The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  The door creaks open. The lady that stands before me is grey with grief; deep lines of worry are carved into her face. Stringy, blonde hair falls over her shoulders.

  There’s a beat. We both stand transfixed by the other. The urge to hug her is so powerful I thrust my hands in my pockets.

  ‘Hello. You must be Amanda?’ I say but I don’t need to ask. I know it’s her. ‘I’m…’

  ‘Oh my god.’ She covers her mouth with her palm and steps backwards, shaking her head. Her eyes widen and she slams the door shut.

  7

  The boy next door roars with laughter as I stand with my mouth hanging open. I’m too shocked to move. I stare at the closed door: at the patches of bare wood visible beneath the red chipped paint; at the rusted number thirty that isn’t hanging quite straight. There’s a smell of blocked drains making my stomach roll, and I snap my teeth together biting my tongue. My mouth floods with blood and humiliation. I have spent weeks imagining this day. Our first meeting. The picture in my mind never included a small boy hopping from foot to foot, his hand forming an ‘L’ shape which he holds against his forehead as he chants, ‘Loser, Loser.’ I have never felt so small or insignificant before.

  Feeling my cheeks burn red I fish around in my pocket and pull out a crumpled-up scrap of paper with the address. This is definitely the right house. What should I do? The door creaks open again. This time a man with dark brown hair and ruddy cheeks steps forward.

  ‘Jenna.’ He offers me his hand to shake. It’s damp and warm. ‘I am sorry about Amanda. I thought getting her to answer the door might help her feel in control. She’s been so nervous about meeting you, but it was a shock; it’s the hair, you know?’

  My hand flutters to the back of my neck. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I am about to ask but he speaks again.

  ‘I’m Tom, anyway. But you already know that. Come in. Please.’

  My heart hammers against my ribs as though it recognises Tom’s voice, and I step inside. Hot tears inexplicably prick the back of my eyes and I swallow them down.

  ‘Come through.’

  There’s a strip in the centre of the carpet that is flat and crusty and darker than the rest. The pile trampled with years of traffic. And as I walk down the hallway it occurs to me that I am following the footsteps of my donor. Placing my feet where she has placed hers, and I am overcome with the enormity of it all.

  The lounge is stifling. Sun streams through the window and a smell of cooking lingers. Amanda is swamped by the huge floral armchair she sits in.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenna. About before,’ she says, but she can’t seem to look at me. Tom, on the other hand, doesn’t stop staring.

  ‘Tea? I can make a pot?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Please.’ The room is so stuffy I’d prefer a glass of water but I am conscious that, for Tom, the ritual of boiling the kettle, steeping the tea, might bring a sense of normality to this situation. He heads towards a doorway at the back of the lounge. I grasp my cotton scarf and tug it away from my throat so I can breathe a little easier, but I don’t remove it, as if the layers that cover my scar can hide the reason why I’m here. Stupid really. It’s not as if they’ll ever forget.

  I wish I’d brought a gift; flowers, chocolates, anything to break the ice. I’d thought about it, of course. But I didn’t want to appear insensitive. Nothing could compare to the gift they have given me; but now, being here empty-handed feels rude. I clear my throat, and Amanda jumps at the sound, as if she’d forgotten I was there.

  ‘Tom won’t be long. Make yourself comfortable, Jenna,’ she says and her voice is so soft I daren’t move while she’s speaking in case I don’t hear her.

  ‘Thanks.’ I put my bag on the floor and gaze around the room. Magnolia has been painted on woodchip wallpaper and is grubby with age. A flat-screen TV stands in the corner, coated by a thick layer of dust. Underneath the window sits a large Chinese vase. A smeared glass coffee table rests its gilded legs on a faded jade and gold patterned rug. The furniture seems solid. Expensive. Not what I’d have expected from the outside of the house. There are several small oil paintings dotted around the walls.

  ‘These are gorgeous.’ I cross to one and lean forward to get a closer look. Two girls are holding hands as they stand on the ocean’s edge kicking at waves that shimmer under a butter yellow sun. Droplets of water spray into their laughing faces to remain suspended there for ever.

