The Gift

by Louise Jensen

  Shaking thoughts of the Jack Russell away I sit and pull my laptop towards me, and I download various images of Callie from her Facebook page and send them to the wireless printer in my hallway. The printer whirrs and churns and spits them out, and I stick the photos to my fridge with the magnetic letters and, when it’s full, I Blu-Tack them to the walls: Callie cross-legged on a carpet of green, face shining with happiness, a daisy chain looped around her hair; Callie and Nathan, unaware of the camera, staring deeply into one another’s eyes; Callie, sitting in the middle of Tom and Amanda, glasses brimming with fizzing champagne raised into a toast. Underneath each photo I write captions on Post-it notes so I remember where and when they were taken. Where did you disappear to that night? I trace the outline of Callie’s face with my finger. Her clear and perfect skin glows. My spine straightens as though strength has flowed into my bones and, standing tall, I suddenly feel strong. No longer disempowered by illness but I have a sense I can actually do something. Make a difference. Purposefully, I pick up my mobile and, punching in the number of Nathan’s office that I’d written on my mind map, I make a call.

  Outside Nathan’s office the sun glistens on hot tarmac, and the air is heavy with the stench of exhaust fumes. Leaning against a tree trunk I ensure I’m shaded by its boughs; the immunosuppressants I’ll always have to take leave me vulnerable to skin cancer but I’m going to embrace the English Rose look this summer. I don’t take my eyes off the door to the building. Nathan’s secretary had told me on the phone that he finishes work at six. As I wait, feeling alone and exposed, anxiety dampens my clothes. I don’t make eye contact with anyone. In my head I run through the script I’ve prepared, but even to me the words sound forced and contrived. At six o’clock people begin to stream out of Nathan’s office. Men loosen ties and roll up sleeves as women bunch cardigans into handbags. I flinch whenever someone brushes against me as they hurry by, and I press myself harder against the tree. Bark scrapes against my bare shoulders causing my skin to sting. By quarter past my legs ache. The frequency with which I check my watch doesn’t make the time go any faster, and by half past I’m hot and tired and close to giving up. I think perhaps I’ve missed him. The traffic is constant, engines rev and stereos blare from open windows, and a dull ache has formed behind my temples. I’m about to go home when the door swings open again and there he is. Nathan. Beige mac looped over his forearm. Tan leather briefcase swinging in his opposite hand. I inhale sharply at the sight of him as a bolt of recognition shoots through me. My legs move without conscious volition as though there’s an invisible cord tugging me towards him. His strides are long, black shiny brogues slapping against the pavement, and I have to half-run to keep up with him.

  The high street is teeming with people scurrying home to enjoy the sun before it disappears, and I’m knocked and jostled. It’s too crowded and I lose sight of Nathan. My blood whooshes in my ears as I fight to stay calm. Clenching and unclenching my fists I try to recall Vanessa’s advice by noticing how fast I’m breathing and attempting to slow it down. My anxiety increases. I can’t remember whether I am supposed to breathe in for the count of three or five or whether that’s exhaling, and I feel utterly useless as I fight to control my panic. Stepping into a doorway I crouch down and try to make myself as small as possible. Breathe. One, two, three. My head jerks upwards as a bus hisses fumes as it releases its brakes, its wheels turning as it pulls away from the kerb. I stare into its windows as it passes but I can’t see Nathan. He could be anywhere. It feels hopeless that I’ll find him again now and after the long wait outside his office to have lost him is sickening, but if I’m honest, underneath the disappointment is relief. My head feels thick and my thoughts jumbled. Dry-throated I look left and right searching for somewhere to buy a bottle of water. There’s a Co-op down the street, and I clamber to my feet, continuing to breathe deeply as I cross the road. After this I’m going home.

  The shop is packed. There’s almost a Christmas-like mania as customers shove their way to the shelves, grabbing the last of the burgers to barbecue, tutting because there are no bread rolls left. The air-conditioning is a stark contrast to the glorious sunshine outside. I stand still at first, welcoming the feeling of my blood cooling and calming, but before long my arms are covered in goose flesh and I pick my way towards the fridge. As my emotions start to settle, I begin to think about dinner and I look around to see if there’s anything I fancy. At the end of the fruit and veg aisle are punnets of fresh strawberries, plump and red, and saliva floods my mouth. Even though I normally hate them I feel compelled to peel back the cellophane, and I pick the largest fruit up by its stalk, dangle it over my open mouth before sinking my teeth into the soft flesh. The sweetness explodes into my mouth, and I close my eyes as juice trickles down my chin.

