The Story of Me (2 page)

“So, Georgia, it’s good news.” My mum’s hand squeezed my right hand just a little bit tighter; Jimmie couldn’t have squeezed my left any tighter if she tried. I was pretty sure I was going to have nerve damage, or at least some broken fingers, if she didn’t ease up on her grip soon, but my mouth was so dry, I couldn’t say a word. I blinked a few times and watched Doctor Patrick Shepherd, the man who held my future in his hands, or in a test tube, if you wanted to get technical, or would it be biological? Anyway, the direction in which my life was about to go was all dependent on what he told me now. I felt sick. I felt hot. I felt cold… But at least I was feeling; that was something
.

“We managed to harvest eight eggs and they have been successfully frozen; now all you need to do is decide on a donor. There’s no rush; take your time and let us know when you’re ready to proceed.”

Eight.

Eight eggs.

Eight chances.

A sob escaped my throat and a tear plopped into my lap as I hung my head. I didn’t want a donor; I wanted Sean. I wanted Sean’s babies. I wanted Sean and I wanted Beau. I wanted my boys back… But I knew that was impossible. I knew they were gone, and I would be so eternally grateful at this chance I had been given.

It had been by absolute pure chance that I’d found out there was a possibility of me having a baby of my own, and it was that hope that had kept me going these past nine months since I’d lost my husband and child.

Jimmie and my mum had come with me for a routine check-up with my gynaecologist, just over three months after the accident that ended my world, and it was there that we discovered something no one had been aware of at the time of my emergency surgery…The one remaining ovary I had left with after my ectopic pregnancy had been saved, and my eggs were probably still viable.

Jimmie didn’t hesitate; the instant the news registered with the three of us, she instantly offered her womb to carry my child in. She had offered once before, when she thought Sean and I were having trouble conceiving, but I didn’t think she actually meant it; she did. She called Lennon from my doctor’s office and simply told him what she had offered to do. She didn’t ask his permission. She told him and he simply agreed; as long as she was sure, he had no issue with it.

And so began a six-month course of fertility drugs for me, a cocktail of drugs to stimulate my one ovary and lo and behold, we had eight eggs, frozen until I decided on my next step. All Jimmie had requested was I make my choice by the time she was thirty-five; she had four children of her own to look after and really didn’t want to be over thirty-five, pregnant and running around after four kids.

Once again, the love, support and selflessness of my beautiful family had pulled me from the dark, and this time, this time, I was determined to never go back there.

My eyes flutter open, take in the early autumn sun and then close again. I take a deep breath in; I can smell him. He has been with me in my dream and now I can smell him, all around me, on me; I pull my knees to my chest and let out a sob.

Today is my birthday. The first birthday I have ever had without Sean being on the planet, without Sean existing. Okay, so I didn’t always know him, didn’t even know he
existed
for my first eleven birthdays, but he was still around, still alive and breathing, living his life. A month before my twelfth birthday, he was there in my back garden, looking at my knickers and asking me to show him my tits. And from that moment, from that day onwards, he had remained in my heart and he will always be there, owning it till the day I died.

I am thirty-two years old today. I sit up and press my back into the headboard of my bed, still holding onto my knees as I contemplate that thought. For twenty of those years, Sean had been a part of my life in some way or another; for almost three of them, he had been my husband. Now he was gone, and somehow, I had to get through today.

The fact that I had been given the news about the successful harvesting of my eggs less than a week ago is going to make this day more bearable. I know my family are here to hold my hand, to love and support me in whatever way they can. I know Sean will be around, too; he’d just told me in my dream. He’d kissed me senseless and wished me a happy birthday. He’d told me he loved me; that he was sorry he couldn’t be with me, but he needed to be with Beau, and they both wanted me to enjoy my day. Then he said the strangest thing; he told me not to forget to light the candles twice and he hoped I liked my flowers. Then he was gone, and all that was left was the smell of him on my skin when I woke.

I dream of him a lot, and my dreams are always so vivid; his touch, his taste but mostly his smell. I am always so sure he was really here. I could feel the silkiness of his hair as I ran my hands through it, when I pulled on it as his mouth sucked hard on my nipple, as he kissed his way down my belly; it was all so real.

