The Price of His Second Chance at Life

The Price of His New Life
Diary of Helen Ward

Monday, 19th November

Helen, I need to tell you something. Ive been thinking about this for a long time.

I was standing at the hob, stirring a pot of soup. A very ordinary soup. Potatoes, carrots, a hint of celery. I didnt turn round straight away. Roberts voice sounded different. Not like when he wanted to talk about bills or grumble about work. There was something heavy in it, something rehearsed.

Im listening, I said, still stirring, trying to keep my hands steady.

No, youre not listening. Turn around.

I turned off the burner, put the wooden spoon down deliberately. Slowly, I faced him.

Robert was standing in the kitchen doorway. Fifty-two, tall, that streak of grey at his temples I used to find attractive. In his hands: his phone. He wasnt looking at it, just gripping it.

Im leaving, he said.

I felt something tighten under my ribs. Not pain, not yet. That terrible anticipation of pain.

Where are you going? I asked. Such a stupid question. I knew it, but my mind had gone blank.

For good. My things are already packed. The suitcase is in the hall.

Robert

Helen, please. Dont make a scene.

Im not making a scene. I was surprised by my own composure. Just tell me. You owe me that.

He paused, switching the phone from one hand to another.

I cant go on like this, he finally said. Im not ready to live with someone not well. Im sorry, Helen.

The silence pressed in, thick. Outside, a car splashed past, somewhere a door banged, pipes knocked in the walls. In the kitchen, I could hear my own breath.

What did you say? I asked quietly.

I know how this sounds. But you asked. I cant spend the rest of my life staring at your scar, the tablets, the sick notes. Youve changed, Helen. Since your operation, youre a different person.

I gave you my kidney, I said.

I know.

I gave you my kidney so you could live.

I know. He looked straight at me. No shame, just naked matter-of-factness. And I am grateful. Truly. Ill never forget that. But I cant stay with someone forever just out of gratitude, with someone who

Who what?

Isnt the same.

I moved to the window. It was November, grey and damp. Bare branches and puddles under the streetlamps. I stared at the puddles and wondered how youre supposed to behave in moments like this. Cry? Scream? Collapse?

Theres someone else, I said. Not a question. I knew.

His silence was answer enough.

There is.

How long?

A few months now.

I nodded a little. Kept watching the wet pavement.

Whats her name?

Helen, it doesnt

Whats her name?

Victoria.

How old is she?

Thirty-one.

Another nod. Somewhere in me, a jigsaw clicked into place: his late nights, the new aftershave I hadnt bought, the way hed stopped asking how I was. Just stopped.

Are you going now? I asked.

Yes.

All right.

I listened to his footsteps down the hall, the suitcase wheels grating on the wood. The front doors single, clean click.

I stood at the window for five minutes, maybe. Then returned to the hob, turned the heat up, picked up my spoon.

The soup still needed to be cooked.

***

Three years ago, when Robert was diagnosed with end-stage renal failure, I never hesitated. I offered, doctors checked for compatibility, I passed all the tests. In April, we were put in side-by-side rooms at Barnet Hospital. I gave him my left kidney. I recovered slowly. Robert bounced back faster.

The following months, I lived with one kidney and the list of new realities: the pain, the tiredness, the diet, the check-ups, the perpetual reminder of a scar swelling along my side. It faded to silver, but never disappeared.

Robert blossomed. Rosy, weight returning, time spent at the gym. A new suit, then a new scent.

I told myself these changes were happiness, gratitude, him living life more. I was pleased for him. Honestly, I was pleased.

How naive I had been.

***

The first two weeks after he left, I worked. That was the thing I knew how to do without thinking. I did my translation work from home: German and English, lots of medical or legal documents, the occasional bit of fiction. I stared at the monitor, translating someone elses words because none of my own came.

Evenings, Id throw together whatever food there was. Bread, cheese, sometimes boiled eggs. Id be in bed before nine, somehow dreading the silence. Id wake before dawn and lie under the covers, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sunlight.

My friend Margaret called every day.

Helen, have you eaten properly today?

Yes.

What did you eat?

Margaret, please.

What?

A sandwich.

