Heartbeat Away (2 page)

‘Shall I get you some ice to suck?' asks a different, chirpier voice.

I'm not sure about this either, but I nod anyway, then direct all my energy into forcing my eyes open. I immediately wish I hadn't. The sitting room is bright. Much too bright. The TV is on and beeping, but the programme is rubbish – just wavy lines and numbers. And someone has stolen my sofa. Totally confused, I look down and see thin plastic tubes attached to my wrist, arms and goodness knows where else. Some of them are linked to the TV.

‘How you feeling, love?'

I'm sure I know that voice. Feeling slightly nauseous, I make a huge effort and slowly turn my head. Mum and Joe are sitting by the side of my bed. Behind them, standing in
the doorway to a corridor and staring at me, is a tall boy with dark hair and dark brown eyes.

‘What have they done to Danny?' I asked, bewildered.

‘He's at school,' says Joe.

‘You're in the hospital, remember?' adds Mum, stroking my forehead. ‘The nurse said you might feel a bit groggy when you first wake up.'

I stare curiously at the large piece of wadding covering my chest, wondering how something so light could hurt so much. From down the corridor I can hear the sounds of doors banging and clattering, unknown voices, and phones constantly ringing. I take a deep breath, sucking in the smell of disinfectant tinged with boiled fish that hangs in the air. Two and two are slowly starting to make four.

‘Dr Sampson said it all went really well. Textbook stuff. Your mum and I had a good long chat with him yesterday,' says Joe. There's black stubble on his chin and dark circles under Mum's eyes.

A young nurse bustles in holding a glass containing ice cubes, followed by a woman with a stethoscope round her neck who smiles, says I'm looking good, then starts to check some of the wires attached to me. The boy's gone. A little girl, hunched in a wheelchair and clutching an enormous furry pink rabbit, is wheeled past the doorway by a porter.

‘Yesterday?'

‘It's Wednesday afternoon. You've had your new heart for over forty-eight hours,' says Mum happily. ‘You're not to worry any more, Becky,' she adds. ‘Everything's going to be all right from now on.'

* * *

After Mum and Joe have gone home for the first time in two days and I'm finally alone in my room for a few minutes, I look down at my chest again, covered by the piece of wadding. Inside me, my new heart is beating away, rhythmically and steadily, slowly bringing me back to life. My new life.

At last I am going to be strong and well enough to do all the things I haven't had the energy to even think about over the last two years. Soon I'll be able to go out with my friends, even start cross-country training again. I take a long, deep breath and exhale slowly. I can't wait to feel the freedom of running flat out in the open air and knowing nothing bad is going to happen to me.

A rush of euphoria floods through me, making me tingle with excitement and forget all the pain I'm in. My ordeal is over. Despite all the dangers, I've made it safely across to the other side of the river. I've done it. Well . . . not on my own, I've got Dr Sampson and his team to thank for that. And someone else, of course.

My donor. I don't even know his or her name. All I know is, this person shares the same blood group as me, and a few hours before I received their heart, their life ended. And it suddenly hits me: while my family is over the moon and celebrating right this minute, somewhere else my donor's family is suffering and grieving. As the enormity of this and everything that has happened over the last few days starts to sink in, tears roll down my cheeks and, before I know it, I'm sobbing uncontrollably. The numbers on the monitor race
up, higher and higher. It starts beeping angrily, and two nurses rush in.

‘I'm fine,' I tell them as they hurriedly check me out, then, visibly relieved, reset the machine. ‘Really. I'm fine.'

Today, as the effects of the anaesthetic are wearing off, I'm beginning to feel I'm back in the land of the living. The nurses are still checking my temperature, blood pressure, pulse and oxygen levels every two hours, but Dr Sampson arrives and tells me how pleased he is with how it's all going, and a physiotherapist called Sahasra comes to see me.

She explains her name means ‘new beginnings', which is very apt because she's planning one for me right here and now, by helping me stand up for the first time since the operation.

I ache all over, despite the painkiller flowing through the drip into my arm so I kick up as much fuss as I can, hoping she'll have pity and leave me in peace.

