Hazy light begins to flood my bedroom. I curl onto my side, hugging my pillow, staring out the window as the sky transforms from mauve to grey to blue as the sun slowly rises. My sleep has been fitful. Vivid dreams are a common side effect of the prednisone I’m taking but as I brush my hand against the sole of my foot I almost expect grains of sand to tumble onto my crumpled sheets. The cry of seagulls, the aroma of hotdogs; both still sharp in my mind.

After showering I rub cocoa butter into my skin, my fingers tracing the paper-thin scar on my chest. Ed Sheeran sings ‘The City’, and I stifle a yawn as I sit in front of the mirror, dabbing Touche Éclat over the black half-moons that hang under my eyes.

The song playing through my phone cuts out as Dad rings and I put him on speaker.

‘I thought you were popping round yesterday to pick up the books I’ve got of Linda’s so you can take them in on Monday?’

‘Sorry, Dad, it slipped my mind. I had a busy day with Mum.’

‘How is she?’ he asks.

‘She’s fine.’

Dad huffs out air, and I can picture him sliding off his glasses and rubbing the groove on the bridge of his nose. It’s almost as if he wants to hear she’s not managing without him, that she’s desperate to have him back, but I can’t fill him with false hope.

‘Why don’t you ask her yourself?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘It is that simple if you still love her. Do you still love her? She’s mentioned divorce, Dad! You should sort it out before it’s too late.’ My voice has risen.

There’s a long pause before he changes the subject.

‘Jenna, I understand why you want to go back to work on Monday but I’m worried it will be too much for you. It seems too soon. Why don’t you come and work at my practice? I could keep an eye on you, and you could leave whenever you feel tired without worrying.’

‘I’ll be fine. Linda and John will look after me. It’s only part-time.’ We must have had this conversation a million times. I check my watch. ‘I’ve got to go,’ I say.

‘Are you going somewhere nice?’ He sounds hopeful.

‘Rachel’s coming over.’ I hate lying but my stomach throngs with nerves at the thought of meeting my donor’s family, and I can’t deal with my parents’ emotions today on top of my own. Just like Vanessa, I don’t think they’d approve.

* * *

The bus trundles through the city and gathers pace through country lanes. Outside the window, sheep chew emerald green grass, and herds of cows stand in a field so distant they look like the size of Dalmatian dogs. It looks idyllic outside, but the interior of the bus smells of cheap perfume. It’s so hot. I start to worry there’s not enough air, and I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift as I try to calm my breathing. I think once again what the donor might have been like. In his letter, Tom, the man I wrote to, referred to her as ‘my daughter’ in his reply so I know it’s a female heart beating inside me. I can’t wait to find out more about her today.

A screeching of brakes jars me back to the present and a silver convertible skids around a hairpin bend drifting into the path of the bus. I take a sharp intake of breath as our driver blasts his horn, and yanks the steering wheel. I am buffeted left to right as we veer onto the grass verge, and as my head thuds hard against the window my stomach floods with fear. My surroundings fade away and it’s as though I’ve been transported somewhere else entirely. There’s the sensation of fingers grasping my arms, shaking me, and I whimper.

‘It’s OK, we didn’t hit anything. Are you hurt?’ A voice soothes and suddenly I’m back on the bus, blinking at the sun streaming through the grubby window. An elderly man is looking at me with concern while the other passengers grumble about idiot drivers. My breathing is ragged. I’ve had another episode, and I wish I’d brought Mum with me. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I remind myself Vanessa said it’s just my medication causing anxiety but that doesn’t make it any less real. Any less frightening. For the rest of the journey my head throbs, and I imagine I still feel hands around my arms, fingertips pressing hard into my skin.

* * *

The bus grinds to a halt in a well-maintained street of bay window detached houses set back from the road. Google Maps tells me it’s a twenty-minute walk, and I alight the bus wanting to burn off some nervous energy. The breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass. The warmer weather has encouraged cars to be washed, borders to be dug. Daffodils and bluebells poke through the earth.

The GPS on my smartphone tells me to turn right, and as I head away from the main road the houses gradually get smaller and shabbier and closer to the pavement. The sun doesn’t seem to be shining quite so brightly any more. An empty crisp packet blows across the road like tumbleweed, coming to rest in a gutter littered with dog-ends. As I reach number thirty I wonder whether the donor lived here too, in this almost derelict house I’m standing before.

There must have been a path here once. Flashes of grey stone are visible beneath weeds of epic proportions that have forced their way through the cracked concrete. Yellowing net curtains cover grimy windows, wooden frames and chipped paint. I trample down nettles and jab the doorbell. I can’t hear a tell-tale chime so I press it harder with my thumb. There’s a crashing coming from the house next door, a deep voice swears and a small boy runs outside, crusted snot under his nose, congealed food stains on the front of his grubby grey T-shirt. I smile. He sticks two fingers up at me, and I feel my face burn. I turn back towards the front door and rap so hard my knuckles sting.

The door creaks open. The lady that stands before me is grey with grief; deep lines of worry are carved into her face. Stringy, blonde hair falls over her shoulders.

There’s a beat. We both stand transfixed by the other. The urge to hug her is so powerful I thrust my hands in my pockets.

‘Hello. You must be Amanda?’ I say but I don’t need to ask. I know it’s her. ‘I’m…’

‘Oh my god.’ She covers her mouth with her palm and steps backwards, shaking her head. Her eyes widen and she slams the door shut.