2
Present day
Half past six on Monday morning. Heavy rain drenched me. But, it still couldn’t distract me from the queasy sensation seeping through my body. Biting my lower lip, I thought about starting my first year at university in Oxford.
Checking my watch, I cycled alongside the slow-moving snake of city traffic. Endorphins were making me giddy.
I blew out a breath. Yes I could do this, like any other student. NowI was a Fresher. I hoped I could live up to it. I’d been refining my fantasy student life in my head for a while.
Peddling harder, I did a quick mental review. Of course, I had the archetypal Oxford bike. Complete with wicker shopping basket on the front; thanks to my ever-thoughtful Uncle Spencer, who I still lived with.
Cycling faster now, shops whizzed past me in a multi-coloured blur. I wondered which Fresher’s clubs would be on offer at St. Meril’s College. I loved the thought of learning something new. You never knew when these things would come in handy.
When I checked my watch again, the silver roman numerals showed 6.45am. There was still a twenty minute cycle ride to visit the hospice where Irene was now. I peddled on, keeping my speed up despite the driving rain. My tyres sliced through dams of dead leaves.
A memory of Irene’s smiling face flashed in my mind. Oh Irene. What a mess. Her soft voice echoed within me, “Remember, Emily, often the harder something is, the more it’s worth doing.”
I took comfort in that as I arrived at The Mortimer Foundation Hospice. Bracing myself, I locked up my bike and carried the flowers around to Irene’s room. Now that I was stronger, I’d visit as often as I could and bring gifts to brighten the place up.
It was kind of peaceful here. The smell of scrambled eggs mingled with lavender air freshener in an odd combination.
My stomach ached as I made my way past several small family gatherings. I glanced at their hunched shoulders and grim expressions. At least they had each other. It must make things easier.
Slowing down, I looked at Irene’s name plaque on the door to double-check I was in the right place. She looked so different. Her long auburn hair had been cut short and her pale skin had a bluish tinge to it.
When I dug my nails into the stems of the flowers, the sap made my fingers sticky. I’d brought her favourite – Freesias. Not that she could see them. Or smell them.
I glanced around the neat, square room. The flowery curtains matched the sunny yellow walls. Next to the bed was a green and white gingham armchair, with a television in the far corner. The room was so hot I took off my jacket, hoping it would dry whilst I was there.
It was only when I was sitting in the chair that I noticed the three framed photographs on the wall opposite. In each one, a younger me, Ben, Uncle Spencer and Irene smiled back. A nice touch. Uncle Spencer had made Irene’s room homely, in case she ever woke up and he wasn’t there.
I wondered what he talked about when he visited her every day; probably something upbeat to encourage her to return home. As if she had any say in it. I swallowed back the lump in my throat.
Oh well, here goes nothing.
“Hi Irene, it’s Emily.
I don’t know what to say. Except I miss you. Still can’t believe what I did. Irene, I’m very sorry. I was confused and scared when we were in the other world. I made a huge mistake. The biggest mistake of my life.
Yes, I should’ve known better. But I’ve learnt my lesson. It will never happen again. I promise. But the problem is, I don’t know how to help you get back here.
I read in the battered Chinese dictionary in Uncle Spencer’s study, ‘a definition of perseverance: To continue on with a knife in your heart.’
I wish with all my heart you were here with me now. Still, I thought you might be able to hear me. See that I’m trying. Stupid theory, I know.
Sorry I haven’t been to visit you sooner. I thought about you every day. It’s been a difficult few years since… well, you were trapped. I couldn’t face anyone for a long time. But I feel stronger now. That’s the good news.
Uncle Spencer’s the same. Well, that’s a gross exaggeration. I was trying to be polite. He’s okay. Not that he’d tell me if he wasn’t.
He did tell me what they’ve planned for 10th November. The Deadline. Don’t worry, that’s a month away.
I’ll figure something out. Before your family come over from Holland. Then they’re going to stop feeding you. They’ve said three and a half years is long enough; if you were going to come back from the coma, you would’ve done by now.
Well, I don’t agree. But then, I always see things differently.
Apparently you made a living will. It states you wish to die with dignity. But somehow, I don’t think this is what you meant. You didn’t expect to die when you were only forty-two. Not like this.
Uncle Spencer and I know we’re not legally family. We don’t have a say in it. So we’re doing what we do best; thinking around the problem, and finding a different way through.
I’d better go now. I’m starting at St. Meril’s today. My first lecture’s in forty-five minutes. I’ll come back soon. I’ll never leave you again.
I love you. So do Uncle Spencer and Ben.”
With tears streaming down my face, I set off into the rush hour traffic. It was 8am. The rain had conceded and sunlight, the victor, broke through the drifting grey clouds. I cycled at a brisk pace along the main Abingdon Road.
To lift my mood, I changed tracks on my iPod to my favourite. When that didn’t work, I promised myself that I would fix things. I vowed to do whatever it took to bring Irene home. Even if it was the last thing I ever did. I wanted, needed, my family. They were what mattered most to me. Everything else in life was… frills.
I smiled as I thought about how brilliant it would be to all be back together. Me, Ben, Irene and Uncle Spencer. A long breath helped focus my mind.