  ‘You look like you’re enjoying that?’

  I snap my eyes open and he’s there. Nathan. Sound crescendos around us and then fades. I can’t stop staring at him. My hand twitches with an almost magnetic pull to reach out and trail my fingertips along the stubble on his jawline. Does he feel it too? This connection. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  ‘I couldn’t resist. I will pay for them.’

  His laugh is low and belly deep. ‘I wasn’t judging you. I knew a girl who used to do that.’ His head tilts to the side as he studies me. ‘You remind me of her. I think it’s the hair.’

  My hand touches the back of my neck. It’s still strange to feel the exposed skin.

  ‘Strawberries were her favourite; she ate them all the time. She said they were a natural teeth whitener too. Not that she needed her teeth whitening being a dental nurse.’ He runs his fingers though his hair, thick and curly. ‘Sorry. I’m babbling. But Callie used to do that. Eat the strawberries that we were supposed to be buying for a picnic as we walked around the shop, and I’d have to go back for more.’

  Callie. Picnic. Strawberries. My dreams. They can’t be of Callie, can they? I think back to the painting at Amanda’s. The girls on the beach in my dream. Callie and Sophie? In front of me, Nathan is asking ‘are you all right?’ his brow furrowed, but I can’t seem to move my mouth, to smile, to talk. ‘A second energy,’ Fiona said. Callie? It’s impossible. Despite the air-conditioning I am boiling hot as emotions tumble, all tugging for my attention. I am floating above my body, almost touching the hot white strips of lights. Noise fades. Silence screams. I’m spinning and turning and my vision is shrinking and shrinking. I’m Alice disappearing down the rabbit hole until there’s only a pinprick of light and then, nothing.

  Shoes. I’m surrounded by feet. Trainers, skyscraper heels, and flip-flops. Strawberries are scattered around me like confetti. My senses roar back into life and I sit up blinking, grasping the bottom of my top and tugging it down, conscious the rolls of flesh around my waist might be on display.

  ‘Here.’ Nathan scoots down next to me and untwists the cap from a bottle of Evian. The label is soft and damp with condensation.

  I croak my thanks and gulp greedily as the crowd disperses.

  ‘You must have overheated outside. You’ve caught the sun.’

  ‘Probably. I missed lunch today too.’

  A spotty shop assistant glares at me – even though his name badge says he’s ‘happy to help’ – as he picks up whole strawberries, mops the ones that have been splattered on the white tiled floor. It looks like a crime scene, and I shiver, drawing my knees up to my chin and tucking my arms around my shins.

  ‘Look. I know you don’t know me but I only live around the corner. Would you like to come back to mine? I can offer you some food and call you a cab when you’re feeling better?’ Nathan proffers his hand and pulls me to my feet. I sway, and his arm curves around my waist, and I lean into him as though I’ve done it a thousand times before.

  ‘It’s kind of you but…’

  ‘No buts. I can’t let you go home in this state. I’d never forgive myself if you fainted again crossing the road or something.’

&nb
sp; ‘I could always call my dad. I’m sure I could wait here until he comes.’

  The assistant vigorously cleaning around us runs the mop over my feet so the water trickles over my toes, exposed in sandals, and they become sticky with disinfectant.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mutters, although he is grinning as he says it, and I don’t want to remain here a second longer.

  There’s no way I’d ever usually go home with a stranger, let alone stay for dinner but I am feeling sick. Besides, it’s not as though Nathan is a stranger, is it? Not really. And I did want to talk to him. But an image of Callie’s bruised face looms into my consciousness, and I hesitate. What if Nathan is dangerous?

  ‘If you feel happier calling your dad I’ll wait with you until he arrives.’

  His brow is wrinkled with concern, and I brush my doubts aside. How many people are kind enough to stop and help a complete stranger?

