okay, I’m on it.’
I stare at the handwriting again and put the cigarette on an ashtray, then exhale smoke from my lungs, polluting my beautiful kitchen. I start to cough. Guilt and an urge to vomit make me put the cigarette out after one puff. Disgusting.
‘I thought this was what you always wanted, Maggie?’
‘It is what I’ve always wanted,’ I whisper and, as if on autopilot, my fingers start to pull the envelope apart as I nestle my phone under my ear. ‘But I’m absolutely petrified, Flo. I think I’m in shock.’
‘Okay, pause a second. Wait!’ says Flo. I am totally convinced she can see me. The woman should have been a detective. She can read me like a book.
‘What? I’m in the middle of opening it, for crying out loud!’
‘I just want you to think of what it is you would like this letter to say. What is it you had ever hoped to gain from meeting with, or talking to, the Harte family? You say closure. Is there anything else?’
‘I suppose… I suppose I just want to let her go,’ I say and I close my eyes as my own made-up images of Lucy flash through my mind. ‘I want to be able to close the door on Lucy Harte and get on with my own life. And I guess the only way I’ve ever felt that would be possible was if I got a chance to say thank you to whoever it was who decided to offer up her organs to someone like me when they had just suffered the ultimate tragedy of losing their own child.’
‘Well, that’s certainly it in a nutshell,’ says Flo and, before I know it, I have the letter unfolded and the words blur before me. The writing inside, like on the envelope, is handwritten in neat black ink. I am impressed.
‘Oh God, Flo.’
‘Oh God Flo what? What?’
‘It is them. It really is them! Will I read it out?’
‘Well, I can’t see it from here, can I?! Yes! Read it out.’ She stops for a second. ‘Only if you want to, of course… I can hang up and hear from you later if you want to do this yourself?’
There is no way I want to do this myself, which is why I called Flo in the first place. I have read the first line twice but still haven’t digested a word.
‘Okay, here goes,’ I say, clearing my throat, as if I am in front of a huge audience. ‘Dear Maggie…’
Dear Maggie,
I hope I haven’t shocked you too much by contacting you directly and to your home address but I have work connections in Belfast and, with a bit of poking around, I found you at last. We have a mutual friend, believe it or not, and he was able to give me your address. At least, I hope it’s you and not some other random lady called Maggie O’Hara, who will have no clue what I am talking about.
My name is Simon Harte and I am the older brother of Lucy, who died on 10th April 1999 and who was your organ donor. I still remember that day and those before it like I do yesterday, but I won’t burden you with the details of how she died as it’s not essentially why I am getting in touch.
I know you tried to contact us a few years back and I’m sorry that we only got so far and the process stopped, but my father, well he wasn’t capable of it, Maggie. He wasn’t capable of a lot since our family was torn apart that day. He was a broken man from that day on – a broken man who never was fixed.
He thought donating organs was the right thing to do at the time, but he cursed himself for years afterwards, having nightmares about his decision. I hope you understand that meeting you would have not given him any comfort. In fact, it might have tipped him over the edge.
However, the decision to reply to you is no longer in his hands. Sadly my dad, after years of suffering, passed away last month and now it’s just me left… just me, my memories of my family and an Irish girl who holds the heart of my dead sister. There are others, I suppose, who are out there, but you are the only one to ever look us up.
This week marked Lucy’s anniversary and the first one I had to face up to on my own. And now I am writing to you…
I don’t want to freak you out, Maggie. I ask nothing from you and if you don’t reply I will try and forget that you exist and do my best to move on with my life.
But you contacted us first and now that the next step of the process is in my hands and mine only, I want to let you know that I’m up for a chat if you think it would help you move on or close a chapter that I can imagine has been haunting you for years, as it has done me. I would love to see how my sister’s legacy has lived on.
My contact details are on the page enclosed. We could chat on the phone or even email if you prefer? Don’t worry – I won’t land at your door! And you can take my offer or leave it.
I hope you take it.
With very best wishes,
Simon D. Harte
I put the letter onto the table and slowly let go of it, but my eyes are superglued to his signature. Simon D. Harte. Lucy Harte’s brother. And a mutual friend? Who could that be?
‘Christ almighty,’ says Flo. ‘What do you think of that, Maggie? Are you alright there?’
I’m not sure if I’m alright. I’m not sure if I am even still breathing. I need to read it again and again. It is both heart-breaking and breath-taking and so different to how I imagined this moment would happen. I never really believed the day would come when I would hear from the Harte family and now it has and it’s even more overwhelming than I expected it to be.
‘Are you going to get in touch? I’d be itching to if I were you. But have a think about it first. He seems nice. But then I thought Damian was nice and he fled before Billie was out of nappies. I hope he is nice,’ says Flo. She is rambling. Flo always rambles when she is nervous.
‘Yes, I am going to contact him,’ I say, and of that I am sure. ‘In fact, I am not going to waste another second. I am going to contact him now.’
I stand up and the room starts to spin, so I sit back down again and try and regain some focus. Am I crazy? Am I even ready for this? It’s something I have always dreamed of happening, but I’ve just taken time off work to get myself together and I’m not sure if this is the way to do so. Or maybe it is. Maybe this is what’s meant to be…
‘Now? Are you going to contact him now?’ says Flo. ‘Maybe you should wait… you know, sleep on it.’
‘Sleep on it?’ I ask her. ‘Sleep on it? I can’t sleep on it!’
‘Okay, okay. What are you going to say to him, then?’ asks Flo.
I stand up again, this time more slowly, and lean against the worktop for support. What am I going to say? What am I going to say? I have absolutely no idea…
‘I’ll tell you when I do. Thanks Flo.’
‘Keep it simple, Maggie.
