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.
