
expecting
me?

“Andrew rang a couple of days ago.” She smiles, unlocking the door and ushering me inside. “He said you might pop round. I understand you know Rosie?”

“Yes—yes, I do.” I stare at her uncertainly.
What has Andy told her?

“Come in, come in!” She beams. “It’s freezing out there!”

I follow her nervously into the house. It is warm and homey and smells of toast.

“Now, you make yourself comfy in the lounge.” Laura smiles. “And I’ll pop the kettle on.”

I step gingerly into the living room, my feet sinking in the deep red plush carpet, my jaw dropping as I gaze at the dozens of photographs covering the wall. These must all be my ancestors—my great-grandparents … my grandfather … my dad … My heart stops.

There she is.

I move forward slowly, my breath trapped in my lungs, my eyes flicking from one photo to the next, the same hazel eyes shining out from each one.

Trudie.

I’d only ever seen the one photo Rosie gave me—had only imagined her at one age, in one setting—but here she is as a child, a teenager, a young woman … grinning and posing, beaming proudly at her graduation, laughing happily at her wedding. And there she is on a park swing, glowing with pride as she cuddles the tiny dark-haired girl in her arms.

That should have been me.

I finger my own hair, the hair I’ve always hated, till now. Now it’s our bond, my inheritance, the exact same shade. Gingery-chestnut.

“Ginger nut?”

“What?” I turn, startled.

Laura is holding out a tin of cookies. She smiles. “I’m afraid there’s not much choice—it’s ginger nuts or chocolate digestives.”

“Oh—thanks.” I smile, taking a chocolate cookie.

“I rang Andrew, but I got one of those awful messagey things,” she says, following my gaze to the wall. “That’s a lovely photo, isn’t it?” She beams, passing me a steaming cup and a saucer. “Rosie wasn’t even two there, but she was already a right little minx—into everything—you couldn’t take your eye off her for a second! But then she’d grin at you with those big green eyes and you’d forgive her anything. Butter wouldn’t melt.”

I smile uncertainly.

“And that’s her mother, Trudie. My own little girl,” she says tenderly.

“She’s beautiful,” I breathe.

“Yes.” Laura smiles. “She was.”

“What was she like?” I ask quietly, holding my breath.

“She
was
beautiful.” She sighs. “Inside as well as out. She was the kindest, most loving girl you could ever meet. An amazing mother to Rosie.”

My heart aches. “Rosie said she’d died recently?”

“Yes.” Laura’s face clouds over. “She was very ill. She had Huntington’s disease.” She glances at me. “Rosie told you?” she asks slowly.

I nod. “I’m so sorry. It must’ve been awful.”

“It was,” she says. “It’s a hideous disease. It was horrible seeing her suffer, watching her slip away. And the awful thing was we hadn’t even known she was at risk—I’d never heard of Huntington’s before, and Charles …” She nods at a photo of a handsome police officer. “My husband, Charles, died before his time, so we never knew it was in the family.” She sighs. “No one should have to suffer like that, especially your own child.”

No
, I think, my hand reaching automatically for my belly.
No, they shouldn’t
.

“Still, she made the best of it. Typical Trudie. No point moaning, she’d say, always turning her signs and symptoms into little jokes.” Laura smiles. “She said it was the best weight-loss regime ever—she just loved stuffing her face with chocolate and cakes, flaunting the fact that she had to eat high-calorie foods to make up for the weight loss. Rosie and I were just relieved that she was officially banned from the kitchen!” She laughs. “She finally had an excuse for being such a terrible cook—and for being so untidy! ‘Don’t blame me!’ she’d sing merrily. ‘It’s the Huntington’s!’ ” Laura chuckles. “Always making the best of things … as far as she could, anyway.” Her face clouds again.

“But the real curse was that the disease didn’t only affect her. Trudie was so worried she could have passed it on to her own child. If she’d only known …” She sighs and I hold my breath.

“But you can’t change the past any more than you can change the future.” She smiles suddenly. “And knowing Trudie, she would’ve gone ahead anyway—she was so desperate for a child. And I have to admit she would probably have been right. I don’t think you can live your life like that, fencing yourself in to be on the safe side. Worry is like a rocking chair—it keeps you busy but gets you nowhere. I wouldn’t have swapped her for the world, even if I’d known. She was my Trudie, and even if I’d only had her for a few years, I’d still thank my lucky stars.”

I stare at her, soaking her words up like a sponge.

“She felt that way too—was always saying how lucky she was, even when she was diagnosed. That was typical Trudie—anyone else would have been cursing the fates that now she’d finally got a child her time was going to be cut short. But not her. She might only have a few years left, she said, but how blessed she was to have been given a child, to share them with.”

She gazes wistfully at the photograph.

“Children are the most important thing in the world,” she says softly. “Don’t you think?”

I bite my lip.

She turns to me, her eyes sparkling. “When’s it due?”

I stare at her, my hand flying to my middle.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re not showing,” she laughs. “Just female intuition.”

She smiles, and I find myself smiling too.

“When he or she enters this world, when you hold him or her in your arms for the first time, you’ll understand. You’ll know. This tiny being waiting to meet you will turn your life upside down and inside out, and you won’t remember what it was ever like beforehand. You’ll never want to.” She beams. “You’ll love them and take care of them as best you can, and that’s all you can do.
Que sera, sera
.”

I smile. “Doris Day?”

“Yes!” She laughs. “Oh, I love her films!”

“Me too.” I smile.

“Really?” she says, surprised. “I didn’t think young people liked films without gallons of blood and gore in them these days. Rosie watches Cary Grant with me, bless her, but I don’t think he’s really her thing. Can’t quite see him out ‘clubbing,’ can you?”

I laugh. “No, not really.”

“And your young man?” she asks, her eyes twinkling. “Is he a Cary Grant?”

“He’s …” My cheeks burn, my heart twisting as I think of Josh—our uncertain future—our baby …

She takes my hand, squeezes gently.

“My dear, men come and go.” She smiles. “But you seem like a wonderful young woman.” I look up at her as she strokes my hair behind my ear, her eyes bright. “And I’m sure you’re going to be a wonderful mother. My Trudie did just fine on her own.”

I look up at the photo again, the love in her eyes.

“True love is a marvelous thing.” Laura beams. “But the love between a parent and a child—that’s the most magical thing in the world.”

I look at her. My nana. So loving, so wise.

I squeeze her hand, warm in mine.

Suddenly the sharp ring of the telephone pierces the silence, making us both jump.

“Oh, goodness—that scared me to death!” she laughs, moving to pick up the receiver. “Hello? Laura Fisher’s residence?” She glances at me. “Of course.” She covers the mouthpiece and hands it to me. “It’s for you.”