WALES 2022
WE MADE IT TO the day of the bone marrow harvest without major incident, without a reply from Ceri, without a visit from the police – and without a single scrap of emotion from Arden. It was as though that tearful, manacled night in his bed had never happened, as though I had never wiped the salt slicks from his cheeks, as though he had never said those words that unravelled me every single time: I love you.
I tried to break through the freshly constructed fortress, tried to coax that drawbridge low, but whatever had caused that raw outpouring was once again lost.
I will always be yours. But I gave up the right to call you mine a long time ago.
As much as it drove me wild, as much as it felt like grit scratching beneath my skin, I did understand. Because, in his eyes, with the day of the bone marrow harvest also came the day I was going to die.
The day he was going to kill me.
And so, really, how could he be soft, how could he let himself love, when he was about to execute me?
I woke that morning with a sense of unease low in my belly. There were so many ways the day could unfold, and I had no control over any of it. Was I going to die today? Or would my hastily hatched plan with Ceri – who had left my message on the two blue ticks – somehow save my life?
Then, another fear beneath it all. A fear that felt primal, animal, carnal.
What would happen if I did survive?
A blurred storm of images broke over my mind’s eye. Sheets of white hair and black fingernails curling into grotesque helixes. A bone world raining ash. Pain larger than me, larger than anything. Arden, begging, pleading.
When he had convinced me to trust him in the trenches, I believed he was acting from a place of protection – or I had thought I did, which was all that mattered.
Was I a fool to want to live regardless?
Or should I be trusting Arden still?
After much internal debate, I decided not to tell my mum or Gracie about the private appointment. It saved them the worry. I would rather be able to visit the hospital later that night and tell my sister the good news: that my part was done. That I had done everything in my power to make sure she was going to be okay. That if everything else went to plan, she’d have a long life of chasing sexy nurses ahead of her.
I tried not to think about what else I might have to say: goodbye .
My eighteenth birthday was tomorrow. I had been born a little before seven in the morning, which meant Arden had less than a day to end my life after the procedure. Surely, surely, he would not do it straight away. A needless cruelty. And yet I thought of the poisoned hip flask in darkest Russia. His words: I knew I would lose my nerve at the last minute.
I didn’t know which would be worse – having to say goodbye to my sister, or not being able to say it at all.
Arden and I spent the morning working on the rain-slicked farm in silence, the sky dark as smudged charcoal, the air between us fraught. By the time we climbed into the car to drive to Newport, the tension was tighter than ever.
For a few moments, I watched the dramatic hills roll by, the tops of them obscured by grey fog. My stomach lurched at the thought that this might be my last ever sighting of them.
Number four on my dream list: complete the Three Peaks challenge.
There was no reason, really, only that it seemed like the sort of thing thirty-somethings did to convince themselves they were not middle-aged, that their bodies were not yet failing them. And so this entry on the list was more about reaching that age in the first place; the sore legs and breathless views would be a happy bonus.
If this final gambit didn’t work, and Arden overpowered me … would I be spawned somewhere wholly flat next? The salt flats of Bolivia? The Everglades of Florida? The Outback of Australia?
How long would I have to wait to see Arden again?
And why did the thought of another seventeen years without them hurt so damn much?
Unable to quash the questions, I muttered, ‘Are we really going to spend our last day together like this? If you get your way, we won’t get another chance to talk as the real us for nearly two decades. Is there absolutely nothing you want to say to me before then?’
Instead of answering, however, he stabbed the radio’s ‘on’ button. An obnoxious male voice started yammering through the speakers about how the cost-of-living crisis was a fallacy, and in the very next breath addressed the swelling strikes gripping the nation.
‘Same shit, different century,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Maybe we should revolt, like we did in Lyon.’
A token puff of a laugh. ‘Yeah.’
Irritation prickled beneath my skin. ‘Arden, please. Talk to me. I’m not going to beg, because it’ll be uncomfortable for everyone involved. But surely there’s something between I-won’t-let-myself-love-you and this . I deserve conversation, at least.’
A distant roll of thunder rumbled through the sky. ‘It’s not about what you do or don’t deserve.’
I folded my arms across the cream silk blouse I’d found at a vintage shop. I’d refurbished the stained buttons with a pink rose-print fabric. ‘Ah, yes, it’s about you and your inner turmoil, which is so complex that a lesser being like me could never hope to understand it.’
Arden clenched his jaw. ‘Don’t.’
