The Donor, Page 4

  I start to cry. ‘I’m so sorry – this is all my fault.’

  Steve steps forward, taking me in his arms and pressing my face against his broad chest. I hear the thud thud of his heart and think of the pills Meg needs to take every day to protect her from infection. I pull away. ‘I’m calling the police.’

  The officers come quickly, two women in black uniforms and stab vests. PCs Clarke and Stanford. They take the pictures we give them of Meg, and list the drugs she needs to take each morning. They write down the name of her school, of her friends, her consultant. They search her room and take the diary she hasn’t written in since before her transplant.

  ‘Does she have any mental health problems?’ says PC Clarke.

  ‘Any suicidal tendencies?’ PC Stanford asks.

  I sob as I tell them no, but admit that Steve and I had been rowing, that Meg had heard me say some things I didn’t mean.

  ‘I see,’ PC Clarke said, writing something in her notebook, and I knew she thought it was my fault, too.

  They leave us an hour later, promising updates when they have them, and telling us that officers are out looking for our little girl. They use terms like ‘vulnerable’ and ‘high-risk’, and each one feeds the fear inside me.

  Suicidal tendencies.

  What if Meg has hurt herself? What if someone has hurt her?

  Steve and I cling to each other, our argument forgotten. It was stupid. Petty. When Meg comes back I’ll apologise to her, explain that I lost the plot for a bit, but that everything’s okay now. Mum and Dad love each other, and love her, and that’s all that matters.

  The phone rings at eleven. Steve picks it up and I hold my breath until he nods and says yes, okay. He puts down the phone.

  ‘They’ve found her.’

  Chapter 6

  How the Other Half Live

  You could fit the entire ground floor of our house into Karen’s kitchen. I was wrong – she doesn’t live on a tree-lined avenue. She lives at the end of her own bloody tree-lined drive, in a massive grey stone house with two bay trees in giant pots either side of the front door. Steve pulled up next to Karen’s sleek Audi. The engine was still running as I flung off my seatbelt and ran to the front door.

  ‘Meg!’ I raised a hand to thump my fist on the glossy black paint, but the door opened before I had a chance, and I stumbled forward.

  ‘Mrs Thomas?’ It was PC Clarke. The same police officer who asked about Meg’s mental health. The one who looked at me when I told her what Meg had overheard, and judged me for it.

  ‘Where is she?’ I said.

  ‘Why don’t you come through to the kitchen?’

  Steve had caught up with me by then, and we followed PC Clarke to the kitchen, which is where we’re all sitting now, like we’re here for some sort of party.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Karen says.

  That isn’t what I asked. Above the table is a huge canvas with a photo of Karen with Jake and a man who must be Michael. I look away. I don’t want to feel sorry for Karen right now.

  ‘Would you like some tea? The kettle’s on.’

  ‘No, I don’t want bloody tea! I want to see my daughter.’ The police officers have had tea, I notice. And I see the crumbs on the table by their mugs, that tell me they had biscuits, too. Biscuits!

  PC Clarke takes charge.

  ‘Meg is watching TV upstairs,’ she says. ‘I thought it would be a good idea to have a chat first, before we bring her down.’

  ‘A chat? About what?’ Steve is as confused as I am. Relief making us both terse and angry. He turns to Karen, and I think he’s going to lay into her, but his tone softens a little as he speaks to her. ‘You should have rung us, Karen – we were out of our mind with worry.’

  Karen twists her hands in front of her, reddening slightly. ‘I’m sorry. I wanted to – I really did, especially when I got your text, but Meg begged me not to, and …’ She looks at the police officers.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ PC Stanford says.

  She what? Anger rises inside me and I start to stand, pushing my chair back so it scrapes against Karen’s expensive tiled floor. I catch an exchange of glances between the two police officers. Steve places a warning hand on my arm. Slowly, I lower myself back down. ‘How,’ I say, with as much control as I can manage, ‘is not telling us where our missing child is, the “right thing”?’

