A Change of Heart by Maeryn Lamonte Copyright © 2022 A story of loss and finding the strength to go on. This is a fantasy, but sometimes our dreams are all that keep us going.

-oOo-

The thing that struck me most was the absence of any feeling. I wanted to cry, to scream, to rage, anything, even to laugh, but I was utterly empty inside. I stood by the side of her bed and looked down on her still form, and I could find nothing inside me.

Her skin was pale and unusually mottled. I perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to touch her arm. It felt cold and stiff, not unlike the marble it resembled. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, but it was odd enough to cause me to recoil.

A gentle hand settled on my shoulder.

“Death is never quite what we expect,” my mother-in-law said.

“You've seen something like this before?” I was intrigued despite my overall numbness.

“My husband. Three years ago. I never thought I'd be burying my daughter though.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Sympathy rather than apology.”

Her hand squeezed down on my shoulder and we let silence fill the room.

We’re not that good at silence though, or at least I'm not. I lasted barely a minute.

“I never had a chance to say goodbye,” I said, feeling the first crack form in my emotional armour.

“She knew you loved her,” came the reply.

Odd how we seem to fall back on clichés at times like this. Higher brain functions seem to shut down leaving us with a list of “what people usually say in these situations” to choose from. They're never helpful, but we somehow seem to think they'll do the job, or at least that they're better than saying nothing.

Which isn't true.

“How can you know that?” Probably not fair to challenge her at a time like this, but a dribble of anger leaked past my defences.

“Mother's and daughters talk all the time,” she said calmly. “You'd be surprised what she told me.”

And now a trickle of fear. Would Karen have gone that far?

“The last time we spoke, we had a row. I hate that things ended like that; that I didn’t get to say sorry.”

“It really doesn't matter, Michael. She knew you were sorry. So was she, and she was going to make it up to you.”

“How?” Given what the argument had been about and how it had ended, I’d half-expected the next communication to come from her lawyer rather than her.

Instead, it had come from her mother, telling me about the aneurysm that had taken her life.

“She didn't say. Only that after she talked it through with me, she decided that she was the one who needed to make amends.”

“Does that mean you know what the argument was about?”

She didn't answer. Instead, she stepped past me and gazed down at the mortal remains of her only child.

“You bought her that dress, didn't you?” she asked.

I nodded.

“She wasn't convinced, you know? It wasn't a style she would have chosen.”

“I remember. She said as much, but she put it on anyway.”

“Young love will do that. Small sacrifices to show you care. But then she had a good look at herself in the mirror and changed her mind. It became one of her favourites.

“How did you know it would suit her so well? I mean it's unusual in this day and age for men to buy a dresses for their girlfriends, and when they do it’s usually something impractical and extremely revealing. This is… well it’s more the sort of thing a woman would buy for herself. It brings to the surface those inner qualities she would have liked to show. How did you know?”

I shrugged. “I caught sight of it in a shop window and I could just see her in it.”

“That’s how I know she loved you, because of things like that. You're unusually sensitive Michael, something we both agreed was rare and precious in a man.

“But you don't get something for nothing in life and I doubt she realised what the price would be of your being so special...”

“I did try to tell her. Before we were married.”

“Yes, and she shut you down. She wasn't ready to hear it at the time. She thought she could change you. Most girls do, you know? It's one of the harder lessons in a woman's life, learning that you really can't change that much about a man.”

“I would have changed if I could. I tried so hard.”

“I know it. She knew it too.”

She lifted the pendant from her daughter's chest and looked at it for a moment before reaching for the clasp.

“You should have this,” she said offering it to me.

“I couldn’t. I mean it's a family heirloom, isn't it? She wore it every day.”

“It is, and she did, but who else am I going to give it to now? It was precious to her and I’d like you to have it as a reminder that you were too.”

I stared into its depths. Cut in the shape of a heart, the deep red stone almost filled my palm. Whatever it was made of, it had to be worth a fortune. The chain and setting gave out that warm glow that only comes from twenty-four carat purity.

“I can't take this, I really can’t.”

“But you will, because I insist, and because I know Karen would have wanted you to have it.”

I've never been great at arguments. The last one I'd had with my wife had ended with me scurrying out the house, tail very firmly tucked between my legs. Now, faced by the much more formidable presence of my mother-in-law, I had no hope. I caved in and hung it about my neck.

It wasn't the manliest piece of jewellery in the world, but that came as a bonus from my perspective. I felt my legs weaken and my insides melt a little as the weight of the piece settled on my chest. It looked hideously out of place sitting on top of my sweatshirt, but that also worked for me since I'd always felt just as out of place in the world. The best and only good thing that had ever happened to me in my life had been Karen, and her mum was right, this was a way I could keep her close.

A part of her at least.

“Tuck it inside your clothes, it should rest against your skin – her heart next to yours.”

The cold kiss of the stone took seconds to warm to my skin temperature, and then it felt completely right. Hidden away, it was like the part of me I’d kept locked deep inside all these years. Karen had known about that at the last, and here she was sharing another secret with me.

“You should go home. Get some rest,” Karen's mother told me. “You look like you could use it.”

No argument there, though I doubted I'd get much.

“She made me leave my keys,” I said.

“Here, you might as well have hers.” She fished them out of Karen's handbag and passed them to me. “Now if you’re done with your excuses…”

I walked home from the hospital, the bleakness of winter matching my feelings. It was quite a distance, but I didn't trust myself behind a wheel just now, and I didn't think I could cope with a bus full of strangers.

The home I had shared with my wife sat midway down a tree lined avenue. Bare branches reached up to a slate grey sky accentuating the cold, empty feeling in my soul. A gusty wind added to the chill and kept all but the hardiest indoors. Among those that braved the elements were my neighbour's children. They crouched behind the hedge in an ineffective attempt at hiding, giggling in anticipation of my arrival.