That isnt food. Ill come by tomorrow.

No need.

Ill come by regardless.

Margaret and I met at university. We were both fifty now; she was a GP at the local surgery, married for the second time, and spent weekends babysitting grandkids. Blunt as only Margaret could be.

She arrived the next day and went straight to the fridge.

Oh, Helen, she whispered, seeing the near empty shelves. Are you eating at all?

Im eating.

What?

This and that.

This and that. She closed the fridge and turned to me. You look as if someones erased you. Theres no life in you.

Thank you very much.

Its not a compliment, darling. You cant just fade.

Im not fading.

You are. She sat at the kitchen table and made me sit opposite her. Tell me. Start from the beginning.

I stared at the Formica surface.

He said he couldnt live with an invalid, I said flatly. Thats all.

Margaret was silent a long time.

Bastard, she declared at last, softly, without heat.

Dont. Dont call him that. Itll only make me feel worse.

You need anger, Helen. Its healthier than whatever this is.

Ive tried to feel it. I cant. Its just emptyempty and cold.

Margaret said nothing, just bustled about, set the kettle, rummaged in the cupboards. She found some buckwheat, put a pan on to boil. She didnt ask permission. She just cooked, as if it was the normal thing to do.

And that set me off. I cried. For the first time in two weeks, I let myself.

Ugly, shuddering sobs I struggled to stifle.

Margaret didnt come over to comfort me. She didnt hug me or say it would get better. She just put the flame on low, brought me kitchen roll, placed it in front of me.

Cry if you must. Its good for you.

***

December drifted by in a haze. January felt slightly clearer. Working helpedtranslating other peoples words left fewer spaces for my own.

In February, Margaret brought up the idea of a convalescent home.

You need a change of scene.

To where?

To a health hotel. Ive found just the thing in the Chilterns, called Clear Waters. Good for recovery, walking, beautiful woods.

Margaret, Im not an invalid.

Youre a person who needs a break. Youve been boxed up here for months. Youll start talking to the wallpaper soon.

I already do. Some of its quite witty, actually.

She shot me a look.

Ive checked, theres a place open for March. Three weeks, covered by your donor status. Itll do you good.

I knew she was right. I was decaying by inches in that flat.

All right, I said at last. Ill go.

***

Clear Waters was exactly as Margaret described. An old redbrick building, recently spruced up, with broad lawns, sanded paths weaving through pine trees. Out my window I could see a pond, still frozen in March, gleaming pink at sunrise.

For two days I rarely left my room. Treatments, meals, a little reading, a bit of translation, though Id told my clients I was taking a break.

On the third day I went walking.

The park was almost empty. A smattering of pensioners on benches, two women speed-walking with Nordic poles, a man and his dog.

I walked slowly, listening to the crunch of gravel, the distant birds. I let my mind wander nowhere. It was peaceful.

By the pond, a wooden bench. I sat and watched the ice.

Mind if I join you?

A man, maybe fifty, medium height, broad shoulders, in a navy coat. He nodded at the bench.

Please, I said, shuffling a fraction, though there was plenty of space.

He sat, also staring at the pond.

Beautiful, he said after a minute. Ice is holding on.

Yes.

March, and its still there. Last year they told me it had gone by February.

Ive not been before, I said. Nothing to compare.

My second time. October before, now March.

I didnt ask why he was here. In a place like this, everyone knew: you didnt come unless life had handed you something.

How long have you been here? he asked.

Three days.

I arrived yesterday. He stretched out his left leg with careful deliberation, as if testing it. Legs not as cooperative these days. Intensive physio ahead, apparently.

I noticed he sat slightly oddly, his body subtly askew.

Injury? I asked, surprising myself.

Yes, in September. Broken back. Not paralysed, as you see. Not quite myself, yet.

Im sorry.

He gave a faint, surprised smile. You didnt push me.

No, I meantit must be hard.

It is. But I had a lot of thinking time. He smiled again. Cant be all bad.

I found myself smiling back. Awkwardly, but genuinely.

Simon Matthews, he said, holding out his hand.

Helen Ward.

We shookbusinesslike. Brief.

