The Goodbye Gift

by Amanda Brooke

  Julia shrugged guiltily. ‘I had thought about it, I just hadn’t got around to doing it.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Helen demanded of Phoebe. Another shrug told her all she needed to know. ‘Right, you two, let’s do it now.’

  Helen took out her phone, opened up the Internet and found the online registration page. ‘OK, who wants to go first?’ she asked.

  They emerged from the pub to find the night as blustery as they had left it, but at least the rain had been swept away. Linking arms, they crossed the road with Helen and Julia teetering like fawns down the steep incline into the car park. If it weren’t for Phoebe in her Doc Martens, they would have fallen at least twice and, as it was, Julia only managed to stop herself when she thumped against a car. Thankfully it was hers.

  ‘Had a nice night, ladies?’

  The three women were still interlinked and a sudden fit of giggles made the task of detangling themselves doubly hard. Their observer waited patiently. He was wrapped up against the elements with the collar of his heavy woollen jacket turned up and a scarf wrapped around his neck that matched his beanie hat. He was tall with dark features that belied the gentlest of hearts and he was the man Julia had been looking for, although she hadn’t known it the first time she had set eyes on him.

  Julia had been distinctly wary when Paul had started chatting her up at the gym. She had just turned thirty and was recovering from her break-up with her pathetic excuse of a fiancé, who had waited until a week before their wedding to tell her he wasn’t ready to settle down. When she had been playing hard to get with Paul, there had been no acting required. She had been deeply suspicious of his motives, not sure why someone five years her junior would be interested in her, but his deep brown eyes had drawn her to him, as they did now.

  ‘You didn’t mind coming out, did you?’ she asked.

  ‘That depends. Are you all going to behave?’

  ‘Not if you don’t want us to,’ Helen said as she took what she intended to be a step forward, except her balance was out of kilter and she tumbled into his arms. ‘Hey, watch where you put those hands, pal!’ she cried.

  Julia gently prised her friend from her husband. ‘Excuse me! You watch where you’re putting your hands.’

  ‘It was worth a try,’ Helen said and grabbed hold of Phoebe for consolation. ‘Nobody wants us, Phoebes. We’ve got too much baggage.’

  Phoebe and Julia wore identical scowls although for entirely different reasons. ‘Speak for yourself,’ Phoebe said, ‘I’m alone because I choose to be, and my nan wouldn’t be too pleased if she heard you referring to her as baggage.’

  ‘And I’m sure Milly would object to being called baggage too,’ Julia reminded Helen.

  Helen waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, my little Milly the Millstone has heard me say it often enough.’

  ‘You had better not call her that to her face, Helen!’ Julia said, suddenly sobering up. ‘I’m not suggesting you have it easy but you shouldn’t take her for granted.’

  There was a mixture of pain and envy in Julia’s face that Helen couldn’t ignore. ‘I was only joking, Julia, you know what I’m like,’ she said. ‘Life’s too short to be taken seriously, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love my little—’ When she faltered, it was obvious she was struggling to think of a more flattering description for her daughter than one of a collection she would normally use. Sounding distinctly unsure that she had found the right word, she said, ‘My little princess. Milly is more important to me than life itself and she knows it.’ She cupped Julia’s face. ‘Friends?’

  ‘Always.’

  Phoebe cleared her throat. She had been standing to one side looking dejected.

  ‘Come on,’ Julia said, tugging her sleeve so they could form an untidy rugby scrum.

  Paul was shaking his head and Helen caught him. ‘And you too,’ she said. ‘Come on, don’t be shy.’

  ‘Maybe we should let Paul join our other club too,’ Phoebe suggested once they were in the car.

  ‘I’m on the case,’ Helen said. She took out her phone and her tongue poked out as she tried to focus on the screen. Paul was driving away from Woolton towards their first drop-off point, which was Helen’s house. ‘Right, what’s your full name, Paul?’

  ‘Erm, I don’t think so. I’m not signing up for anything until I know what you lot are up to.’