They sprang up as I pushed open the gate. “Hey mister girly-man. Where’s your dress?” They’d probably planned to shout more, but laughter overtook them and they collapsed in hysterics.

My encounter with them the previous day had been mortifying. Now it was such a small drop in the ocean of my grief, it made not the slightest ripple.

My neighbour’s front door opened.

“Thomas! Gerald! Joshua! Get in here!!”

My tormentors sobered immediately and shame-facedly slunk into the house leaving me facing my neighbour.”

“I’m so sorry Michael,” she said. “I saw when they came to collect her. If there’s anything I can do…”

There’s another thing about death. People who rarely so much as nod at you on a normal day become overwhelmingly solicitous during times of grief. They genuinely do want to help, but because they know so little about you, the only thing they can think to offer is that open ended 'anything I can do', which you’re never in a state to take them up on because you’re too numb.

I smiled my thanks and fumbled Karen's keys out of my pocket. I couldn’t think of an appropriate response, especially since the last time she’d seen me I’d been wearing a dress and high heels, and she’d been wearing a distinctly disapproving frown.

“Excuse please?” The voice came from behind me.

I turned to find one of those all electric Amazon delivery vans parked in front of my gate. The driver held a small cardboard box which he waved in my direction.

I stared at the package nonplussed. My name and address were on it, but I'd not ordered anything in over a week. More than that, it was a Prime delivery and I hadn't touched a computer in the previous twenty-four hours. I looked up at the driver for some explanation, but his responsibility began and ended with the delivery and he was already climbing into his van, looking for his next drop off.

I turned to my neighbour but she'd disappeared back indoors, having evidently concluded that chastising her children and extending her offer constituted due diligence.

That left my front door and the hollowness of the house beyond. I slid the key in the lock and stepped through into the hallway where memories awaited me. Unfriendly ones.

This was where Karen had been standing the last time we’d spoken. To the right, a staircase climbed to the upper floor and beside it, the narrow hallway that led through to the kitchen where I'd been standing in my little black dress.

I'd never intended to keep it from her. I'd tried to tell her before we were married, but as her mother had said, she'd not been ready to listen. So I’d struggled against my own nature, and for two years I'd managed to keep it in check. Just about.

I can't even remember now what had swung the balance. A lot of little things, I suppose. We'd agreed early on that she should be the major wage earner while I looked after the home and worked on my writing. That was something of a no brainer as she earned significantly more than either of us needed to live, and my own capacity to put bread on the table was mediocre at best. I've always hated the term house-husband though, partly because it's tautological with the first part of the word husband deriving from the old Norse word for house. From the beginning of our marriage, I thought of myself more as the wife in the relationship and relished the feeling it gave me.

That in itself wasn’t what pushed me over the edge, though washing, ironing and putting away Karen's clothes may have contributed. I must say, I never considered putting on anything of hers – that seemed like too much of a violation of trust, though I'll admit I was tempted.

She had a little black dress which looked wonderful on her and which I'd occasionally hold up between me and my reflection in the mirror. I couldn't kid myself that it looked anything other than ridiculous though. My short back and sides put a man's head on top of whatever womanly appearance the dress might have given me, and the momentary weakness that tempted me into checking myself out vanished before the temptation could grow.

A housewife's life is a lonely one though, and I didn't even have the outlet most women find in each other's company. There were women's groups that met locally, but when I tried going along to one or two, the atmosphere changed the instant I walked through the door. At best I was a novelty, at worst an unwelcome invader. They weren’t willing to let their hair down with a man present and I was unable to gain enough of their trust for any of us to get anything out of the gatherings.

To be sure, there were meetings for men like myself, but nothing close, and I've never really enjoyed the company of other men, so in the end I accepted the loneliness of my days and found what comfort I could in Karen’s arms when she came home.

It was almost enough.

Then I managed to publish something. A one-off article in a magazine – a woman's magazine as it happens, and writing with a female nom-de-plume. It didn't pay much, but Karen suggested I should buy something nice for myself, something to help relieve the drudgery of my days.

I took her at her word. The boutique where she'd bought her LBD had moved on to newer styles, but the more up-to-date equivalent was much more me. It had a fuller skirt, all the better for hiding the family jewels, and was made from some crease-proof fabric which meant I didn't have to hang it up when I wasn’t using it.

Shoes were harder to source, but yet again Amazon came to the rescue with a pair of patent leather pumps in my size, sporting modest three-inch heels. I finished off with some frilly underwear and a few pairs of tights of a high enough denier to obscure the hairiness of my legs. I'd have preferred to shave them – the rest of me too – but Karen would have noticed.

The whole lot fit inside an old shoebox and tucked away near the back of the cleaning cupboard under the stairs.

It made the housework so much less of a chore. The shoes weren't entirely practical, but it gave me a way to allow the woman inside me to broach the surface. When I was pottering about the place, I usually added the frilly white apron Karen had bought me as a sort of joke when we first settled into our living arrangement. It wasn't quite a maid’s uniform – that would have been just a bit too cliché – but the overall effect wasn’t far off.

It lifted my mood enough that Karen even commented on it.

“Whatever your doing, keep on doing it,” she'd said.

So I did.

Net curtains protected me from prying eyes in the neighbourhood. I'd usually wait until the postman had gone by, just in case he had something to sign for, then I’d change and get on with my work in the sure knowledge that I wouldn't be disturbed until Karen came home around sixish. I hated that I could only be this way behind closed doors and in my own company, but glass half full, eh?

I did keep some old trousers and a baggy sweatshirt nearby in case the doorbell should ring unexpectedly. Less than thirty seconds to put on over my outfit and a good enough disguise for a doorstep encounter.