I should be movingphysio says forty minutes a day, minimum. Bit of an expedition for me.

Good luck.

And you.

He set off, measured steps, still a slight falter. But his posture was straight.

I stared at the ice.

For the first time in months, it felt simple. Not good, not happyjust simple.

***

The next morning, we ended up at the same table for breakfast, by the window. I nodded him over.

If you like.

Thank you.

We didnt say much; he scrolled something on his phone, I looked outside. Eventually he put it down.

Youre a translator, arent you?

That caught me off-guard.

How do you know?

Yesterday at lunch you had a German dictionary. The real kind, paper.

I didnt think anyone noticed.

Im observant, he said matter-of-factly. So, translation?

Yes. Medical, legal, some fiction.

Interesting. Im an architect. Was, at least. Now well see.

Whats uncertain?

My hands work. My back not as much. He tapped the table softly. Its not just work; you start thinking with spaces. If I cant, I miss it.

I understand. With translation, you switch your mind. When you stop, somethings missing.

Exactly.

Silence. Calm.

How long are you here?

Three weeks.

Me too. Well meet again, then.

Seems so.

***

While I discussed new words and old buildings, Roberts life galloped on.

He wasnt quite sure how he was so happy. After three years of illness, dialysis, hating his own body, it was miraculous to find everything working. To open your eyes and not immediately check the clock for medication. To sip wine at dinner, almost without worry. Almost.

Victoria was a part of this new existence: thirty-one, blonde, always connected. She worked for a travel company and was forever plotting adventures.

Rob, look at this one, shed say, showing him sapphire lakes and mountain paths. Montenegro, April. Gentle routes. Shall we? Brilliant, hed reply. Because it was. Because a year ago, he thought hed never leave the country again.

She moved in to his London flat, brought a few boxes, rearranged things, hung new curtains. He didnt object. He liked the change.

Sometimes, rarely, he remembered me. Not with regret, exactly, but with a sort of what-if discomfortthough he never called it guilt. Living with someone unwell, or even just seeing them that way, it weighs you down, he reasoned. He wanted to soar now, not sink.

At work, colleagues commented on the difference. Joking about his new lease of life.

Ward, youve been replaced, Alex from the next office would say, clapping him on the back. The new you is alright.

Lifes for living, hed say, and mean it.

To Montenegro in April, then Iceland in September. Victoria wanted northern lights. Rob wanted everything hed missed.

The speed thrilled him. He was scared of ever losing it.

***

Meanwhile, days at Clear Waters passed in gentle rhythm.

Treatments, walks, lunch. I grew into my routine. Pine bath in the morning, a stroll, lunch, a nap. Evenings, I read or gazed at dusk falling over the tops of the pines.

Simon walked at much the same hour; soon our paths coincided.

Thirty-six minutes today, he announced, sitting on our bench.

Targets forty.

I know. Tired. He stared at the ice, now peppered with black melt-patches. Im cross with myself.

No need. Youre walking within five months of breaking your back. Thats an achievement.

He looked at me. You do medical texts, dont you?

Yes?

Its the way you talk. No fuss. Just facts. Most people either dramatise or trivialise: Oh, youre amazing!, Itll be fine. You just say what is.

I dont know if itll be fine. Im not your doctor.

Exactly. Honestyrare commodity.

He was right: Id heard a lot of youll be fine recently. But never plain honesty.

How did it happen? I ventured softly. If you dont mind me asking.

Building site. Its my job to check sites. Something went wrong with scaffolding, I fell from the third floor.

And?

And I survived. Said with a composure bordering on wryness. Interesting part, really. Lying there, not understanding. Then realisingfirst, that youre alive. Then that it hurts. Then you start to work it outwhat and how much.

Was it a long recovery?

Very. Another glance at the pond. But plenty of time to think, as I said.

What did you think about?

All sorts. That Ive built houses all my life, yet never put up a real home for myself. My son, whom I barely spoke to in two years. Maybe, in some perverse way, this was a wake-up call.

Strange way to be shaken awake.

Life rarely has elegant solutions.

I gave a small laughmy first in a long time.

Havent heard you laugh before, he said.

Weve only known each other three days.

