‘Jenna, I understand you believe there is such a thing as Cellular Memory…’ says Vanessa.
‘It is a thing.’ I spring to my feet, hands balled into fists by my sides. ‘There are many scientists and doctors, and these are growing in number all the time, who support the theory memories can be stored in the neurons of the heart and transferred to the recipient. New science is testing the theory that the heart is involved in our feelings. It has already shown the heart has intelligence.’
‘But it’s not actually proven that Cellular Memory…’
‘It is proven that memory itself is distributed throughout the neural system, and the heart’s nervous system contains around 40,000 neurons that communicate with the brain. If you transplant a heart you are also transplanting these neurons.’ I’d stayed awake half the night filtering facts, trawling through medical jargon, trying to understand. I continue: ‘There was a paper published in Austria by the Quality of Life Research which documented that twenty-one per cent of heart transplant patients who were part of the study experienced a change to some degree. Twenty-one per cent! That’s huge.’
‘Please sit down.’ Vanessa’s tone never changes. She may raise an enquiring eyebrow and look over the top of her glasses in that way of hers that makes you question everything, but her voice is always the same.
I ignore her and stride over to the window.
‘How are you finding being back at work?’
‘You can Google it too.’ I’m determined not to let the subject drop. ‘Cellular Memory is…’
‘Jenna, I can’t…’
‘You won’t.’ I spin around to face her. ‘Please. Just read the medical journals. At Honolulu University, Hawaii, the School of Nursing carried out research and they documented that all of the heart transplant patients who were part of the study changed in ways that were parallel to the donor’s history, not just their tastes either, their sensory experiences too. There are thousands of real-life cases online as well where people receive an organ and it changes them.’
‘Of course it changes them. It gives them a second chance of life.’
‘Of whose life? Theirs? Their donors?’
‘It’s not possible that…’
‘There’s a case where a British woman woke after her op speaking fluent Russian. She’s never been to Russia. The donor was Russian. Another where a boy found he could play piano, as good as any concert pianist – he’d never tried an instrument in his life. I’m not making this up.’ This morning I’d silently recited the facts to myself over and over, knowing I needed to present them calmly to have any hope of being taken seriously. Instead, I trip over my words in a rush to get them out. My voice is too high and too fast.
‘I’m sure you’re not making it up, but scientifically…’
‘Scientifically it’s impossible that a teenage girl can receive a transplant and get behind the wheel for her first driving lesson and drive like Lewis Hamilton. Her donor was a racing driver.’ It sounds ludicrous I know, but I desperately want Vanessa to believe me. I sink back onto the sofa. ‘Look.’ I calm my voice. ‘It’s not only massive changes for people. It’s small things too. Craving food they never ate before, listening to new music, reading in different genres. If recipients meet the donor’s family, they often find out that the new things they are trying were the donor’s favourite things. Scientists are taking it seriously, why can’t you?’
‘But tastes do change. And it’s only natural that being given a second lease of life would lead to wanting new experiences. To live as much as possible. Trying new books and music is part of that.’
‘But there’s strange dreams, memories of things that haven’t happened, yet they all turn out to have happened to the donors.’
‘People experience the same things all the time without knowing it. Not many experiences are brand new.’
‘I felt such a bond with Nathan. Like we were connected somehow.’
‘And he felt this too? This connection.’
At Nathan’s house, I’d been in a daze during dinner as I twirled spaghetti around my fork, and I’d left as soon as he’d cleared the plates. We hadn’t swapped numbers, and I’d sent him a Facebook friend’s request this morning but he hasn’t responded. Tom and Amanda haven’t been in touch either. These people I feel tied to have let me go so easily. Is it all in my head? I ignore Vanessa’s question and press forward.
‘What about my episodes? The fear? The panic? The things I think I can see? It’s like they’ve happened before. What if they have, but not to me? To Callie? It’s a possibility, isn’t it? I’m not going mad, am I?’
‘You’re not mad, Jenna, but you have been through an incredibly harrowing experience and you’re on very strong medication. Your mental health has suffered. Understandably so. We’ve talked about relaxation, haven’t we?’