  ‘Thanks, but I’d like to go back to yours,’ I say.

  Back to Callie’s, I think.

  Back to mine, beats my heart.

  17

  My feet seem to know where they’re going as I walk beside Nathan: left at the traffic lights, right at the church, pause and cross the road. Nathan’s voice is low and comforting, but I can’t understand what he’s saying. I can’t understand what’s happening to me. Strawberries? I’ve always hated strawberries. The dream I had of the picnic flits across my mind. Am I going crazy? Callie’s heart aches inside my chest. Could it be irrevocably tied to Nathan’s? But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it? A heart is just an organ.

  Somehow I know we’re here. There’s a sense of home. And everything feels so surreal it’s almost as if I’m drunk. We slow and pause together at the end of the driveway while Nathan holds up his raincoat in one hand and pats each pocket to locate his keys. These houses still have the new build look about them even though they have probably been here over twenty years. Red roof tiles, and not a chimney in sight.

  Nathan pushes open the gate that creaks and unlocks the glossy black front door that has a silver knocker, and I follow him into the hallway that holds the lingering smell of washing powder. There’s a giant print of the Eiffel Tower at night in a glossy black frame.

  ‘Make yourself at home.’ Nathan strides down the hall. It only takes him four steps to reach the kitchen. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Please.’ My fingers trail along the buttermilk walls as I follow him, and I rub the gloss white doorframe that leads to a cloakroom. I can’t stop touching things. Wanting to feel the solidity beneath my fingertips, if only to convince myself this is not a dream.

  In the kitchen Nathan pulls mugs from the cupboard and fetches milk from the fridge.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Nathan digs a spoon into a caddy and heaps white granules into my drink, stirring as they sink, and I wonder if he’s heard me but before I can speak he glances at me and adds another half teaspoon.

  ‘I know you said no but it’s good for shock. Sugar. You still look really pale. Let’s get you sat down. Shall we sit in the garden?’ Nathan’s already hooking open the back door.

  I’m desperate to see the rest of the house but he hands me a box of chocolate fingers. ‘Take these outside and get something in your stomach. I’ll sort out some proper food in a bit.’

  The garden’s beautiful, its borders a riot of colour, and I remember Tom telling me how much Callie loved gardening. I lean against the fence, sipping my drink, while Nathan grapples with a large green umbrella, angling it so the table falls into shade.

  ‘Are you OK to grab the seat cushions from the shed?’ he asks.

  The heat in the shed is stifling, but it still smells of damp and earth. Garden tools hang from the wall, mud stuck to the prongs of the fork. Stacked at the far end are bags of compost and lime, and there’s a shelf crammed with gardening books and packets of seeds. I spot the cushions half-hidden under a tarpaulin. I tug them and dislodge a flowerpot and as it tips over I see a glint of silver, and the biggest spider I’ve ever seen skitters across the floor. I shriek as I bolt outside.

  ‘You OK?’ Nathan takes the cushions from me.

  ‘Spider,’ I say, and I edge towards the corner of the garden as Nathan bangs the cushions together. Dust rises and falls.

  ‘You girls. Scared of everything.’ He smiles.

  ‘Not everything,’ I say. ‘Is your girlfriend scared of spiders?’

  ‘I don’t have one. Callie. My fiancée. She died a few months ago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ And I am.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. His face is closed as he drags the chairs over to the table, and I can see he doesn’t want to discuss Callie. Part of me is relieved. It’s difficult to know where to start and my head is still pounding with the effort of analysing everything that’s happening.

  There’s a yapping from the garden next door, a small dog by the sound of it.

  ‘Bloody thing, I can’t stand it,’ Nathan says. ‘He belongs to the new neighbours. Callie would have a fit if she were still here. She hated Jack Russells with a passion. She was bitten by one as a child and terrified of them ever since. Funny, because she loved big dogs but she couldn’t go near a Jack Russell, even if it was on a lead.’

  The garden tilts and sways – images pulse; Mrs Bainbridge, Casper – his needle-sharp teeth – Callie – the fear I felt at work. I stumble towards the back door.

  ‘Just nipping to the loo,’ I say. I need to collect my thoughts.

