My Second Life Read online

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  For Ruben and Rosa

  prologue

  THE FIRST TIME I was born, I was born Emma Trees. I was born to Amanda and Richard Trees. I was Emma. I was beautiful. People told me that. I had everything to live for. People told me that too. But I died. It was October 18.

  1994. I was twenty-two.

  And then I was born a second time, utterly against my will. Who knew you could be brought into the world twice, the second time only six years after you left the first time? Who knew you could be born again and know—and I mean know like you know how to pull in the air and breathe—that you’ve been here and done all this before?

  I was born Ana Ross on June 28, 2000. A millennium baby. I was born to Rachel Ross, and someone called David Summers, who has never shown up, which is okay because if I had two parents, two people who loved me as much as Rachel Ross loves me, I really don’t think I could handle it. I feel kind of guilty that Rachel loves me so much and thinks I’m so completely wonderful, when actually I’ve been here and done all this before with my first mum and dad. I do love Rachel. She just doesn’t feel like Mum. Not to me. Amanda Trees is my mum, and she always will be.

  * * *

  The first time you’re born it’s pretty traumatic. A bit like being pulled out of a deliciously warm bath and plonked wet and naked in the middle of the highway in rush hour and someone saying, “Get on with it then!”

  The second time I was born it was easier, because I knew the score. The rush of blind panic as you slip out, the first gasp of tight cold air, the hairy peering faces. I knew all that would pass, and that soon I’d be on the warm belly of someone I’d love for the rest of my life. Except when I looked up and saw Rachel, and she was looking down at me, smiling her tired puffy smile of love and exhaustion, all I could think was You’re not my mum, before someone wrapped me in a towel and placed a plump nipple into my mouth.

  And that was it. I was off. I was living my second life. And there was nothing I could do about it, but live.

  So I did.

  I followed the pattern of each and every day, but this time it was different, because this time I had a knowing sense of what was coming next. And I actually enjoyed childhood again a second time. It wasn’t like I was bored or felt like I knew it all already. I mean, it’s not like I knew everything—all the world’s knowledge and all the world’s secrets—from my first life anyway. One life lived is just that: one life lived. It’s not every life.

  I was quick to talk, and that was when things changed. Once I talked, once I could express myself, life began to feel somehow more fragmented. For a start, no one seemed to know my name.

  “I’m Emma,” I’d say as Rachel called “Ana” across the park when it was time to go home.

  “I’m Emma!” I’d say when she called me “Ana Ross” and told me off for sticking my fingers in the peanut butter jar.

  “Emma,” I’d say as she sang me my bedtime song. I’d let her sing “Hush, Little Ana” all the way through, and I wouldn’t ever interrupt. I’d wait until the end, and then I’d say it. I’d tell her my name was Emma, not Ana.

  “Ana,” she’d say back. “Darling, you’re Ana. Ana. Night night,” and she’d kiss me on the forehead and I’d want my mum, not Rachel, and I’d lie awake because it all felt so wrong. The wrongness of it was all I could feel.

  * * *

  I have never called Rachel “Mum.” As soon as I learned to speak I called Rachel “Rachel.”

  She didn’t like it.

  “Please, Ana—call me ‘Mum’!” she’d say.

  But I couldn’t.

  Because it hurt too much to say the word “Mum” and see Rachel’s face looking back at me, not my real mum’s face; my first mum.

  Eventually Rachel sort of accepted me calling her “Rachel,” just as I had accepted her calling me “Ana,” not Emma.

  In this we were the same at least.

  * * *

  So here I am. Ana. Only one “n,” which causes a huge amount of confusion throughout my life and generally draws attention in a way I really don’t like that much. I’m fifteen years old, and I’m named after a Spanish Ana who Rachel went to school with, and whose name it seems just stuck in her memory. I don’t know anything about Spanish Ana, but I do know that it kind of frustrates me that everyone is always spelling my name wrong, and I’m always having to correct them and spell it back, then explain about the Spanish Ana. It’s like a curse, or one of my curses anyway.

  And being Ana, well, it has good days and bad days, just like being anyone. To be honest, whole years have gone by when knowing that this is my second life hasn’t even remotely bothered me. It is just how it has always been.

  Until recently, that is.

  Until I saw Frances.

  And everything changed.

  I’m not bipolar, in case you were wondering. I’m not manically depressed. I don’t hallucinate, and there are no voices in my head. There is no Emma voice telling me to do stuff. I think I would know if I was ill, or someone would have told me, or suggested I see a doctor or a therapist or something. I’ve never been arrested for strange behavior in the street. I’ve never even had a detention. I think I’m pretty normal for a fifteen-year-old girl: I go to school; I do my homework; I’ve got friends—Zak, Hannah, and Jamie, a few others. I’m not one of those people who likes to hang out in a clique or a crowd. I had a best friend, Ellie, but she moved to the States. And of course I’ve got Rachel, and my grandma, Grillie. I fight with Rachel, but that’s normal … right? To fight with your parent? And my vice? If you can call it that. Well, I’ve got a thing about Converse. I have three pairs—blue, purple, and green—and I’m aiming to own a pair in every color.

