You Make My Heart Stop

by Becky Hunter

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A young woman must decide between her life on earth and her soulmate—who she can only meet in the afterlife—in this heart-wrenching, page-turning read about loss, love, and fate that is perfect for fans of Rebecca Serle and Josie Silver.

Release date: April 22, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

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 neighbors’, 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 coloring 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: Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. But she keeps glancing up, toward 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, toward 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 toward 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 centimeters 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 color, 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 tried 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 sure you’re okay.” She nods slowly.

“Well, I’m Emery.”

“Yes,” I agree. Her name is the only thing I already know about her.

“And this,” she announces with grandeur, “is weird.”

I’m half waiting for her to ask whether she’s dreaming. That happens a fair amount—people unable to let go, clinging to the possibility that they will return to consciousness. But she doesn’t. She looks around instead, and it’s only then that our surroundings come into focus, as the memory takes shape around us.

It’s a bedroom. The twin beds have matching linen—blue and white striped duvet covers, pillowcases with bright blue and purple flowers, and a white fluffy cushion to set the whole thing off. The room is an odd combination of understated—pale, faded green wallpaper—and over the top; a bright abstract painting with bold colors and shapes takes up half the wall opposite the beds. There’s a sink in the corner, with a small mirror and a wooden shelf hanging above it, where two toothbrushes sit in a plastic cup. A faint smell of bacon hovers in the air, coming from outside the closed door.

Emery goes to sit on one of the beds, reaches over to play with the lamp on the bedside table. A dim yellow glow flickers on and off around the room. “Hey, I remember this place,” she says.

I perch on the other bed. It creaks under my weight. “Tell me about it.”

She glances at me, and I see a flicker of unease there for the first time. Odd; the memory usually makes people feel more comfortable, not less. “Why?”

“Don’t you want to?”

She picks up the fluffy cushion from behind her, pulls it to her chest and looks at me over the top of it. I feel it again—that pull of recognition. Like I know her. Only that’s not quite right. Because that look she’s giving me—it feels like an older version of her is peering out at me. Something that can’t be possible.

“It’s BMB,” she says eventually.

Despite the situation, I feel my lips twitch. “Do you mean a B and B?”

“Right. That. We went on holiday—Mum, Dad and me and Amber.”

“Amber—that’s your sister?”

She nods. “My big sister,” she qualifies unnecessarily. To be fair, she doesn’t realize it’s unnecessary. “I was allowed to share a room with her. This room. She would never let me before because she said I would keep her awake. She said I snore.” She wrinkles her little button nose at the indignity of that. “Which I don’t.” She hugs the cushion tighter to her, and when she speaks again it’s with a frailty that sends a fracture through my heart. “Why are we here?” Her voice is so small. This is the reason I try to treat it all clinically, try not to let myself think too hard about the people themselves, what they are like, what they’ve lost. It’s the only way I stay sane.

“It’s a memory. It’s your memory.”

She frowns. “If it’s my memory, why isn’t Amber here?” She glances at the door, like she’s expecting her sister to walk through it. There is something so hopeful about her expression, and there it is again, the horrible twinge, something I wish I didn’t have to feel, because it’s too damn hard.

“She can’t come,” I say gently. “I’m sorry, but it’s just you and me.” Other people are never in the memories. I suppose it’s because they can’t come here in the same way—or maybe because if they were here, they wouldn’t leave room for me and what I have to do. But I think the memory still allows whoever I’m with to remember the people who made it special, and that must be part of the comfort.

Emery looks at me again, and I see some sort of realization settle on her. “I want to go home,” she whispers.

I don’t know what to say. No, that’s not true. I should tell her the truth. You can’t go home. I can hear the words in my mind, know the right tone to use, apologetic but firm. But they stick in my throat. I take a breath, and it feels shaky. The memory around us seems to tremble too. I think for a moment it’s me, that I’m losing my mind—because why not lose that too?—but Emery sits up straighter, her eyes darting around, her fingers turning white as they press into the cushion.

“What was that?” she asks sharply.

“I don’t know,” I say, before I can think better of it. She gives me a frightened look, and I curse myself inwardly. I’m here to make her feel better—I shouldn’t admit to not knowing things. But it’s true—I have no idea why the memory feels fragile, like it’s not solid enough around us. I want to blame it on her being so young, on the fact that her memories will be fragile because of that, but I’m not quite sure that’s it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared of you.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I know you’re a goodie.”

It nearly makes me laugh. Goodie. As opposed to “baddie,” I presume. There’s something weirdly satisfying at being classed as good by her, though. “How?” I can’t help asking.

She shrugs. “I just do.”

“Then why are you scared?” An obvious question, perhaps, but I need to get her talking about it.

She worries at her lip. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

Supposed to be here. It’s something I’ve grappled with many times over—the suddenness of death, who is or isn’t supposed to die, and when. Who decides that?

