Author: Janet Johnson

Lucy is haunted by her dreams. They were fleeting images of people and places at first, but as the months pass, images are replaced by increasingly more detailed and graphic scenes. It’s as if she is watching a film playing in her head. None of the things she sees are familiar and they scare her, she’s afraid to fall asleep. The psychiatrist isn’t unduly worried. It’s normal, she reassures. While the brain is building connections with the transplant it is bound to get some things wrong, but with time, things will sort themselves out. You just have to be patient, she says.

As Lucy sleeps, my memories emerge.

My sixth birthday and my small body is fizzing with excitement. There’s an enormous cake with pink frosting, just for me. One big puff and the candles are out. I can’t wait for a taste of its delicious sugariness. The apartment door slams open. Cussing and angry, my father, drunkenly stumbles in, demanding his dinner. Eyeing the cake, he flips and in a blind rage picks it up and throws it at the wall. I scream. My mother yells, then crumples to the floor crying, the red imprint of his hand on her cheek. Warm pee trickles down my legs. The baby’s pissed herself, he jeers. My birthday is forgotten. I hate him.

Lucy is haunted by her dreams. They were fleeting images of people and places at first, but as the months pass, images are replaced by increasingly more detailed and graphic scenes. It’s as if she is watching a film playing in her head. None of the things she sees are familiar and they scare her, she’s afraid to fall asleep. The psychiatrist isn’t unduly worried. It’s normal, she reassures. While the brain is building connections with the transplant it is bound to get some things wrong, but with time, things will sort themselves out. You just have to be patient, she says.

As Lucy sleeps, my memories emerge.

My sixth birthday and my small body is fizzing with excitement. There’s an enormous cake with pink frosting, just for me. One big puff and the candles are out. I can’t wait for a taste of its delicious sugariness. The apartment door slams open. Cussing and angry, my father, drunkenly stumbles in, demanding his dinner. Eyeing the cake, he flips and in a blind rage picks it up and throws it at the wall. I scream. My mother yells, then crumples to the floor crying, the red imprint of his hand on her cheek. Warm pee trickles down my legs. The baby’s pissed herself, he jeers. My birthday is forgotten. I hate him.

Sarah wakes with a start. Something has disturbed her sleep, something alien, a noise that shouldn’t be there.

The psychiatrists are helping Lucy to piece together who she is. Her will is strong but, at night when she sleeps, I am there, the Cuckoo in someone else’s nest.

I am Anna and I am waiting.

The Cuckoo – Part 2

For the first few days after the operation, they kept Lucy heavily sedated, gradually weaning her off the drugs as the swelling in her brain decreased, delighted to see the transplant controlling her heart and lungs straightaway. Sarah and Richard were at her bedside every day, celebrating every milestone with her, the elation when she opened her eyes and said Mum and Dad palpable, only matched, a few months later, by the cheers of Jess and the team filling the hospital when Mr Davies told her she could go home. Her recovery was rapid and remarkable considering what she had been through, sitting, eating, speaking and finally walking ticked off the list in quick succession, and Mr Davies put this down to her being a performance athlete, in peak health. The part of her brain that had not been touched appeared to be functioning as it should, her personality and behaviours unchanged and her memories returning daily. Mr Davies would continue to monitor her regularly for years to come, you can’t get rid of me that easily he’d told her with a grin, but for now, his thoughts were consumed with publishing his work, confident of numerous medals and awards to come, recognising the momentous achievement of him and his team.  

Sarah and Richard stare numbly at their daughter lying on the hospital bed, tubes and monitors surrounding her, constantly beeping and flashing.

“Take as much time as you need to say goodbye,” the Neurosurgeon said after telling them that Lucy had suffered catastrophic brain damage.

It’s so unfair, Sarah rages internally. Lucy had everything to live for. She’d just graduated from Uni and was about to embark on a traineeship at one of London’s top law firms. A bright, happy and successful future was mapped out for her, she wasn’t supposed to die at twenty-one.

Emma looked out of the shuttle window tears forming in the corner of her indigo-blue eyes.

“Goodbye Freya and thank you,” she whispered softly to herself, dabbing away the tears.

She took one last look at Mars, the red-brown earth, spiky grasses, and soft, smooth, pebble-like mosses, the only home she’d ever known, as the silver-grey craft deployed upward thrust and briefly hovered over the landing pad before embarking on its flight to Jupiter.

Freya felt uneasy as she drove down the pitted, dirt track, a mist of fine red dust in her wake. She’d been to the yard a few times with Richard, it wasn’t far from town but far enough to feel isolated.  Lyc’s OK when you get to know him, she heard Richard’s voice in her head, trying to reassure her. Sure, he’s rough around the edges and more cyborg than human but he’s put his past behind him since the accident. He’s a model citizen now, pays his taxes and everything. Anyway, you can’t beat his yard for the variety and quality of the scrap he’s got, and his knowledge of cybernetics is second to none based on experimentation on himself. I don’t know any scientist worth his salt who would do that. She could see Richard grin at her distaste. Somehow Lyc and Richard had formed an unlikely friendship over the years, the space pirate, and the government scientist and not a week went by when Richard wouldn’t visit the yard for something or other. Freya preferred to stay at home, yet here she was today. She smiled thinking about what Richard would’ve said if he knew. He would certainly have teased her for it mercilessly. She stopped in front of what looked like a large aircraft hangar, orderly piles of space scrap, grouped by type, to the left and right. Lyc stood at the entrance, a tall, imposing, muscular man, his cybernetically enhanced left eye scanning his visitor. His past was chiselled on his face and a large, jagged scar ran down his right cheek. Knowing he would be wary of strangers and most likely armed, Freya waited until she saw his shoulders relax before getting out of her Mars rover.

“It’s Freya, isn’t it?” asked the man.

Freya nodded.

“I was sorry to hear about Richard. He was a good man. I liked him. I’ll miss our chats.”

“He liked you too,” Freya replied quietly, fighting back the tears, not wanting to show her vulnerability in front of Lyc.

It had been six months since Richard had died and Freya missed him every day, the searing pain of grief hitting her when she least expected it, like now. It was the little things she missed most: the cup of tea he woke her up with each morning, the broad smile on his whiskery face at the anticipation of another new day or his deep belly laugh when she read him something funny from the planet news.

Emma looked out of the shuttle window tears forming in the corner of her indigo-blue eyes.

“Goodbye Freya and thank you,” she whispered softly to herself, dabbing away the tears.

She took one last look at Mars, the red-brown earth, spiky grasses, and soft, smooth, pebble-like mosses, the only home she’d ever known, as the silver-grey craft deployed upward thrust and briefly hovered over the landing pad before embarking on its flight to Jupiter.