  ‘Paul Ernest Richardson,’ Julia said.

  ‘I should have remembered that,’ Helen said, and once the sniggers had died down she tapped in the details and ignored Paul’s demands to know what she was doing.

  ‘Date of birth?’

  Paul pulled up at a red light and turned to glare at his wife. ‘No, Julia, not until you tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she said, leaning over to kiss his pouting mouth. ‘We’re just making you even more of a hero than you are already.’

  When Paul continued to look uncomfortable it was Phoebe who put him out of his misery. ‘It’s nothing bad. We’ve all signed up as organ donors, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’ he repeated with a note of incredulity.

  Paul was still staring at his wife, his face glowing red, amber, and then green in the reflected light. ‘The lights have changed,’ she said.

  ‘One of my patients died today waiting for a heart transplant,’ Helen explained. ‘Julia and Phoebe have registered and now it’s your turn. So? Can I have your date of birth?’

  Making an exaggerated effort to navigate another junction, Paul let the silence extend long enough to let his reluctance be known. The subject was dropped, and at first the silence was broken only by the occasional hiccup from Phoebe. Eventually Helen started babbling on about Milly’s latest antics, stories her friends had already heard but it was better than nothing. But once Helen had been dropped off, it was left to Julia and Phoebe to fill the void, and Paul spoke only when he was asked a direct question.

  ‘Phoebe’s thinking of learning to drive,’ Julia told him. ‘You’ll give her lessons, won’t you?’

  Paul was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for another set of traffic lights to change. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Julia, I said I’d sort it myself,’ Phoebe insisted.

  ‘Oh, you’d never get round to it if we didn’t give you a little push. You’ve put it off long enough as it is. Helen passed her test when Milly was still a baby.’

  ‘Good for Helen.’

  Ignoring the huffing and puffing from her friend, Julia continued, ‘All I’m saying is you should have done it years ago.’

  There was a deep sigh and when she did speak, Phoebe’s voice was slurred and yet still barbed with pain. ‘Well, I can’t go back and change things, can I? And believe me, if I could then learning to drive wouldn’t even make the top ten.’

  ‘Sorry, I know I’m being pushy,’ Julia said. Her friend had always played down the struggles she had faced during her early life, and had outright refused to talk about her mum’s death, which had prompted her return to Liverpool. But as the years went by and Phoebe’s life continued to stall, it was becoming increasingly hard for Julia to stand back and let it happen. ‘I won’t mention it again.’

  ‘It’s OK, Julia, I know you’re only looking out for me.’

  When they pulled up outside Phoebe’s grandmother’s house, Julia noticed a curtain twitch.

  ‘I don’t mind giving you lessons,’ Paul said as Phoebe got out of the car. ‘The offer’s there if you want it.’

  Once she was alone with her husband, Julia said, ‘So you do have a heart after all.’

  ‘Yes, and one I intend to use for my own purposes, thank you very much.’

  ‘But why? Why don’t you want to register as an organ donor, Paul?’

  He squirmed a little in his seat. ‘I’m just a bit creeped out by it, that’s all. It’s the whole idea of bits of me living on while the rest of me is dead and buried.’

  ‘I was planning on having you cremated.’
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  ‘You know what I mean.’ He visibly shuddered when he repeated, ‘It’s just the thought of it.’

  ‘But the point is, Paul,’ Julia said, trying to form a cohesive argument while fighting through a hazy, alcohol-induced fog, ‘you’ll be dead so there’ll be no “thinking” involved.’

  ‘I know but, I’m sorry, I just don’t want to do it.’

  ‘Why not? You’re a lovely, sweet, generous man, Paul, and I’m struggling to understand.’

  ‘I don’t think I can explain. I wouldn’t want someone walking around with my heart beating inside them, and I certainly wouldn’t want them walking around with yours.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care what you think, I’m registered – and it’s my wishes that count.’

  ‘They’d still have to ask for my consent.’

