Page 36 of Out of the Blue
She smiles. ‘Saycystic fibrosis.’
It takes a couple of tries before it clicks. ‘Sixty-five roses?’
‘Exactly. I know, it’s a bit corny. I usually really hate soppy tattoos. Like those couples who get a key and a padlock, or two jigsaw pieces – so cheesy.’
She props herself up on one elbow, so she’s looking down at me, and rests the back of her hand on my hip. The petals look darker in this dim light: smoky blue.
‘But I have to admit, I do kind of like what this represents,’ she says. ‘Roses aren’t any less beautiful because they don’t live long. No one looks at them and thinks, man, what a tragedy they’ll only be around for a little while. You just appreciate them while they’re there. Or, if you don’t, you’re missing the point.’
I trace the outline of the rose on her wrist, feeling the soft bump of the tendons beneath the skin. ‘I like that,’ I say.
A nervous smile flits across her face. ‘I thought all sixty-five would be pushing it. Transplant patients have to be really careful getting tattoos, and the artist obviously knew I wasn’t eighteen. It was hard enough to get him to agree to do even one, but I dragged the oxygen in and coughed a lot. He probably thought it was my dying wish.’ She cackles.
I try to smile, but my lips won’t move. ‘How can you laugh about it?’
‘What do you expect me to do – sit around moping?’ she says. ‘I was so lucky to get my lungs – a lot of the time, people die before they find a match. I’ve been lucky to get those years. I think about my donor all the time. Every day.’
She presses her index fingers to the corners of my lips and pushes them into a smile. I brush her hand away, blinking away the prickling in my eyes.
‘Don’t get me wrong, Jay. There are days when it feels so unfair I can hardly breathe.’ She slides her hand into mine. Her fingers are clammy, but warm. ‘But it’s going to happen one way or another. It just makes me more determined to make the most of the time I do have.’
For a while we’re silent, listening to the muffled sounds of the TV downstairs, the odd hum of a car turning on to her quiet street. I think about Mum. She was only thirty-seven when she died. That’s longer than a lot of people get, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing can convince me that it was enough.
‘Calum’s right. You shouldn’t push yourself so hard,’ I tell Allie. ‘Don’t make it worse than it has to be.’
‘I know, I know. It’s just hard. I don’t want to miss out on a minute of Teacake.’ Her free hand sweeps across the room, over all the instruments and art supplies and sports equipment. ‘All this . . . it was fun, but since the transplant I don’t really care about being good at something. I’d rather justbegood. Do good.’
I remember the first time I saw her and Calum, outside the restaurant with her leaflets and the homemade placard. I think back to all the hours she spent in Shona’s flat painstakingly sewing feathers on to Teacake’s wings. I remember her telling us to talk to Teacake, not about her, and her list of the Beings’ names.
Allie is exceptional. So exceptional. I want to tell her that. I just don’t know how to say it.
But maybe I don’t need to, because now she’s tilting her head towards mine. She’s looking at my lips, the way that only Leah and a handful of boys at parties have before, and part of me is thinking this shouldn’t be happening, not right now, when she’s not well, but a larger part of me doesn’t think it matters, and now I’m leaning ever so slightly closer, and I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, and then –
And then my phone starts to ring.
‘Shit. Sorry.’ My cheeks burn. I grab my phone from my pocket. ‘That’ll be my dad.’
I go to turn it off, but then I see the caller ID and pause. It’s an unknown number, an Edinburgh one. I don’t know anyone who’d be calling me from a landline. Unless –
‘I have to take this.’
I hurry out of her room and into the corridor, leaving Allie blinking behind me. My fingers tremble as I slide the green button over the screen.
‘Hello? Hello?’
There’s a long pause. There’s static on the line, and behind it, car horns and a pedestrian crossing beeping – it’s someone calling from a phone box.
‘Hello?’ I’m clutching the phone so tightly, my fingers start to cramp. Then I hear her voice, and everything inside me starts to somersault.
‘Jaya.’ Another pause. I can hear her breathing, quick and shallow. ‘It’s me. It’s Leah.’
TWENTY-ONE
Calton Hill is heaving with people. The Fringe has spread, like a sea creature stretching its tentacles, out of the Old Town and towards the monuments overlooking the city: there are dancers in orange leotards leaping over the grass, a choir singing ‘Oh Happy Day’, an actor performing a one-manHamletto a crowd of silver-haired tourists. As I hurry up the steps, I realize that’s why Leah told me to meet her here. Among the tour groups and performers, the laughter and camera flashes, she can hide.
She’s sitting at the foot of the National Monument, a towering line of Greek-style stone columns. A group of foreign-exchange students buzzes around her, almost shielding her from view, but she stands up as she sees me coming. It’s like watching someone you know acting in a play: it’s undeniably Leah, but not the way I knew her. Her shoulders are hunched, and she tugs anxiously at the hem of her hoody. As I move closer, I can see how ill she looks. Her cheeks curve inwards, and there are scabs around the corners of her mouth.
Still. She’s here.
