J.S. Lark - After You Fell

She smirks.

‘I can even wash my clothes now; I can pick up the washing basket and fill the machine. I can polish my shoes too and, guess what, I can lift a spoon to my mouth.’ I laugh.

She shakes her head. ‘You’re not funny. I can’t help being nervous for you.’

‘If I decide to move to somewhere in that direction it’s only a short train journey away, and I’m not nervous.’ I am eager and excited – but those emotions are merged with Louise’s impatience.

Chloe’s lips twist and her nose twitches. She’s worried because ever since I’ve known her I have been ill to some degree.

I can feel the difference Louise’s heart pulses into every cell in my body. Chloe can’t. It will take her and Simon longer to know how different my life is now.

‘What if I promise you will be the first to know if I feel unwell? And if I do feel ill I’ll hand in my notice and move back to London.’

Chloe gives me one of her broad smiles that throws good cheer out. ‘I’ll take that promise and I’ll hold you to it.’

I hold out a hand to shake on it. ‘Deal.’

‘Deal.’ Her hand takes mine, warming it as her fingers wrap around and hold on securely.

We hug each other in the entrance hall of the underground station, then say goodbye, before I descend on one set of escalators and she disappears into the tiled tunnel leading to another Tube line.

It’s 5.45 and busy; teeming with commuters who rush and push past me with no courtesy, just a need to carry on with the next part of their getting-home journey.

I shuffle along in the herd of people navigating the London rush hour, manoeuvring down the narrow escalator and then finding a carriage to squeeze into, like cattle packed into a pen. I stare out of the windows that show me nothing but the black tunnel we are speeding through. But that’s better than looking at the armpit of the man who’s hanging onto a ceiling bar an inch away.

There’s something strange in the reflections formed on the windows, with the blackened tunnel wall beyond them – a blurred figure. A woman who seems to be looking at me.

I look over my shoulder; the woman isn’t there. It is just the man’s arm and chest.

When I look back at the window, the woman has gone.

I want to get home. I love seeing Chloe, but today feels like a wasted day. I’ve been trying to find out the name of the young woman I met at the house yesterday. I think she’s the children’s nanny, but Alex doesn’t have any personal social media accounts and as far as I can tell the nanny hasn’t liked or followed his business accounts.

When I walk through the back door into the kitchen, Mim is straining the water from a saucepan of peas.

She glances over her shoulder. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello.’

‘Did you have a good afternoon?’ She puts the saucepan down, but there’s an odd stiffness in the movement that hints at the fact she feels uncomfortable.

I smile, slightly. ‘Yes. Thank you. Can I do anything?’ Maybe it’s because I could do more to help, and she’s fed up of me being as much work as a child. I should help with the cooking and looking after the boys now that I can. I’ve taken more than my share of Simon’s concern and money over the years. The boys are in a play club all day at the moment until the school holidays end but perhaps I could entertain them in the evening and put them to bed. It would be nice to join in with the children’s bedtime routine – be the one to read their goodnight story.

‘Everything’s done, I’m just dishing up. But you can call the boys and Simon and tell the boys to wash their hands.’

‘Kevin. Liam. Simon,’ I shout as I walk across the room, directing my voice through the door on the far side.

Simon leans his head around the door frame within a second, holding onto the frame on the far side. ‘No need to shout, we’re here.’ His words are punctuated with a grin.

‘The boys need to wash their hands.’

‘They’ve already gone to do it. They smelled the sausages.’

An emotional urge that’s not a thought-out decision makes me walk towards him. He knows why without me speaking. He lifts his arms, waiting for me to wrap my arms around his middle and hold on. This is the black hole speaking.

His arms fall onto my shoulders to embrace me and he presses a kiss on my temple. Then he lets go and moves on, talking to Mim as he walks around me.

This is his life. His family. I want my own. That’s all I want to do with this new heart. I don’t want a job. I want a family.

A cry, or something more like a wail, a scream of longing, rips through my head. It is the loudest sound that I have heard in Louise’s voice.

The anger in her impatience is making her spirit stronger.

My hands slide into the back pockets of my jeans, restraining the thoughts in my head, to stop them from slipping out of my mouth. I see Louise’s children in my mind, not her memories, but images of them from the pictures on Robert Dowling’s Facebook page.

Simon would call my thoughts abnormal. He would say I shouldn’t let myself become emotionally attached to the children of the woman I think donated my heart. But I can’t help myself. I already am.

It feels right.

That I have her heart.

That I know where her children are.

That I know where her parents are.

But without being able to understand what it feels like to have a sixth sense, to feel Louise’s emotions, Simon, like Chloe, will think I am going mad.

Since I was sectioned and diagnosed at fourteen, Simon’s favourite phrase has been, ‘You do not have a sixth sense, you have bipolar.’ He’s never believed.

It’s better that I don’t tell him or Chloe anything.

It’s better to lie.

I won’t be able to get closer to Louise’s family if I tell the truth.

‘Have you heard about that job today, Helen?’ Simon asks when we are sitting around the dinner table.

‘I didn’t get it.’ I accept a plate of sausages, mashed potatoes, peas and dark thick gravy from Mim.

‘Why?’ Simon says. ‘Not that I’m complaining about that.’ He takes his plate.

‘I didn’t ask why, but I think working with a class of primary school children might be too much for a little while anyway. I’m well enough to look after a couple of children so I think I’m going to look for a nanny job instead.’

Simon’s lips purse as he picks up his knife and fork, his eyebrows quirking in that paternal expression.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Simon,’ Mim protests, on my behalf. Or perhaps hers, if she wants me out of their house.

‘Nothing. Not really. I agree it’s a better idea to take that step first. I just don’t like the thought of you living with strangers …’

‘I didn’t say I would live in. Although it would be good if I could.’ My heart claps its hands and taps its heels at the idea of living in. Because I do not want to be anybody’s nanny, I want to be Alex Lovett’s nanny. I want to look after Louise’s children, and if I can live in the house …

My heartbeat skips.

The coffee inside the takeaway cup resting on my knee is cold. I’ve been sitting on this old iron park bench for nearly two hours.

I’ll have to go soon. Simon and Mim will be back from her parents’ in three hours. Simon will question me if I get home too long after them. He expects me to be there when they walk through the door.

The only movement in the house on the far side of the park has been a single view of the nanny; she walked past a window on the right-hand side on the first floor. I haven’t seen anyone else. Sitting here has shown me nothing. But I’m closer to the children and my heart feels happier.