I ignore her question. ‘What about my dream? Playing Poohsticks on the bridge. The picnic.’
‘I think everyone has played Poohsticks at some stage. It’s probably an old memory resurfacing from when you were small.’
I didn’t have sex in a cornfield when I was small, I think, but I can’t tell her that part of my dream. It’s too embarrassing.
‘So why would I have remembered it now. Just before I met Nathan?’ No matter what Vanessa says it doesn’t make sense.
‘Who knows? There are lots of things that can cause the subconscious to nudge something back to the conscious mind. A smell. A sound. A feeling.’
‘It’s too coincidental.’ I lean forward, pulling the sleeves of Sam’s green fleece over my hands, resting my elbows on my knees that jig up and down.
‘That’s often how memories are recalled. Subtly. Have you ever seen one of Derren Brown’s shows? He uses triggers to coax the mind in a certain direction. He knows what people are going to say and do because he’s engineered their response. Planted visual and auditory stimuli. It’s not unlikely that your memories were triggered the same way.’
‘But I don’t think they are my memories. I think they’re Callie’s. The dreams when I’m on the beach with another little girl – I think that’s Sophie. Her mum had paintings on the wall of girls on a beach. The picnic. The man. That must be Nathan.’
‘Let’s suppose for a minute you are dreaming Callie’s memories.’ Vanessa’s face is neutral, and I know she is humouring me. ‘What does she feel? With this man? This little girl?’
‘Happy.’
‘Would you consider the possibility that your deep-rooted guilt with regards to Callie’s death could be manifesting in your dreams? Showing you she had a happy life to help ease your conscience?’
I think about this for a moment; it does seem plausible. ‘But it feels so real. I believe she’s trying to tell me something but it’s so muddled. The dreams are happy but the snippets of memories that flash when I am awake are so dark. She was scared of something. Or someone. I’m sure.’
‘Do you feel scared, Jenna? Not Callie. You.’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And the dreams you are having. Let’s take the one of you playing on the beach. How did that make you feel?’
‘Less lonely,’ I admit. Growing up I’d always wanted a sibling. ‘And…’ I trail off. My face flushes as I think of some of the other dreams I’ve had with the man in them. I don’t want to tell Vanessa that I can still feel his warm fingers on my skin when I wake and my body burns with the desire to be touched. Could it be just my subconscious whispering to me? Cellular Memory seemed so real to me an hour ago. Now I’m not so sure.
‘Are you lonely?’
‘No. Yes. A bit, I suppose.’
‘The world can seem a scary place when you’re already feeling alone. All of the emotions you’re feeling are entirely yours, Jenna. You have to own them in order to move forward. You’ve been through a very difficult time. You nearly died. Your relationship with Sam broke down. Your parents have separated. Any one of those incidents on their own can cause severe stress. All of them t
ogether, it’s no wonder you’re fraught.’
‘But Callie…’
‘Becoming fixated on Callie is not going to help you. My heart goes out to her family, it really does,’ Vanessa says. ‘It’s very commendable donating organs but you need to find a way to make peace with what’s happened. Callie would have died anyway, whether she donated or not. This…’ She taps her pen against my notes. ‘This is why we try to discourage any contact other than a thank you letter. It’s too emotional. For everyone. I strongly advise against having any more contact with her family. I don’t want to sound uncaring but you’re my main priority, Jenna. You have to put your own emotional well-being first.’
‘But my picnic dream…’ I’m wavering now. ‘I couldn’t stand strawberries before I had that dream. Now I can’t stop eating them.’
‘Tastes change as we get older. I used to parcel my Brussel sprouts in a tissue and hide them in my pocket but now I love them.’
‘It’s hardly the same thing.’
‘I’m not a dietician, but cravings can be triggered by hormone imbalances and deficiencies. Your body knows what it needs. Strawberries are a healthy choice and not something to worry about.’
‘But… listening to Abba.’