Yes, but not once.

I didnt reply. We watched the melting ice, a great black pool forming.

Are you married? he asked. Not flirtatious, just direct.

I was. No longer.

A while ago?

Four months. He left. After I

I hesitated, but pressed on.

Three years ago, I gave my husband a kidney. When he left, he said he couldnt live with someone damaged.

He said nothing. He waited.

Thats painful, he murmured, quietly.

Yes. Painful.

***

By mid-March, the pond was clear. The water dark then, as it warmed, blueish, and mists hung over it at dawn.

By now we walked together, not by accident but by arrangement. At ten each morning, after breakfast, meeting by the front entrance.

Simon walked slowly. I matched his pace, discovering I appreciated itno rush.

We talked. About work, about architecture, about how your sense of space shifts after injury. About living in a body rearranged. I mentioned my scar and how, at first, I couldnt even look at it; later, I grew indifferentit just belonged.

Correct, said Simon. Bodies are more honest than we are. They just adapt.

Do you look at yours?

Its on my back, tricky to seebut I feel it. Every day.

And what does it mean to you?

He considered.

That Im here. Something happened, but Im here. Thats enough.

I reflected on that. Thats a different philosophy. My husband wanted a blank slate, a new life after illness, a new body, new speed. Erase the past. You say, being here is enough.

I wasnt sure what it meant to me, but I wanted to think about it.

***

The second week, we started having tea in the evenings. Soft chairs in the lounge, a little table. I brought biscuits Margaret had sent. Simon would buy tea from a machine in the corner.

Tell me about your son, I asked one evening.

Tom. Twenty-six. Lives in Manchester, does software. Married last year. His wife seems lovely, met her just once at the wedding. We didnt have a row, we just drifted. I was always working. He sort of raised himself.

Did he come after your accident?

He did. Sat by my bed. Funny how it takes a crisis for a real conversation.

I know. I wrapped my hands around my tea mug. I have a daughterKate, twenty-three. When Robert left, she wanted to come. I wouldnt let her.

Why?

I didnt want her to see me as a victim. Im her mum, I should be

What?

Myself. Not someone to pity.

I see. Pride, or self-protection?

Both, perhaps.

Does she know where you are now?

Yes, we speak. She wants to visit. Im thinking.

Let her, Helen, he said gently. She probably acts out of love, not pity. I kept pushing Tom away, too, thought Id be fine. But when he turned up, it really was better.

Werent you afraid hed see you weak?

I was. But he saw it anywaychildren know more than we think.

I nodded. Didnt answer. The next day, I called Kate and said she could come that next weekend.

***

Meanwhile, Robert ticked another place off the bucket list. Guatemala, some volcano called Acatenango.

Victoria, look at this! he called, showing her the magazine. A volcano trek. Octobers the perfect time, it says.

She glanced at it. Four thousand feet, Rob? You were never a hiker.

I never did anything before. Now I can.

Did your doctor not warn you?

Reasonable exercise, he said. Hiking is reasonable. Its not mountaineering, just a walk.

She sighed, but looked up the tours on her phone. He went back to the gleaming photoperfect cone in clouds.

He hardly ever thought of me now. Only a brief flicker, if a mutual friend called and didnt know what to say, or if he saw his immunity drugs in the chemist and remembered how Id always laid them out in a pill box. He learned to do it himself.

You can do anything yourself, it turns out.

No more antidepressants for him. Indicators steady. His consultant, Dr. Cox, always seemed braced for the worst but was pleasantly surprised.

How are you feeling?

Great, Dr Cox.

Overdoing it?

Not too much.

Any alcohol?

Very little.

Keeping up your diet?

I try.

Good, Dr Cox would reply, still wary.

Hed laugh, say he wasnt relaxing.

***

They skipped Guatemala. Victoria found somewhere closer: Morocco, October. Cities, souks, desert and camels.

Not a trek, but itll do.

Agreed.

It was hotthirty-five in the shade. They wandered markets, bought things they didnt need, ate lamb stew with sweet mint tea amidst strangers.

Robert felt tired but blamed the heat. On the third day, he had a temperature.

Maybe I ate something, he said.

