Three Amazing Things About You
Chapter 1
Now
OK, this is it, confession time. For the last two years I’ve asked all of you to tell me three things about you. And in return I’ve never told you anything about me. Which probably hasn’t seemed very fair, has it?
But it’s currently one o’clock in the morning, I’m in the back of a car being driven down to London and I’ve decided to come clean.
So here we go:
I’m twenty-eight, I have cystic fibrosis and I never actually expected to live this long.
The hospital transplant coordinator called two hours ago – they have a new pair of lungs for me.
I’ve never been so scared in my life. Also, excited. But mainly scared. Because this is a big thing that’s about to happen and since I’m a coward I can’t help picturing the worst-case scenario.
So now you know the reason for the full disclosure. Basically, if this turns out to be the final entry on the website, you’ll understand why. Needless to say, I really hope it won’t be.
One more thing. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to the wonderful family of the donor for giving me this gift, this incredible chance. I’ll be grateful until the day I die and
Hallie paused, reread what she’d written and deleted the last sentence. In its place she typed: I hope you know how amazing you are. Your courage, kindness and generosity will always be remembered.
Droplets of light summer rain speckled the windscreen of the car. Hallie gazed out into the warm night as a sign saying London 25 miles loomed out of the darkness towards them and slid past. Street lamps glowed amber and houses showed only occasional lights in their windows; almost everyone at this time was asleep. Soon, though, dawn would lighten the sky, alarm clocks would wake them and they’d carry on living their normal lives without even pausing to think how miraculous their normal lives were.
Just being able to breathe in and out, that was pretty miraculous . . .
The finality of it all hit her afresh. There was still a chance, of course, that the tissue match would turn out not to be good enough and the transplant wouldn’t go ahead. Which was why she wasn’t uploading her post to the website just yet. But a few short hours from now, she could be in the operating theatre receiving another person’s lungs. And who knew what might happen after that?
How many people would read what she’d written? What would they think?
Sitting back, Hallie thought of the line she’d deleted and wished she could as easily erase the song now playing in her head. It was a great song, one that people loved to sing during karaoke sessions. Everyone always joined in enthusiastically with the chorus.
She wasn’t sure of the exact lyrics, but the last line of the chorus went something like: This could be the day that I die . . . this could be the day that I die . . .
Oh well. Seemed like her brain still had a sense of humour, at least.
Before
‘Hey, hi, how’s things? What are you up to?’
Hallie brightened at the sound of Bea’s voice. ‘You really want to know? OK, I’ll tell you. But I’m warning you now, you’re going to be so jealous.’
‘Fire away.’
‘I’m in Venice, sitting at a table outside Caffè Florian in St Mark’s Square. The sun is shining, church bells are ringing and the waiter’s just opened a bottle of ice-cold prosecco.’
‘Is the waiter handsome?’
‘What do you think? This is Venice! Of course he’s handsome. He’s giving me one of those handsome-waiter looks,’ said Hallie. ‘With his eyes.’
‘Hmm, and is he listening to you saying this?’
‘It’s fine, he doesn’t speak a word of English. I may seduce him later. He has a look of Bradley Cooper about him.’
‘Sure you don’t mean Tommy Cooper?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Are there pigeons there?’
‘Yes, loads.’
‘My mum went to St Mark’s Square once. A pigeon did a poo on her head.’
‘Lovely.’
‘She was so mad,’ said Bea. ‘She’d had her hair done specially for the trip. I wouldn’t stick around there if I were you. Get out while you can. Those Italian pigeons are evil.’
‘Fine, you’ve convinced me. I’m going to jump into my helicopter now and fly home.’
‘I think you should. Shall I come over after work this evening?’
‘That’d be good.’
‘Around seven then. See you later. Bye-eee!’
Hallie put down the phone and straightened her duvet, which had gone crooked again. She pulled herself into a more comfortable sitting position and did her best to adjust the pillows too. There was a definite art to staying in bed and not having to endlessly rearrange yourself, and she’d yet to master it. Back-arching, shoulder-stretching, bottom-wiggling and neck-tilting all played their part.