  In the cloakroom, I perch on the lid of the toilet. Callie was terrified of Jack Russells. In the surgery, could I have felt her fear? It sounds crazy. I press my palm against my forehead. I’m hot. The sun is fierce outside and I reassure myself the heat is making me irrational or my medication is making me paranoid, but I know it’s more than that. I’m feeling what she felt but how can that be?

  Nathan taps on the door jarring my already jagged nerves.

  ‘Are you OK, Jenna?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ I fumble for the lock – my hand won’t stop shaking – and I open the door not knowing quite what to say.

  ‘I’m sorry. It was stupid to take you outside in that heat when you’ve already fainted. You look so pale. You’re not going to keel over again, are you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. Really. I just felt a little light-headed. I should probably go.’

  ‘Wait until you’ve eaten, at least, and you are feeling better. I’ll rustle up a bolognese. We can eat in the dining room. It’ll be nice to use it again.’

  I hesitate. I do feel awful, and I did want to speak to Nathan.

  ‘Sorry. Am I being bossy? Callie said I could be sometimes. I mean well though. Honest. I’d be glad of the company,’ he says, and as he smiles I know I’ll stay.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  ‘How did you meet her? Callie?’ I’m sitting on a kitchen stool crunching on a piece of the pepper Nathan is chopping for the pasta sauce.

  ‘In a bar. I was on a night out with some lads from work. She was waiting to be served and laughing at something her friend had said. The sight of her took my breath away. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Her friend went to the toilet and this sleaze-bag sidled up to her and started trying to chat her up. You could tell he was a chancer. Drunk so much he couldn’t stand straight.’ He frowns at the memory. ‘She turned away, and was obviously trying to brush him off, but he didn’t get the hint. I’ll never forget her face as I strode over, put my arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Sorry I’m late, darling,” I said, and he got the message and staggered back to his mates. She called me her knight in shining armour and that was it.’

  ‘Love at first sight?’ It had been a slow burn for Sam and me. We’d been friends for ages before we got together.

  ‘She was everything I wanted. Sweet, gorgeous and kind. Too kind.’ He slices the top from another red pepper.

  ‘Can you be too kind?’ I often think the world’s not kind enough.

  ‘Sometimes you ha
ve to learn to stand up for yourself, don’t you?’ His tone is soft but he is gripping the knife so hard his knuckles bleach white. He scrapes the vegetables from the chopping board into a saucepan, meat and garlic and herb tomato sauce already simmering, and my stomach growls.

  ‘Let’s go and sit in the lounge while that cooks through,’ Nathan says.

  The lounge is immaculate. Furniture, shiny and white. A large cream deep-pile rug lies between the caramel leather sofa and the coffee table. At the far end of the room is another door which I assume leads to the dining room. Over the mantlepiece, in a silver frame, is a large photo of Callie. She’s standing on a rickety wooden bridge over a bubbling stream. She’s laughing. Her arm is outstretched, fingers splayed open, and a small stick tumbles from her hand.

  My dream. It’s as though the bones in my legs have disappeared as I sink onto the sofa.

  ‘It was her birthday,’ Nathan says from behind me but I can’t tear my eyes away from the image. ‘She loved playing Poohsticks. We didn’t have much money at the time for an elaborate day out. She said she was thrilled with a surprise picnic though.’

  I know she was. I want to tell him about the dream, the feeling of being utterly loved and utterly happy, but how could he understand? It sounds impossible. It is impossible. I’m dreaming about things that have never happened to me. That have only happened to someone I’ve never met. I press my hand against my chest and feel the thump, thump, thump of Callie’s heart inside of me.

  And that’s when I know with absolute certainty. A heart is not just an organ. The heart stores secrets and lies. Hopes and dreams. It’s more than a muscle. I know it is.

  The heart remembers.

  18

  ‘Read these.’ I wave a wad of A4 paper towards Vanessa, creased from being stuffed into my bag. Last night when I got home from Nathan’s, I’d spent hours Googling, printing off page after page of true-life stories, Blu-Tacking some of them to my wall among the photos of Callie. The magnolia paint in my kitchen is barely visible any more.