sometimes find their way into basements. I’ll call animal control tomorrow – they just come and catch them and take them away. It’s nothing to worry about.’
‘It sounded worrying.’
‘Well, they aren’t small but they probably won’t hurt you. In fact, when they’re threatened they often just lie down and pretend to be dead. It’s a weird sight.’ He pulls a face. ‘They stick their tongues out like that and roll their eyes back and don’t move even if you poke them. It’s where that saying comes from, you know, “to play possum”.’
He asks about
Hand in Hand
then, and she tells him how she is trying to choose images that will reflect the surgical miracle of transplants, as well as the hope, the fear, the urgency, the miraculous skill of it all.
‘I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have someone else’s heart beating inside your chest, can you?’ She puts down her fork. ‘I mean, you’d surely feel as if your identity had changed in some fundamental way, wouldn’t you?’
‘When it comes to transplants, I think the identity issue is often more complicated for the donor family than it is for the recipient. They can feel as if person they love is still alive, then it’s hard to let go. There’s an anthropologist in New York who studies this stuff.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘She calls it “biosentimentality”.’
She tries to imagine how she would feel if Greg’s heart, or Joe’s, was beating inside a stranger. She too would want to be close to that person. ‘Sentimentality’ seems a harsh word for what must be a profound longing.
‘When I was photographing the man who got that heart, I wanted to ask him if he felt his identity had changed, but I didn’t in the end.’
‘Why not?’
‘It seemed intrusive.’
‘That’s why you’re such a talented photographer, you know,’ he says. ‘You don’t intrude on people – you don’t force your personality on anyone. Your subjects almost forget you’re there and they let their guard down, so then you capture something more in them than they might otherwise show.’
‘I wish I did.’
‘But you do – you did with me.’ He sits back and looks at her, his brown eyes fixed on her face. ‘You know what? You look amazing, Tess,’ he says. ‘I’ve been thinking that ever since I walked in, but I haven’t actually said it.’
‘I was trying to make an effort tonight.’ She touches her earring. ‘I’m wearing the earrings you gave me.’
He squints. ‘Hey. So you are.’
‘I got the hint. You’re right, I should wear them more.’
He frowns. ‘What hint?’
‘Didn’t you get them out of my jewellery box, before you left? They were out.’
‘No – at least, I don’t think so, not deliberately.’
She suddenly thinks about the letters, lying next to the wire basket in the kitchen when she was sure she had tidied them away. ‘Did you see the vitamins?’ she asks. ‘Helena’s vitamins?’
‘Helena’s what?’
‘The woman next door? She sent you some vitamins – they’re in your pile of letters over there.’ She glances into the kitchen. ‘In the tray.’
‘I haven’t touched my mail in days.’
Perhaps she is going mad – taking things out, moving objects, and forgetting she has done it. Pregnancy brain, hormones. But she hasn’t noticed herself doing anything particularly absent-minded. Maybe it was Joe.
‘Did David and Joe get off OK?’ Greg says. ‘I bet Joe was happy to see him after all this time.’
‘Yes, he really was. David took him to a Red Sox game this afternoon, and he was so delighted. It was lovely to see him properly happy – I feel like I’ve hardly seen him smile since we got here.’
‘He’ll adjust, you know, you just have to give him time. I know it’s hard to see him miserable, but he’ll be OK.’
‘I’m not sure. He’s really deeply unsettled. I’ve been wondering if there might be something more going on – I know kids can be hostile to a
‘It sounded worrying.’
‘Well, they aren’t small but they probably won’t hurt you. In fact, when they’re threatened they often just lie down and pretend to be dead. It’s a weird sight.’ He pulls a face. ‘They stick their tongues out like that and roll their eyes back and don’t move even if you poke them. It’s where that saying comes from, you know, “to play possum”.’
He asks about
Hand in Hand
then, and she tells him how she is trying to choose images that will reflect the surgical miracle of transplants, as well as the hope, the fear, the urgency, the miraculous skill of it all.
‘I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have someone else’s heart beating inside your chest, can you?’ She puts down her fork. ‘I mean, you’d surely feel as if your identity had changed in some fundamental way, wouldn’t you?’
‘When it comes to transplants, I think the identity issue is often more complicated for the donor family than it is for the recipient. They can feel as if person they love is still alive, then it’s hard to let go. There’s an anthropologist in New York who studies this stuff.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘She calls it “biosentimentality”.’
She tries to imagine how she would feel if Greg’s heart, or Joe’s, was beating inside a stranger. She too would want to be close to that person. ‘Sentimentality’ seems a harsh word for what must be a profound longing.
‘When I was photographing the man who got that heart, I wanted to ask him if he felt his identity had changed, but I didn’t in the end.’
‘Why not?’
‘It seemed intrusive.’
‘That’s why you’re such a talented photographer, you know,’ he says. ‘You don’t intrude on people – you don’t force your personality on anyone. Your subjects almost forget you’re there and they let their guard down, so then you capture something more in them than they might otherwise show.’
‘I wish I did.’
‘But you do – you did with me.’ He sits back and looks at her, his brown eyes fixed on her face. ‘You know what? You look amazing, Tess,’ he says. ‘I’ve been thinking that ever since I walked in, but I haven’t actually said it.’
‘I was trying to make an effort tonight.’ She touches her earring. ‘I’m wearing the earrings you gave me.’
He squints. ‘Hey. So you are.’
‘I got the hint. You’re right, I should wear them more.’
He frowns. ‘What hint?’
‘Didn’t you get them out of my jewellery box, before you left? They were out.’
‘No – at least, I don’t think so, not deliberately.’
She suddenly thinks about the letters, lying next to the wire basket in the kitchen when she was sure she had tidied them away. ‘Did you see the vitamins?’ she asks. ‘Helena’s vitamins?’
‘Helena’s what?’
‘The woman next door? She sent you some vitamins – they’re in your pile of letters over there.’ She glances into the kitchen. ‘In the tray.’
‘I haven’t touched my mail in days.’
Perhaps she is going mad – taking things out, moving objects, and forgetting she has done it. Pregnancy brain, hormones. But she hasn’t noticed herself doing anything particularly absent-minded. Maybe it was Joe.
‘Did David and Joe get off OK?’ Greg says. ‘I bet Joe was happy to see him after all this time.’
‘Yes, he really was. David took him to a Red Sox game this afternoon, and he was so delighted. It was lovely to see him properly happy – I feel like I’ve hardly seen him smile since we got here.’
‘He’ll adjust, you know, you just have to give him time. I know it’s hard to see him miserable, but he’ll be OK.’
‘I’m not sure. He’s really deeply unsettled. I’ve been wondering if there might be something more going on – I know kids can be hostile to a
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