With a cheerful smile, my protests are totally ignored as Sahasra slowly helps me up. She might as well ask me to go ten rounds with a world champion sumo wrestler.

I've just made it to my feet when, from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of someone else in the room. The last thing
I want is an audience.

‘I feel like a performing monkey,' I say, glancing over her shoulder at a dark-haired boy about my age, as Sahasra encourages me to gently walk a few paces on the spot. The boy doesn't take the hint. I don't care how ill he is, I think irritably, I'd never dream of staring at another patient the way he is at me.

Lying back in bed a few minutes later, I feel as if I've just been run over by a train. Several times.

‘I'll be back tomorrow and we'll try something a bit more energetic,' Sahasra promises with a smile. ‘A little walk, maybe, and a few gentle arm exercises.'

‘Lovely,' I reply, looking up and realising my audience has got bored and gone. ‘Can't wait.'

‘Got to use that wonderful new heart,' she retorts as she walks out of the room.

Within a week, all the tubes and drips attached to me are taken out, I'm walking up and down the corridor and they've weaned me from liquids onto proper food again. The meals aren't too bad, so long as they don't give me any meat. I used to love Mum's roast dinners, but now just the thought of eating a ham sandwich makes me feel queasy. Instead, I seem to have developed a passion for peanut butter. I used to hate the stuff.

I have to start taking tons of tablets every day. Dr Sampson tells me the main ones are called immunosuppressants and I'll be on them for the rest of my life, because they stop my body trying to attack or reject my new heart. The big problem, he says, is that they lower the strength of my body's immune system – the thing that protects me against infections – so when I'm back home I'll have to tell Mum if I feel unwell or think I'm running a temperature, because an infection could lead to my new heart failing.

Not surprisingly, I don't want to think about this. I feel safe
in the hospital, the ward is cleaned every single day, everyone has to wash their hands and arms up to the elbows with the anti-bacterial soap before they come near me, and visitors are banned if they have a cold.

With each passing day, I'm feeling stronger and more like my old self before I got ill . . . until the morning Dr Sampson breaks the news that I'll be going home later that day.

‘You don't look very excited, Becky.' With a mock frown, he turns to the two medical students by his side and shrugs. ‘Our patients have such a fantastic time here they never want to leave.'

The students smirk politely as Dr Sampson turns back to me. ‘Well, spill the beans, Miss Simmons – what's up?'

‘I suppose I'm just a bit nervous,' I mumble, but I know it's more than that. I'm petrified. When I go home, there will be germs everywhere.

‘All your test results were excellent. In fact, they couldn't have been better. Your new heart is working beautifully. You're far too well to be stuck in hospital, Becky,' he says. ‘You need to be out there, getting your life back on track.'

Mum helps me clear my locker and pack my things, including a huge card signed by my whole form. I didn't want anyone at school to know about my operation, but Masher Crombie lives two doors down from Gran and she and his mum are as thick as thieves, always having a good gossip about something or other. Besides, I know I should feel honoured – there among all the joky comments and get-well messages, Shannon Walters has bothered to scrawl her mark.

After we've thanked all the staff, Joe picks up my bag and
we walk down through the corridors and out of the hospital into the fresh cold air. As I look back one last time, I see someone standing on the grass just outside the entrance. It's the dark-haired boy. Impulsively, I give him a wave, but instantly wish I hadn't as he doesn't bother waving back.

‘Who are you waving to?' asks Mum, peering round.

‘No one,' I reply.

We make our way back to the car and I'm shocked how everything seems so much brighter, louder and faster than I remember. I've only been in hospital for three weeks, but during that time I haven't been outside at all.

I can't help shivering.

‘Cold, Becky?' Joe asks.

‘Just a bit,' I reply, pulling up my hood. But I'm not. I don't want to tell him I feel like a prisoner released into the daylight, wondering how I'm going to cope in the big wide world.

