The Legacy of Lucy Harte: A poignant, life-affirming novel that will make you laugh and cry. Emma Heatherington
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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. Polite and simple.’
She says goodbye and hangs up and I am left in my kitchen with an empty glass of last night’s wine, a smoky room and a mind full of whirlwind thoughts. I have so much to say, but where on earth do I start? I have absolutely no idea.
At 8am I am in bed and on my third draft of what I’d decided, on Flo’s advice, was meant to be a very polite and simple reply – in which I would thank Simon Harte for getting in touch, hope he was well, give sympathy to him on the death of his father and take it from there. As in, wait for a reply and see how it goes. Simple.
But it wasn’t simple at all. I have so many questions I want to ask him and they just won’t stop gushing out. What was Lucy like? What happened to her? Did she die suddenly? Did she suffer? Does he resent me like his father did? Are there other people walking around with Lucy’s organs inside them? What about her poor mother? Where is she now? Is she still around? Did knowing about me make him feel like Lucy wasn’t really dead? Has he tried to contact me before or even thought about going behind his father’s back to do so? How long did it take to find me? Who told him my name? Who the hell is our mutual friend? Was he doing this through grief or was it something he had thought about properly? Had he sought professional help before even considering such a decision?
I write and delete and write and delete and my eyes are starting to drop again but I won’t give in to sleep until I press send. Eventually I settle for this…
Dear Simon,
First of all, I am so sorry to hear of your loss. I cannot put into words how thrilled I am to hear from you.
Thrilled. No, I’m not thrilled. That sounds desperate. I start again.
Dear Simon,
Thank you so much for getting in touch. How brave of you to send your letter. You have indeed found the right Maggie O’Hara and I am delighted to hear from you after a long time searching and wondering.
I am so very sorry to hear of the loss of your father.
I have so much I want to ask and say and I’ve written this email over and over again to avoid waffling and now here I am doing exactly that … waffling.
Anyhow, yes, it’s me.
I too have listed my contacts below, should you want to chat further.
God bless you,
Maggie
I press send. God bless you? What? I must be turning holy. My stomach is in my mouth as I close the laptop and curl up under my duvet in a mixture of delirium and exhaustion. I re-read the email. Shit, but it is awful. It’s bitty, it’s nervy, it’s rushed. Shit. But it’s done.
I need to sleep.
Simon D. Harte. I wonder what the D stands for. Derek? David? Daniel? Yes, I bet it is Daniel. Why am I even wondering that? What difference does that make?
I wonder lots of things. I wonder where he is right now. Well, he is in Tain, I suppose. But where exactly?
Is he a sad and lonely man who is clinging on to a last-chance family connection and is going to want to meet me like I’m long-lost family? Is he lying right now in bed with his arms around an oblivious woman who has no idea of his pursuing me and will go nuts when she finds out in case it takes him away from her? Maybe it’s been a lengthy obsession with him to find the people who carry parts of his dead sister around?
My mind continues to race furiously.
Maybe Lucy Harte was murdered or killed in a freak accident and he is out for revenge and will now track me down in a fit of rage and jealousy that I am alive and she isn’t! Oh, good Lord!
Maybe he is outside my door now and has been following my every move in some stalker-type way and is going to break in and kidnap me and hold me to ransom!
Or my parents! What if he has tracked them down too and wants to blackmail them in some sick kind of way and threatens to kill them all!
Maybe I am the one going nuts!
Maybe Flo was right and I should have slept on it.
I lie and stare at the ceiling. It’s going to be a long, long day.
I wake up later that morning with a crick in my neck and a thumping headache and check my phone with the same dread that comes with every hangover.
I turn to say good morning to Jeff but he isn’t there, of course.
It’s just me and the plush, unslept-on new pillow beside me and this strange room that I am so trying to get used to with its new pale grey-and-white gingham bedcovers and matching curtains and clean white walls that I am trying my best to suit the new me.
I scroll through Facebook, but it only serves to annoy me as I read of people I hardly know and their pretend-perfect lives, then turn to Twitter for a snapshot of random thoughts from more people I don’t know. And then I check my emails and a rush of excitement fills my veins when I remember the early-morning message I sent to Simon D. Harte.
I have two messages in my inbox, so I’m guessing that the emails, or at least one of them, are from Simon.
But they are not. One is from a finance company offering loans at a ridiculously high interest rate and another is offering me Viagra for a discount price of $5. I’m gutted. Why hasn’t he replied?
Probably because he hasn’t read it yet and is at work or doing whatever people do in the north of Scotland like eating a late breakfast or an early lunch or reading the paper or on a train to a meeting somewhere?
Yes. Probably.
I sneak another look at Facebook, despite how much it aggrieves me these days. Jeff and I have lots of mutual online friends and I know I run the risk of his photo popping up on my newsfeed is a huge probability and I will sink into further self-pity when it happens. Especially if it is one with ‘herself’ in it. I wonder, do they take selfies and post them like we used to? I wonder, does he take her picture at every turn like he used to do with me?
And then my phone pings and I open my Inbox, wide-eyed and hoping.
This time it isn’t junk mail. It is him.
It’s Simon D. Harte. Oh, good God above.
I bless myself and press open, then I bless myself again. I will be joining the golden oldies in the church soon and saying the rosary in whispers if I keep up this rate of acknowledging God, but somehow it feels like the right thing to do.
Dear Maggie,
I take a very deep breath.
I don’t know when the last time was that I cried.
I don’t even think I cried at the funeral way back then but, to be honest, that’s all a blur. I was only seventeen and I think I stayed in shock for at least a year after that. What I am trying to say is that I am really not a man who cries easily, or even when pushed, and believe me I have been pushed to the limits many times. My wife is having our first baby and is very emotional, so I need to let her do most of the crying these days!
I cried, however, when I read your email. I have never been so relieved about anything in my whole life as I am now that I have heard back from you and that you are not mad or telling me to butt out of your life or reporting me to the medical authorities for contacting you directly.
I too am trying not to waffle but there is so much to ask you, so much to say. Do you feel the same?? Please be honest. I can’t emphasise this enough