His eyes were strained with tiredness. He hadn’t screamed last night, nor had I heard him sob beneath the stars, and I got the distinct sense he’d kept himself awake so that I could get some sleep. Or so that I wouldn’t catch him with his guard down again.
Keeping my voice level, I said, ‘After everything we’ve been through, you don’t even have a comforting word to say as I drive to a clinic to have a giant needle shoved into my bone?’
His grip tightened on the steering wheel. ‘I’ll be there with you the whole time.’
‘What a relief,’ I snarked. ‘Almost makes up for the fact you’ll be murdering me a few hours later.’
We drove the rest of the way in silence. The whole time I tried to guess what he might be thinking. Was he steeling himself? Or was he so exhausted from lack of sleep that he could not think at all?
The private hospital of Verdant Park was a low red-brick building separated from a residential street by a neatly pruned row of hedges. We parked in a small car park with spaces far too narrow for the Jeep, and strode towards the revolving doors in silence – me slightly ahead of Arden. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught him pinching the bridge of his nose, taking a beat to steady himself.
After checking in at reception, a short, mousy-haired nurse led us through to a private room with a wall-mounted TV and a painting of a waterfall hung above a single hospital bed. I sat uncertainly on the bed, while Arden eased into a high-backed blue armchair. The nurse ran through a pre-op consultation, and had me answer some questions about my medical history and my anaesthesia allergy. Then she handed me a backless surgical gown, and I went into the en-suite bathroom to change out of my regular clothes.
I took a moment to steady myself in the mirror. Staring at my reflection – so young, how did I still look so young? – I thought of Gracie, and of how good it would feel to tell her everything had gone well. I thought of the full life ahead of her, and fought away the inescapable idea that I might not be around for it.
Dr Schneider – my therapist’s wife – breezed into the room almost as soon as the nurse had left. She was a broad-shouldered woman with natural-blonde hair and a strong jaw. Her pale-blue surgical scrubs were immaculately ironed, and her posture was rod-straight. She had the air of a military drill sergeant, but once she smiled – exposing a row of gently crooked teeth – her whole manner relaxed into something resembling sunniness.
‘Branwen, hi!’ she said, her German accent making it more like Bran-ven . ‘Welcome. How are you feeling?’
‘I’m okay.’ I smiled, but it felt tight. ‘Nervous. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.’
‘Not a problem.’ She picked up my chart from the foot of the bed. ‘My wife thinks very highly of you. Anything I can do to help a patient is my pleasure.’
She flipped through the pages. Her fingernails were cut right back, and she wore no jewellery. With a small nod, she said, ‘Now, we’re going to be giving you some fairly robust pain relief – codeine, ibuprofen and oral morphine – but they won’t take all the discomfort away during the procedure itself. There’s a reason we usually use general anaesthetic, okay?’
Fear flickered in my stomach, but I wouldn’t let Arden see me nervous. He wasn’t the only one with a proud streak. ‘Okay.’
As it happened, he shifted in his chair and asked, ‘Are you sure you don’t want to try local anaesthetic?’ The question was directed at me, but his gaze was fixed squarely on the doctor. ‘You might not be allergic to that. And even if you do have a reaction …’
He trailed off, but I knew what he was going to say.
Even if I had a reaction, I was going to die soon anyway. As long as Gracie got the marrow, it didn’t matter.
But I still had to be able to run if I had to.
Because the police might come.
They might arrest and charge Arden, given the dark threats he had levelled at me – and even if he was released on bail, those precious few hours should be enough for me to make it far, far away from Abergavenny. If I was in anaphylaxis, that would be slightly trickier.
‘I’m sure,’ I said plainly, and something unreadable darted across his face.
Half an hour later, I lay on my front on a sterile operating table. A clean sheet had been laid over it for my comfort, but I still felt the cold metal pressing through the fabric and against my stomach and thighs.
Arden stood off to the side, dressed in a rumpled pair of scrubs, his dark hair tied back from his face with an elastic band. His presence had been a bone of contention – it was irregular for a patient’s loved ones to be in on the surgery – but because I wasn’t having any anaesthetic, he’d argued that his support would be needed. Eventually, they’d allowed him to come in, providing he changed into clean scrubs and washed his hands to within an inch of their lives.
I didn’t really understand why he’d fought so hard to be in here with me. It wasn’t like I was about to up and run from the operating table.
