The Legacy of Lucy Harte: A poignant, life-affirming novel that will make you laugh and cry

But why would they be writing to me? Why now? And why not when I wanted them to in years gone by?

‘They aren’t supposed to get in touch with me directly, Flo,’ I say, looking around the kitchen now and searching in every corner for a cigarette. I don’t smoke and never have done, but I need something to ease my nerves and Jeff used to have the odd smoke when he felt anxious, so maybe it would work for me. ‘It’s a delicate process. It’s supposed to go through the hospitals if there is to be any correspondence.’

‘That doesn’t say they won’t find you if they want to,’ said Flo. ‘The world is tiny, Maggie. You know Lucy’s name, so I’m sure they could have found out yours if they wanted to. A quick Google search or a nosey on Facebook and voilà. It’s not rocket science.’

‘I suppose,’ I mumble. ‘But what would they want from me?’

‘Well, what have you always wanted from them?’ asks Flo.

‘Closure, maybe? A chance to say thank you for my shitty life.’

‘You don’t have a shitty life,’ Flo assures me. ‘It’s just temporarily shit.’

I light up a cigarette I found in a box in a drawer. I knew there had to be one from the house-warming/birthday party I had. The morning after left all sorts of evidence of a heavy night.

‘Are you smoking?’ asks Flo.

‘Are you psychic?’ I retort. My God, she doesn’t miss a beat.

‘I sometimes think I am a bit. Do you think I am?’

‘No. Yes, I am smoking and I’d take stronger stuff if I could get my hands on it, believe me,’ I say, which is so not true as I am petrified of anything stronger than a menthol cigarette, in reality, and Flo knows it.

‘Anyhow, are you going to open the letter, or are you not?’ she asks. ‘No matter if this is the official way of doing things or not, you are going to have to open it before you send yourself crazy and me with it.’

‘Okay, 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. 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 – I don’t expect anything from you. You don’t have to reply again if you don’t want to. I’m just so happy to hear from you and to know that you are well. You are well, aren’t you? I really hope you are.

Now I am so waffling.

I will go and wish you a great day.

Best wishes and most of all, thank you for getting in touch.

Thank you

Simon

No ‘D’ this time. Just Simon. Just plain informal chatty ‘Simon’.

I read it all over again. And then again. And then again.

He seems pretty normal, right? Not too serial killer-ish, so I think I’m pretty safe for now. He has a wife. They are having a baby. I picture him, sitting at a breakfast table, or maybe on a train. He is somewhere out there, pressing send and waiting in the same anticipation as I have been on a response. Even in my dreams I was waiting on a response. What does he look like? What did Lucy look like? My mind is racing. I have so many questions! Where do I start? I haven’t even got out of bed and there is so much I need to say and do!

I start typing back immediately.

Dear Simon…

So lovely to hear from you again. If you want to talk, any time, please feel free. My number is on my signature at the bottom of my email, so do give me a buzz anytime.

We all need to talk. I know I really do right now.

Chat soon,

Maggie

And then I send. And I wait.

Chapter 5

My mother calls me later that afternoon when I am toying between a bunch of lilies or a bunch of tulips in Tesco.

‘And I just told her that when it comes to John Joe, he will do what he wants when he wants and no one, not even her, will stop him,’ she says.

‘Told who?’

‘Vivienne!’

I am still none the wiser. ‘Who?’

‘Vivienne! John Joe’s girlfriend!’

I have no idea why my mother thinks the domesticities of my older brother and his latest squeeze hold any interest for me, but I try and keep up with her.

‘Right, okay,’ I mumble, checking the price tags on the flowers to help me decide. Tulips it is.

‘I mean, even your father says that John Joe is his own worst enemy when it comes to relationships. He can’t handle sharing his space. He can’t handle sharing a bag of bloody chips, never mind anything that might dare last longer! So I thought I did right by setting the poor girl straight. What do you think? Did I say too much?’

‘What?’

‘Did I say too much? I mean, it’s not as if I have even met her, but she called me for advice and I could barely make out her accent. I think she is French. I always try to give good impartial advice, even to the lovers of my own two children, no matter what their nationality.’

I put the tulips back and pick up the lilies. I should probably get a basket. I fancy a browse around the clothes section for Billie.