‘Now that may be something to worry about.’ Vanessa winks at me to show she’s joking and then puts her clipboard and pen on the table in front of her. ‘Sorry, Jenna. The session has flown past. I know you’re concerned and I do take it seriously. Journal your thoughts, make a note of anything else you think is strange and bring it along next week. We’ll go through it together. In the meantime, please try to relax.’
She stands, and I know I’m not going to find the answers I need here. She doesn’t believe me. But something’s happening to me and I’m determined to find out what.
As I turn to walk out of the door she says: ‘Let Callie go, Jenna.’
But what if Callie won’t let me go? I want to ask. But I don’t. And an icy chill brushes against the back of my neck.
19
As I leave Vanessa’s office I am deep in thought. She doesn’t believe me. And now, I am doubting myself. Last night, as I’d read up on other recipients’ accounts, I’d been so certain tissue could retain memory but like Vanessa said, I suppose we are all on the same medication. Could we be experiencing similar side effects? Stepping off the kerb to cross the road, brakes squeal and a horn blasts. I’m frozen in place as a man sticks his furious red face out of his car window and yells ‘watch where you’re going you stupid bitch’ as he swerves around me. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman yanks me back on to the path.
‘Are you OK, dear?’ she asks.
Panic rises as she continues to hold my arm. The feeling of being restrained hitting like a punch as though it has happened before. Did this happen to Callie? Or am I delusional? I pull away from her grip but I can’t breathe properly. There’s not enough air. Everything seems too bright. Too loud. My underarms prickle and I’m hit by a desperate need to get away. I feel alone. Utterly, hopelessly, irrevocably alone, and there’s only one place I want to be.
Sam’s car is outside his mum’s house. He’s been staying here ever since we split up. I hover outside the garden gate, my fingers gripping the cool metal latch but I don’t lift it. I haven’t seen Kathy since Sam and I separated, and I’m not sure what sort of welcome I’ll get.
A thumping on the window draws my gaze upwards. Harry, Sam’s half-brother, waving from his bedroom, and the nerves I feel at being spotted are dampened by a flood of relief that I can’t just go home now.
The front door swings open. Sam, wearing his suit trousers, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and I know his tie will be stuffed in his jacket pocket. He can’t have been home long or he’d be in T-shirt and jeans. His big toe pokes through his black sock, and I feel a tug of sadness as I realise if things were different I would have been his wife, looking after him, darning his socks. Chiding myself for romanticising I try to pull myself together. I’ve never darned anything in my life.
‘Hey you,’ he says.
‘I’ve brought your fleece back. I know it’s one of your favourites.’ I fiddle with the drawstring toggle at the bottom but I don’t make any move to take it off.
‘Do you want to come in? Say hello to Mum?’
I hesitate but I’m yearning for a semblance of normality, even if it’s only for an hour, and I step inside. I’m barely through the door when Harry torpedoes himself into my arms. Resting my chin on the top of his head I inhale the scent of his lemon and lime shampoo.
‘I’ve missed you, Jenna.’
‘I’ve missed you too.’
‘Then you should have come to visit.’
‘I should. Stupid, aren’t I?’ Stepping back, I pull a face and he giggles. Harry is only seven and was the result of Kathy’s brief relationship with a younger man who hasn’t wanted anything to do with her or his child.
In the kitchen, Kathy is on her knees, twisting the dial on the oven and pressing the ignition button and there’s the whoosh of a flame. My stomach rolls as she stands and faces me. I tense as I wait for her reaction, but although exhaustion is imprinted onto her face and there are creases around her eyes that I’m sure weren’t there a few months ago, she looks genuinely happy to see me.
‘Stopping for dinner?’ Kathy asks as though it hasn’t been months since I have seen her.
‘I’d love to.’
‘Roll your sleeves up then, girl.’ She grins and it’s like old times. Harry measuring out orange squash into glasses; Kathy rummaging through the freezer pulling out random bags of things that might make up a meal. Smiley face potatoes and toad-in-the-hole. Sam opens a can of baked beans, and I hold a frozen chocolate gateaux over a bowl of warm water, hoping it will defrost a little quicker. ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’ blares out of a radio that’s always tuned to a ‘hits of the 80s’ station. It feels like home. As we squeeze around the tiny kitchen table it occurs to me I haven’t thought of Callie once since I got here and there’s a flash of guilt as I realise it’s a relief.
