The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  I nod – I’m not impressed. Hasn’t everyone had some kind of upheaval? ‘A loss?’ I press my lips together; I don’t want to give anything away and I’m determined not to mention Sam’s name.

  ‘You’ve been ill,’ she states, and I suppress a sigh as I think most people have had a cough or cold recently. A headache at least. My mind wanders, musing how soon we will be finished and what we might have for lunch. This is all so vague.

  ‘Jenna, were you one of a twin?’

  I look at Mum in surprise. ‘No, at least I don’t think so?’

  ‘Did you ever have reason to believe there was more than one foetus?’ Fiona directs this to Mum.

  ‘No. Never,’ Mum says

  Fiona frowns. ‘I’m definitely sensing two energies. A split. You often find that in identical twins. It’s almost as if two personalities are battling here.’

  My new heart thuds inside my chest. ‘This other energy,’ I ask. ‘Is it male or female?’

  ‘It’s definitely feminine,’ Fiona says.

  I lean forward in my chair. Could she be talking about the donor? But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I chew my lip as I try to decide whether I should tell her about the transplant.

  ‘Could it be Nana?’ Mum asks, and I slump with disappointment.

  Of course. It will turn out to be a grandparent who has passed. I berate myself for momentarily buying into the idea Fiona has any special gift.

  ‘No,’ Fiona says. ‘It’s younger. Stronger.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Outside the window, darkened clouds block the sun, turning day to night, and I shiver.

  Fiona leans forward and grasps my hand, and I feel a static shock and my fingertips tingle. I try to pull away but she tightens her grip, bright pink nails indenting my skin. As she touches me, my vision begins to mist and the room fades away until I’m shrouded in darkness. Where am I? There’s shouting. My heart is pounding. Sweat trickles down my face. A shadow looms towards me and there’s a sense of being shaken. I’m scared. So scared. Something very, very bad is happening and I’m not safe. I swallow the acrid taste of my fear and take a deep breath to calm myself but a metallic smell floods my nostrils. There’s a flash of red. Blood. A scream builds inside me but Fiona wrenches her hand away, and I’m back in the Masonic Hall. My chest is heaving with fright as I struggle to speak. I wipe my damp palms on my jeans.

  ‘Are you OK, Jenna?’ Mum has a worried expression on her face and she reaches out and touches my arm. ‘You’re trembling all over.’

  ‘What was that that just happened?’ My voice shakes. ‘It felt so real.’

  ‘Darling, I don’t know,’ Mum says. ‘You just seemed so out of it and—’

  ‘She’s asking for your help,’ Fiona interrupts.

  ‘Who?’ I’m close to tears now. Am I going mad? What have I just seen?

  ‘You must learn to listen to what she tells you.’ Fiona pats my hand, and I flinch as she touches me again but nothing happens.

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  There’s a tap at the door and two girls enter the room. ‘Sorry.’ They hesitate when they see Mum and me.

  ‘It’s OK. I’m done here,’ Fiona says. ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you, Jenna.’

  ‘But who…’

  ‘The connection I felt is gone. I really don’t know anything else.’ She sounds apologetic and I want to ask more questions but the girls are hovering by the table now, waiting for us to leave. My legs are trembling so much it’s an effort for me to stand. ‘Be careful, Jenna,’ Fiona’s voice follows me out of the room.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere you can sit,’ Mum says linking her arm through mine. ‘I don’t know what on earth she was talking about. She seemed like a bit of a charlatan. Sorry, darling. I just wanted her to give you something to look forward to. Talking about being careful! Take no notice.’

  We reach the bottom of a flight of stairs.

  ‘Sit here, darling. I’ll get you some water,’ Mum says. ‘You look so pale.’

  I sit on the bottom of some stairs and close my eyes as I try to make sense of what just happened. My heart jumps in my chest, hard and fast. A second energy. It couldn’t be… could it? I press my palm against my ribs and my new heart seems to thump help-help-help.

  4

  As me and Mum leave the Masonic Hall I’m still reeling from my encounter with Fiona. It all felt so real; the sense of being shaken; the blood; the shadowy figure. During the episodes I’d told Vanessa about, usually everything goes black. This one was different. Like looking through a kaleidoscope. An image that was there one second and gone the next. One twist and it all falls away leaving fragments that don’t quite make sense on their own.