I get up, cross to the end of her bed and perch on it. Despite the shakiness of the memory earlier, the carpet feels solid enough underfoot. I wait until she makes eye contact, still curled up with her cushion at the head of the bed. “I can’t do much about the fact that you’re here,” I say, and my voice is almost a whisper. “But I promise you, you’re going to be okay.” I don’t usually promise anything of the sort. I’m very careful about the assurances I give—because I have no fucking clue what happens next. So I shouldn’t be promising her. But I can’t help it.

She takes a breath, nods. “Can I go back now? They’ll be worried about where I am.”

I start to open my mouth to speak, not even sure what I’m going to say, but something stops me. Things always feel very real in these memories—there might not be people, but right now I can hear the clatter coming from downstairs, and the smell of coffee has merged with the bacon. The tip of Emery’s head is reflected in the little mirror above the sink, and the duvet is soft where my palms rest on it. All of this I expect. What I don’t expect is the haze that is now settling around it all, like heat off sun-drenched tarmac. This, like the tremor, is something I’ve never seen before.

Usually, when they are ready, people fade. I’m not sure where they go or what happens exactly, but it’s almost like they recede into the memory itself, becoming a part of it, before everything disappears completely. But right now, Emery is not fading. She is becoming more solid, standing out against the haze of the memory.

“What’s happening?” Her voice is higher-pitched now, reflecting the frightened child she is. It brings me back to myself, makes me realize how I’ve been staring. She looks down at her hands, hands that are standing out in stark contrast to the murkiness of the memory. “What’s wrong?” she demands, and I’m reminded of the determination with which she got up from the grass and sprinted across the garden. What was she running toward? I want to ask, but I’m out of time.

“I…” I swallow, the words sticky in my throat. Because it shouldn’t be possible. “I think our time here is up.”

The tension in her body seems to ease at that, and she nods, like it’s an answer that makes perfect sense. She gives me a very considered look, for someone so young. “Will I see you again?”

I don’t know what to say. Usually, when I see someone, it is unequivocally the end. But with her, I get the sense that it’s all only just beginning.

All at once, she disappears, not with a gradual fade like the others but with a sudden absence, yanked away from this place completely, like she was never supposed to be here. And in the brief moment before I am joined by someone new, I whisper into the darkness, “Yes, I think you just might.”

AGE 5

Emery woke to the sound of her mum crying, which struck her as odd, because her mum never cried. Sometimes her face would go red, and her eyes would go all scary and shiny, but she never sobbed like she was doing now. It made Emery not want to open her eyes. Because it must be really, really bad if her mum was crying.

She could feel her mum’s hands on her chest, knew they were her hands because they smelled of that funny hand stuff she used. She knew she was lying on the ground outside because it was hard and bumpy underneath her back and the grass was tickling her bare feet and she could smell that grassy-earthy smell. She could feel the sun on her face and arms, and it was really warm, but actually she felt kind of cold right then, and as she thought that, she shivered. And that made everything hurt. A sharp, horrible pain that she didn’t want to feel again. Mostly where her mum’s hands were but sort of all over, too.

Her mum’s breathing hitched. “Emery?”

Emery opened her eyes, looking up into her mum’s blotchy face. She noticed that one of her hands was much hotter and stickier than the other and looked over to see Amber, completely white, gripping it. Beside Amber was the stick she’d been playing with moments ago. She’d dropped it, she remembered. As she’d fallen. And ouch, yes, that was why! She could still feel the thorn in her foot.

“You’re hurting my hand, Amber,” she said. Her voice scratched her throat on its way out.

Amber let go, and her mum laughed, though it sounded a bit like another sob. “James! James, she’s okay!”

“Oh my God, oh thank God.” Her dad’s voice sounded all breathy and weird. He wasn’t on the ground with them, but she could hear footsteps. “Emery, can I—”

“What are you doing?” her mum screamed. “You’re supposed to be on the phone to the ambulance!”

“Yes, and they’re coming,” her dad snapped.

“Well get back inside and find out how long they’ll be!” Emery flinched at the harsh tone. “Sorry,” her mum said, stroking her hair. “Sorry, darling.”

Emery blinked up at her. “What happened?”

“You were…” But her mum broke off. “How long, James?” she barked instead.

Emery tried to sit up, but her mum pushed her back down. Emery looked at Amber for help, but Amber was just staring at her, and her eyes looked really, really big, like maybe she’d start crying too. “Why do we need to go in an ambulance?” Emery asked. She knew about ambulances. They had lights and they carried very, very sick people to doctors to make them better. They were for people with broken legs or who were about to die. Emery looked down at her own legs, wriggled her toes experimentally. The thorn was still stinging, but otherwise her legs seemed fine.