  And that’s it.

  That’s me—Ana.

  I’m Ana.

  And it’s just that I was Emma, before. So I know more about the world than I should for a person my age. I guess you could say that’s a shame, but what I know is so random, mixed up, that until I saw Frances it really didn’t matter what I knew. It was just the varied stuff of a life that had been lived before. So I knew what it felt like to taste Kalamata olives and unripe avocados before I ever put them into my mouth … and I know what it feels like to down pints of cider and black out … The thrill of hailing a cab in New York … The utter joy of a first kiss with someone you’ve been waiting to touch and to hold and be held by. But it doesn’t ruin life knowing these things. It hasn’t ruined it at all.

  Because even when life has been full of recognition, there’s still always been room for discovery. And I thought that was a good thing. But when I saw Frances in the hospital, my whole life fell apart. It disintegrated like lit tissue paper in my hands. Because in seeing Frances I remembered what I did in my first life.

  And what I did was kill a person. And to discover that—to discover the ugly memories of that—to remember some of what you did, but not all that happened—it is hell. And it is what happe
ned to me.

  monday

  1

  “WE’RE GOING TO SEE Grillie later. You have remembered, haven’t you?” Rachel shouted through the bathroom door to me as I stepped out of the shower.

  “Yes! What time is her operation?”

  “They said it’ll be sometime this morning. I can call at midday and we can go over after three. I’ll pick you up from school.”

  “That’s fine!” I shouted back.

  Except I remembered that I’d said I’d meet Jamie after school. We’d arranged to go for a coffee. Jamie was my friend, but I’d liked him for ages. For months. He’d been going out with this girl in my year, Melissa, over the summer, but when we got back to school last week there were rumors going around that they’d broken up. I was there when Zak asked Jamie what had happened—he had just said Melissa was “no fun.” I could have told him that and then he wouldn’t have had to go out with her. But I didn’t say anything. I just laughed, and then quickly suggested we go to the café after school the next day. And now I’d have to text him and let him know I couldn’t make it. I wanted to see Grillie after her operation, but not seeing Jamie was gutting. Really gutting.

  I sighed, wrapped my towel around me, and opened the bathroom door and found myself face-to-face with Rachel more suddenly than I’d anticipated.

  “Didn’t realize you were still standing right there!” I said impatiently as I nipped past her and made my way into my room.

  She tutted and started to head downstairs.

  “I’ll meet you at the gates, okay?” she shouted back.

  “Okay!”

  I picked up my phone to text Jamie.

  Can’t make the café today. Got to see my gran. Tomorrow? x

  Grillie—my grandma Millie—was old. Eighty-two years old. When I was younger I would sit on her lap for hours on long weekend afternoons, and I would stroke her soft cheek and sing with her, and wonder whether she’d ever lived before. It was only because she was old. And wise. The oldest and wisest person I knew.

  They say that wisdom comes with age, don’t they? I worked out in the shower this morning that between my two lives, my cumulative age was thirty-seven. Weird. Thirty-seven years of living, and really I was none the wiser.

  * * *

  When Rachel picked me up after school she was really anxious. When we got to the hospital she pounded the corridors as we followed the signs toward the ward.

  “Are you okay, Rachel?”

  “Yes, yes. I just want to see her, that’s all.”

  “It was just a routine operation, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, but she’s eighty-two. There are always risks when you’re eighty-two.”

  “What did they say when you phoned earlier?”

  “They said it went well.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re thinking that’s what they always say … You never really know until you get there.”

  Rachel slowed her pace and looked at me. “Exactly,” she said, and she stroked my hair as we walked and I wanted to pull away from her as she touched me. It just made me want Mum even more when she touched me. Her loss was like an endless ache when I was with Rachel. It was something I’d always lived with. It was with me almost all the time. But today I let Rachel stroke my hair. I didn’t pull away. Because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Not now when she was so worried about Grillie.

  When we walked into Grillie’s room she was sitting up in bed. She smiled when she saw us. I could see it was a struggle to smile. Even though she was propped up she didn’t look all that comfortable. She had a crinkly gown on and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She was pale but calm. I knew she wasn’t going to die. Not today.

  “How are you?” Rachel said, leaning forward to give her a kiss.

  I wanted to give her a kiss too, to say hello, but I was nervous. I didn’t want to lean in and press down on her in all the wrong places.

  “My throat’s a little dry,” she said.

  I jumped to it. “Here, I’ll pour you some water.” There was a plastic jug on the side with a flappy white lid and a small plastic cup.

  “Thank you, lovely,” she said.

  I sat down gently on the side of the bed, passing her the cup. She took a drink and then she set the cup down and took my hand.

  “You’ve got the room all to yourself, Grillie! You’ve lucked in!”