We drive past school just as everyone is spilling out of the gates into the street. Mr MacNamara is on duty and he's in full flow, telling Masher off. Shannon's standing behind them, hands on hips, rolling her eyes impatiently and making faces behind Mr MacNamara's back. I spot more of my class among the throng of kids, then see Leah, Alesha and Jodie chatting and giggling as they dive into the newsagent's, to buy crisps, probably. I sink down in the car, not wanting to be seen. I miss my friends, but I'm not ready to rejoin their world yet.

The first thing I do when we get home is wash my hands with anti-bacterial soap. Twice.

‘Becky! What on earth are you doing up there?'

‘Nothing . . .'

‘Yes, you are! I can hear all sorts of banging and crashing – sounds like you're herding elephants.'

Mum rushes upstairs and charges into my bedroom, halting abruptly as she clocks the chaos around her. My bed is now by the window, my wardrobe has been shunted a couple of metres along the wall and my chest of drawers stands near the door where my desk used to be. Most of the stuff that was inside the wardrobe is now scattered shamelessly over the floor. I stand on the last little island of carpet and wait for Mum to go ballistic.

‘Oh . . . Becky!' Mum glares at me disapprovingly.

‘I was just changing things around,' I plead, weakly. I glance around the room once more and can't help but see things though her eyes. It looks as if I've been burgled.

‘You've been home two weeks! You're not supposed to pull or push anything – let alone shunt furniture around!
What about your scar?' Mum isn't just angry, I can hear panic in her voice. ‘What on earth were you thinking?'

I go blank. What was I thinking? I don't really know. Except I've had such a strong feeling ever since I got home that my room isn't how it should be. Things aren't in the right place.

‘It's OK, Mum,' I tell her. ‘Danny helped me with the heavy stuff.'

Right on cue he pops his head around the door. ‘Told you she'd be cross,' he says, holding a football in his arms. ‘You coming out, Becky?'

‘Maybe later, Squirt. I need to finish my room.'

‘Oh. OK.' The smile falls from his face, he turns away and pads off downstairs.

Mum looks at me.

‘What?'

‘You could play with him sometimes, Becky.'

‘He's seven, Mum. I'm not standing around, watching him kick footballs into next door's garden.' I turn away, picking up a pair of shoes from the floor. ‘Besides, he's not even my real brother, for goodness' sake.'

Mum gives a small, resigned sigh and turns to go. I bite my lip. It isn't Danny's fault his dad has married my mum.

She hesitates by the door. ‘Maybe I'd better just check your scar . . .'

‘I'll do it in a minute,' I say. ‘Promise.'

‘OK,' she says, eyeing me warily. ‘Make sure you do. Oh, before I forget, Jodie called. About the school play . . .'

My face falls.

‘Come on, Becky, it'll be good for you to go . . . see all your friends again. I told her you'd ring her back, but I'm sure she can wait till you've cleared up this mess,' she adds with a wry smile.

She walks out, leaving me standing among the wreckage that was my beautifully tidy room a couple of hours ago. I look around, confused. I used to love my room so much. Until today, I haven't wanted to change a thing for years. As I turn, I catch my reflection in the long mirror and stare at it, unnerved. Am I so different now I've got someone else's heart inside me?

I examine the pale oval face gazing curiously back at me. My fringe has grown, I notice, but there are still dark shadows under my eyes and my cheeks seem a lot puffier than they used to be. Dr Sampson said the tablets might make that happen. Great, I think, I survive serious heart surgery only to turn into a giant hamster.

I gently pull down my black roll-neck jumper and look at the Frankenstein scar running down my chest. It seems to be healing OK, but it still looks red and angry. I don't like to look at it very often and when I do I sometimes just take a peek at the top. I know it's there and what it means, and that's enough. I briskly pull my jumper back into place and carefully re-roll the material over my throat. I only wear clothes with high necks now.

‘It'll be really packed – all the tickets are sold, but I've got you a seat right at the front,' Jodie tells me excitedly over the phone. ‘You wait till you see Leah . . . or should I say Chicken Number Seven? Trust me, you're gonna
die
laughing!' There's a sudden embarrassed pause. ‘Whoops . . . sorry, Becky, I didn't mean that . . . I —'

‘Forget it,' I interrupt. ‘Look, I'm not sure I'll be able to make it . . .'