  ‘They are very good. Are they all by the same artist?’ I study the next one. A seagull is mid-flight and beneath him a small girl is crouching on the sand, covering her chips with her chubby hands as she stares at the bird.

  ‘I painted them,’ Amanda says.

  ‘You’re very talented. I’ve always wanted to paint but I’ve never really had the space in my flat for an easel. I sketch though.’ I want to ask whether her daughter painted too but I don’t know how to broach the subject without distressing her even more than she already is. ‘I’m not this good though.’ My voice, louder than I’d intended, seems to bounce around the room and sounds as unnatural as I feel.

  On the shelf above the gas fire is a silver trophy surrounded by photos. My stomach lurches as I draw closer to the sea of faces staring back at me. Is one of them her? My donor?

  My eyes are drawn to a Victorian frame next to a photo of Tom holding a fish aloft in the air, fishing rod propped next to him, and I pick it up. It’s heavier than I expected, and it takes two hands to hold it steady. Two girls beam into the camera, arms looped around each other’s necks. The girl to the left has a pixie cut, her hair dyed crimson. My hand flutters to my hair. No wonder Amanda got such a shock when she opened the door and saw me.

  ‘Is this your daughter?’ I ask although I already know the answer.

  ‘Yes. That’s Callie,’ Amanda says.

  ‘Callie.’ I taste the word on my tongue. How did you die? The room is hot and stuffy but the hairs on my arms prick up and I can’t stop myself shivering.

  8

  ‘Who’s that with Callie?’ I study the second girl in the photo. Her hair is long and ash blonde. As I examine her face I feel a tug of familiarity but I don’t think we’ve met.

  ‘That’s Sophie. Our younger daughter.’

  ‘Is she here?’ I look over my shoulder, half-expecting her to appear.

  ‘No.’ Amanda’s voice wobbles. ‘We lost her too.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ I carefully place the picture back onto the shelf. My T-shirt is sticking to my skin, and I tug it away from my stomach. It feels as if the air has been sucked from the room, and I don’t know how Amanda can stand the heat in her cardigan. She must have lost the ability to feel, in every sense.

  We sit in awkward silence, and the lump that rises in my throat feels so solid it’s almost as if I could reach in and pull it out. There’s a rattle of china and I spring to my feet as Tom walks into the room, cups and saucers – balanced on a silver tray – chink together.

  ‘Jenna, please. Take a pew. Make yourself comfortable.’

  He smiles and I think it’s genuine. More genuine than the one I offer in return. I’m almost desperate to leave, to run away from these people I’m at a loss to know how to comfort.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Tom says as he scoops up a sugar cube and plops it into his tea. ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a piece of shortbread, clutching it tightly between my fingers but I’m too anxious to eat it and as it begins to crumble I place it on my knee. I lick the sugar off my fingertips while I try to quell my rising panic. This is awful. I’ve never been good at small talk and I don’t want to skirt around the reason I’m here, but I don’t feel I can dive straight in either. My eyes bounce around the room as I fidget in my seat.

  ‘Whose is the trophy?’ I point to the gas fire.

  ‘That’s Tom’s.’ Amanda’s response is immediate, and I think she is grateful we are not talking about Callie yet. ‘He won it at golf.’

  ‘My dad played golf for years.’ He�
�d meet up with John on a Saturday afternoon. Mum and Linda would sometimes go shopping. Dad’s clubs are still in Mum’s garage, and I wonder if he misses it. I wish he’d start playing again but I suppose break-ups do that, don’t they? Fracture friendships. Force people to take sides.

  ‘I was a late starter,’ Tom says. ‘I had a heart attack three years ago but I didn’t really change my lifestyle. I stupidly thought I was too young for long-term heart problems but then I had a second heart attack and it was touch and go for a while. The doctors didn’t think I’d pull through. Callie and Sophie were terrified. Sophie used to interrogate me on what I’d eaten and drunk every day; she lived in constant fear of me dying.’

  ‘We all did,’ interjects Amanda.