We chat through the meal and after we’ve eaten the edge of the gateaux – the middle is still ice – Sam washes up, and Harry tells me he’s now collecting Lego Star Wars and he thunders upstairs to fetch his models.
Kathy and me move into the lounge. She yawns. Tendrils of hair have escaped her ponytail and she tucks them behind her ears. ‘Harry wants to meet his dad,’ she tells me.
‘Oh.’ I’m not quite sure what to say. She’s never talked about him to me before, and Sam almost never mentions him; if he does, he calls him ‘The Tosser’.
‘It had to happen, of course, but the odd question has turned into an almost constant demand.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I thought it only fair I text him, loser that he is, and let him know his son was asking questions. I thought I’d test the water but he didn’t reply and he stopped paying maintenance shortly after. He used to always let me know when he was going to stick some cash through the letter box – he doesn’t do banks.’ She makes quote marks in the air with her fingers. ‘He was always careful Harry wasn’t around to spot him. I don’t think he ever thought Harry might want to meet him. Maybe he’s done a runner.’
‘Have you called him?’
‘Yes. For weeks, the number rang and rang and now it’s disconnected. I’ve had to take on extra cleaning work to make up the money. I’m knackered.’
‘What have you said to Harry?’
‘What can I say? I can hardly tell the truth. His dad was just a stupid fling. He didn’t want a baby. He acted like a child himself. I’ve seen him in the past driving around in a convertible with a girl practically young enough to be his daughter in the passenger seat. They stopped at a red light and he snogged her face off. I felt like telling her she could do better. To his credit, at least he’d always provided financially for Harry, even if he didn’t want a relationship with him. But now…’
‘Isn’t there
an organisation that collects child support? Have you contacted them?’
‘There’s no point. He’s always said he’s self-employed. An entrepreneur. If there’s no employer to collect from there’s little they can do.’
Before she can say any more Harry staggers into the room, arms laden with models, and I sit cross-legged on the floor to admire them all and help rebuild the pieces that fell off as he carried them down the stairs. Harry’s beaten me at Dr Who Top Trumps three times when I tell him it’s time for me to leave.
‘Can I come and see the animals at work again, Jenna. Pleeassee!’ Harry wraps his arms around my legs.
‘Is that OK?’ I ask Kathy.
‘Of course.’
‘Sunday morning?’ I know we’ve got a couple of weekend stays booked in.
‘Lovely. I’ll see you then.’
‘I’ll drive you home,’ Sam says.
‘It’s OK. I’ll walk.’ I can’t risk being in the car alone with Sam again. Kissing him. It isn’t fair. To either of us.
On the doorstep, we stand awkwardly before leaning forward and giving each other a one-armed hug, trying not to let our bodies touch.
I step outside and I’m alone again. The clouds blacken and scud across the sky. There’s a bite in the air and I’m glad I have forgotten to give Sam his fleece back.
I’m halfway home when the heavens open and I’m pelted with cold, fat raindrops. Inside the flat I scoop an envelope from the doormat and carry it into the bedroom, pull Sam’s sodden fleece over my head, peel off my jeans, dropping them in the overflowing laundry basket in the corner of my bedroom. Sitting on the corner of my bed I rip open the envelope that arrived in the post.
Dear Jenna,
Thank you so much for coming to see us. We knew of course a piece of Callie lived on but meeting you has made it real somehow. Our daughter saved a life and we feel immensely proud of her. We both felt such a bond with you.
Next Saturday will be Callie’s birthday. I suppose I should say would have been, shouldn’t I? I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to that. We didn’t want to put you on the spot by asking you this by phone but we will be going to lay flowers on Callie’s grave first thing and we’d really like it if you could join us later in the day to celebrate the life of our little girl. It would make all the difference knowing that a part of Callie is there with us.
The Gift Page 9