  Julia stared open-mouthed at her husband, her expression all the more exaggerated after consuming far more wine than her body was used to of late. ‘You mean you’d go against my wishes?’

  ‘It just doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s not right. People who deserve a chance to live just as much as you and me, are dying when they could be saved. Helen sees it all the time and she was really upset this evening. The patient who died was younger than us and …’ An image came to mind of three children who would grow up without a father, one of whom hadn’t even entered the world yet. ‘And his wife’s pregnant.’

  Paul took a deep breath and his words were released almost as a sigh. ‘Is that what this is about?’

  The flare of anger came from nowhere, and whereas a sober Julia could dampen her fury, venomous words tumbled out of her mouth unabated. ‘No, that isn’t what it’s about! Do all my motives and reactions have to be centred round the fact that I can’t have a baby? Am I not allowed to sympathize with a woman – pregnant or not – whose husband has just died needlessly when there might have been a potential donor out there somewhere except he felt a bit “creeped out” about organ donation?’

  ‘Julia—’

  ‘Why does it always have to come back to having babies? Why has our whole life been taken over by me getting pregnant? Everything we do, including doing it, has to be checked and double-checked against a schedule. I can’t look at a calendar without thinking about my monthly cycle or how I’m approaching forty at breakneck speed. I can’t put anything in my mouth without considering how it’s going to affect my fertility. I’m riddled with guilt just because I had a drink tonight, and I’m sick of it, Paul, sick of trying so bloody hard and getting nowhere. I want the waiting to be over, I can’t stand it any more!’

  She hadn’t noticed that Paul had pulled over to the kerb until he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned towards her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held onto him as she began to sob.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered, ‘I know it’s hard but we have to keep believing it’ll be worth it in the end.’

  Julia sniffed back her tears as the embarrassment of making a fool of her drunken self took hold, but her feelings had broken free and it was too late to backtrack now. ‘But it’s already been two years, Paul. If it hasn’t happened by now, maybe it never will.’

  ‘So isn’t it time we went back to the doctor and asked for a referral to see a specialist?’

  It had been a contentious issue between them for almost a year now. They had gone as far as broaching the subject with their GP and with the help of the practice nurse Julia had thrown herself into learning all the self-help techniques, from ovulation tests to strict diets, relaxation methods to the best positions during sex. They had followed all the advice to the letter and every month they had experienced a fleeting sense of hope when Julia was convinced her body felt different only to realize it was nothing more than the usual premenstrual changes. And this had happened every month without fail since she had stopped using contraceptives more than two years ago, at a point in their lives when they had settled into married life and their careers were established. She had been thirty-seven and she had presumed that the time for children had been right. She had thought they would be planning for baby number two by now, sitting in a people carrier rather than crammed into the VW Beetle that was starting to make her feel claustrophobic.

  The next step would be for both of them to go through a series of exploratory tests to identify potential problems, and it was Julia who had been prevaricating, praying month after month that it was an unnecessary intervention. In truth she was frightened about what might be uncovered and every scenario held its own horrors. How would she feel if she were infertile, which was the most likely outcome given her age? Would Paul blame her or at least resent her? He wanted to be a father so much and if she couldn’t make that happen, would she be able to live with the guilt? Worse still, how would she console Paul if it were him? And what if the doctors couldn’t find a problem, what would they do then? What if there was no quick fix? Would they need to go through fertility treatment? Would they even be eligible now that she was so old? How many more months, if not years, of agonized waiting lay ahead? Would their marriage survive that kind of stress or would she be jilted yet again?

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, sitting up straight to wipe her eyes and then focusing on the road ahead. She had to place a hand over her chest to calm her racing heart. ‘Can’t we just go home?’

  Paul didn’t move. ‘I know you’re scared, Julia, I am too, but we can’t go on like this.’

  ‘The only thing I feel right now is tired and a bit queasy. If you don’t get me home soon I just might throw up in the car.’

  The threat worked and when they arrived home a few minutes later, the issue was put off for yet another day.