  ‘The welfare of the child is of the utmost importance,’ says PC Stanford. ‘Sometimes – and I’m not saying this is the case here – kids run away from home because of something that’s happening there. Something the parents are doing.’

  This time I push my chair back so violently it falls over, with a crash that echoes around Karen’s starkly modern kitchen. ‘Did you just accuse us of …’ I can barely get the words out. ‘Of child abuse?’

  PC Stanford doesn’t react. ‘No,’ she says calmly. ‘I said sometimes kids are unhappy at home. And so the sensible thing is to let the authorities handle it.’

  I stand, my fists clenched, imagining what I’d do if one of Meg’s friends turned up at our door, upset and crying. Would I make her go back? Call her parents? Or would I call the police? I’m wondering what Meg’s been saying to make Karen think she’s unhappy. Is she unhappy? I choke back a sob, the fight leaving me. I pick up my chair and sit down. ‘When did she get here?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘About five o’clock,’ Karen says. She looks at PC Clarke, who nods for her to continue. ‘She took the train here, and she was hungry and cold. I gave her something to eat. At first I thought you knew she was here, and when I found out you didn’t, I said we must ring you, but she made me promise not to.’

  ‘You should have called anyway,’ I mutter. I feel Steve’s hand on my arm again.

  ‘The thing is,’ Karen says, ‘I was scared that if I broke that promise she wouldn’t trust me again. And then where would she go, the next time she needed a shoulder to cry on?’

  To me, I want to say. To her mum. But I don’t say it, because doesn’t Karen have a point? Isn’t it better that Meg came here, to this warm, safe house, rather than wandering the streets? I look at Karen, her face filled with compassion for my daughter – for all of us – and I know that I’m not angry with Karen. I’m angry with myself. For not being good enough, for not being what Meg needed, for hurting her with my words.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say now. ‘Thank you for looking after Meg.’

  Karen reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘How could I not?’ How could I not, when my son’s heart beats in her chest, she means, and a shiver runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that, by giving up Jake’s heart, Karen is laying claim on my daughter.

  I think of the fairy tale about the woodcutter and his wife, bargaining with the witch for the food they need to survive. I’ll give you the food, she tells them. But you must give me your first-born child

  … In despair, the woodcutter agrees. Years pass, and the promise is forgotten …

  Until their baby is born.

  I shake myself. Stop it, Lizzie. I make myself smile at Karen, and then we all jump as there’s a noise on the stairs, and Meg appears in the kitchen. She looks worried – she thinks Steve and me are going to give her a row – and she pulls her school jumper over her hands, stretching the arms.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.’ The greeting is quiet and flat.

  Karen coughs. ‘And …’ She’s prompting Meg, I realise, as my daughter looks at Karen and gives a small nod.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come home. I’m sorry I worried you.’

  I go to her and wrap her in my arms, relief making me cry. Steve joins me, and we stand in a huddle so tight I don’t know where Meg finishes and Steve begins. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, my voice breaking. Meg’s crying too, and I hold her close until I hear a cough from one of the police officers. Reluctantly, I pull away.

  ‘Do you need …’ I point vaguely at the police officers’ notebooks. There must
be paperwork, I suppose, when a missing child is found.

  ‘We’ve got everything we need, thank you.’ PC Clarke looks at Meg sternly. ‘Don’t go worrying your parents like that again please, young lady.’

  I put an arm round Meg’s shoulders, suddenly protective of her. ‘Come on, love, time to get you home.’ She says something so quietly I can barely hear it.

  That can’t be right – can it?

  ‘What did you say, love?’

  ‘I said no.’ Meg looks at her feet. ‘I don’t want to go home. I want to stay with Karen.’

  Chapter 7

  The Break-Up

  I stare at Meg, confused and speechless. Steve finds the words before I do, exploding in a bark of disbelief.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Meg, you’re coming home.’

  ‘But I want to stay here.’ She looks at Karen. ‘Please. Just for a few days.’

  A wave of anger builds inside me and I cross the room to where Karen is sitting, her face all innocent, as if she had nothing to do with this. ‘What have you been saying to her?’