Then yesterday, for some reason Karen had come home a couple of hours earlier than usual. I'd become so comfortable in what I was wearing that I didn't even think to react until it was too late. She stood just inside the door staring at me. I was up to my elbows in a bowl of cake mix, frozen with realisation and dread as I watched the shock settle onto her face.

I could imagine what I must have looked like to her and it made her reaction perfectly understandable.

“I can explain,” I said as I removed my apron and wiped my hands on it. “Please let me explain.”

But she'd been no more ready to listen to me then than she had before we were married.

“Get out,” she said in her low no nonsense voice. I reached for my emergency clothes, but she said, “No. You’re happy enough looking like that indoors, I think you should go the same way.”

I tried to take my coat but again she shook her head, offering me hers instead. It was large on her, so it fit me reasonably well. I pointed at her handbag and arched my eyebrows. She shrugged, took out her purse and phone and passed it across.

Defiantly, I dug my own wallet from my coat then picked up my phone and keys.

“No,” she said again and held out her hand until I gave her the keys.

“Karen, I...”

“Just go.” She cut me off.

I've never been great at arguments, I may have mentioned, so I did as she asked.

It was an unkind introduction to just how inadequate tights – even thick ones – are against the February chill. A twitch in the neighbour's window caught my attention and I turned to see Mrs Harris glaring out at me. Several pairs of younger eyes peaked over the window sill lower down. There wasn't anything to say, not that she'd have heard me through the double glazing, so I turned my back on them and headed out to discover how the world would accept this new me.

Which wasn't all that well. As I've already mentioned, my haircut could never be mistaken for feminine, and my face, while not particularly rugged, was decidedly more masculine than otherwise.

I knew full well how preposterous I looked, especially with Karen's fur lined coat over it all, so I had to accept both the sniggers and the angry looks as my due.

It also came as something of a revelation how uncomfortable walking any distance even in relatively low heels could be, especially on uneven paving. There was a charity shop half a mile from home and I made that my first destination. They were able to outfit me with a pair of chinos in my size along with an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of old but still serviceable trainers that were less uncomfortable than my pumps. The dress and pumps went into a plastic bag that wasn't worth the twenty pence I paid for it, and I was still stuck wearing my wife's coat which continued to turn heads as I walked further into town.

As usual, I didn't have a lot of cash on me, and I wasn't sure how long it would be before Karen froze my credit card. To be honest I didn't know if she would, but her mood had been pretty grim at the last. I decided my best bet would be the YMCA. I wasn't sure if I still counted as Y, but they were used to people turning up at short notice in dire need, so I landed myself a bed in a dormitory easily enough. I didn't have anything other than my underwear to sleep in though, and that conjured something of an unwelcome reaction from my nearest neighbours, which nearly ended up getting me thrown back on the streets.

The next day I wandered about town aimlessly. I did call into Marks and Sparks for long enough to buy myself some more appropriate under things, depleting my meagre funds even further. Other than that, I invested in some trail mix as a low-cost source of sustenance and spent most of my time in the library – more for the warmth than the books – with my phone in my hand. I had it on silent out of deference to the other users and I kept checking it every ten minutes in case Karen had called or texted and I'd missed the vibration.

I was on the verge of making my way back to the Y for another uncomfortable night surrounded by seismic snores and beery flatulence when the phone finally woke in my hand.

It had been my mother-in-law telling me to come down to the hospital.

I hung Karen's coat on the coat rack and dropped my bag of girl clothes on the floor by the door. Package still in hand, I headed through to the kitchen and filled the kettle. While the water was heating I tore open the parcel.

I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the contents. For certain the kettle had finished boiling and had cooled halfway back to room temperature before I thought to set it going again. I hunted through the packaging for any indication of how this thing had made its way into my hands, eventually unearthing a message.

“My way of saying sorry,” it read. “I overreacted. Please forgive me.”

I turned back to the white cotton nightdress I’d so recently unwrapped. The collar and sleeves were trimmed with lace and there was a butterfly embroidered on the front. It was too big for Karen, which left only one possibility.

I made my tea and headed upstairs. The nightdress, I laid out on the bed before hunting out my computer in the room next-door. A laptop for ease of portability when I felt like writing elsewhere, but more or less permanently plumbed into a docking station with multiple screens, dedicated keyboard and mouse etc. We'd converted the second bedroom into an office which allowed me to shut out the rest of the world and focus on whatever project happened to be current. I’d learnt early on that it was a dangerous place to dress up, as I tended to lose track of time and Karen had almost caught me once.

I fired up the computer and logged into my Amazon account. I’d shared my login details with my wife long ago on the premise that I had nothing to hide from her, but that wasn’t entirely true as I’d had to archive my orders for the pumps and underwear so they didn’t appear in my order list. She could still have found them had she dug deep enough, and part of me had wished she would, just so we could get past all the secrecy.

She hadn’t though, which had left us with that messy confrontation and the twenty-four hours I’d been out of the house during which time she’d had her aneurysm and died.

She’d passed away in her sleep, the doctor had said. Even if I’d been there, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. Most likely I’d just have woken up to find her cold and still.

I don’t know which would have been worse.

My Amazon account showed the order for the nightdress charged against her credit card, and her last words to me entered in the greeting card option, so mystery solved there. I grasped the pendant under my sweatshirt and offered her a few silent words of thanks, and forgiveness since she’d asked.

I fetched my girl clothes from the hall. Somehow it felt right since Karen’s last act had been a show of understanding. Black was a mourning colour so seemed fitting in that sense too. The dress was about the nicest piece of clothing I had and would do well enough for the funeral, as long as it wasn’t likely to upset anyone else. Perhaps a conversation topic for my mother-in-law the next time we spoke.

The doorbell rang and I looked at my charity shop trousers for a moment before realising I really didn’t care. I headed downstairs and opened the door a crack to find my neighbour standing on the porch, casserole dish in hand.

