Heart of Bone: A gripping novel of psychological suspense, page 5
‘Was everything fine between the two of you?’ Alison asked.
No. But Greer couldn’t tell this woman the truth. ‘Yes. We get on really well.’
‘Can we look around? Check her bedroom?’ Greer nodded. Getting to her feet, she moved towards the door. ‘If you come with me, I’ll show you upstairs.’
‘Are any of her clothes missing? Her passport?’ Alison Hardwick asked once they were inside Rose’s room. A hint of her sweet girl’s perfume still hung in the air.
‘No. It’s like I told you. All she took with her yesterday was her handbag. I’ve no idea whether her passport was in it. But why on earth would she need it?’
‘I’ve got it here,’ Devin announced, holding it in his hand.
After what seemed an age, the two officers announced they’d had done all they could. ‘We’ll keep you posted,’ Devin Gardner said, as the two of them left. ‘Somebody will be in touch soon.’
CHAPTER 15 - Now
The morning after Beth’s visit, Greer got her doctor to sign her off sick for a month. She could hardly bring herself to eat, let alone go to work. Besides, her dull data entry job sucked; she wouldn’t miss it. She’d not forgotten her vow to find the man who’d ruined Tom’s life, but it all seemed so pointless. Without Tom and Rose, was there any reason to carry on living? Her thoughts circled around the bottle of sleeping tablets in her bathroom. A fitting way to be reunited with her son.
Could she do it? Yes. No. Perhaps.
Greer’s mobile sounded from her bag, startling her. When she extracted it, the words ‘South West Organ Donation Services team’ were on the screen.
Greer froze, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. Vague memories crowded into her mind. Some woman mentioning Tom being on the Organ Donor Register. Greer, too grief-stricken to think straight, signing the paperwork. Being told about the South West Organ Donation Team. How, if any of her son’s body parts were suitable for transplant, a member of the team would contact her. With shaky fingers, she swiped the ‘accept call’ icon.
A female voice, heavily accented, met Greer’s sharp, ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mrs Greer Maddox?’
‘Yes.’
‘My name is Zofia Kowalski from South West Organ Donation Services. I’m calling in connection with your son, Mr Tom Maddox. First, let me say I’m very sorry for your loss.’
How presumptuous. This woman knew nothing of her loss. ‘What do you want?’
Zofia Kowalski waffled on. Words slapped Greer in the face, stole the breath from her lungs. Suitable recipient... your son’s heart... operation a success, although it’s still early days...
Time to interrupt. ‘You’re telling me my son’s heart has been used in a transplant, am I right?’
‘That is correct. As per his wishes, and the paperwork that you signed.’ When Greer didn’t respond, the woman continued, ‘I must apologise for not having been in contact sooner. What with the Christmas and New Year break, we’ve been short-staffed. Otherwise I’d have called you before.’
Greer’s hand grew slick with sweat around her mobile. She sucked in a breath. Here was fresh pain, when she’d thought she couldn’t hurt anymore. But what had she expected? She’d known about Tom being on the donation register, but her brain hadn’t processed what that might mean. His body, now deep in the ground at Arnos Vale, was lacking a vital part. Tom’s heart now beat in someone else’s chest, and a nugget of anger took root inside her. It seemed all wrong to picture him with such an essential organ missing.
Zofia was still talking, but she’d missed whatever the stupid woman had been saying. ‘Who was it?’ Greer’s voice hitched in her throat.
‘You mean who received your son’s heart?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t divulge any personal details, I’m afraid. Patient confidentiality, you understand. What I can tell you is that the recipient is male, aged thirty-two, and had been on the waiting list for approximately two years. As I mentioned earlier, he’s doing well. His new heart is settling in nicely.’
How dare Zofia talk as if this man had ordered a replacement from Amazon? Tom’s heart may be new to him, but the guy had no right to it. It belonged in her son’s chest, pumping his blood, keeping him alive. Anger pulsed through her.
‘I’ve been told there’s a letter from the recipient’s family addressed to you. Would you like me to post it on once it arrives? Or else I can read it aloud to you. Whichever you prefer.’