My daydreaming had led me through the impressive 16th century architecture of the famous Oxford colleges. With renewed determination, I noticed the autumnal shades of the ancient beech and maple trees. They lined the route into St. Meril’s College. Another autumn. Another year. A new start.
Two pock-marked stone pillars sat either side of the road. Complete with gargoyles that defended the gates. Now I was at the grand entrance of St. Meril’s car park.
I studied the gargoyles. They were ugly and two faced, literally. Each had a monstrous face where the back of its head should be. One smiled down at me. The other was in a permanent bad mood. How welcoming.
First though, I needed to meet some new people. Perhaps go for a coffee. That’s what all the other students would be doing. So that’s what I should do. For now.
I wished Ben was with me. He’d make everything easy. He made people feel comfortable, within seconds of meeting him. As Ben said, “Strength in numbers, Em.”
I thought about him in London. I missed him. This was our biggest test yet. The longest I’d ever been apart from my closest friend was one day; when he’d had his wisdom teeth out. Now I was on my own.
Suddenly, I heard a horrendous screeching of tyres. A long blast of a car horn startled me off balance, making me violently over-steer. I collapsed from my bike onto the grass verge.
With a groan, I picked myself up. I looked down at the mud on my red jacket and denim skirt, and the new ladder in my black woollen tights. Glaring, I turned towards the inconsiderate driver and saw a pristine blue and silver sports car. Its tyres were smoking from the skid to avoid hitting me.
“Right, that’s it. Reckless idiot,” I said to myself. A flush invaded my cheeks as I tried to scrape mud off my black boots.
Not caring who they were or what flash car they drove, I stomped over to confront the driver. Privacy windows made it impossible to see anyone inside. There was only my frowning face glaring back at me.
A part of me thought of Aristotle’s words, “Be angry at the right person, at the right time, for the right reason.” Well, practice makes perfect.
The driver put his window down a fraction as I approached. It was barely enough to show me his eyes. He was looking straight ahead. He showed no signs of getting out to help me.
What was wrong with him? The least he could do was apologise for ruining my jacket. I raked my fingers through my long hair.
“How dare you blast me with your horn? Who do you think you are?” I narrowed my eyes. “It was my right of way, idiot.”
There was stunned silence. He opened his window fully to reveal his face. He turned and held my gaze.
My heart skipped several beats. My breath caught as we looked at one another. Neither of us spoke. Frowning, I tried to make sense of the impact this stranger was having on me.
A tingling sensation had started to spread through my body. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Did I look such a mess? Was he trying not to laugh at me?
He was a couple of years older, perhaps nineteen or twenty. His blue eyes expressed a fleeting range of emotion from surprise, curiosity, confusion, enlightenment to world-weary resignation in only a few seconds. They finally settled back into a cold, reserved sheen.
I almost laughed aloud at how easily I could read him. But I didn’t. Some sixth sense stopped me.
My eyes surfed down to his clenched jaw-line with its shadow of day-old stubble. The colour had drained from his tightly-pressed lips. So he was as angry as me, but was being polite. I swallowed hard. At least he was showing some signs of human life.
“No, don’t bother apologising,” I opted for sarcasm as my best defence. “It was lucky I didn’t smear your car with my blood.”
This gleaned a reaction from him. He winced and scraped back the sleeves of his black jumper. Then the muscles in his forearms tensed. He’d tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
He still didn’t say anything. But I noted that he never took his eyes from mine. What was he doing? It couldn’t be taking him that long to assess me. I wondered if I should make it easier for him, in the interests of speeding things up.
“Perhaps if you looked where you were going, instead of admiring yourself in the mirror, Oxford’s RTA figures would go down.” There. I waited to see if that had any impact on him.
Despite his thunderous look, I was beginning to enjoy verbally poking him to see what he would do. Waiting for him to respond, my head was tilting to one side as if to say, “Come on, pretty boy. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Have you finished?” He spoke at last in a controlled tone.
“No, I’m not finished.” My brow creased as he still hadn’t apologised. Nor asked how I was. Maybe he wasn’t so perfect. Lack of empathy was always such a let-down.
“If you’re not competent to drive such a big car, perhaps you should get something smaller. Like a bike.” With that, I turned to go, giving it my best shot at departing with dignity.
Until now, I hadn’t been aware of anyone sitting next to him. His male passenger was roaring with deep gravelly laughter. Then in rapid French, the passenger said, “She sussed you out in less than five minutes. She’s prickly, too. Henry, mon ami, you’re in big trouble.”
“Seb, be quiet,” he growled. “She’s just another Fresher… on a bike.”
His icy tone froze me to the spot. My stomach twisted into a painful knot at his reference to my lowly status. I closed my eyes wishing I could disappear down a large hole. Here it was. Money vs. no money. Perhaps it was just as well Ben wasn’t here. This was his flash point. Ben hated that we were in the ‘no money’ camp.
Swallowing the insult whole, I was determined to show the driver his words had little impact. So I told myself to forget it; that it meant nothing and I should rise above it. No, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Biting my lip, I willed them to drive off.
Meanwhile, his passenger was still laughing as the car window sealed shut. He slowly drove by me to the front of the car park.
As he passed, I caught sight of his personalised car number plate - HJS 10. I couldn’t help thinking, rather extravagant for a student. Mummy and Daddy had been generous with their boy-toy gifts.
Pity it failed to sugar-coat his personality.