“I thought… I know at times like this people don’t really think about the practical things. I wasn’t sure if you had anything for dinner.”

“That’s really kind of you, Mrs Harris.” I opened the door a little further allowing her to see how I was dressed, Karen’s pendant now resting on my disappointingly flat chest. “Do you have time for a cup of tea? I was about to put the kettle on.”

She’d stiffened slightly at the sight of me, but apparently charity trumped judgement in her religion, even if by the smallest of margins, so she forced a smile and accepted my invitation.

Mindful of the pedigree of my guest, I embarked on the full ritual. Finest bone china, milk in the jug, sugar cubes in the bowl, leaves rather than bags with hot water into a pre-heated pot. I even set out a plate of bourbons. By the time the tray was ready to carry through, her frosty disposition was well on its way to thawing.

“She kept such a tidy house,” Mrs Harris remarked, looking around the living room. “It's a wonder she found the time with working all the hours she did.”

“Actually, she didn't have to,” I responded, allowing only the mildest reproof to colour my words. “You're right, she worked full on during the week, which is why I've always done the housework.”

“You? But you're a... er...”

“I'm a man. You're allowed to say it, you know? It’s not quite the four-letter word you think it is, and we’re not all as useless as you might think.”

“Your experience evidently differs from mine. But I suppose that's hardly surprising given that we’re seeing it from opposite sides.”

“Nearly opposite.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You see things from a woman's perspective, but my point of view isn't entirely that of a man. I'm looking from slightly off to one side.”

“And just what new and unique insight does your position give you?”

“Would you say that you're disappointed in your husband because he hasn’t become the man you thought he should be?”

“Of course. That's hardly new, and most of my friends feel the same.”

“Which means that you're surrounded by people who think the same as yourself, which helps you all feel justified in your low opinion of your husbands, and men in general.”

“...”

“Meanwhile, drowning as they are in such an overwhelming mire of disapproval, your husband and his friends have given up ever trying to please you and yours.”

“And just what, in your opinion, might we do?” The frost was reforming.

“Perhaps, rather than trying to turn your husband into what you want him to be, which he evidently has no capacity to become, you should encourage him to develop his own aptitudes and interests.”

“Is that what Karen did for you?” she sneered down the length of her nose at my ridiculous appearance.

“It’s what we did for each other. And no, it didn't have anything to do with what I'm wearing. That’s the only part of our relationship where we failed to communicate, until yesterday that is.”

“Yes, and I saw how that turned out.”

“What you saw was the consequence of our not communicating. She was trying to make it up to me before she died.”

“Why did she have to make anything up to you? You're the one who put on the dress!”

“And she was the one who didn't listen for once. In everything else we supported each other. She was the rock on which I stood and my inspiration to reach for the stars. Now I don't know what I'm going to do without her.”

The grief welled up inside me without warning, taking me from relative serenity to blubbering wreck in one short utterance.

An arm settled on my shoulder and Mrs Harris, now perching on the sofa beside me, held out a tissue. Like a great many women she seemed hardwired to respond to any flood of tears, putting aside her antipathy the instant the dam broke.

I accepted the tissue gratefully, wondering idly as I dabbed at my eyes where she had conjured it from. No pockets and no handbag nearby, here was an aspect of womanhood that eluded me.

The moment didn't last. I regained my composure and Mrs Harris remembered who she was talking to. She stood, stiffening and turned to leave.

“I’d better get back to the boys,” she said. “You'll need to heat the casserole at one-eighty for half an hour.”

“Thank you,” I replied, climbing to my feet to show her to the door. There didn't seem much else to say, so I didn't try.

Mrs Harris squeezed my arm and offered me a tight-lipped smile in parting, then I was alone again in the cavernous emptiness of the house.

I washed the tea things for want of something to do, then sat in silent numbness for the remainder of the afternoon.

I did rouse for long enough to heat the casserole, though I couldn't tell you how good it was. My mind was entirely elsewhere and it came as a mild surprise to find an empty plate in front of me. There was enough left in the dish to try again tomorrow.

I ran a bath for the sake of something to fill the time, adding a couple of Karen’s bath pearls to the water and feeling oddly guilty as I did so. I soaked till my skin was soft and sweet-smelling, then washed my hair, again using Karen's shampoo for the scent and the added volume.

Short as it was, it didn't take long to dry, but I did manage to brush it into a style that was androgynous if not entirely girly.

The nightdress was a loose fit and billowed about me as I put it on. Being slightly on the large size it had the effect of making me look just a tiny bit like a little girl. My reflection awoke a gentle warmth inside me, which I welcomed given my overall dearth of feeling.

The kitchen needed sorting and Karen's feet had been a good two or three sizes smaller than mine, so I had the choice of braving the tiles in bare feet or settling for my ratty moccasins. My feet were warm from the bath and it was still winter, so I pulled on my slippers. I did make use of my wife's dressing gown, which was large enough to fit without feeling tight across the shoulders. It didn't take long to sort out the washing up and put the remains of my dinner in the fridge. I'd learned early on that the trick to looking after the kitchen was little and often. Always clean as you go and it’ll be less likely to get ahead of you.

It was still early when I'd finished, so I retired to bed with a book. On impulse I slid into Karen's side. It was another little thing that helped me feel closer to her, but I couldn't concentrate enough to read, so I turned out the light and lay there with the heart shaped pendant in my hand.

I don't remember falling asleep – to be honest, I'm not even sure I did. I just remember the sense of her presence.

“Karen?”

“I'm so sorry, Michael,” her voice whispered in my ear.

“It doesn't matter. Are you really here? I miss you so much.”

“I know, and you're going to have to be brave. I can't stay, and I have to ask something of you before I go.”

“Karen, I...”

“Michael, please, just listen. The reason I came home early yesterday was to tell you I was pregnant.”

“Oh Karen. Oh no!”