  ‘I know. But I made changes. I gave up booze and fags and I took up power walking and playing golf but I didn’t enjoy it as much as the fishing me and my older brother Joe used to do. You can’t beat sitting next to a river but that doesn’t get you fit, does it? It’s hard to stick to a regime if you don’t enjoy it. Not like Amanda and her yoga. She used to get up at six every day to do her routine. I don’t exercise any more.’

  ‘You should. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, Thomas.’ Amanda looks stricken.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He reaches across the arm of the sofa and tenderly brushes her hair away from her face. ‘You’re stuck with me.’ The gesture is so simple, so intimate, my chest tightens.

  ‘Golf is a strange game,’ Tom says. ‘Walking for miles after a ball. But it was good to get out of the house. I’d spent so much time laid up, resting. I felt disconnected from the world. Amanda said I needed a hobby. Something to occupy me. I was at a bit of a loss without the business to run; my brother Joe stepped in when I was sick. It was supposed to be temporary but I never did go back. I needed to stay stress free. I had my orders.’ He shoots Amanda a smile as he says this.

  ‘What was your business?’ I am glad Tom is so talkative.

  ‘I sold car parts. My father, Colin, was a scrap metal merchant. I wasn’t born into money. Not like Amanda. Her parents were horrified when we started dating; not that they ever warmed to me. They live in Florida now. I suppose I wasn’t exactly a catch. I was brought up on a council estate. My mum was a cleaner and my dad was a scrappy. Still, Amanda saw something in me, didn’t you dear.’

  ‘I still do. You’re a good man.’

  ‘I used to sell insurance but when my dad passed and left the yard to me and Amanda, and the house and money to my older brother Joe, I thought I might as well give it a go. It folded after Callie died. No one had the heart to carry on with it. You might meet Joe later. He’s popping in to drop off Amanda’s repeat prescription. He’s a godsend. I don’t know what we’d do without him.’

  Amanda’s brow furrows and as she sees me watching her she says: ‘It was awful when Thomas was ill. I was beside myself when the doctor said I should prepare for the worst. When Thomas came home I drove him mad with my fussing.’

  ‘That’s what Mum was like. Spraying everything with Dettol so I didn’t come into contact with any germs. I can’t imagine the strain when someone you love is so sick.’

  ‘I found it difficult to cope.’ Amanda tucks her hair behind her ear. ‘Thomas had always taken care of everything and suddenly it was all down to me. I didn’t even know which day the recycling bins went out. I had to muddle through the best I could.’

  ‘You did a great job holding everything together,’ Tom says, but Amanda gives a small, sad shake of her head. ‘How did your parents manage?’ she asks.

  ‘It drove them apart, I think. They ended up separating when I was ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Amanda. ‘Do you think they’ll sort things out?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Maybe they just need a break now you’re on the mend?’ Tom says. ‘Once I was better, Sophie took off for weeks, travelling. She needed to unwind. It’s heartbreaking that we never were as close again. She spent more time with her boyfriend than us, but I suppose she had to grow up and distancing herself was part of that. We all cope in different ways, don’t we?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ But I know there’s more to my parents’ break-up than they are telling me.

  ‘So you’re a veterinary nurse and you live in the city centre?’ I am grateful Tom has changed the subject. ‘It’s been a comfort to find out you’re so close. The hospital was horrified we’d received a letter from you directly. They advised us not to meet but I think—’

  ‘I don’t care what they say.’ The words burst out of Amanda. ‘With you here I feel like part of Callie is with us. In this room. It’s incredible.’ The atmosphere is charged with emotion and as Amanda locks eyes with me I’ve never felt a connection like it before. Instinctively I reach for her hand. She starts to cry, and I can feel my cheeks are wet with tears too.

  ‘She saved your life. Our little girl,’ Tom’s voice cracks.

  ‘I had all these things I wanted to say.’ I wipe eyes with my fingertips. ‘But now I’m here… Thank you. It just doesn’t seem enough but I’m so incredibly grateful. My parents are too. It’s such a selfless thing to have done. I can’t imagine…’

  ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of another set of parents feeling like we felt. I wanted to do the right thing. Make the right choice.’ Amanda pulls her hand away and tugs a tissue from her sleeve. We sit in silence as she blows her nose while I fumble around for the right words. Any words. The clock ticks. Amanda blows her nose, but at last Tom speaks.