Or sunstroke, Victoria guessed.

The fever passed. Then, one evening, a dull ache in his side, right where my kidney resided. You alright?

Just a twinge.

Doctor?

No. Maybe just too much walking.

It went away. But something remained, some background worry he tried not to name.

***

Kate visited me that Saturday. Tall, like her father, but with my face. Dark hair, pale eyes, straight brows.

She hugged me tight at the entrance.

Mum.

Kate.

We drank tea in the lounge. She told me about work, her new flat, her boyfriend. I listened, realising she had grown up while I wasnt looking.

How are you, Mum? she asked, as direct as ever.

Better, I admittedtruthfully.

Is it nice here?

Yes. Quiet, woods. Good people.

She caught the something in my voice. What people?

I hesitated. Theres a man. Architect. Also recovering. Hes decent.

Decent, she echoed.

Dont, Kate.

Im glad, she said seriously. If you like him, thats what matters.

I looked at her. Youve grown up.

About time, I think.

Simon wandered into the lounge later. He nodded awkwardly.

Hello.

Simon, this is Kate, my daughter.

He shook her hand. How do you like it here?

Its beautiful. The woods are nice.

Yes. He lingered for a second on me. Well, see you tomorrow, Helen.

When he left, Kate smiled.

Mum?

Yes?

Nothing. Just good.

***

The last week at Clear Waters ambled by sweetly. The snow was finally gone. Green shoots peeked, birds howled at dawn, waking me early but I didnt mind.

Simon and I walked every day. He was steadier. Forty minutes became an hour, then an hour twenty. He didnt brag, just noted it.

One hour twenty-seven. Barely needed a rest.

Brilliant.

My leg is trusting me again. Physio says three or four months more and Ill be good as new.

Thats good.

He paused. I want to visit my son, just because.

Thats brilliant.

You were right about Kateshe didnt come out of pity, but love. I could see it.

Youre perceptive.

Its the job. Architects focus not on things themselves, but on the spaces between them.

I thought about that. Thats beautiful.

Its practical, he smiled. Then, Helen, may I ask something bold?

Depends what.

When were back, could I call you?

I stopped. He stopped, too. There in the woods, among the first leaves.

Yes, I said.

Good. He smilednot with triumph, but as if it were important, and merited respect.

We walked on.

***

I came home in late March. The flat was the same: same furniture, curtains. But somethingmaybe mewas different.

I opened every window for cold air. Then made a proper shopping list. Bought chicken legs, greens, tomatoesa whole meal.

Cooking, I put on the radio.

Margaret rang at eight.

How was it?

Wonderful. Really wonderful.

I can hear ityour voice is changed. Helen, whats happened?

I met someone. An architect. Hes had a rough time, too. He walks slowly, we have evening tea.

Will he call?

He said he will.

Good, she said. Good.

Simon called the next night.

***

We started seeing each other, in no hurry. Thats the phrase Id use. No hurry.

Two weeks later we met for dinner, a little place not far from his flat, near Paddington. Simon lived alone, divorced long ago. His ex-wife had her own family somewhere up north.

We parted amicably, he said. She needed different things.

What did she need?

Stability. Wanted me home at six every day. I spent too much time away at sites.

Did Tom live with her?

Until sixteen. Then with me, then moved to Manchester. I wasnt a bad dadjust an absent one.

Thats different.

We ate. Rain pattered outside, Aprils glare swallowed by the city.

I should tell you something, he said.

I looked up.

I cant promise a fast pace. Not in anything. Im a slow mover, especially now. If that suits you, fantastic. If not, Ill understand.

It suits me. Im not fast, either.

I noticed, he said. At the parkhow you walked.

Did you?

Yes. Thats good; it means you know where youre headed.

An odd compliment, but the truest.

***

We saw each other weekly, sometimes twice. Walks, meals, talk. I saw my doctor, he saw his. Sometimes wed meet after appointments and go together for coffee.

In May, he invited me to an architecture exhibitionmodest, some old warehouse. Blueprints, photographs, little models.

That one, he pointed, my last project before my accident.

Tell me.