“Seeing you like that was such a shock. I reacted badly. It was only afterwards, after I talked to Mum, that I realised that's what you've wanted to tell me all these years.

“Michael, there's a way, for the baby at least if not for me. Michael, would you save the baby?”

“Of course, my love, but I don't understand...”

“What would you give, Michael? What would you give to save the baby?” Her voice was fading, becoming more distant.

“Anything, you know that, but I don't understand...”

“Thank you, Michael. I love you...”

She was gone. I sat up in bed, my sweat soaking my nightdress and cooling against my skin. By contrast, the pendant in my hand was warm. I looked at it and in the dark it seemed to give off a subtle glow.

I held it to my chest and settled back down. The memories of what had happened faded, drifting apart like the fragments of the dream I was sure it had been. The stone remained warm in my grasp, and as I drifted back into sleep, I sent out a silent prayer to anyone or anything that was listening.

“Anything,” I murmured. “Whatever it takes.”

Morning brought with it an urgent need. I rushed to the bathroom pulling what felt like acres of cloth out of the way. I was in the habit of sitting to go, so I didn't notice at first.

Actually, the first thing that made its way through my befuddled brain was the hair. I had a lot of it. Reddish-brown curls cascading down on either side of my face. I raised my hands to touch them and couldn't help being distracted by the slenderness of my fingers. Then my arms brushed against a couple of things I’d never had on my chest before.

The garden sprinkler chose that moment to go off and for several seconds I experienced a whole new sensation in relieving myself.

A couple of neurones sparked into life, prompting me to haul the immensity of my nightdress off over my head. I looked down at two perfectly formed breasts and a very different arrangement of affairs between my legs.

Pausing only long enough to wipe away the splash back, I ran into the bedroom. My hips felt a yard wide, and looked it when I reached the mirror and stared at my reflection.

It wasn't me standing there, not me in the slightest. The last time I had seen that face, that body, had been two days before, rigid with shock and insistent that I leave.

The pendant hanging between my breasts was drained of colour, sparkling with a crystalline transparency.

“I don't understand,” I said, but it was Karen's voice that spoke the words, not mine. It was all too much. I felt my head spin and collapsed to the bedroom floor.

I didn't quite pass out, but it was close. I don't know how long I sat there, only that I was shivering with cold when the sound of the front door opening brought me back to myself.

“Are you up stairs, darling?” It sounded like my mother-in-law.

My reflection stared back out of the mirror at me. Perhaps not my mother-in-law any more.

“Just getting dressed,” I called back. I had no idea what was going on, but I'd try playing along.

I climbed to my feet and pulled open my underwear drawer. That was more out of habit than anything and, since nothing in there was likely to fit any more, I turned to my wife's.

Karen tended to wear sports bras and plain boy cut pants when she was dressing down, and today felt like a dressing down day. T-shirt and pastel pink socks, then a sweatshirt and a pair of stretchy jeans. It all felt snug and comfortable and not altogether too different from what I usually wore. I slid my feet into Karen's slippers which did fit me now. A few strokes with her hairbrush to work out the worst of the tangles and I figured I'd do.

I headed downstairs to find a pot of tea brewing and a slice of marmalade on toast waiting for me.

My mother(?) poured out two mugs and passed one to me. No fine bone china for breakfast it seemed.

“Better than I was expecting,” she said, giving me a once over. “I thought I was going to have to talk you out of something altogether frillier and less practical.”

“Is that your way of telling me you know what's happening?”

“Of course I know what's happening. My daughter died yesterday. Do you think I’d be having a conversation with her right now if I didn’t ‘know what’s happening.’” The quotation marks weren’t visible but they were distinctly audible.

I raised my chin. “I don’t suppose you’d care to share?”

“Why do you think I came round?”

“I'm guessing it has something to do with this.” I dropped the now transparent heart on the table.

“You drained it all?”

“I didn't do anything to it. Except wear it which, if you’ll recall, was your idea. What is it?”

She picked it up and examined the stone. After a while she turned to me.

“You should eat something. You know breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“Yes mother,” I snapped with no small amount of sarcasm, causing her to wince. I was hungry though, so I bit into the toast.

“It’s called Croi Aine, or Aine’s Heart, after the Celtic goddess of love. At least that's what my mother and grandmother called it. It most likely has nothing to do with her, but it was in our family when we came here from Ireland, so there may be something to the name.

“We don't know a great deal about it, only that it’s been in the family for more generations than anyone can guess.

“My grandmother was married to a jeweller, and he was quite taken with it. He told her it was a diamond and a red one at that, which meant he didn't believe the stories of it being found in Ireland.

“Precious stones are a rarity in this part of the world. We don't have any diamond mines, but diamonds have been found. Like the Brookeborough Diamond back at the beginning of the eighteenth century. His objection was that coloured diamonds are exceedingly rare and tend only to be found in Australia or Africa, or maybe South America, never here.

“The thing is, centuries ago, artefacts like this were thought to be gifts of the gods, and why can’t they be? Why couldn't an impossible stone like this be given to us by one of the Ancient Ones?

“There's a family tradition that comes with it. ‘For the sake of all women, it should be passed down only to the daughter who best understands the nature of love.’”

“So why did you give it to me?”

“I couldn't say exactly; it just felt right somehow. Once you've owned it a while you learn to trust instincts like that.”

“I'm sorry I snapped at you; this must be so hard, me looking like Karen when you know full well that she’s...”

“Dead?” She put on a brave smile. “I imagine it can't be that easy for you either.”

“I dreamt about her last night. She said the reason she came home early was to tell me we were having a baby. She asked what I’d be prepared to give up to save our child.”

“And?”

“Well, I said anything of course. I mean there's nothing else to say, is there?”

“I suppose not, but it does explain why I had an urge to buy one of these on my way over this morning.”

She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a long, thin cardboard box.