But her mum was still looking at her weirdly, and Emery felt her lip start to wobble. “What’s wrong with me?”

Her mum let out another sob, so that when she said, “Nothing, you’re fine, darling,” it sounded like a lie.

But Amber was smiling now. “It’ll be fun, Little Em.” Her voice was croaky, like one of the bad guys in a film. “Maybe they’ll put the lights on.”

“But why? I’m fine. I think I just fell over. And then there was this man—”

“A man?” her mum asked sharply.

“Yes. A man. He was nice. He said he’d help me.” Emery bit her lip. “But I don’t think he knew what to do really. We were back in the BMB.” She frowned. “The B and B.” She looked up at her sister. “Remember, Amber? Me and you shared a room.”

“Darling,” her mum said hesitantly, “you haven’t left the garden.” She put a hand to Emery’s head, like she did when she was checking her temperature.

“He was real,” Emery said firmly.

“Well,” her mum said, her voice still all choked. “Well, he sounds…” But whatever he sounded like, Emery didn’t find out, because her mum trailed off. “James! Can’t you tell them to hurry up?”

“Yes, Alice, what do you think I’m doing?”

Emery looked at her sister. “He was real, Amber,” she said, sticking out her lip a bit for emphasis. “I saw him.”

Amber lifted her hand to brush hair out of her face. Her hand was shaking, Emery noticed. But she nodded. “I know.” Emery let out a relieved sigh. “Like Kitty, right?” Amber continued. And Emery’s heart sank, because it turned out her sister didn’t know. Because Kitty was made up—an imaginary friend—and this wasn’t like that at all.

Emery sat on a bed with white sheets, kicking her legs as she looked around the boring room while the doctor talked to her parents. There was nothing to do in here, and it smelled funny, and she could hear weird noises from the room next to them. They’d been here for ages while two different people had poked at Emery and put her through a machine, which had been scary, and then while they were waiting, Amber had found a piece of paper and a pen and they’d played tic-tac-toe, but even that had become boring after a while. And the doctor talking to her parents now wasn’t even the nice one. The woman had been nice. She’d asked Emery about her favorite things, and they’d found out they liked a lot of the same stuff, like strawberry ice cream, but not vanilla because that was boring, and fizzy cola bottles and The Aristocats.

“It’s a very rare heart condition,” the doctor was saying. He had a long nose and his two front teeth stuck out a bit. Emery looked at Amber, who was sitting on the other side of their mum while their dad paced around the room, and stuck her own front teeth out. Amber grinned but made a flapping gesture to tell her to stop it. She wasn’t that much older, really, but she did like telling Emery what to do.

“It’s a little like reflex anoxic syndrome, where the child stops breathing, only this time, it’s Emery’s heart that stops beating.”

“Stops beating?” her dad repeated, and Emery saw the warning look her mum gave him. Saw the glance her mum gave her. That was how she knew it was bad. She felt her heart give a little jolt, rested a hand there. She could feel it beating. She wanted to tell them that, but no one was looking at her anymore. She reached out for her mum’s hand, and her mum took it, squeezed.

“Shock can trigger it,” the long-nosed, big-toothed doctor continued, like her dad hadn’t said anything at all. “It doesn’t have to be something particularly painful or scary, just enough of a surprise to trigger a… spasm.”

Spasm. Emery had no idea what that was. Was it bad? He made it sound bad.

“The condition is in the very early stages of research, I’m afraid, so I can’t tell you an awful lot…” her mum muttered something under her breath at that, “but as long as her heart can be started again within four or five minutes, there should be no damage to her brain.”

Emery frowned. What did he mean, damage to her brain? Was her brain hurt now? She didn’t have a headache. Maybe she should tell them that, too.

“How are we supposed to do that?” her dad asked, and his voice sounded too high, all squeaky. He wouldn’t stand still. Emery watched him pace. He was still in the shorts he’d been wearing in the garden—his ugly brown ones—and those sandals he wore even though you could see his hairy big toe, and he looked silly in this white room, she decided.

“CPR training for a start,” the doctor was saying, “and you’ll need to make sure that any caregivers or teachers are aware of the condition and what to do.”

“And what if no one is around?” her dad asked. He said it quietly, like he thought Emery wouldn’t be able to hear, even though she was sitting right there. Grown-ups did this all the time—had conversations and thought she wasn’t listening. They did it less with Amber—no one really talked about Amber in front of Amber, and they didn’t talk about things they didn’t want overheard. That was why Emery was always the spy if she and Amber played a trick on their mum and dad. Not very often, only when Emery could make Amber play with her, but still.

“Like I said, we’re still in the early stages, but if her heart won’t restart of its own accord, then…” The doctor broke off, clearing his throat, and glanced at Emery. And fine, she might not understand everything he was saying, but she knew it was to do with her heart and her brain, and from the way her parents were reacting, it was . . .