He did: the house, the light, the very windows, every detail designed for a reason. He cared immensely, and I loved listening.

Was it built?

In progress. I want to visit in autumn.

Take me.

He smiled. And I realised Id said you, not Mr Matthews.

I will, he said. He switched, tooyou.

Soft, important.

***

That summer, Robert noticed something was wrong.

Lab tests, and Dr. Cox called him in.

There are some worrying indicators. Show signs of possible rejection. We caught it early, but it might need adjusting treatment.

Rejection? Robert couldnt take it in.

Yes, but we caught it early. Behave, and things should steady.

But?

Nobody likes restrictions, but Robert, this kidney isnt quite yours. Transplanted, and propped up by pills. The climateheat, altitudeit all shakes up your immune response. Youre not a young healthy man; youre a transplant patient. It’s different.”

Robert left the surgery, sat in the car, watched as a young couple walked bylaughing about something.

And he felt something he’d been ignoring.

***

At home, Victoria was patient a few days, then quietly annoyed.

I need to ease up, Vic. Doctors orders.

Fine, she said, back turned, folding clothes.

Its not the flu.

I know, she said coolly. Just rest, get better, everything will go back to normal.

What if it doesn’t?

She paused for the first time, looking at him. It will. Dont be dramatic.

But he wasnt.

***

By autumn, they never did go to Guatemala. Nor anywhere.

Robert stayed in, reading, pacing, dreading this forced stillness.

Victoria began staying out later. At my friends, shed text.

They had a row in November, on nothing in particular.

Rob, I cant go on like this, she said, tired. Youre ill, youre anxious, youre distant. I talk to you and youre not here.

Sorry.

Its not about sorry. Its just not what I expected.

He understood.

Weirdly, when she left, my name popped into his headnot hers.

He remembered my calm in hospital, my conversation about medicine the way other people talk about weather. Being ill was acceptable with me.

He pushed those thoughts away.

***

By Christmas, I wasquietlyhappy. Not dazzlingly jubilant. But I realised one morning, as the dull sky peered in through the curtains, that I was glad to be alive.

Simon had fully recovered by October. He sometimes joked that he moved slowly out of habit.

Stop slowing down! I teased. Youre fine.

Force of habit, he said. Long time spent slow.

We drove to see his house in autumna tiny build in a sleepy Home Counties village. The oak trees shone with autumn gold.

This is good, I said.

Yes, he replied, standing close.

Helen, I want you to live here one day. When youre ready. If youd like.

I was quiet for a long time.

Someday, I answered.

Thats an answer?

Its the truth. Im not quick.

Nor am I.

We stood at the big windows, golden leaves flashing outside.

***

In January, Margaret called.

Helen, have you heard?

Heard what?

About Robert.

I felt my chest tighten, that old reflex.

Hes in hospital. Trouble with the transplant. Victorias left, apparently.

I stood at the window, January drizzle streaking the pane.

Thank you for telling me.

How are you?

Im all right, Margaret. Genuinely.

I hung up and stared out. The feeling inside was complicated. Not malice, nor pity. Acceptance, maybe.

I phoned Simon.

Hello.

You alright?

Yes. I just wanted to hear your voice.

There you go, he laughed, and I could hear him smiling. Fancy dinner?

Yes. Come overIll make something proper.

Im on my way.

***

Robert came home in February, thinner, changed. Not older, exactly. Just changed.

He lived alone. Victoria had left quietlypacked her boxes, he helped her to a taxi, they parted with a shake of the hand. The saddest kind of ending: polite, with nothing left to even quarrel about.

He drifted around the flat, Vickys curtains still up. Told himself hed replace them, but didnt.

He thought about me: more and more, until it was all the time.

Not what Id feltwhat Id done. How Id been there. How Id managed. My pill boxes, my steady voice.

He wanted someone like that, he saw it now.

He found my old number, stared at it, then called.

I answered on the third ring.

Robert.

Helen. Hi.

Hi.

How are you?

Im well. How are you?

Youve probably heard.

I have.

Long pause.

Can I come? he asked. Id like to talk.

I hesitated.

Alright. Come over.

***

He rang the bell on Sunday, at four. I let him in right away, as if Id been waiting.