“A pregnancy test?”

She shrugged.

“But I...”

“It can't hurt to try, can it?”

The tea had just about run its course through my system and I had my first hint of the inefficiency of my new plumbing. I took the box and headed upstairs.

I read the instructions then 'peed on the stick’ for the required amount of time. As before, I didn't have any noticeable degree of directional control which meant I peed on my hands too.

Wipe, wash, wait. I put the toilet cover down and perched on it while I counted down the five minutes.

“Oh Karen, what have you done to me?” I muttered, watching first one line then a second form on the test strip.

Back downstairs I did a little show and tell – which was more show and less tell – before dropping the test kit in the rubbish and washing my hands for a second time.

“Well, I suppose that explains how you drained all the power in the pendant.”

I picked it up off the table and hung it back about my neck.

“How do we refill it? Assuming we can of course.”

“There's no we here, sweetheart. It belongs to you now, so it's up to you.”

“But I don't know anything about it. It was yours before you gave it to Karen, wasn’t it? Surely you must know something.”

“All I know is that it was a deep red all the time I had it. I can't help you, Michael.”

“I don't think I'm going to be able to use that name anymore. There's an obvious alternative.”

“I know, but I'm not sure I'm ready for it. To be honest, I had no real idea what I was going to find when I came here this morning. When you called down that you were getting dressed, it came as something of a shock.”

“I imagine we’re going to have an interesting time trying to explain how I'm alive now.”

“We’ll see. I suspect when we go back to the hospital will find your body – by which I mean Michael’s – in the morgue.”

“That's not going to explain why it was Karen's yesterday.”

“No, but when impossible things happen, people have a tendency to pretend that they didn’t. Did you bump into anyone you knew yesterday?”

“Only Mrs Harris from next door and her brood. Her boys ambushed me at the front door, then she brought me a casserole and I invited her in for a chat and a cuppa.”

“I should take her casserole dish back as soon as you can. Get her used to the way things are now while she's still able to adjust.”

I retrieved what remained of the casserole from the fridge and transferred it to a piece of spare Tupperware. With the dish freshly washed up and a nod of encouragement from – it was still a little off-putting to think of her as my mother – I stepped out the front door.

“Karen?” Mrs Harris looked very slightly more confused than shocked. “I thought...”

“I wanted to return this to you, Adele. I was so grateful for your visit yesterday.”

“But...”

“We don't have a date for Michael's funeral yet. I think the hospital has a few things they want to clear up before releasing the body, but I do hope you and Jeff will come, along with the boys.”

“Yes, of course, but...”

“If you have time later, I’d be glad of some company again. Maybe this afternoon?”

“Of course, but I don't understand...”

“Thank you so much. I'll leave you to get on then, shall I?”

“Er, yes, I suppose. What time this afternoon?”

“Oh, I don't know. Whenever’s good for you. Two maybe?”

“Okay. I’ll, er, I'll see you later.”

Mother held the door open for me on my return. “That was nicely handled,” she said. “It makes me wonder if you were given a little more of my daughter than just her appearance.”

Not if what Karen had said to me was true, still it seemed kindest to let her believe what she wanted, so I smiled and hugged her.

I felt a warmth on my chest where the pendant hung, but there was more warmth in the hug, so I ignored it.

A short while later, we drove back to the hospital where a rather confused morgue attendant tried to make sense of how my – that is Michael’s – body could have been entered under my new – that is Karen’s – identity. It would take some days to sort out, with a new death certificate drawn up and the original retracted, but the hospital administration were grovellingly apologetic and went to great lengths to ensure my life wouldn't be unduly disrupted by what was evidently a clerical error. We sat patiently by and let them sort out their own confusion, leaving shortly before lunch.

Mother – I made a choice to think of her in those terms – took us to a quiet bistro on the edge of town and treated us to an exquisite and appropriately light meal.

“No-one’s going to expect you to come back to work until after the funeral,” she said, “so nothing has to be decided right away, but I'd like you to think about taken Karen's place at the Foundation.”

I may not have mentioned this before, but Karen worked for her mother, helping to run a foundation for women's welfare, which ran largely on a very generous grant from the government. Hints had been dropped that Karen would be taking the reins when her mother retired.

“I really don't know a great deal about what Karen’s work entails,” I said.

“I know, but I'm confident you'll pick it up. You know she showed me that article you wrote? I think you may have a better insight into what we’re trying to do than most of the women in my staff.”

“What happens when the baby comes along?”

“What would you like to happen?”

“Well, I’d want to give the child first priority, of course, but I don't really see why that should stop me from doing my job.”

“Neither do I, not with a strong enough support staff behind you. Do you feel like helping to redefine the workplace for women?”

“What do you mean?”

“Women have always supported each other, Karen. Why should we put our children into nursery when we can share both the work and the childcare between us?”

“Equal shares in the work would mean equal shares when it came to salary and status.”

“I don't have a problem with that, though ultimately there does have to be just one person in charge, you know, for when you can't all agree?

“And you'll want to take some time just for yourself and the baby after its born. And it'll take a while to sort out the logistics of sharing a job, but I'm in no hurry to retire. What do you say?”

“Tentatively okay, but let me think on it for a while. And if I’m not coping with the work, you’ll let me know and we'll come up with some other ideas.”

“Oh, you can be sure if that, darling.

“Now, if you've finished your coffee, we should get you home in time for your neighbours coming round.”

We made it home with ample time to spare, but mother shoed me upstairs to change. I had been wondering if my casual look was entirely appropriate for receiving visitors, and here was my answer.

Karen's LBD was a little high in the hemline, so I tried mine. It was a bit loose on my body, but a broad, black belt took care of that. The skirt now fell quite respectably to about knee level, and a pair of Karen's sheer charcoal tights took care of the rest. I chose a pair of relatively low heels, electing for comfort rather than risking myself on a pair of stilts, and returned to the kitchen to find everything laid out and ready.