‘You did the right thing, Mum,’ I reassure her, even though I have barely listened to a word she was saying. ‘Is this the girl who had his name tattooed on her chest?’

‘Lord no,’ she says. ‘She was last year’s model. This is the girl that his friend Clive, the country singer, introduced him to. You see, our John Joe was working on Clive’s ranch shoeing horses near Nashville for a few weeks and he met her. Poor girl. She is in for an almighty fall.’

‘Oh men! They are all filthy rotten lying fucking bastards,’ I say a little too loud and a passing stranger gives me a dirty look.

‘Exactly!’ says my mum. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. And speaking of men … any word from –’

‘No, Mum, no word from Jeff,’ I reply quickly. ‘I don’t want to … oh no!’

I trail off. I freeze. Ah Jesus. Ah Jesus no.

‘Maggie?’ my mother calls. ‘Maggie, are you there?’

Please no. Don’t do this to me. Not now. No.

My skin goes cold. I didn’t think that could actually physically happen but every part of me tingles with angst from my very toes to my fingertips. Fizzy, prickly, pins and needles of anxiety.

‘I have to go, Mum. I’ve just spotted … someone I used to know. I’ll call you back.’

I stand there, bunch of lilies in one hand and my phone in the other, in the kids’ clothes section of my local Tesco watching, as if in slow motion, as Jeff, my ‘husband’ and his fancy woman walk obliviously towards me, laughing and looking into each other’s eyes as she pushes a trolley full of fucking groceries.

I think I am going to actually vomit as an invisible wrench clasps my whole insides. Oh God!

She leans on the trolley and he stands behind her, playfully putting his hands on her waist as she walks along, scanning the aisles with a love-struck smile on her face.

He used to do that to me.

‘Are you okay, love?’ asks a little old lady. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

Jeff sees me.

Our eyes lock and he raises his hand, a desperate look of guilt replacing the smug look of love from seconds before. I can’t move. I don’t want to look but like one does at a car crash I can’t help but stare and stare and then she follows his eye line and looks towards me and her face sours and she looks panicked up at him and I just want to go home. Now.

‘Have some lilies,’ I tell the old lady, handing her the flowers. ‘You’re right. I have seen a ghost. I have to get out of here.’

I make it to the car before I burst into tears and huge unapologetic cries of despair empty out from my lungs.

I hit the steering wheel.

‘Bastard! Seventeen fucking months! What does she have that I don’t have? What?’

I turn the ignition. I am in no fit state to drive. I want to go to Loch Tara, far away, and lock myself in my room and hide under my duvet and hug my mum and dad and just crawl out of my own skin.

I want to punch him. I want to punch her.

I have no energy to punch anyone.

A message comes through on my phone but I don’t dare look at it yet. If it is Jeff … if he has the audacity to apologise in a text message, I don’t know what I will do. I don’t want to hear from him. I want to hear from him, but I don’t want to. I don’t know what I want.

I look at the phone. It’s not a text, but an email and it’s from Simon Harte.

‘Can I call you?’ is all it says.

I put the car into reverse and speed out of the car park.

I need a fucking glass of wine.

I dash into my apartment block to avoid the late-afternoon April shower, kicking myself for being so upset at seeing Jeff and that giraffe-like bitch who he was all over like a rash.

I am bigger and better than that, I say, as I climb the stairs to my front door, stomping up each step with vengefulness. How dare he? How dare he?

I fling off my coat and throw my bag on the floor, then bend down to get my phone and contemplate messaging Simon back. I don’t know if I have the energy for Simon and Lucy Harte.

I will shower, get freshened up and then I will reply to him. Maybe.

I am towel-drying my hair when the phone rings and I look at it in disbelief. It’s him. It’s his number, glaring at me, urging me to pick up and actually … well, talk, I suppose. Actually speak instead of typing bravado questions and messages. Talk.

I quickly tie my hair back.

‘Hello?’

‘Maggie!’ says a very rich, more mature and confident voice than I had expected. But then he breaks slightly. ‘My God, Maggie.’

I don’t speak. I can’t speak. I sit down on the bed.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks, but I don’t know what the answer to that question is. Am I okay? Probably not. Is it anything to do with him? Probably not.