No, no, no. Okay, so surgeons had removed her son’s heart and inserted it into another man’s chest. That person now lived while Tom was dead. A letter from his family would make the horror all too real.
‘Mrs Maddox?’
‘No. To both.’
‘I understand how difficult this must be. You might find, however, that the letter helps. For many families, it’s a comfort that their loved ones’ organs are enabling others to enjoy healthier, better lives.’
‘Well, that’s not how it is for me. You can burn the damn letter for all I care.’
‘Are you sure? I can keep it on file once I get it, in case you change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ Greer’s index finger jabbed at the ‘end call’ icon.
GREER COULDN’T GET the conversation out of her head, however. Words circled through her brain: transplant, heart, recipient. Images and sounds joined them. The rhythmic contraction and relaxation of the muscle, the lub-dub noise it would make. A strange sense of calm settled over Greer. She’d been wrong. Tom wasn’t totally gone.
What might he have to say, this man who’d usurped Tom’s heart? Some trite words of gratitude, probably. But what if Tom was reaching out to her from inside this man’s chest? Shouldn’t she hear what he had to say?
A fanciful notion, of course. Still, she had nothing to lose, because she’d already lost everything. This letter—why not read it? It wasn’t her son who’d written it, of course, but curiosity nagged at Greer, wouldn’t let go.
She’d call Zofia Kowalski tomorrow to ask her to forward the letter.
The sleeping pills in her bathroom could wait.
CHAPTER 16
The following morning, Greer called Zofia Kowalski and left a message on her phone. With any luck, she wouldn’t have to wait long for the letter.
Except that she did. Three days passed, and it hadn’t arrived. Her patience exhausted, Greer composed a curt reminder to Zofia. Two days later, Zofia responded.
‘I’ve not received it myself,’ she told Greer. ‘I’m waiting for the patient liaison nurse to forward it.’
‘Then chase him or her up. Today, please.’
Almost two weeks had slipped by since Greer told Zofia she wanted to read the letter. Now, at last, here it was.
The envelope felt smooth beneath her fingers. Despite the plain white exterior, she knew what was inside. She rarely received anything by post, so what else could it be?
Greer walked into her kitchen and set the kettle on to boil. A strong cup of Earl Grey was what she needed.
Half an hour later, her tea sat in front of her, stone-cold and untouched. As did the letter, taunting her from beside her teacup. In the background, her kitchen clock ticked away the seconds.
She shouldn’t be such a coward. Why didn’t she just read the goddamn letter?
Greer reached out a hand and picked it up with trembling fingers. A deep breath in. Then she tore open the envelope.
She read the covering letter. That, at least, held nothing alarming. Short and to the point, signed by Zofia. It reiterated how the enclosed communication contained no identifiers as to the recipient of her son’s heart, and that if she replied, she should do so via Zofia, who would forward on her response. Greer set it aside and pulled out a separate letter, concealed in its own envelope. She could, if she wanted, rip it to shreds, bury it deep within her waste bin. Would it do any good to read it?
Her movements slow, as though in a dream, she opened the flap and unfolded the single sheet of paper.
Hello. We’re strangers to each other, but we’re both mothers—
Greer dropped the letter as though it had burned her. What the hell? She’d expected the writer to be the man who’d received Tom’s heart. Her son, reaching out to her via him.
We’re both mothers, though, women who know what it’s like to love a son unconditionally. The gift of a baby is priceless, and mine will always be my little boy. You can identify with that, I’m sure.
I don’t know your child’s name, but I thank him. When the only thing that could save his life is a transplant, your son’s selflessness makes a world of difference.
Please don’t misunderstand me. It grieves me that your boy’s death made my son’s life possible. I hope it comforts you that his heart beats on in someone else, and that he didn’t die in vain.
My son is taking his time in recovering from such a major operation, which is why this letter comes from me, not him. He’s still in hospital, but if all goes well, he’ll be discharged at the end of January. Like me, he owes your son a debt of gratitude he can never repay. From one mother to another, I thank you.
Greer crumpled the letter in a few savage movements, then tossed it across the kitchen. How foolish of her. She should never have read it.
