Hunter Meet Me When My Heart Stops

'An emotional rollercoaster ... perfect for fans of One Day' Sunday Mail
Main
ISBN: 978-1-83895-872-5
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 384 Seiten

'Swoonsome love story with echoes of The Time Traveler's Wife' Good Housekeeping 'Utter joy!' Prima 'Unforgettable' Woman and Home What if your soulmate could only ever be the love of your afterlife? Emery's heart could stop at any moment... If the people around her act quickly enough, it can be restarted, but in the meantime she is briefly technically dead. Each time Emery's heart stops, she meets Nick, who helps people accept their death and move on. Usually he only meets people once, but with Emery he makes a connection. Although Emery lives life to the full, a part of her is always waiting for her heart to stop - so that she can see Nick again. But Emery and Nick can never share more than a few fleeting moments - because if they were to be together, it would mean the end of Emery's life... 'Prepare to have your heartstrings tugged and your tear ducts emptied' Red 'Grips your emotions from the very first page ... a love story not to miss' Holly Miller 'Gorgeously written, emotionally profound, full of love and bravery' Kirsty Greenwood

Becky Hunter lived and worked in London for several years before moving to Mozambique to volunteer with horses and try her hand at writing. A few years, a few destinations, and a few jobs later she had the idea that would become her acclaimed debut novel, One Moment. Alongside writing, she now works as a freelance editor and publicist, splitting her time between Bristol and London, and constantly trying to plan the next adventure. X @Bookish_Becky Insta @beckyhunterbooks

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hunter, Becky

Leseproben

Chapter One

The first time Emery dies, she is only five years old. She is playing in what I presume is her garden – a neat sort of garden, well tended, with climbing plants twining their way up the wooden fencing and a stepping-stone path that winds through the grass to the pond at the back, where insects hum around the lilies. The smell of freshly cut grass hangs in the air – not from this garden, which is tastefully overgrown, but from one of the neighbours’, hidden from sight in an illusion of privacy. Soft music thrums from the slightly crackly radio inside the kitchen, the back door open wide to tempt a summer breeze.

Emery’s father is standing on the patio, tending to a barbecue. The sausages sizzle as he drops them on. Her mother is sitting a few feet away, sun hat pulled down over her face, a full glass of rosé next to her on a table. Condensation beads around the edges, but the glass looks untouched, all her attention instead on a printed-out document on her lap.

There is another girl too, sitting on the edge of the patio, not far from where Emery plays. She’s older – maybe around ten – and tall, in a slightly awkward, lanky way. She has similar colouring to Emery’s mum, the same olive skin tone, her hair a warm brown curtain around her face. She is reading, the pages of the book well thumbed: . But she keeps glancing up, towards Emery, like she is checking in on her little sister, even though she can’t possibly know what’s about to happen.

I turn my attention to Emery reluctantly, unable to put it off any longer. I know it’s her I’m here for, of course. But there is a heavier-than-usual dread in my stomach this time around. Because she’s only a child.

She is barefoot, crouching in the grass, peering intently at something there. One hand is clutching a stick, the other splayed on the ground, supporting her weight. She’s not really moving, just staring, a crease in her little forehead, like she is contemplating a problem she can’t solve. Dark curls fall to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face. Something in me twinges as I look at that face, at the innocence there. A deep, painful twinge I thought I’d managed to shut down, out of necessity.

She springs to her feet with sudden determination, still clutching her little stick. I see the grass stains on her dungarees, the way she trips over their cuffs, slightly too long for her short legs.

‘Emery?’ It’s the father who is calling, frowning over at her, barbecue tongs in hand. ‘Where are you going?’

The mother glances up, her face partly obscured in the shadow of her sun hat. ‘Leave her be, James.’ She says it on a sigh, and I know why. It shouldn’t matter where Emery is going, what she’s doing. She should be safe here, in their garden. James glances at his wife, then back to their daughter.

‘She hasn’t got shoes on,’ he states.

‘She’ll be fine.’

‘There are stinging nettles by the pond.’

‘Well, she’ll learn not to go near them barefoot again if she gets stung, won’t she?’ Emery’s mother is looking back down at her document now, so she doesn’t see the way her husband’s eyes narrow in silent disapproval at her words.

Emery is already off in any case, sprinting down the garden, towards the pond. The pond – perhaps that is the danger? I never know how, exactly, it will happen, only that it will. Sometimes it’s obvious – the hospital bed or the car driving too fast – but often, like today, I’m in the dark. All I know is that it will happen, and imminently. I only ever see the brief moments before someone’s death, get an impression of their lives right then. To give context, I think, though I can’t be sure – it’s not like anyone handed me a rule book.

