‘I was put on the geriatric surgical ward, rather than a private room. Something to do with staffing shortages. I had a reaction to the morphine as I came round from the anaesthetic, was rubbing my face with the sheet because it was so itchy, when I hallucinated my bed was covered with small children.’
She huffs a laugh. ‘And?’
‘I passed out, and when I came round, they were still there. Turns out the old man in the opposite cubicle had grandchildren who’d taken a liking to me. Spent several hours asking me questions, insisting I draw things, and making me watch something awful on CBeebies. I was in such a bad mood, especially as I felt groggy, but their little faces were so innocent I couldn’t bring myself to send them away. I was on the ward for over a week, and without exception, if there was a child nearby, they found me.’
‘Why do you think they were drawn to you?’
‘I had no clue at the time.’
‘And now?’
He pulls a face. ‘You’ll think I’m delusional.’
She scoffs. ‘What if I already do?’
‘Good point.’
‘Try me,’ she urges, taking a sip of black coffee and closing her eyes in bliss.
He sits back, studying her pink cheeks and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose. From everything he’s seen, she’s open-minded, kind, and non-judgemental. On top of which, more trustworthy than any woman he’s known. Whether he likes it or not, they have a connection. ‘I think it’s something to do with my new heart.’
‘Elaborate.’ Her forehead pleats as she opens her eyes.
‘In the days following surgery, I started hearing something.’ He stares into his Americano. ‘A little voice.’
‘Like your conscience?’ She places her hand on his arm. ‘Or how we speak inside our heads when we read? Harley, please look at me.’
He does, unable to stop himself. ‘That’s the odd part. When I read, it sounds like me. But the new voice doesn’t.’
Kirsten’s intrigued, shifting closer. ‘Who does it sound like?’
‘A young woman. Early twenties maybe. Sometimes she’s sad, or wistful. Mostly, she’s impatient or exasperated.’
‘Well, you are pretty annoying.’ She pauses. ‘Do you know anything about your donor?’ There’s an excited twinkle in her eye. ‘You think there’s a connected to your new heart. Why shouldn’t it remember who it belonged to, and carry an echo of them? Did you know when a woman’s pregnant, the baby’s DNA travels into her bloodstream via the placenta, and can stay in her system for decades after she gives birth? I mean, how mind-blowing.’
He stares at her, before standing up with a scrape of his chair. Instead of running for the hills like he’s insane, she’simmediately on board with the theory he’s been brooding over. Leaving the room, he doesn’t answer as she asks where he’s going. Instead, he roots around his bedroom dresser, pulling a folded piece of paper out. Returning to the kitchen, he gives it to Kirsten and moves his chair closer, so their knees are touching.
‘What’s this?’ Opening it, she traces a finger over the black slanted handwriting.
‘A letter to my donor’s family. I’m hoping the hospital will pass it on. I don’t know how it all works, to be honest. I started writing it after something Rosie said.’
‘Which was?’
‘She asked about my heart and an older girl, described her as looking like Snow White. It freaked me out, because I had a half-remembered dream about a young woman with black hair and pale skin.’
‘They do say kids are often sensitive to things adults aren’t.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my donor more often as I’ve become healthier. About the gift they gave me. I-I need to express my gratitude.’
‘Makes sense. You want me to read it?’
Saying yes will crack open a side of him he’s not ready to reveal, but as he gazes into her guileless eyes, he knows it’s why he fetched the letter. ‘It’s not finished yet. It’s only a draft.’
‘All right.’ Bending her head, she starts reading. After a moment, she reaches out to grasp his sweaty hand. As their fingers entwine, one of his hearts skips a beat, in the best possible way.
To Whom It May Concern,
I’m sorry to start this letter so formally, but I have no idea what to call you. I don’t know anything about you,or about the relative you lost who so generously became an organ donor. The person who has given me a second chance at life. The more time that passes after surgery, the worse it feels not knowing anything about them. So, I’m hoping you’ll write back if you can, and tell me about her, because for some reason I’m certain it’s a female relative. I need to know who she was, how she lived, what her hopes and dreams were.
