Every Tuesday, between four and five, I tell lies.

Vanessa, my therapist, nudges tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her nose and slides a box of Kleenex towards me, as if today will be the day my guilt spews out, coming to rest, putrid and toxic, on the impossibly polished table between us.

‘So, Jenna.’ She shuffles through my file. ‘It’s approaching the six-month anniversary – how do you feel?’

I shrug and pick at a stray thread hanging from my sleeve. The scent from the lavender potpourri irks me, as does the excess of shiny-leaved plants in this carefully created space, but I swallow down my agitation as I shift on the too-soft sofa. I can’t keep blaming my medication for my mood swings, can I?

‘Fine,’ I say, although that couldn’t be further from the truth. I have so many emotions waiting to pour out of me, but whenever I’m here, words tie themselves into knots on my tongue, and however much I want to properly open up, I never really do.

‘Have you been anywhere this week?’

‘I went out with Mum, on Friday.’ It’s hardly news. I do it every week. Sometimes I can’t understand why I see Vanessa at all. I’ve completed the set number of appointments I was supposed to, yet still I arrive on the dot each week. I guess it’s because I don’t get out much and I do like my routine, my little bit of normality.

‘And socially?’

‘No.’ I can’t remember the last time I had a night out. I’m only thirty but I feel double that, at least. I wasn’t up to socialising for ages afterwards and now I prefer to be at home. Alone. Safe.

‘Emotionally? Are things settling down?’

I break eye contact. She’s referring to my paranoia, and I don’t quite know what to say. At almost every hospital appointment the cocktail of drugs I am taking to stop my body rejecting my new heart is adjusted, but anxiety has wrapped itself around me like a second skin, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it off.

‘The urge to…’ she consults her notes, ‘run away? Is that still with you?’

‘Yes.’ Adrenaline pricks my skin and the underarms of my T-shirt grow damp. The sense of danger that often washes over me is so overwhelming it sometimes feels like a premonition.

‘It’s not unusual to want to escape from your own life when something traumatic has happened that is difficult to process. We have to work together to break the cycle of obsessive thoughts.’

‘I don’t think it’s as simple as that.’ The fear is as real and solid as the amber paperweight that rests on Vanessa’s desk. ‘I’ve been having more…’ I’m not sure I want to tell her but she’s looking at me now in that way of hers, as if she can see right through me, ‘… episodes.’

‘Are they the same as before? The overwhelming dizziness?’ She lifts her chin slightly as she waits for my answer, and I wish I’d never mentioned it.

‘Yes. I don’t lose consciousness but my vision tunnels and everything sounds muffled. They’re getting more frequent.’

‘And how long are these episodes lasting?’

‘It’s hard to say. Seconds probably. But when it happens I feel so…’ I look around the office as though the word I am looking for might be painted on the wall, ‘… frightened.’

‘Feeling out of control is frightening, Jenna, and it’s understandable given what you’ve been through. Have you mentioned these episodes to Dr Kapur?’

‘Yes. He says panic attacks aren’t unheard of on my medication but if all goes well at my six-month check he can reduce my tablets and that should help.’

‘There you go then. And you’re due back at work…’ she glances at her papers, ‘… Monday?’

‘Yes. Only part-time though. At first.’ Linda and John, my bosses, have been more than generous with the time off they have given me. They’re friends of Dad’s and have known me most of my life, and although Linda said I shouldn’t feel obliged to return I’ve missed my job. I can’t imagine starting afresh somewhere new. Somewhere unfamiliar. I’m nervous though. I’ve been away so long. How will it feel? Being normal again. I’m jittery at the thought of mixing with people. I’ve got too used to my own company, being at home, filling my time. ‘Pottering around,’ Mum used to call it; ‘hiding myself away,’ she says now, but in my flat the jagged unease I carry with me isn’t quite so sharp. But life goes on, doesn’t it? And if I don’t force myself to start living again now I’m afraid I never will.

‘How do you feel about going back?’

My shoulders begin their automatic ascent towards my ears but I stop them. ‘OK, I think. My parents aren’t keen. They’ve been trying to talk me out of it. I can understand that they’re worried it will be too much, but Linda has said I can take it slowly to start with. Leave early if I get too tired and go in late if I’ve had a bad night.’ I’ve always had a good relationship with Linda, even if she hasn’t visited me in the past few months. She doesn’t know what to say, I suppose. No one does. The fact I nearly died makes people uncomfortable.

‘And the donor’s family? Are you still trying to contact them?’

I shift in my seat. Over the past few months I have poured my thanks into letter after letter that was rejected by my transplant co-ordinator. I’d inadvertently revealed too much. A clue about who I was, where I live. But without those details it all seemed so cold and anonymous. Eventually I paid a private investigator to find them and wrote to the family directly. It cost a small fortune just for their address but it was worth it to be able to express how grateful I am and how much their act means to my family, without filtering my words. I wasn’t going to bother them again and never expected to hear back but they replied straight away, and seemed genuinely pleased to have heard from me. I know Vanessa won’t like what’s coming.

