Page 40 of The Book Swap

She messaged me once, a few weeks after the first time I drove her to the hospital. Childcare had fallen through for her younger sisters, and she didn’t want her mum to drag them with her to the hospital. Was I, by any chance, free? I jumped at the message. After that, we set up a rota. Tuesdays and Wednesdays, to ease the pressure, I’d take Bonnie.

“Come in if you want,” she said as she stepped out of the car on our fifth drive to the hospital, slamming the door shut behind her. I couldn’t pay for the parking fast enough. Jumping out of the car, I ran after her. She glanced across at me, shaking her head and laughing.

I didn’t hold her hand that time—just watched in awe as she had her IV fitted into her arm, chatting away to the nurse as though she was there for some kind of jolly. They were laughing because Bonnie was wearing fluorescent running trousers and looked as though she was going straight on to a marathon.

Maybe they treated all their patients the same way, but I got the impression Bonnie was their favorite. How mixed that feeling must be, to look forward to seeing someone who you wished didn’t have to be there.

“What do you need from me?” I asked once she was sitting in a comfy-looking brown chair, and hooked up to the bag of chemo which hung on a stand beside her.

She shrugged, then her eyes lit up. “Show me a selection of the worst YouTube videos you can find.”

I rolled my shoulders, sitting straighter. “That, I can do.”

Back at the flat, I walk straight to the sofa and take the books out of my pocket before I’ve even taken off my coat. I turn to the back of Mansfield Park and there, rewritten, are my questions and her answers. At the back of The Great Gatsby, she’s asked five more.

I digest them slowly, pausing as I read the answer to my first question. Her reason for writing in the margins has surpassed everything I expected, and my heart feels like it’s trying to climb out of my chest and onto the page. As I learn more about Margins Girl, I can feel a sensation growing inside me that’s worryingly close to what some people might describe as love. It’s not something I’ve felt before, but that’s how I know what it is. This pounding in my chest. The way my body vibrates at the sight of her words. The desperation for another book. All of it growing with every answer I read. I definitely thought she’d answer the opposite for question two, and tell me we must always listen to our own opinions of ourselves above other people’s. The fact that she hasn’t makes me laugh. It’s true. Other people’s probably are kinder.

Then I reach the answer to question four.

Do you ever feel like this is the only thing in life you have to look forward to?

And she’s written:

You have no idea.

Everything stops for a moment, my ears ringing. She feels it too. Relief washes through me. I sink more deeply into the sofa.

With just those four words, I already can’t wait to hear back from her. The waiting is getting too long. If I can read the entire The Great Gatsby in a few days, then I can return it. Would she even check the library that quickly? Will it be obvious that while I’ve been waiting for her to reply, I’ve already lined up my next book? I took a chance that she wouldn’t choose it, and it’s annotated and ready to return just as soon as I’m done. But what if I put it back too soon, and someone else takes it? I dismiss the thought. Somehow, I know she’ll get back to the library before anyone else can.

Turning to the back of Gatsby, having not yet read a word, I point her toward my next book. A book which had so many lines in it to comment on, but which contained a quote that made me think only of my girl in the margins. It said: “One can begin so many things with a new person!—even begin to be a better man.”

I don’t know how a near stranger is making me feel that way, but she is. Since we started leaving notes for each other, I want to write better. Create a book full of quotes she’ll want to underline and study. That she’ll want to—what did she say?—keep in her heart. I want to be a harder worker. A better son. A better brother. A much better uncle. I want to fix all my mistakes. Make my apologies the way I’m trying to, through my novel. I want to turn myself into someone new, so that if—or when—I eventually meet her, I’m a better man.

I reach for my pen and write: Meet me in Middlemarch?

15

ERIN

Boiling the kettle, I reach for the box of teabags in the cupboard above to find that Callum’s returned it, empty. It’s my turn to buy more and normally I wouldn’t think twice about it, but right now, I’m surviving on cash from teaching and dog walking and the last few pennies of my overdraft. I feel a pang for Georgia’s lifestyle, and the one-bed flat she has to herself. It’s looking worryingly like I’ll have to ask her to lend me this month’s rent, and last time my finances were mentioned she said she was sure Mum would be happy to help. Basically, my sister is playing hardball to get me back into any form of employment, but I don’t want to settle for anything. I want it to be something I love.

On my way to meet her at the hospital for her twelve-week scan I pass by the library, and as though Mystery Man knows I need some kind of pick-me-up, my book is back. A grin breaks across my face as I reach in and select Gatsby, greedily flicking to the back of the book to see what he’s offering in return. Middlemarch. It’s almost as though he doesn’t want me to reply for weeks. It’s the biggest book I’ve seen. The biggest in the library—but my pulse quickens because I haven’t read it, and I’m already looking forward to discovering what he’s pointed out. The things he notices that I might not. Flicking through it, I try to find a reason why he might have chosen it. There’s one line that’s underlined, where the spine is bent right back.

“One can begin so many things with a new person!—even begin to be a better man.”

I feel a bit dizzy for a second, but I tell myself I mustn’t read into it. It won’t be about me. He just liked the line. So true! he’s scribbled beside it.

I’m desperate to sit down and read through everything now, but I’m going to be so late. That one line is enough. I put the books in my bag and walk to the hospital, trying to shake off everything to do with Mystery Man, so that I can be fully present for Georgia.

“No way,” she shouts from outside The Phoenix pub, when she sees me walking toward her. “Don’t bring me your shit, Erin. Not today.”

Apparently, I didn’t do quite the job I thought of shaking it off.

She’s so unlike herself. There’s a nervous energy about her. She’s biting her lip and her left leg is constantly moving, even though we’re standing still. I take her arm, trying to steady her. I channel Bonnie. She’d take charge.

“It’s down here on the right, second floor,” I say once we arrive at the hospital. She raises her eyebrows but allows herself to be led.

We go up in the lift, squashing ourselves beside a woman who looks like she should be on her back in a labor ward, rather than walking around freely. Georgia’s eyes bulge and I gently turn her away. For her own sake, and for the sake of the woman who’s clocked Georgia staring.

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