I take in a deep breath, wipe my eyes and lean across for a tissue to blow my nose. My phone is flashing to alert me of a text message; in fact, there are several. I blow my nose, place the spare pillow in my lap and sit cross-legged on the bed as I read my messages. My brothers, my sisters-in-law, even my older nieces and nephews, who now all own mobile phones, have all messaged to wish me a happy birthday. However, there is one number marked as unknown and I stare at it for a while, debating whether I should open it.

I had received some beautiful letters from people all over the world after the accident, but I had also received hate mail wishing me dead and telling me it should have been me and not Sean who died. I had always received messages from the usual bunch of weirdos spouting filth or God to me, and somehow, a few people had managed to get hold of my parents’ phone number. They had called me here to scream abuse down the phone, but no one had ever gotten hold of my mobile number. I chew on the skin on the inside of my lip for a few moments, debating what to do; I shrug. “Let’s do this; love me, hate me, reading your message won’t change that,” I say out loud as I press open on the message.

Georgia, I know today will be a tough one for you, but I just wanted you to know I am thinking of you. I’ve checked in with your parents and Bailey every couple of weeks, and they tell me you’re doing as well as can be expected. I’ve wanted to talk to you for ages, but felt it was too soon; that you wouldn’t be ready. But I couldn’t let today pass without wishing you the happiest birthday you can possibly manage, and remember, I’m always here for you, if ever you need to talk, or just to get away.

Cam x

Wow. I stare at the message and read it at least five more times. He’s been checking on me with my brother and parents? My mum told me he called in the early days and I had felt grateful, but it had all been such a blur. He had always been so good to me, and I had treated him appallingly. I’d treated a lot of people appallingly at some stage or another in my life, but Cam especially.

I hadn’t really thought too much about Cam since Sean’s death. Then again, I hadn’t really thought too much about anything since Sean’s death; I had just focused on getting through each day. But before that, after the whole house-buying incident and Sean finding out about him being the previous owner of our old home, I had, in fact, gone out of my way not to think of Cam.

In the months since I lost Sean and Beau, I rarely left my parents’ house. My dad had set me up with a home office in the soundproofed room on the grounds, and from there, I re-immersed myself in the running of Posh Frocks, mine and my mum’s business, and I also became involved in a fair bit of charity work.

Sean was wealthy, very wealthy, and all he owned and all the future royalties from his music came to me; it was more money than I could spend in my lifetime. I had taken care of my brother Bailey’s mortgage and set up a trust fund for each of my nieces and nephews. I had given money to Sean’s family, despite the fact that he hadn’t included them in his will. I gave money to his mum, his dad and the half-brother and sister he had never met; the children his mum had gone on to produce after leaving Sean’s dad. They were now all set for life. My family didn’t need any help; they all had money in their own right. Bails was the only one with a mortgage and a loan, so I dealt with that and decided there were still far too many zeroes at the end of my bank balance. I didn’t want anything, nothing money could buy
anyway, so I gave some to charity. I donated to the drug rehabilitation charity Sean had supported for so many years and I started a few new ones, mainly involving young people, music and fashion, and I ran my little empire from the studio in my parents’ backyard.

I had never once been back to the farmhouse that Sean and I owned. The contents were packed up and stored, all my personal stuff was brought over to my mum’s, and I had moved back into my old bedroom permanently, but I spent a lot of nights in my office, sleeping on the old Chesterfield that had been around for years. I still have nightmares about the accident, and I hate waking my parents up with them, so if I sleep in there, they’ll never know. Well, of course, they knew; they weren’t stupid, but at least they didn’t have to hear me scream and cry, and they could get a sound night’s sleep. In return, I usually got Sean in my dreams.

I stare down at my phone and wonder whether I should reply. I smile as I think about how formal the text sounds; no abbreviations, none of the text talk my other messages contained. He would be about fortyish by now, so I bet texting wasn’t something he usually did, and for some reason, the thought of Cam’s big fingers trying to type out a message makes me smile; a real, genuine smile that feels a little alien to me, since it has been so long. Before I think about it any longer, I reply.

