Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“The emotional consequences of staying alive, you mean.”
“To have the operation, to have an ICD fitted meant giving in. Admitting she was at risk. The risk of dying, not just physically but mentally, too. Just like the bomb found near her aunt’s house. She’d live with the threat, device or not, Brugada just ticking away inside her. The device can become faulty and shock a person into a cardiac arrest for no reason. Parts of the device can be recalled; other parts can fail. Batteries need replacing and don’t let your iPhone get anywhere near it, apparently.”
“You’re iPhone?”
“Yes, apparently, it can set it off or something.”
Fuck. Are they really that unstable?
“Getting an ICD is signing up to a lifetime of operations—heart surgeries, possible infections. Those kill, too. But more than that, according to Mimi’s mother, she’d found it so difficult to think she’d never be a mother.”
“I don’t—I don’t understand.”
“Connor and Mimi received this gene from the family. I can’t imagine the risk of bringing a child into this world with those kinds of odds.”
And just like that, everything fits into place.
43
MIMI
“No. No, I don’t want to be here,” I say as the black cab pulls up at Marble Arch. “You didn’t say we were coming here.” My words hold a world of panic, and I find myself pressing my hand over the slight bump of my ICD where it lies under my skin. I’ve begun to touch it as a talisman of sorts. It’s the weirdest thing to live with, to get used to, but I will.
“Polly chose the café,” my mom cajoles, paying the cabbie as Dad climbs out.
“There are a dozen Pret sandwich shops in London.” Why this one? Why the one next to Hyde Park? “And there are a hundred places much nicer to meet.” I don’t want to be here. It’s hard enough trying to get over him.
“Mimi,” my father says, holding open the cab door. “You’ve barely been out since you were discharged. A bit of fresh air will do you good.”
“There air isn’t—”
“It’s a park,” he deadpans. “Trees. Sunshine. Oxygen.”
I feel tears gather because his words seem like an echo of Whit’s statement that day. Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I catch the cabbie’s eye, waiting for him to say “What’s it to be, love?” Then I’d ask him to take me back to the little flat we’re staying in. I’ve had my final checkup. I’m free to fly home; only Mom wants to stay for Doreen’s wedding. She’s marrying Frank next week at Haringey Civic Centre—the local council offices—before having a “good old-fashioned knees-up” in a local pub. Mom seems to be viewing it like an anthropological event.
“I’m clockin’ off here, love,” the taxi driver says instead.
“Out you go.” My mother uses a tone that should be reserved for toddlers.
“Just tell me,” I say, swinging around to face her, my butt squeaking against the pleather seat. “Why here?”
“Gosh, Mimi. Such a fuss,” she mutters. “There was something about her being here for a meeting, I seem to recall. Something about a friend suffering a raging menopause?”
Well, that odd story checks out, I guess. Which is how I find myself on the sidewalk, watching the cab pull away.
“Apparently, over there is the sight of the Tyburn hanging tree.” My father is staring at his phone, reading London tourist information.
“A tree hung with what?” Mom asks.
“People,” I retort, turning toward one of London’s many Pret a Manger sandwich shops.
“Gruesome. Oh wait, Mimi. Polly just sent me a text.” She fumbles with her purse, pulling out her phone.”
“How’d you know it was Polly?” I feel my gaze narrow suspiciously.
“Because she’s the only person who calls me here,” Mom retorts, not without frustration. “I got one of those travel SIM things, remember?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head as though I could shake off this feeling. “Who wants coffee?”
“Oh, we’ve got to meet her over there.”
“Oh, for fudge’s sake,” I mutter, swinging in the direction of the park, Whit’s words echoing in my ear. Speakers Corner. It’s where people go to get stuff off their chests. Maybe I should’ve brought my own soap box.
We cross the busy road and head toward the small crowd of people milling where last time there was none. Sure enough, a woman in a sensible tweed skirt and cardigan stands on a little stepladder. She’s so short it doesn’t really give her much advantage. I spot Polly in the crowd, and she gives us a little wave before pointing at her wrist apologetically.
“Looks like things have overrun,” Dad says. Thanks, Captain Obvious. “Let’s grab a spot and hear what she has to say.”
I slant my gaze his way. “Since when have you been a fan of listening to menopausal women?”
“I listened to your mother for years. Ow!” he moans following a well-deserved and well-aimed dig in the ribs.