Yet something drew her back to it.
Greer walked over to retrieve the letter. Time to chuck it in the bin where it belonged. Her fingers, however, had other ideas. Greer sat at the table and smoothed out the paper. That was when she spotted them.
Two small stains in the bottom right-hand corner. Almost unnoticeable, a shade darker than the paper, which was uneven and roughened in that spot. Greer’s fingers traced over the tears another mother had shed, and her own eyes grew wet. She’d wept when writing to Greer, this unknown woman bound to her through Tom’s heart. The bittersweet blotches unlocked Greer’s own grief, and she sobbed, the letter still clutched in her hand.
When she was all cried out, she stared at the clock. Eleven o’clock on this damp Bristol day. Memories washed over her. Baby Tom, sleepy after his bath, gurgling in his cot. Greer, luxuriating in the rhythm of his heartbeat, one ear pressed against her son’s chest. Her husband might have deserted her, taking Rose with him, yet Tom was strong, healthy and alive. Her son’s heart beating against her own comforted her every time she hugged him. Somehow that sweet sound got Greer through the long, lonely years of single parenthood. Perhaps, if she heard it again, she might make peace with Tom’s death.
Was that possible, though? Zofia had emphasised the need for patient confidentiality; Greer had no idea where this woman or her son lived.
Her mobile buzzed with a text. Beth’s name was on the screen. Fancy a quick coffee?
Greer hadn’t told her neighbour about Zofia’s call or that she’d requested the letter. Now might be the time. Hadn’t she already paved the way by confiding in Beth about Rose’s disappearance?
Yes. I’ll get the kettle on. Less than a minute later, Beth’s finger sounded on the doorbell.
‘How have you been?’ Beth said, once Greer handed her a mug of coffee.
Greer sucked in a breath. ‘Up and down. I’ve received this letter, you see.’
‘Who’s it from?’
She told Beth about her phone calls with Zofia Kowalski. Her decision to ask Zofia to post the letter to her.
‘Have you opened it?’ Beth asked.
‘Yes. It was from his mother, not him.’
‘What did it say? If it’s not too personal a question?’
‘She thanked me. Her words comforted me, Beth. I don’t feel so lost now.’
‘I’m glad, my love. You were brave to read it.’
‘I’d give the world to hear Tom’s heart again. I don’t suppose that’s possible, though. Patient confidentiality, and all that.’
‘It might be more feasible than you think. Did this guy’s mother propose meeting up?’
Beth’s words hit Greer like a thunderbolt. In some dim recess of her mind, a long-forgotten television programme ran, one in which two people met in a park on a hot summer’s day. It had held little significance to Greer at the time; she’d watched with only casual curiosity. She replayed the moment in her head, the memory fuzzy. A mother, listening to her daughter’s heart in another woman’s chest. The tears, the ecstasy on her face. Her grateful thanks.
Greer wanted that for herself. She needed to listen to Tom’s heart again. The pain of her longing was almost physical.
‘Greer? Did you hear what I said?’
‘She didn’t mention it, no. But her son’s still in hospital. Do you think it’s too soon for me to suggest it?’
Beth blew out a breath. ‘Yeah, I’d say so. Maybe leave it a while.’ She continued talking, but Greer tuned her out. A phone call to Zofia, proposing that they all meet up, was the way forward. Beth was right; it was too premature, but surely she’d understand, this mother who’d taken the time to write to Greer?
If all goes well, he’ll be discharged at the end of January. Greer glanced at her phone; today was the twenty-seventh. In a few short days Tom’s heart would leave hospital, ready for a new life. One in which Greer could, if she chose, play a part.
AFTER BETH HAD GONE, Greer returned to the sofa. Yes, she’d do it. She’d call Zofia Kowalski and ask her to set up a meeting. Her darling boy was calling to her. Before long, she might hear her son’s heart beat again; perhaps it would ease the ache in her own.
Her mobile rang, startling Greer. When she glanced at it, Charlie’s name showed on the screen.