  “Well, yes. For now,” she said. “So how was your day, lovely?”

  “Oh—not much to tell. Just school,” I said.

  “But you like it, don’t you? It’s a good school. Rachel’s always telling me how well you’re doing.”

  I looked at Grillie. This was the same conversation we always had. She was tired. Her usual feisty chat dulled by the painkillers. She was slow, placid.

  “I’m going to go and find a nurse. See if we can get you another pillow,” said Rachel. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “How long do you have to stay in for?” I asked.

  “Not sure just yet. See how I go. If all is well I’ll be out by the weekend, I think.”

  “I’ll come again tomorrow, okay? Bring you a magazine or something.”

  “Yes. I’d like that,” she said, and then her hand slipped its grip from mine and she sank quickly into sleep. I knew it was the drugs but it still surprised me.

  Rachel came back.

  “She’s asleep,” I whispered.

  “Oh—is she?” Rachel said. I could see the disappointment in her face as she pulled the pillow she’d just found for Grillie toward her tummy. She was hugging it for comfort.

  “I’m sure she’ll wake up again in a minute,” I said. I wanted to make it better for her.

  “I don’t know. She must be tired. And all the drugs … She needs to sleep.”

  I stood up to let Rachel sit where I had been sitting on the bed, and I watched Rachel put the pillow down and take Grillie’s hand, and as she held it in her own she looked into Grillie’s face with such love. I had never felt love like that for Rachel. Because all I have ever wanted is my mum. My real mum. I wanted to cry and call out for her now, to come to me. But I couldn’t. Because no one would have come. The room suddenly felt hot.

  Too hot.

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should go.” I said to Rachel, picking up my bag from the floor. “We should let her sleep.”

  I had to get out. Find some fresh air. I had to get out, to breathe.

  “Yes,” said Rachel, and she picked up the pillow she’d left on the end of the bed and plumped it before putting it back, and then she kissed Grillie on the forehead, so gently, and we left.

  We walked through the hospital in complete silence. I didn’t know why I felt so bad. Maybe it was just the hospital. There was a smell of illness in the air. A place where you went to get better should smell of good health—of a rich, dark earth and a fresh spring wind—but this place smelled sterile and poisonous. I kept walking, fast, trying to get Rachel to walk faster with me. I could tell she was worried, thinking hard. Her pace was much slower than when we’d arrived. And as I walked I looked at the walls, the signs, the people here visiting family, friends …

  I could see a rush up ahead: a couple of doctors with a stretcher jogging it along the corridor, people parting ways. An emergency. Just let me out. Let me out … That’s all I could think as I kept walking. The stretcher was coming closer now, and I could see there was an old woman lying on it, crying, her arms stretched high on a pillow above her head, her head turned to one side. Crying. Wailing. I stopped. I had to. I was forced to. And as much as I didn’t want to look, I did. And that’s when I saw her—Frances. She opened her eyes as she passed me, and we were locked together in a moment—

  “Frances Wells…,” I said, out loud, as they wheeled her away.

  “What’s that?” said Rachel.

  “That was Frances Wells!”

  I knew her … I knew her face.

  A
n image flew through my mind: a child, a small child, with her eyes open wide … wet and wild … her body, still … cradled by a mass of twigs and branches in the water …

  I thought I might pass out. I took a deep breath in.

  “She didn’t look so well, did she?” said Rachel, utterly mishearing me. “Let’s go, come on. Let’s get fish and chips.”

  And as we walked out into the cooler air I could feel that something had changed. There had been a shift—in me—and I had this feeling. A feeling that I had done something so wrong … so very wrong that I didn’t dare to name it … And I was afraid.

  tuesday

  2

  I WENT BACK TO visit Grillie the following day. She was better: less pale, her eyelids less droopy. She was offering me strawberries and interrupting me all the time, so I knew she was on her way to being well again. And she was impatient to tell me all the details of her new roommate.

  “The one next door,” she mouthed in a theatrical whisper, pointing in the direction of the other bed. I nodded to stop her pointing and mouthing the words. “She’s in a terrible state. Terrible. Been up all night crying with the pain.”

  I stood up and pulled the curtain around the bed quickly, to give us some privacy. I could tell Grillie was kind of enjoying the drama of it all and I didn’t want the woman in the next bed to hear her talking on. “Did you sleep all right, though?” I said.

  “Me? Oh yes. Fine. I woke up a couple of times, you know, with the noise”—and again she pointed—“but generally I slept fine. Can’t wait to get home now. Get back into my own bed. And the food is pretty awful.”

  “Rachel’s made a pie for when you get home. Chicken. It’s in the freezer.”

  “Oh, lovely,” she said. “I’ll look forward to that.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. I could hear a voice, a doctor, talking to the woman in the opposite bed. Something about tests and needing to go down to the ground floor, and an aide coming in about an hour.

  “Open the curtain a little, lovely. Just in case the doctor’s got anything to say to me too.”