  ‘Callie lived in the city too. It’s such a coincidence.’

  ‘My mum says there are no such thing as coincidences. Things are meant to be or they’re not. She’s a great believer in fate. Or she was. Before…’ I tail off, aware of how tactless I sound. Fate or not, some things will always remain incomprehensible.

  ‘Do you have any siblings, Jenna?’ Tom asks.

  ‘No. I’m an only child but I always wanted a little sister to look after.’ I wince as my eyes flit to the photo of Callie and Sophie. I’ve said the wrong thing again, but Amanda’s a little more animated as she tells me: ‘Callie always wanted a sister too. She was so protective of Sophie, always getting her out of trouble. Sophie would get stuck at the top of a slide or get lost in the supermarket and Callie was always there for her. They were so close, weren’t they, Thomas?’

  ‘Peas in a pod to look at them but personality wise they couldn’t have been more different. There was such a bond between them it was lovely to see. Joe and me were the same growing up. He used to do everything he could to look after me when we were young; our parents worked such long hours. He still does, I suppose. Callie was the same with Sophie.’

  There’s a pause and I swallow hard before speaking. ‘Do you mind me asking how Callie died?’

  The air thickens and movements slow as Tom clatters his cup onto his saucer. Staring at his lap he curls his fingers into his palm, and I hold my breath as I wait for him to answer.

  9

  ‘Callie died in a car accident,’ Tom says. Amanda’s face crumples from within as though her cheekbones have been removed, and she begins to rock back and forth on her chair.

  ‘Do you want a lie-down, Amanda?’ Tom asks and when she nods, too distraught to speak, he gently cups his hand under her elbow and eases her to her feet.

  My mind is a riot of thoughts and emotions. Part of me wants to ask Amanda to stay, to reassure her we don’t need to talk about Callie, but the desire to find out more burns hot and bright and eclipses the words I know I should say. Instead, I watch as Amanda shuffles towards the door – Tom’s arm wrapped around her waist as she leans into him – and I listen to the slow thud of footsteps as they traipse up the stairs,

  While they are gone, I dash over to the window and yank aside the stiff net curtains before pushing against the window until it opens with a pop. I breathe crisp, fresh air as though I’ve resurfaced after swimming underwater.

  The ceiling above me c
reaks, and Tom’s footsteps thud back down the stairs.

  ‘It gets a bit much for her,’ he says coming back into the room, his arms full of photo albums, which he piles on the floor, where they topple and slide. Loose photographs are strewn over the threadbare carpet. I drop to my knees and scoop up a smaller version of the photo on the mantelpiece of Callie and Sophie. I am transfixed by it.

  ‘We got a few done of that one to pop into Christmas cards,’ Tom says. ‘Would you like one?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I tuck it carefully inside my purse before turning my attention back to the other photos. My chest is tight as I study the pictures of the short life laid out before me. It seems an age before Tom speaks, but when he does his words are slow, as heavy as lead.

  ‘We’d been to the wedding of the daughter of our old neighbour. Amanda and me, and Callie and Nathan.’

  ‘Nathan?’

  ‘Callie’s fiancé. Lovely chap. They had been together for five years. We thought she was too young to move in with someone but he really looked after her. He was so protective. They picked us up in their car that night, and I noticed they didn’t say much on the journey. They were quiet all night too, not that we could hear each other over rubbish the DJ was blasting out. Grime, I think Callie said it was called. Not our cup of tea that’s for sure. It was a relief when they turned down the volume for the hog roast. Amanda and I were hungry but Callie and Nathan said they’d wait for a bit. When we got back to the table they’d gone, and at first I thought they’d be on the dance floor. It was only when the DJ cleared it for the happy couple’s first dance we realised they weren’t. I don’t know how long they’d been gone. We checked the toilets before going outside to see if they’d stepped out to get some fresh air, but their car was missing. I tried ringing them both but neither picked up. That’s when I got worried. It wasn’t like Callie to leave without saying goodbye.’ Tom’s face creases in pain. ‘I never saw her again.’