‘Thought I’d better call. A message seemed too impersonal,’ he said, once they’d exchanged pleasantries. ‘I’ve been doing some digging. Into Tom’s boyfriend.’
In her zeal to reconnect with Tom’s heart, Greer had forgotten her quest to track down Blue. ‘Did you get the bastard’s name?’
‘Sorry, no. One guy said Tom didn’t give any details, just that the bloke had dumped him and moved out of Bristol. He didn’t know where. Meaning he’ll be almost impossible to find.’ Charlie cleared his throat. ‘Time to let this go, Mrs M. No more reading Tom’s journal. You need to accept Tom didn’t want us knowing about this man.’
He was right. The memory of Tom’s vomit-stained pillow, the empty pill packets, was still raw, but it seemed Greer stood little chance of finding Blue. Besides, she now had more important matters on her mind.
CHAPTER 17
Once Greer ended the call with Charlie, she scrolled through her contacts, in which she’d already programmed Zofia’s direct-dial number. She drew in a deep breath, praying the woman would be sympathetic.
Zofia answered on the second ring. After Greer had identified herself, she didn’t waste time with niceties. ‘I want to meet him.’
‘The recipient of your son’s heart?’
Greer bit back her frustration. Who else could she mean? ‘Yes.’
‘As I’ve explained, Mrs Maddox, patient confidentiality is of prime importance. I can’t give out contact details, I’m afraid.’
Greer gritted her teeth. ‘Yeah, so you’ve said. But you could arrange a meeting.’
‘Donor families and recipients do sometimes meet up. It’s rare, however.’
Stubbornness swelled inside Greer. ‘I want to make it happen.’
‘Remember, Mrs Maddox, the recipient might still be in hospital. He—’
‘He’s being discharged in a few days. That’s what his mother said in the letter.’
She heard Zofia fail to suppress a sigh. ‘It’s possible he’ll be in for longer. Complications can, and do, arise where such complex surgery’s concerned. A hospital stay of three months isn’t unknown in heart transplant cases; if a blood vessel ruptures, for example.’
Damn this woman and her caution. ‘I can at least ask, though. Right?’
‘Of course. But, like I said, such meetings, despite what you see on television, are unusual. Even if the recipient of Tom’s heart leaves hospital this month, he’ll need a long recovery time at home. He might not feel up to arranging a get-together.’
‘If I want to respond to the letter, I’ve every right to do so. Correct?’
‘Yes. But—’ Zofia launched into a speech about how meeting the recipient might worsen rather than ease Greer’s grief. ‘Emotions are complicated things, Mrs Maddox. You could react differently to how you think you will.’
‘Please don’t patronise me. I know my own mind. I want to meet him.’
‘I’d need to be present if a meeting takes place, along with the transplant coordinator for the other party.’
‘Fine.’ Greer didn’t care either way.
‘There’s no guarantee he’ll agree. Many recipients prefer anonymity. I would urge you not to get your hopes up.’
Greer rolled her eyes. More verbal combat was clearly needed. ‘How do I proceed? Is the next step to reply to the letter, saying I’d like to meet?’
‘In a nutshell, yes. But Mrs Maddox—’ Greer endured more pleas to reconsider, all of which she rebuffed. Zofia eventually capitulated, clearly too browbeaten to continue.
After the call ended, Greer made herself a coffee. All she needed to do now was find the right words. She’d start with the basics. Thank you for your letter...
CHAPTER 18
Greer hurried home from the shops, a greetings card tucked into her handbag. Nobody wrote letters anymore, so she had no writing paper or envelopes. Hence the card. As she dashed back, keen to escape the rain that had dogged that particular January, she spotted Beth getting into her car.
Beth waved. ‘How are you doing? Fancy a coffee later?’
A nice idea, but no. The card was calling to Greer. Besides, after she’d composed her reply, she’d probably want to be alone. A shake of her head, a regretful smile, a tap of her watch, and Greer was safely inside her house.
Seated on her sofa, her lap desk on her knees, Greer took out the card, which boasted a bunch of roses along with ‘Thank You!’ in gold letters, and pulled a pen from the pot on the shelf. She already knew what she was going to write.