  ‘Nothing, Lizzie, this is as much a surprise to me as it is to—’

  ‘Liar!’ I scream at her. She doesn’t react, which somehow makes me even more angry. Before I know what I’m doing, my arm has left my side and my hand snaps through the air and onto Karen’s face. It makes a sound like a cracking whip. Instantly, a mark appears on her cheek, the curve of my fingertips marked out in red.

  ‘Lizzie!’ Steve sounds as shocked as I feel. I have never hit anyone before, never lost my temper so badly that I lost control. I take a step back, just as the two police officers move to stand between me and Karen.

  ‘What the hell, Mum?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I hear PC Stanford ask Karen. ‘Let’s get some ice on that, shall we?’ Meg rushes to the fridge, where there’s an ice-dispenser, and wraps some in a tea towel. She moves around the kitchen like she already lives here.

  ‘Mrs Thomas,’ PC Clarke says, and her voice is harder now than when I was the mother of a missing child. ‘I understand emotions are running high, but there’s no excuse for violence. Mrs Edwards is well within her rights to press charges for assault.’

  My pulse races, blood singing in my ears. What have I done? I imagine being carted out in handcuffs, placed in a cell, charged and taken to court. I might lose my job, and what would we do then?

  ‘I won’t be pressing charges,’ Karen says. ‘Lizzie was upset – I quite understand.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Steve says, and I know that should be my line, but I can’t speak. I’m frozen to the spot, horrified by what I’ve done.

  ‘Let’s just forget it, shall we?’ Karen takes the ice pack away from her cheek. The skin is a violent red, and I hear Meg gasp.

  ‘It’s very good of you,’ Steve says. He looks at me. ‘Isn’t it, Lizzie?’

  ‘Y – yes,’ I manage. ‘Thank you, Karen. And I really am sorry – I just …’

  I just hate you, I finish silently. And I wish you’d never come into our lives.

  Except that without Karen – without her son Jake – Meg wouldn’t be standing here now.

  I turn to my daughter. ‘Why don’t you want to come home, Meg? What is it we’ve done?’ I feel the police officers’ eyes burning into me, accusing me of unspoken crimes. Do they think we beat her? Worse?

  ‘Nothing.’ Meg speaks firmly. ‘You and Dad are amazing. The best parents anyone could ever have.’ The band around my chest eases slightly. Meg looks up at me, her face far wiser than her years. ‘I’m finding it really hard, Mum. Knowing I wouldn’t be here if Jake hadn’t lived – finding out all the things he liked, that suddenly I like too …’ She trails off, searching for the words. ‘I want to know more about him – to live a tiny bit of his life, so that he’s a real person in my head, not just something beating in my chest.’ She gives a hollow laugh. ‘It doesn’t make any sense, I know.’

  It doesn’t. And yet I remember a programme Steve and I watched on TV, about a couple who adopted a baby from China. He wasn’t even a year old when he left – no memory of his parents, or where he used to live – but his adoptive mum and dad took him back every few years, cooked Chinese food, sent him to Mandarin Chinese lessons … It’s part of who he is, I remember them saying.

  ‘I understand,’ I tell Meg. I look at Karen, her cheek still raw and swollen.

  ‘Meg’s welcome to stay, of course, but I don’t want to cause—’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say curtly.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Steve echoes. The police officers are looking at each of us in turn, trying to work out what’s going on. PC Clarke sighs.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Meg, you’d like to stay here instead of going home?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘And Mrs Edwards, you’re happy to have her?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And Mr and Mrs Thomas, you’re happy to let her?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say happy—’ I start, but Steve talks over me.

  ‘Yes.’ He’s not smiling. A muscle is twitching in his cheek, the way it does when he’s angry. But it isn’t Karen – or even Meg – he’s angry with.

  ‘This is all your fault,’ he says, when we’re in the car, with the gravel on Karen’s drive crunching beneath our wheels. ‘You drove her away.’

  ‘That isn’t true. She said we were amazing parents – you heard her!’

