Page 77 of The Edge of Always

Chapter Eighteen

NOW

Montmartre in Motion: Oil on canvas. A busy piece, Spencer employs bright colours to create a sense of movement and structured forms, while maintaining a connection to reality. The hues are bright and clashing in ways that heightens excitement. The figures are lifelike and interwoven, pulling the eye from one to another seamlessly. c.2007.

There’d been a time when loving Emmett had felt like the hardest thing that I had to face. Of course, that was when I was a teenager, before things took the turn that they did.

It started with breathlessness. In Dad, I mean. The signs were there, those final summers. And then when he got worse, we thought it was just the fallout of Mum running off with Eyebrow Clive. The shock of her leaving hit him hard. So we thought it was that he wasn’t coping, like a helpless, breathless little bird.

The divorce wasn’t even done the first time some doctor who wasn’t Dr Dave said the words ‘congenital heart disease’. And even then, we didn’t know how serious something like that would be. But Dad just deteriorated, once he was diagnosed. Like his body, his heart, just gave up. He got thin, he couldn’t walk up the stairs. The doctor who wasn’t Dr Dave told us that getting a transplant would be an option, but Dad had a rare tissue group. We both do.

There were tests on Mae and me. They showed nothing at first, and we thought we’d escaped it. But then, before I even realised it, before I felt unwell in any way, my heart had begun to fail.

Dad lived for five years after he was diagnosed. I’ve already had ten. Sometimes I think about how it must be for Mae, watching her dad and then her sister die. I know that I wouldn’t cope if things were reversed.

Speaking of which, Mae isn’t done with me this night. I settle back against the bed in my tiny hotel room, on the side that Emmett sat on while I napped, and look out at the night sky.

Mae: What do you think he’d do, if he knew?

Me: Well, the generalised response has been to run the fuck away. So I think he’d do that.

It’s the truth. I might have pushed a lot of people away after my diagnosis, but plenty had gone of their own volition too. There’d only been Mae. And Zadie. The odd boyfriend who just didn’t get it.

Mae: You’re on the transplant list.

Me: And how did that work out for Dad? You know what Dr Dave said about my tissue group.

Mae: Dr Dave said we need to stay positive.

Me: I am positive. Positive that I won’t get a transplant.

I can’t explain it, but living without that hope means in some ways, it’s easier for me. Living, expecting to get a transplant that might never come, is worse somehow. I’ve come to realise that false hope is worse than no hope at all.

Plus, waiting for a transplant is basically waiting for someone else to die. If you think about that for too long, it’s all sorts of fucked up.

Mae: I hate it when you get like this. It’s unnecessary.

Another thing I’ve discovered is that Mae can cope with almost anything. But she can’t cope with this. I take a breath and lay back on the bed.

Me: All I’m saying is that there’s no point in telling him.

Mae: He might stay, if he knew.

Me: Because that’s exactly what I want to happen. Guilt him into staying. I wouldn’t do that then, and I won’t do it now.

Mae: He might have contacts!

Me: He doesn’t, Mae.

Me: Listen, it’s late, I need to get some rest. Another day walking around Paris might kill me anyway, then I won’t have to worry about getting a transplant or not.

Mae: Not even remotely funny.

Me: I think I’m hilarious. It would save us all some time and effort.

Mae: Can’t you just even pretend to have an ironic zest for life?

Me: I’m in Paris. With my long-lost love. What could possibly be zestier than that?