Even knowing all this, I can’t help the lurch towards her. Can’t stop myself from trying to grab her, to keep her away from the pond. Because I don’t want to see this tiny girl, full of light and energy, fighting for breath as water floods her lungs. But it’s fruitless, of course it is. I feel the jerk around my midriff pulling me to immobility. I am not supposed to prevent what is happening here.

In the end, though, it’s not drowning I have to worry about.

‘Ow!’ It’s an angry sound, not hurt, not afraid. But as she frowns down at the thorn in her foot, I see her go pale. It’s not even a big thorn, and there is only the smallest pinprick of blood escaping the wound. It’s nothing. Something to extract with tweezers, and for Mummy to kiss better.

But in the instant before she falls to the ground, I already know, the way I do every time. It’s over, just like that, her heart ceasing to function. Because this tiny thorn, the smallest of pricks – that’s all it took for this little girl’s heart to stop beating.

She collapses, landing with a soft thump on the summer-dried ground. Her curls splay around her face, and a few centimetres from her limp, chubby fingers, the stick she was playing with rolls to a stop.

‘Emery!’ The scream comes from the sister first. She is running down the garden, her long legs covering the distance with ease.

There’s a clatter, tongs falling to the patio, as James abandons the barbecue, running too, his wife not far behind. Her face is set, almost businesslike, and she pushes past her husband to get there first. ‘What’s happened?’ she demands. ‘Emery?’ The word is a little harsh, like she’s expecting the child to get up, as if she’s playing a prank on them all. But I can hear the panic lacing it.

This might be the worst of it, though I change my mind frequently on that. But hearing them scream, the loved ones who are left behind, hearing them plead or sob, or just go silent, an emptiness descending on them – that is up there with the things I hate the most. Sometimes there is no one around to see it, the moment of passing. That’s hard too.

I don’t have to watch the rest, though. I see the mother crouch down, her touch soft despite the firm set of her face, hear the whimpering of the sister as she looks over her mum’s shoulder, and then I am somewhere else entirely. And so is Emery.

She blinks at me with those big brown eyes. She is in the same dungarees, though these ones do not have grass stains on, nor are they a bit too big for her. She must not have noticed either of those things, in that garden.

I can’t help wondering how I look to her. I am me, every time, and there are elements that I know remain constant – they can’t imagine me into someone else entirely. My hair will always stay the same colour, for instance – tree-bark brown – and I’m always around the same height and weight. But just as subtle things about their appearance can change, in this place, I’ve gathered, the way they perceive me can be altered too.

‘Who are you?’ There is no fear in her voice, only a healthy dose of suspicion.

I take a breath. This should be the bit I’m good at, by now. ‘I’m here to help you.’ I try to inject calmness and confidence into my voice. Try not to think of how very young she is, how unfair it is that her life has been snatched away by a thorn. Sometimes, this part is quick – with the ones who knew death was coming, who have had time to accept that, to say goodbye. For those, often comfort and reassurance is all that is needed. Some are angry – that can take a little longer. What will it take for Emery? What does she need to help her come to terms with her death? How am I supposed to help a child accept that?

I feel something acid rise in my throat, a bitter taste. Maybe that’s why I’ve never had to help a child before now – because I haven’t been ready. Mind you, I don’t feel ready now. And it’s pointless to try and think of the higher purpose here – I’ve given up on that. I’ve to give up on that.

Emery cocks her head at me. There is something there, in that action. Not familiarity, but a strange sense that it will become familiar, somehow. It’s enough to make the back of my neck prickle with unease. ‘Help me do what?’ she asks.

My mouth feels dry. Usually, they are aware that they are dead, on some level. It’s not like we stand over their body or anything; they don’t have to watch loved ones grieve or panic – that would hardly be conducive to ‘moving on’. Whatever the hell that means. But they seem to come here with an understanding of what’s happening, even if they don’t want to admit to that.

Is it her age that prevents her from understanding what seems to be implicit for everyone else? She has so little life experience; everything must feel new and strange, all the time. I’m struck then by my inadequacy. By the complete and utter bullshit of all this. That I have been put here, somehow, and now I am supposed to help her when I have absolutely no idea how to do that. How is that fair to her? That I, of all people, should be the last one she sees before she dies? I may have only spent moments in her life, but I know with utter certainty that she deserves better than that.

‘Help you come to terms …’ She frowns, little bushy eyebrows pulling together. Right. She is only five. ‘Um … I’m here to make...