How many attempts did that take with those huge sausage fingers of yours?

I stare at my phone for a few seconds, waiting on a reply; when none comes, I reply to all my other messages and then go into my bathroom for a wee. When I return, there is a message flashing.

NINETEEN

This texting nonsense is a load of bollocks! Why don’t people just pick up the telephone and speak to each other in a civilised way?

And just so you know, this took me twelve attempts, but at least now I know how to write in capitals. I just can’t find the numbers yet.

Cam x

That strange thing happened to my face again; the muscles in my cheeks seem to have a mind of their own this morning and keep forcing my lips into a smile. It feels quite nice.

LOL, u r funny

I pull on an old pair of Sean’s joggers and an old hoodie of his; I am already wearing his T-shirt since I only ever sleep in his clothes. I put my hair up in a scrunchy, pick up my phone and stare at the door. I can do
this. I am going to get through today and I am going to smile as I do. My family has been through so much alongside me, and much of it has been unnecessary and caused by my own selfishness. I am determined not to give them any cause for worry today. I turn my phone from silent to ring and head out the door in search of coffee.

* * *

The house is empty, which is unusual since my parents have been up my arse like a pair of knickers for the past ten months. I can’t blame them; I put everyone through Hell in the first few months after Sean died. I behaved selfishly and twice attempted to take my own life, without a single thought for the effect it would have on anyone else. As much as living hurt, it’s not something I plan on putting anyone through again.

There is a note on the table telling me my mum and dad have gone to the shops. The whole family are coming over tonight, and they have to buy food and alcohol.

I asked that we kept things low-key; I wasn’t ready to celebrate anything in my life yet, but my brothers insisted we all spend the evening together regardless. We would have to have a cake, though; they insisted, just for the sake of the children, who would want to blow out the candles at least nineteen times, and my mum would let them. And anyway, I always looked forward to spending time with my crazy-arsed family, so I am actually looking forward to it.

My phone pings, alerting me of another text. I flick on the coffee machine and sit at the bench while it percolates.

What language are you speaking, Kitten?

Oh, and I’ve found how to work the number thing

12345678910

Kitten. He calls me Kitten. God, I used to love it when he did that. My insides squirm a little bit for some reason, and I laugh to myself as I read the message and pour my coffee, wearing a stupid grin on my face. I’m thinking of a reply and about to sit down when the buzzer sounds for the electric gates at the front of my parents’ property. I stare at the intercom for a few seconds, not sure what I should do. I jump as they buzz again; then my mobile rings and I jump so badly this time, it causes me to spill coffee all down myself.

“Shit,” I say to no one in particular, my mum’s number flashing on the screen.

“Mum, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t worry about getting the gates; we’re coming through them now.”

“Okay,” I say and end the call. Well, that was a pointless conversation since I could actually hear Mum and Dad pulling up outside. My mum has only recently gotten her first mobile phone and the idea is still novel to her; she will even call me from the next room, just because she can. She is on a one-hundred-and-eighty-minute plan, and is determined to use every bloody one of them; she’s even called Marley while he was in the toilet and told him to make sure he washed his hands. Marley pretended he’d gotten crap on his phone by answering it and had chased her around the house, waving it while she screamed for ten minutes. Marley’s phone has since become known as the ‘shitty phone’ and no one will touch it.

I walk to the front door, wiping the coffee from the front of my hoodie onto the sleeve, where it would be less obvious.  I open the door as Mum reaches it, carrying a massive bouquet of creamy-white arum lilies; my stomach lurches and my heart feels like it’s being squeezed. I think I pant or gasp for a few seconds trying to get my breath. I look at my mum, who’s as wide-eyed as me.

“There was a florist trying to deliver these at the gate; this was with them.”

She passes me the bouquet and a thick, cream-coloured envelope. My breath leaves my lungs, my legs start to go from under me and I think I see my mum’s front step come towards me as she screams my name. My dad rushes towards me and then nothing.