He looked different. Not older, butas if something had pressed the life out of him.

Come in.

Thank you.

He went to the lounge, looked around. Most things the same, but new books, a fresh, floral scent.

Sit. Tea?

Yes, please.

I brought cups, sat down. He was silent a moment, staring at the steam.

Helen, I know I have no right to ask

Robert.

No, please. Let me say this. He looked up. I see now what I did was wrong. Everything I saidhow I left

You dont have to explain.

I do. He swallowed. I want to ask you to start over. I know how it sounds. Ive changed. I know what I need now. Who I need.

I set my cup down.

Who do you need, Robert?

You.

Me? Or someone wholl take care of you?

No reply.

Is there a difference? he tried.

Yes. My voice was steady, not angry. You didnt come back because you missed me. You came because youre scared to face illness alone. Because its hard, and you now remember there was someone who could handle itme.

Helen.

Let me finish. Im not angry, not anymore. Its been nearly two years. Im better now. Not because Ive forgotten, but because I found what you took from me.

What did I take?

Myself. And someone else.

He looked at me differently then. Something registered.

Youve met someone, he said.

Yes.

For long?

Since spring. I picked up my cup. Hes a good man. Hes been ill too, and he gets it. Properly.

Robert lowered his gaze. You should have hated me.

There was only emptiness at first. Then, it got better.

How?

You cant do it alone. Friends, time, Simon helped. People who dont run.

I ran.

You were scared of scars, of illness, of ending. But its not the endits only different. And different can be good.

I want to come back.

Robert, I said, gently. You want care. Thats honest. But it isnt love. Love is something else. You know that.

But what if it is?

If it was, you wouldnt have gone.

He stared at the floor.

I dont know how to live now, he admitted, voice soft as a confession.

Its a good place to start, I replied. Youll start thinking. Did you?

I realised I was shallow. I thought living fast was everything, but there was nothing underneath.

That realisations worth something.

I wish there was someone.

Someone who needs you, not just takes care of you. Have you thought about that?

He said nothing.

You were ill. I gave you my kidney. Then you called me an invalid. Because you thought it meant a ruined life. You got it wrongits not the end. Just something else. And that can be good, too.

He stood up, slowly. Took his jacket.

Ill go.

All right.

He paused at the door.

Are you happy?

I didnt answer right away.

Yes, I said eventually. Not as I was. Differently. But yes.

He nodded.

Im glad, he whispered truthfully.

The door closed softly. Simply.

***

I stood in the hallway, listening to the old lift clatter, the front door of another flat bang, the hum of a car beyond damp brick.

Then I took out my phone, typed: Hes gone. All fine. Where are you?

Reply after a minute: By the river. Come.

Coat on, keys in hand, I left.

The stairs were silent. Outside, February aircold, not cruel.

I walked down the pavement, thinking how Robert had asked if I was happy, and knowing my answer was true.

The river was ten minutes away. I didnt rush, but I didnt dawdle.

Just walked, knowing where I was heading.

***

Simon stood by the parapet, gazing at the Thames. He heard my steps, turned.

Long journey?

The Tubes quick, I said, stepping next to him. You alright?

Im good. And you?

I am. Really.

What did he want?

A new start.

He was silent.

Did you explain?

Yes.

Did he understand?

Im not sure, I said. Maybe something. He was different. Quieter.

Life changes people.

Only if they let themselves be changed, I said. Otherwise it just breaks them.

He nodded.

We stood, shoulder to shoulder, wind biting but not cruel, February light gentle and pale over the city.

Simon?

Yes?

Do you remember, at the convalescent hotel, when you said that being here, now, was enough?

I remember.

I didnt understand then. Now I do.

What, exactly?

That enough isnt littleits not nothing. Just to be here. With what is. No racing. Thats everything, perhaps.

He didnt ask for more, just understood.

We stood by the Thames, cold wind ruffling our coats, the winter dusk glowing pink between chimneys.

He didnt take my hand right away. Just stood close. Later, his fingers rested gently on mine, not asserting, simply therelike someone with all the time in the world.

And I left my hand where it was.

The river flowed on.