I dropped my head into my hands. It was all so overwhelming.
‘Anna, I don’t want to rush you and I’m not putting any pressure on you, but Adam’s prognosis… it isn’t great, and given his cardiac arrest last night, well… If you want to do this, we might not have much time,’ Oliver said.
If there was anything on Adam’s mind now, did I really want to know what it was? Mentally I drew up a list of pros and cons. He could be thinking of me, of our unborn child he did not yet know had gone. If the worst did happen, I could be secure in the knowledge that he loved me until the very end. But he could be angry with me. If I had taken the swimming lessons he always urged me to take, he might not be in this situation right now. He might blame me and the pain of that would be unbearable. But then, he might need something and I could make it easier for him. But what if he was in so much pain he wanted to die? How would I cope with that?
My mind went back and forth; the trial is a good thing. A bad thing. Not being able to decide either way.
The third thing to consider, of course, was that there might be nothing inside Adam’s head. A blank canvas. That the space Adam’s hopes and dreams once occupied was now empty.
At least I would know for sure.
The minutes ticked by.
A 3 per cent chance of recovery, Dr Acevedo had said.
If I didn’t agree to the trial, would I regret it? If Adam… I could hardly bear to think it, but if he didn’t survive, would I always be wondering? Hating myself for missing my one chance to know?
A 3 per cent chance of recovery.
I was running out of time.
Yes or no. Yes or no. Yes or no.
Part Four
‘I am a scientist, but I still believe in miracles.’
OLIVER CHAPMAN
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Anna
It is late. Nell has gone back to the apartment to sleep. Oliver has given me overnight to think things through and I sit here now, back at the hospital, back by Adam’s side. Remembering.
‘Seven years. It’s been seven years since that night on the beach,’ I whisper.
I had laid on the damp sand with Adam, his thumb stroking mine. Dawn smudged the sky with its pink fingers while the rising sun flung glitter across the sea. We’d faced each other curled onto our sides, our bodies speech marks, unspoken words passing hesitantly between us; an illusory dream. Don’t ever leave me, I had silently asked him. I won’t, his eyes had silently replied.
But he did.
He has.
Will he ever wake up?
I stroke his cheek. His skin is dry.
My mind drifts over my memories, which are both painful and pleasurable to recall. We were blissfully happy until gradually we weren’t. Every cross word, every hard stare, each time we turned our backs on each other in bed, gathered like storm clouds hanging over us, ready to burst, drenching us with doubt and uncertainty until we questioned what we once thought was unquestionable.
Can love really be eternal?
I can answer that now because the inequitable truth is that I am hopelessly, irrevocably, lost without him.
‘Please wake up.’ My mouth brushes against his ear. ‘I want you. I need you.’
But does he feel the same? Oliver could hold the answer to that question if I am brave enough find out. What if Adam doesn’t make it and I am left forever wondering?
I turn over the possibility of life without him but each time I think of me without him, no longer an us, my heart breaks all over again.
If only we hadn’t come here. Stepped on board the yacht.
My chest tightens.
I am back in the water. Current dragging me down. Waves crashing over my head.
Breathe.
I am kneeling on the hot sand beside an unresponsive Adam, begging strangers to save my husband’s life.
Breathe, Anna.
You’re okay.
It’s a lie I tell myself, but gradually the horror of that day begins to dissipate with every slow inhale, with every measured exhale. It takes several minutes to calm myself. My fingers furling and unfurling, my nails biting into the tender skin of my palms until my burning sorrow subsides.
Focus.
I am running out of time.
A 3 per cent chance of survival.
Gently I kiss Adam’s forehead before picking up my pen and pad from his bedside table. I’ve been trying to write a letter to my mum but the words won’t come. If the trial goes ahead, I shall insist on being the one taking part. Oliver has no right to Adam’s thoughts. His emotions. He has no right to any of it.
‘The person who takes part would be taking a risk, albeit small,’ Oliver had said. ‘It’s unprecedented. We’re taking an unknown leap into someone’s – Adam’s – mind without knowing how sharp his memories, his feelings might be. I can imagine it will be draining but I’m hoping tiredness is the only side-effect.’
It’s not only connecting to Adam’s consciousness that carries a risk; there are the stronger magnets in the fMRI machine, the ultra-fast processor, the software, none of which I fully understand. What I do know is that I am putting myself in danger and I need my mum to know why in case something so awful happens I never get to see her again, but my notepaper is still stark white. My pen once again poised, ink waiting to stain the blank page with my tenuous excuses.
My secrets.
But not my lies. There have been enough of those. Too many.
I want her to know everything. How I thought I didn’t love Adam anymore. How I kissed another man. The baby we have lost.
Why I am so desperate to see him once more and make it right.
All of it.
I’m almost certain now I should do the trial, but I wish I knew what Adam wanted; a glance towards his impassive face gives me no clues. My eyes flutter closed. I try to conjure his voice. Imagining he might tell me what to do. Past conversations echo in my mind as I search for a clue.
If you love someone, set them free, he had once told me but I brush the thought of this away. I don’t think it can apply to this awful situation we have found ourselves in. Instead I recall the feel of his body spooned around mine, warm breath on the back of my neck, promises drifting into my ear.
Forever.
I cling on to that one word as tightly as I’d clung on to his hand.
I loved him completely. I still do. Whatever happens now, and after, my heart will still belong to him.
Will always belong to him.
I must hurry if I’m going to reach him before it’s too late.
A 3 per cent chance of survival.
There’s a tremble in my fingers. I begin the letter, which will be both an apology to Mum for the risk I am taking, and an explanation, but it seems impossible to put it all into words – the story of Adam and me.
Us.
I really don’t have time to think of the life we had – the life we almost had – but I allow myself the indulgence. Memories gather: we’re on the beach watching the sunrise; I’m introducing him to my mum – his voice unsteady with nerves as he says hello; we’re meeting for the first time in that shabby bar. Out of order and back to front and more than anything I wish I could live it all again. Except that day on the yacht. Never that day.
Again the vice around my lungs tightens. In my mind I see it all unfold and I feel it. I feel it all: fear, panic, hopelessness.