Mother beamed at me. “Perfect,” she said. “I couldn't be prouder if you were my real daughter.”

“Thanks Mum. I wish I could be your real daughter. This isn't fair.”

“Life rarely is my love, especially for us girls.” She hugged me. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

She left, and barely a minute later, the bell rang.

“Adele, thank you for coming. And Jeff, this is a surprise. Come in.”

I let them settle in the living room while I hurriedly added an extra cup and saucer to the tray and carried it through.

Teas poured and distributed, I sat back, very much aware of Jeff's eyes on my ankles.

“So, not working today, Jeff?” I asked for want of a better way to break the ice.

He shrugged.

Adele’s lips thinned. “He was laid off a month ago.” She didn't say anything more, but her time left little room for interpretation of what she thought.

“There's no market for my skills at the moment,” he added despondently.

“Don't give us that. You've had three interviews since.” Adele snapped.

“I imagine it's hard to sell yourself when it's not something you want to do,” I said quietly. He looked up at me. “What would you rather be doing?” I gave his wife a warning glance, shutting her mouth before the automatic retort had a chance to escape.

“I've always loved models,” he said. “Airfix, remote control, I've even built a few from scratch. Some pretty good stuff too, even if I say so myself.”

“That's all very well as a hobby,” Adele said, “but how's it going to put food on the table?”

“Have you thought about opening a model shop?” I asked. “I mean where there's a hobby there's people ready to spend money on it, and if you have some good examples of finished products to put in the window, you'll soon have customers.”

“And where's the money going to come from to open a place like that. It’d cost a packet to rent a place and stock it, and then you've got to advertise and wait until people notice, if they even would in this day and age.”

“So you do something different. You say you've built a few things from scratch. What sort of things?”

“Well, tall ships mostly. I've done the Mayflower, the Golden Hind, the Cutty Sark, the Mary Rose, all from balsa wood, thread and cotton.”

“I'll admit those are pretty good,” Adele chipped in. “I've let him display them around the house.”

“So how did you make them?”

“Well, there's plans with dimensions available from the library. After that I just scaled it down and cut the wood to size. The tricky bit is the keel and ribs. After that it's just cutting planks and adding them in. A bit of steaming to warp them and then wood glue to fix them.”

“So how much would it cost to put together an actual model? I mean, potentially you could get the more awkward shapes laser cut, the rest of it you'd need to provide enough bits to build the final thing and a set of comprehensive instructions. You could launch it on Kickstarter...”

“On what?”

“Kickstarter. It's something a lot of startup companies are doing, putting up promo videos on YouTube and inviting interested people to commit to the startup costs in return for some exclusive extras.

“It doesn't cost anything much to put the ideas out there, and if you find a market for what you're offering, you'll also find the funding to get you started.”

“I'm not much good on computers.”

“I'm sure I can find someone who’ll help you set it up.”

“I'm not sure you should be filling his head with this sort of nonsense,” Adele interrupted.

“Can it really hurt? I mean do you have much else to do with your time? Once you've applied for the jobs you're eligible for, there's really not much else to do, is there? This has to be better than daytime TV.”

“Do you really think it could work?” Jeff's eyes were alive with possibilities.

“I don't think it could hurt to try.”

“And what if he fails at this too?” Adele insisted on being the doomsayer. “Who’s going to have to pick up the pieces?”

“Hopefully you will, won't you Jeff? If you're passionate enough about it, you won't be put off by a false start or two. The things that don't work often give you clues about the things that do.”

Jeff put down his teacup and stood.

“And just where do you think you're going?” his wife asked.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I've got a head busting open with ideas and I've got to start getting some of them down. Could I come talk to you again?”

“I’d feel insulted if you didn’t. No Adele, let him go. Don’t you remember what I said yesterday?”

The front door slammed shut, more with enthusiasm than anything. Adele looked at me puzzled.

“You said... But I’m sure it was...”

“It was me, Adele. I suggested you let your husband have a go at what he’s passionate about. You may find some of it rubbing off on you.”

“Yes, but models?”

“There’s nothing wrong with models. Architects and engineers build models before they build full size. Teachers use models to illustrate what they're teaching. Models inspire children. Model-making is something of a dying skill, so it's good to encourage those who still have it. Would you like more tea?”

I felt the pendant grow warm against my chest once more, and I put a hand over it, sending up a silent word of thanks.

Adele stayed for a couple more hours. With her husband no longer underfoot she moved onto her next favourite thing which was gossiping about the neighbourhood. She had a tendency to be critical, but I found that easy enough to temper by offering reasonable excuses for the different degrees of scandal she proposed. She mellowed during the afternoon, and when she finally rose to leave, she offered me her hand.

“I'm so glad we had this opportunity to chat. I know this must be such a difficult time for you, but if you'd like to join us for any of our little get togethers... We have a book club meets tomorrow at Marjory Bates’s house. Eleven o’clock, number thirty-four, just opposite.”

“I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“Nonsense, we'd love to have you. I'll knock when I'm ready to go over and you can tell me then If you’re up to it.”

And once again I was alone.

I gazed into the hallway mirror and felt the weight of the world crash down on me. I wondered if I would ever get used to staring at Karen's reflection, her auburn curls, the sharp, almost elfin, features of her face. A part of me delighted in the sudden, unexpected boon of being transformed into such a beautiful woman. I had spent so much of my life feeling like I didn't fit, and now I... just... did.

The greatest part of me still missed my wife. The very core of me filled with an aching sense of loss that threatened at any moment to erupt in a heart-rending screech. Seeing my wife's face in every reflection, hearing her voice each time I spoke, just made it worse.

I did my bit too stay ahead of entropy’s threat in the kitchen, then climbed the stairs in search of my comfortable clothes and my laptop.