  Discomfort slithers along my spine as I think of the ‘second energy’ Fiona talked about, and my head throbs as I try to make sense of it all. As much as I don’t believe in mediumship of any kind I can’t deny what I felt. I’m unnerved and tired.

  ‘We can go home if you want to, Jenna?’ Mum’s voice breaks through my thoughts and I force myself to smile. I know she’s planned something else and I don’t want to disappoint her.

  ‘I’m fine. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store next?’ I hope she doesn’t pick up on the flatness in my voice.

  ‘It’s a surprise. We’re nearly there. You’ll be able to have a sit down,’ she says, and I know I can’t fool her. She can tell how exhausted I am.

  It doesn’t take too long before Mum pushes open a glass door of what used to be a bakery. The smell of chemicals hits the back of my throat as we step inside the hair salon, all glossy black tiles and chrome fittings.

  ‘I’ve booked us hair appointments. My treat.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my hair.’

  The receptionist with the swinging bleached blonde bob raises an eyebrow sceptically, and I feel my face heat as I wonder when I last washed it.

  ‘It’s got so long. You need to look smart for Monday, if you’re still going back to work?’ There’s an edge to Mum’s voice as she says this.

  I understand she’s worried but as much as I sometimes feel I’d like to I can’t hide away in my flat for ever. My statutory sick pay has run out and although Dad has said not to worry, he’ll take over my rent, he’s already paying Mum’s bills, and I know he can’t afford it, despite his assurances he can. You only have to look at the awful bedsit he’s living in to see how stretched he is. Besides I love being a veterinary nurse, and I’d been heartbroken when the doctors advised me against being around animals at all for the first few months after surgery. There was a risk of infection from the pets, particularly cats, that could prove fatal. I added it to the long list of other things I initially had to avoid: crowds of people, driving, sex. Not that I have a car, or have anyone to have sex with but it felt like a loss all the same. That said, my rejection drugs have been gradually reduced, with Dr Kapur pleased with my progress, so it’s back to normal. My new normal anyway. He agrees the psychological benefits of being back at work will outweigh the potential risks, now infinitely smaller than they once were.

  ‘Yes, I’m still going back. Linda will look after me,’ I say, and Mum purses her lips together. I know she thinks no one can look after me quite like she can. ‘A trim would be good. Thanks, Mum.’ I twirl long mousey strands around my finger. The ends are quite split and it’s so much thinner than it used to be. I shrug off my coat and hold my arms out, mummy-like, as a black gown is cloaked around me.

  The basin digs sharply into my neck as I tilt my head backwards and my jaw clenches. Warm water floods my ears, and cools as it trickles down my collar but I confirm through gritted teeth the temperature is OK; ‘yes I’m comfortable’. The water stops and firm fingers massage my scalp. The shampoo is zesty – lemon, I think – and it feels so good to be touched I almost groan out loud, and my tension melts away.

  In front of the mirror the hairdresser tugs a comb through my hair. In the chair next to me Mum dunks a dig
estive into a coffee.

  ‘Just a trim then?’

  Flashes of red flit through my mind. A feeling of lightness I haven’t felt before urges me forward. It’s almost as if since hearing Fiona talk about a second energy I don’t feel quite so alone any more. I imagine there’s someone whispering just outside my consciousness, and I somehow feel a little braver.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I reply. ‘Can I try something completely different?’

  The back of my neck is cool without a curtain of hair blocking out the breeze, and I can’t help staring at my reflection in every shop window we pass, hardly able to believe it’s me. As soon as we get home I stand in the hallway, gazing into the gilded mirror I’d bought at a car boot sale.

  ‘You look good.’ Mum stands behind me.

  ‘I don’t know what possessed me,’ I say twisting my head left to right, tugging the hair in front of my ears as if I can somehow make it longer.

  ‘It’s certainly a bold choice for someone who’s never dyed their hair before, or had it short, but you look good. Younger.’

  I’m hardly old anyway, but I know what she means. The strain of the past few months is etched onto my face but the pixie cut suits me.

  ‘Tea?’ she asks.

  ‘Please.’ I breathe in as she squeezes past me and heads towards the kitchen.