  ‘The way you’ve been about Karen … it’s no wonder Meg doesn’t want to be under the same roof as you. As for tonight – I’ve never seen anything like it. That poor woman’s face!’

  He moves out when we get home. Packs a bag and says he needs some time to think. And I sit in the kitchen with a bottle of wine and wonder how I lost a daughter and a husband in the space of a few hours. Where did it all go wrong?

  When we met Karen.

  The thought is there before I can stop it, and for the first time I listen to it properly, not pushing it away. We were fine before I got the letter from Karen. Steve and I were happy. Meg was settled. This is all Karen’s fault. I think about what Samira said – that getting in touch with donor families was asking for trouble – and I realise she was right. I should never have replied to Karen’s letter, never have agreed to let her meet Meg. Now it’s too late.

  *

  The days are empty without Meg to look after, and I take on extra shifts at the factory. I text Steve, begging him to come home, but get a terse staying with Dan – need to get my head together in response.

  Meg’s messages to me are more forgiving.

  Love you Mum x

  Don’t worry – I’m doing my homework! x

  Karen’s taking me to the theatre tonight!!! X

  I stare at this last message, its extra exclamation marks showing how excited my daughter is. She has been to the theatre before. We took her to the panto when she was seven, and again a few years later. But perhaps she doesn’t remember. Perhaps panto doesn't count. I imagine Karen helping Meg get ready. I see them rifle through the small bag of clothes Steve took round to Karen’s the day after we left Meg there. Maybe Karen wrinkled her nose – said oh no, this won’t do at all – and took Meg shopping for something more suitable. What do people like Karen wear to the theatre? I look down at my jeans and fleece, and think it’s no wonder Meg chose to be with Karen instead of frumpy old Mum.

  Samira drops by on her way to work, narrowing her eyes at my tear-stained face. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Steve’s moved out.’ That, at least, I can tell her.

  ‘Why?’

  That, I can’t. ‘He says he needs time to think. We’ve been having a few problems.’ To put it mildly.

  ‘Is Meg okay?’

  ‘She seems very … happy.’ It sticks in my throat.

  Samira looks worried. ‘It’s not unusual for couples to have problems after a transplant. I can give you details of some counselling services if that would help?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.
Anything to avoid telling the truth. ‘That would be great.’ I paste a smile on my face, but Samira looks at me thoughtfully.

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Lizzie?’

  I so badly want to tell her. I want to let it all spill out, and have her tell me what to do – how to handle it. But I can’t. So I shake my head and say no, nothing at all, and make excuses for why I can’t invite her in for a cuppa.

  At the weekend, four days after we left Meg at Karen’s house, she comes home. I hear the key in the lock and run down the stairs, and as she steps through the door I wrap my daughter in my arms.

  ‘Meggie, I’ve missed you so much.’

  She pulls away, and I realise she didn’t come alone.

  ‘Hi, Lizzie.’ Karen’s voice is sweet, as though nothing happened between us. As though I never slapped her. As though she wasn’t trying to turn my daughter against me.

  ‘Karen.’

  She nudges Meg. ‘Don’t you have something to say to Mum?’

  I don’t know what’s more irritating: the way she’s behaving like Meg’s mother, or the way she said ‘Mum’, like we’re all part of the same happy family.

  Meg flushes, and looks at the floor. ‘I’m sorry I ran away, and I’m sorry I upset you by not coming home.’ It sounds as if she has practised saying this, and I imagine Karen coaching her on the way over here.

  ‘That’s okay, sweetheart,’ I say, a million times more cheerfully than I feel. ‘Say goodbye to Karen, and thank her for having you.’ I’m being rude, not inviting Karen to come in, but I don’t care. I’ve already decided: we won’t be seeing any more of her – not if I can help it.

  Meg throws her arms around Karen. ‘Thanks a million – I had the best time.’ They stand like that for a second, embracing. And I look at the ceiling, at the window – anywhere but at my daughter. She is acting as if she never wants to be parted from this woman we’ve known for five seconds. Only I can’t help myself and, when I look back, Karen has her hands on my daughter’s cheeks, holding Meg’s face close to her own.