  3

  The Accident

  Anya’s patient lay unresponsive on the trolley as she was rushed into the Accident and Emergency Department which was in as much a state of mayhem as the crash site, albeit slightly less chaotic. Anya exchanged brief looks with colleagues she hadn’t worked with since transferring to the surgical ward, each registering the shock that she should be back in the thick of it as a triage nurse. But there was no time for chitchat; the pressure was on and they all had a job to do.

  As a precaution, her patient had been placed in a back brace at the scene while they treated some of the more obvious injuries, which included a broken arm and a nasty gash to her side. These were superficial injuries in the scheme of things and of more concern was the woman’s raised heart rate and falling blood pressure, which suggested a ruptured spleen.

  With her condition deteriorating rapidly, Anya made sure she received immediate attention, which wasn’t easy with the department at breaking point, but that was the point of triage, to prioritize.

  While Anya was updating the team on her patient’s condition, the woman began to mumble. Leaping at the opportunity to glean some information from her, she leaned in closer.

  ‘Hello, can you hear me?’

  The woman’s eyes flickered open but remained unfocused. ‘Where am I?’ she murmured.

  ‘Warrington General. You’ve been involved in an accident, but you’re in safe hands. We’re here to look after you.’

  ‘We were going to London,’ she said. ‘We shouldn’t have …’

  ‘It’s all right, don’t worry about that now,’ Anya said as the woman became sufficiently aware to start feeling scared. ‘Let’s just concentrate on getting you better, shall we?’

  The woman remained agitated. ‘The others? Where are they?’

  ‘They’ll be receiving the best care we can give them, but right now you’re my first priority,’ Anya told her. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

  ‘Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Phoebe Dodd.’

  4

  Julia had spent the morning at her workbench finishing off a handful of repair jobs before returning to her desk where she had made a start on the anniversary designs the day before. The workshop was draped in cold wintery shadow with the exception of a warm pool of light cast from a desk lam
p onto the unopened sketchpad in front of her. She had lost her mojo and the flashes of inspiration that had fired her up the day before had been replaced by white pain between her temples.

  She was sitting in her old leather chair that creaked every time she moved so she moved slowly and deliberately as she opened up the sketchpad. She picked up a fine-tipped pen and pressed down hard against the cream cartridge paper, watching black ink bloom from beneath the nib. By the time she had summoned up the strength to lift it, a nasty inkspot had developed in the centre of one of her pendant designs. Her client’s wife was a nature lover and Julia had been working on a modern design in the shape of a chrysanthemum, chosen specifically because it represented fidelity and long life. Dewdrops of diamonds denoted their three children and she had intended to add smaller gemstones to signify not only the three grandchildren they had already, but those that would undoubtedly follow. And that was when her mind had stalled, tripping over the word – undoubtedly.

  Julia tore the sheet from her pad and scrunched it into a ball. She was too exhausted to throw it at the wall so flung it lazily across the desk before picking up a polishing cloth to drape over the lamp. With her designs consigned to the shadows, she rested her head on her folded arms and closed her eyes. She could hear the hustle and bustle rising up from the street below. This part of Bold Street was pedestrianized and the sound of traffic was no more than a distant hum, so it was the noise from the passers-by that drew her attention. There were shouts and occasional bursts of laughter, a mournful police siren crying from afar and as she strained her ears she thought she heard a baby cry. A familiar yearning began to build deep inside her and she wanted to cry too.

  When she and Paul had gone to bed the night before, she hadn’t been sure if he was angry with her, disappointed or simply resigned to her obstinacy. She would have liked to have seen him that morning but he had let her sleep through the alarm and had vanished by the time she had rolled out of bed. They had never sat down and confronted their problems head on, not really, and perhaps that was because it had crept up on them so stealthily. She had been thirty-four when they had married and although they both wanted kids, there had been no urgency to start a family. Paul was that much younger so putting it off for a few years seemed the right thing to do, or at least it had back then.