  There’s the whoosh of water as she turns the tap and the kettle clicks on. I hear her opening the fridge to pull out the carton of milk I know she’ll sniff to check it’s OK.

  I can’t stop staring in the mirror. The new red colour of my hair has warmed my skin tone. The purple bags under my eyes aren’t so prominent. Raising my hands to my head I smooth my hair against my scalp with both palms; it’s so soft. My fingertips tingle as though charged with electricity and panic mounts as I begin to feel the way I felt with Fiona. Detached from reality, almost. In the mirror, my image begins to blur and dizziness hits. This can’t be happening. Not again.

  Darkness. Screaming. Pain.

  The sense of fear hits me so hard and fast I feel a band has been tightened around my lungs, restricting my breathing. The sense of danger is suffocating. In an instant, the feelings dissipate and I’m once again in my hall, leaning heavily against the wall as though I would fall without its support. I’m safe, I tell myself, but I don’t feel safe. It’s as though Fiona has triggered something inside me, and my skin crawls with the thought. I breathe in slowly and deeply but the screaming I’d heard in my mind seconds earlier lingers, along with the sense of panic. My second-hand heart thuds against my ribs, and I press my fingers against it. Who did you belong to?

  ‘Let go of your obsessive thoughts,’ Vanessa had said last Tuesday.

  But what if they won’t let me go?

  What then?

  5

  ‘Seven, eight, nine, ten: coming, ready or not.’

  My eyes spring open and I seek flashes of your ruby red sundress but I can’t see you. Daddy said we mustn’t go too far so you must be nearby, but you’re smaller than me and can squeeze into places I can’t. I crunch gravel underfoot as I run. A small, sharp stone slips between my toes. I hobble over to the giant wooden owl and sit on the dusty earth; his outstretched wings shielding me from the hot yellow sun. I unbuckle the strap of my jelly sandal and toss the piece of gravel back onto the ground.

  Seagulls flap across the cloudless sky, screeching their hunger, and my stomach growls as a boy runs past clutching a hotdog, leaving a trail of fried onions and ketchup behind him.

  The heat makes me cross, and I trudge over to the hedge and stand on tiptoes to peep behind it but you’re not there.

  There’s a constant thwack of metal clubs hitting balls, and I jog over to the crazy golf course. The coins Daddy gave me for two 99s jangle in my pocket and I can almost smell the Cadbury Flake, feel the coolness of the ice cream as I push the chocolate down to the bottom of my cone with my finger. Saving the best till last.

  I scan the course of impossible ramps and obstacles, searching for a small figure with a messy ponytail and scabbed knees. If I don’t find you soon, I’ll have to call your name and then I’ll lose, but it will be worth it to be able to buy our cornets.

  Over the crashing waves in the distance, and the squeals of children in the playground, I hear it. A cry. I turn my head slowly, ears straining, trying to block out the background noise. There it is again. A cry. Your cry. I know exactly where you are. I sprint over to the wooden hut that stores golf clubs and balls, drop to my hands and knees. The hard ground presses against my bare skin, and dry grass tickles my shins. I look underneath.

  ‘Found you!’ I stretch out my fingers and you slip your smaller hand inside mine, and I help you to your feet. Mud smears your face. Tears streak your cheeks.

  ‘You were ages.’ You sniff hard. ‘I didn’t think you’d find me.’

  I crouch down and pull out the tissue from the pocket of my denim skirt and I help you blow your nose.

  ‘Of course I was going to find you,’ I say. ‘I promise I will always find you.’

  6

  Hazy light begins to flood my bedroom. I curl onto my side, hugging my pillow, staring out the window as the sky transforms from mauve to grey to blue as the sun slowly rises. My sleep has been fitful. Vivid dreams are a common side effect of the prednisone I’m taking but as I brush my hand against the sole of my foot I almost expect grains of sand to tumble onto my crumpled sheets. The cry of seagulls, the aroma of hotdogs; both still sharp in my mind.

  After showering I rub cocoa butter into my skin, my fingers tracing the paper-thin scar on my chest. Ed Sheeran sings ‘The City’, and I stifle a yawn as I sit in front of the mirror, dabbing Touche Éclat over the black half-moons that hang under my eyes.