After sterilizing the back of my hip, Dr Schneider said, ‘Now, we’re about to insert a special needle into the marrow cavity of the hipbone, where stem cells and blood are aspirated. To obtain this lovely rich marrow, many small aspirations must be done, and we will also be harvesting lots of red blood cells. We’ll give those back to you intravenously once you’re in the recovery room. The whole thing will take around an hour, okay? Are you ready?’
No. The biopsy had been bad enough, all those months ago.
‘Yes,’ I said, lacing my fingers together under my chin and gripping hard.
The needle piercing my skin wasn’t so bad, but I couldn’t fight the gasp once it burrowed into my bone. The pain was at once sharp and dull, like a shard of ice pressed against a nerve ending, the excruciating feeling of toothache amplified tenfold.
When the needle began to move around, I thought I might vomit. It took all my effort to stay still, when every inch of my body wanted to tear itself away from the source of the pain. I let out an involuntary whimper, pressing my forehead into the back of my hand.
There was the squeak of footsteps on the immaculate floor, and then two palms on my forearms.
‘Hey,’ said Arden softly. There was a slight click of joints as he sank to his haunches, so our faces were inches apart. ‘Hey. I’m here. Okay? I’m here.’
The needle was pulled out and then reinserted, and I whimpered again.
‘Fuck,’ I moaned, tears sliding down my face.
Arden wiped them away with a caressing thumb, the touch so tender it threatened to unravel me. ‘It’s okay, love. It’s okay. It’ll be over soon, okay? Just look at me.’
I lifted my head, vision starry. ‘It hurts.’
He took my hands in his and pressed his forehead against mine. ‘I know. I know. I would do it for you if I could.’
I sucked the air through my teeth. ‘Maybe you can.’
‘I already checked,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not a match.’
‘You already checked?’
‘Of course,’ he said, his voice rough. ‘Months and months ago, before you went through all this. You have to know I would take all the pain for you if I had the chance.’
I simultaneously wanted to smack him around the head and burrow my face into his chest. ‘You’re infuriating.’
‘I know.’ His face was twisted with concern, with regret, with love, and it hurt just as much as the surgery.
Another pull-back of the needle, another savage reinsertion. ‘Arghhhhhh.’
‘Tell me your small joys.’
‘What?’
He swallowed hard, tucking my loose hair behind my ear. ‘Back in the trenches –’ he shot a panicked look at the medical professionals, but none of them reacted to the strange statement – ‘you told me that big joy and small joy are the same. What are your small joys, from this life?’
A bid to distract me, and a welcome one.
Because it almost sounded like he was letting me convince him to change his mind.
‘Analysing Taylor Swift lyrics with Gracie. All of us decorating the Christmas tree, with peppermint hot chocolate, feeling sick from too many candy canes.’ The pain in my hip was so bad my vision blurred, the room canting around me. ‘The first frost on the Beacons each autumn. A new season of my favourite TV show dropping. Finding the perfect vintage piece in a thrift shop. Listening to friends argue in coffee shops because they both want to pay, both want to treat the other.’
Arden’s eyes shone. ‘I’m starting to see it more and more,’ he admitted, as though confessing to a mortal sin. ‘The small joy. A few weeks ago, I saw these two teenage girls sitting on a bench at a bus stop. Their legs were twined together, and one of them was painting Pride flags on the other’s eyelids, and they were giggling so much that she couldn’t keep her hands still. They both ended up covered in glitter and eyeshadow. And I thought, Evelyn would love that .’ A wistful smile. ‘You’ve rubbed off on me, these last thousand years.’
‘Keep talking.’ I gasped through fresh peals of pain.
‘One of my favourite words is confelicity .’
‘Does it mean “with Felicity” in Spanish?’
He mimed flicking my forehead. ‘I’m astounded you remember so much of a previous tongue.’
‘Fuck off. Or: vete a la mierda. Gracias.’
He stroked my sweat-slicked temple with his thumb. ‘ Confelicity means a kind of vicarious happiness. You’ve always been so good at that. When you see other people happy, it makes you happy. Doesn’t matter who those people are, whether loved ones or perfect strangers. You just let their joy radiate through you, and it’s miraculous. I’ve never mastered it, really. Except with you. When you’re happy, I’m happy. And when you hurt, I hurt.’
Tears spilled ever faster. I was so dizzy I could barely see him.
‘It hurts so much.’ I didn’t know whether I meant my hip or the other thing, the big thing, the awful thing.
‘I know.’ As his thumb wiped away more of my tears, his lips brushed my forehead. ‘I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay.’
A beautiful, beautiful lie.