My mouth dries and I lean forward to pick up my glass. My hand trembles and ice cubes chink and water sloshes over the side and trickles onto my lap where it soaks into my jeans. I sip my drink, conscious of the tick-tick-tick of Vanessa’s clock, discreetly positioned behind me. ‘I’m meeting them on Saturday.’

‘Oh, Jenna. That’s completely unethical. How did you trace them? I’m going to have to report this, you know.’

My face flames as I study my shoes. ‘I can’t tell you. I’m sorry.’

‘You know contact isn’t encouraged.’ Disapproval drips from every word. ‘Especially this early on in the process. It can be incredibly distressing for everyone, and it could set you back several stages. A simple thank you letter would have sufficed but meeting – I just…’

‘I know. They’ve been told exactly the same thing, but they want to meet me. They do. And I need to meet them. Just once. It feels as though someone else is inside of me, and I want to know who it is. I have to know.’ My voice cracks.

‘It’s become almost an obsession and it’s not healthy, Jenna. What good will it do you knowing whose heart you have?’

The colours in the painting behind her, something modern and chaotic, swirl together and the gnawing agitation inside me grows.

‘It would help me to understand.’

‘Understand what?’ Vanessa leans towards me like a jockey on a horse, pushing forwards, sensing a breakthrough.

‘Why I lived and they died.’

* * *

There’s an indent in my chocolate leather couch marking the place I’ve spent too many hours. There might as well be a sign,

I light a berry-scented candle before flopping down in my usual spot. I always feel so drained when I’ve been to see Vanessa, and I’m never sure whether it’s from the emotions that bubble to the surface when I sit in her immaculate office, or the effort of keeping them inside.

From the coffee table, I pick up my sketchbook. Drawing always relaxes me. I stream James Bay through my Bluetooth speaker and as he holds back the river I tap-tap-tap the pencil hard against my knee, staring at the bland walls as I wait for inspiration to hit. I’ve been meaning to decorate since Sam moved out nearly six months ago. Make the flat my own. Cover up the magnolia with sunshine yellow or rich red: bold colours that Sam hates. It’s not like he’s coming back although I know he’d like to. He never wanted us to split up but I couldn’t stand the look of sympathy in his eyes whenever he looked at me after my surgery, the way he fussed around asking if I was all right every five minutes. I didn’t want him to be stuck with someone like me, ‘helping me through’ as though we’re old and there’s nothing more to life. Cutting him free was the kindest thing I’ve ever done, even if my stomach still twists every time I think about him. We’re trying to be friends. Texting. Facebooking. But it’s not the same, is it? I add decorating to my mental list of things to do that I’ll probably never get around to. The days when I had to take it easy have passed but I’m stuck in a rut I can’t get out of and, truth be told, I’m scared. Despite the hours of physio and the mountain of leaflets I was sent home with, there’s a hesitancy about my movements. An enforced slowness. My body is healing well, my doctor says, but my mind doesn’t seem to believe it, and I’m terrified I will push myself too hard. That something will go wrong, and what would I do then? I picture myself lying on the floor. Unable to reach the phone. Unable to move. Who would know? I pretend to Mum I’m fine living alone. I pretend to everyone. Even myself.

What can I draw? I flick through the pages of my pad. Initially there is image after image of Sam, but lately my drawings have become darker. Menacing almost. Forests with twisted tree branches, eyes peering out of the gloom, an owl with beady eyes. I sigh. Perhaps Vanessa is right to be concerned about my mental health.

My mobile beeps. It’s a text from Rachel, and I know without opening it she’ll be asking what I’m doing later. I’ll tell her I’m having a night in and to have a drink for me at the pub. It’s our weekly routine, like Punch and Judy. The same every time even though sometimes you itch for a different ending. I could go, I think to myself but then I bat the thought away. It seems fruitless to try to fall back into the same habits. I’m not the person I was before, and besides, people treat me differently now, never quite meeting my gaze, not knowing what to say. I’ll see Rachel at work on Monday.

Nearly six months ago, someone died so I can live. My world has become so small it sometimes feels as though I can’t breathe. Who was it that died for me? I squeeze my eyes tightly closed but the thought still juggernauts towards me and I don’t know how to make it stop. I shiver and cross to the window. The breeze blowing in is freezing but I am grateful for the fresh air. I have been home for weeks now but the heavy smell of hospital seems to have embedded itself into my lungs, and whatever the weather I always have the windows cracked open. I peer out of the slatted blinds into the dusk and a chill creeps up my spine. A shadow shifts in the doorway across the road, and the urge to run I told Vanessa about swamps me. My breath quickens but the street is still. Quiet. I slam the window and close the blinds and am cocooned by the dim light in my living room. My world is shrinking; my confidence too.

Back on the sofa, my hands are shaking too much to hold the pencil steady. I’m safe, I tell myself. So why don’t I feel it?