  The song playing through my phone cuts out as Dad rings and I put him on speaker.

  ‘I thought you were popping round yesterday to pick up the books I’ve got of Linda’s so you can take them in on Monday?’

  ‘Sorry, Dad, it slipped my mind. I had a busy day with Mum.’

  ‘How is she?’ he asks.

  ‘She’s fine.’

  Dad huffs out air, and I can picture him sliding off his glasses and rubbing the groove on the bridge of his nose. It’s almost as if he wants to hear she’s not managing without him, that she’s desperate to have him back, but I can’t fill him with false hope.

  ‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘It is that simple if you still love her. Do you still love her? She’s mentioned divorce, Dad! You should sort it out before it’s too late.’ My voice has risen.

  There’s a long pause before he changes the subject.

  ‘Jenna, I understand why you want to go back to work on Monday but I’m worried it will be too much for you. It seems too soon. Why don’t you come and work at my practice? I could keep an eye on you, and you could leave whenever you feel tired without worrying.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Linda and John will look after me. It’s only part-time.’ We must have had this conversation a million times. I check my watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.

  ‘Are you going somewhere nice?’ He sounds hopeful.

  ‘Rachel’s coming over.’ I hate lying but my stomach throngs with nerves at the thought of meeting my donor’s family, and I can’t deal with my parents’ emotions today on top of my own. Just like Vanessa, I don’t think they’d approve.

  The bus trundles through the city and gathers pace through country lanes. Outside the window, sheep chew emerald green grass, and herds of cows stand in a field so distant they look like the size of Dalmatian dogs. It looks idyllic outside, but the interior of the bus smells of cheap perfume. It’s so hot. I start to worry there’s not enough air, and I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift as I try to calm my breathing. I think once again what the donor might have been like. In his letter, Tom, the man I wrote to, referred to her as ‘my daughter’ in his reply so I know it’s a female heart beati
ng inside me. I can’t wait to find out more about her today.

  A screeching of brakes jars me back to the present and a silver convertible skids around a hairpin bend drifting into the path of the bus. I take a sharp intake of breath as our driver blasts his horn, and yanks the steering wheel. I am buffeted left to right as we veer onto the grass verge, and as my head thuds hard against the window my stomach floods with fear. My surroundings fade away and it’s as though I’ve been transported somewhere else entirely. There’s the sensation of fingers grasping my arms, shaking me, and I whimper.

  ‘It’s OK, we didn’t hit anything. Are you hurt?’ A voice soothes and suddenly I’m back on the bus, blinking at the sun streaming through the grubby window. An elderly man is looking at me with concern while the other passengers grumble about idiot drivers. My breathing is ragged. I’ve had another episode, and I wish I’d brought Mum with me. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I remind myself Vanessa said it’s just my medication causing anxiety but that doesn’t make it any less real. Any less frightening. For the rest of the journey my head throbs, and I imagine I still feel hands around my arms, fingertips pressing hard into my skin.

  The bus grinds to a halt in a well-maintained street of bay window detached houses set back from the road. Google Maps tells me it’s a twenty-minute walk, and I alight the bus wanting to burn off some nervous energy. The breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass. The warmer weather has encouraged cars to be washed, borders to be dug. Daffodils and bluebells poke through the earth.

  The GPS on my smartphone tells me to turn right, and as I head away from the main road the houses gradually get smaller and shabbier and closer to the pavement. The sun doesn’t seem to be shining quite so brightly any more. An empty crisp packet blows across the road like tumbleweed, coming to rest in a gutter littered with dog-ends. As I reach number thirty I wonder whether the donor lived here too, in this almost derelict house I’m standing before.

  There must have been a path here once. Flashes of grey stone are visible beneath weeds of epic proportions that have forced their way through the cracked concrete. Yellowing net curtains cover grimy windows, wooden frames and chipped paint. I trample down nettles and jab the doorbell. I can’t hear a tell-tale chime so I press it harder with my thumb. There’s a crashing coming from the house next door, a deep voice swears and a small boy runs outside, crusted snot under his nose, congealed food stains on the front of his grubby grey T-shirt. I smile. He sticks two fingers up at me, and I feel my face burn. I turn back towards the front door and rap so hard my knuckles sting.