‘I shouldn't complain,' I typed. ‘C S Lewis wrote of forgetting his wife's face, of the details becoming blurry and indistinct. I shall have a reminder of my beloved Karen wherever I go, and in time I will no longer be alone. I have a miracle within me, all the more of a miracle for what put it inside me, for what made me capable of carrying it. What lies ahead scares me. I've never been great with pain, but that will only last a short while, and thennnnnnnnnnnnnnnn....’

“What a strange world this is, that a man should become my vessel and bear my gift.”

I turned to find a woman in green, a shock of coppery hair framing her face.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“You still have a touch of that man in you though. You're too used to listening to logic, not to your heart. Not to me.”

“You're Aine,” I said. “Does that make this a dream?”

“As much of one as your dream last night.”

“Do you have answers for me then?”

“Perhaps, if you have questions.”

“You know I do.”

“And there's the woman I've come to meet. You said you'd give up anything. I took you at your word.”

“How though?”

“Who knows? I was once no more than a young woman in a world of cruel men. King Aulom thought he could use me any way he pleased. I bit off his ear and made him unfit to rule, and for that one single act, I earned myself the adulation of a great many folk, enough that I became a goddess.”

“The goddess of love.”

“Of love, of fertility, of wealth, of the summer, the Sun, the Moon. These are all things I have been given by those who believe in me. They afforded me such power that I was able to forge that stone. It cannot be owned by a man, but that's something you never were, was it?”

I didn't know how to respond. I looked down at myself.

“Being a man or being a woman is so much more than the body you wear. Your body gives you impulses, drives you to certain actions, but it is in your mind and your soul that you are truly one thing or the other.

“I could feel the stone bind to you the moment it was given to you. That was an act of womanly intuition on your mother's part – and yes, she is your mother now. I could sense the rightness in your former wife's plea, and though it cost all the manna in the stone, I've no regret in granting it to you.”

“The colour...”

“Deepens the more power goes into it.”

“But how...?”

“Look at it now, child.”

I held up the stone. It contained the faintest pink hue.”

“How...?”

“How do you think?”

“My actions?”

“Of course. My strength comes from the offerings people make me, but this is different. This comes from what I value most. I will not be what others make me, but what I choose to be.”

“And that is...?”

“Can you not tell, daughter? Did I make you what you are without giving you the choice?”

“When Karen asked what I would give up, I could have refused.”

“It wasn't in you to refuse though. You chose the path of sacrifice...”

“And you gave me back more than I was prepared to surrender. For those who would take without asking, you took more from them. For those willing to give...”

“Or who show others how to give. I would be the goddess of kindness, Karen, and I would have you take your wife's name for yourself and bear it with pride. As much as you show kindness and teach others to do the same, so there will be manna in the stone.

“In this world there are too many who would take for themselves without considering what this means for those from whom they take. If everyone was this way, the world of men would soon be torn apart. There is a better way though. I would see the world filled with men and women who would give without considering what it means for them. Men and women such as you, for your generosity was in you as much as a man as it is now.

“Mourn your loss, child, for it is right to do so, but the night lasts only a while and in the morning comes the Sun.”

She faded into darkness and I awoke to find a puddle of drool leaking into my keyboard and several pages of the letter n on the screen. The screen also offered me a faint refection which was distinct enough to show a checkerboard pattern embossed across my left cheek.

The window was dark but for the street lamps. I checked the time on the computer and decided it was late enough for dinner. I heated up the remains of nextdoor’s casserole, cracking open a bottle of cab sav to wash it down. This time I did taste it all, enjoying the subtle nuances of both wine and food that Karen's more sensitive palate gave me.

It was still early when I'd finished, so I made myself a shopping list for the morning, then picked up my phone.

“Hello darling. I thought I was going to call you.”

“Hi Mum. I guess I beat you to it. I've been thinking about what we talked about at lunch...”

“Take your time over it, love. There's no rush.”

“No, I know, but I'm pretty sure I know what I want.”

“Okaaay.”

“The answer’s yes, but I don't want the foundation to be just for women.”

“Women have more need...”

“Do they though? Tea with the neighbours this afternoon turned into me kind of rescuing Mr Harris from his wife's disapproval, and then there are all the Michael's around us. People who are hiding their true selves because we live in a narrow-minded world that can't recognise them for the individuals they are.”

“Fine, we’ll talk about it. If you really want, you can try and start something, but remember where the money comes from and why they give it to us.

“In the end I hope you'll take the whole thing on, and then you can do with it what you like. Did you have a nice time this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I did. Adele invited me to a book club tomorrow morning.”

“That's sounds fun. Do you think you'll go?”

“I'm swinging that way, yeah. Do you want to meet for lunch afterwards, or maybe dinner?”

“I can't do lunch, I have a meeting, but dinner sounds good. Where were you thinking?”

“How about here? Karen wasn't much of a cook, I know, but how do you feel about giving Karen two point oh a try?”

“I'd feel a lot better if you dropped the two point oh rubbish. Seven-thirty sound good?”

“Sounds about right. Look, I know Karen would have known this, but is there anything I should avoid?”

“I'm not that fond of broccoli. Do you want me to bring anything?”

“Just your appetite. Love you Mum.”

“Er, yes. I love you too, darling.”

Yeah, that was going to take some adjustment. I crossed broccoli off the shopping list and left my notebook by the door.

Last night's nightdress was a bit of a tent on my small frame, so I looked through Karen's selection. Her preference was evidently much the same and I found one of an almost identical design. I settled into Karen's side of the bed – which is to say mine now – and snuggled down.

Karen was gone, or in a weird way she was me and Michael was gone. Being her brought some comfort, carrying our child brought more. Despite all that, right now I was alone in an empty house, and it hurt like hell.

But the morning would bring the Sun.