Almost Forever Page 21

  ‘I know, right? That would be a sin …’ I agree, shaking my head. ‘Maybe you could take one of these vases for the reception desk, or maybe for the staff room,’ I suggest casually as if the idea only just came to me.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ Jane answers, genuinely pleased. ‘But only if you are really sure you don’t want them here any more.’

  ‘People keep bringing fresh ones every other day, so I’m sure we have enough to share around. In fact, if you know of any patients who may like some, please take a vase to them too,’ I say, secretly hoping that she takes them all.

  ‘Well, that’s really kind; there are a few patients upstairs who don’t get many visitors. I think it would bring a smile to their faces.’

  ‘Great, I’d love them to have as many as they like then,’ I say, looking at Paul and knowing that he’d be pleased with that too.

  ‘Also, we have balloons and quite a few teddy bears that may make some of the youngest patients smile. Shall I give you those as well?’ I ask her.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Francesca,’ she says, stopping for a second to look closely at me. I suddenly feel slightly nervous, really for no reason, but I can see she wants to say something and she is carefully looking for the right words. I entwine my fingers in front of me, waiting for her to say what’s on her mind, and hoping that I’m going to like it.

  ‘I was thinking …’ She pauses. ‘If I get a trolley, we can take everything at once and maybe you could come with me,’ she says expectantly.

  I turn my eyes to Paul immediately, thinking that if I do that, I’d have to leave him alone, and that’s not an option. Jane reads my thoughts and says, ‘Paul has to have his scan and a few other checks today, so I could arrange for us to do it then,’ she suggests.

  ‘Why does he need tests? Do they think there’s been a change in his condition?’ I ask, my voice a mix of hope and fear.

  She looks away quickly, pursing her lips, and when she returns her gaze to me again, her brown eyes are soft with understanding. ‘I’m sorry, I thought the doctor had already talked to you about that.’

  I shake my head. I can feel a slight sense of anxiety bubbling in my stomach.

  ‘They are routine checks, Francesca, so you shouldn’t worry,’ she reassures me with a smile. ‘I’ll just remind Dr Stewart to pop in to see you so you can ask him any questions you may have. Would that be good?’

  ‘Yes, yes please,’ I answer, trying not to worry, as she suggested, but I can’t quite shake the apprehension.

  ‘Good, I’ll talk to him,’ she says, finishing off the last of her tasks. ‘I’ll come back later, with the trolley,’ she reminds me on her way out.

  ‘Sure, thanks,’ I answer, forcing a cheerful smile on my lips, even though at the moment I’m feeling anything but. When the noise of her steps disappears in the distance, I walk to Paul and, with my fingers, I comb his hair to the side.

  ‘She is lovely, isn’t she?’ I ask him as if I’m totally expecting an answer, which doesn’t come. ‘But she doesn’t know that you like your hair parted to the side,’ I say, wanting to sound merry, but when my voice breaks, I have to take a minute to concentrate on my breathing.

  ‘There,’ I say once I’m done. ‘You are as handsome as ever, Mr FitzRoy …’ I tell him, kissing his lips, then resting my forehead on his. I look at him through the tears. I know I can’t keep up this farce any longer. ‘I miss you so much, Paul,’ I say with my eyes closed. The pain is unbearable and I have to grip tightly to him, trying not to fall apart. ‘Tell me what to do?’ I beg.

  In the past six weeks, we have tried everything we could think of, hoping that Paul would wake up if I talk to him about the future, about the past. I played his favourite music for him, I read him books I know he loved, I stayed with him every single minute I could, holding his hand, kissing his lips, brushing his hair, listening to his heart, but still he didn’t wake up.

  I’m in constant pain at the thought that Paul may never hold me again, that I will never see his eyes looking at me, or hear his laugh again.

  Other than the experimental treatment from the clinic in Baltimore, we have nothing else left to try. The doctors are running out of options too and they are discouraging us from looking for treatments abroad and experts we find online. I trust their opinion, of course, and I know they are giving Paul the best care possible, but I feel so powerless and discouraged, that hoping we will find some sort of miraculous cure for him is the only thing that keeps me sane.

  Didn’t we do the same for Josephine? Going from specialist to specialist, trying new medicines and old remedies for years, until the end? I swallow the bitter realisation that for the first time, since Paul came out of surgery, I’m starting to fear the worst. For the first time, the awareness that Paul may never wake up is sinking in. I shake those thoughts away and start to whisper quiet words of love to him.

  I frame his face with my palms. ‘I miss your eyes, Paul. Their beautiful colour, like a clear sky on a sunny day. I love how bright the blue becomes when you are happy, how they glow with cold fire when you are angry, and when you are annoyed, they speak louder than words. I love to watch them darkening when you kiss me … and see the love swimming in them, when you look at me.’

  The sobs force me to stop talking but I have so much I want to say to him that I take a deep breath and push the words through the tears. ‘Paul,’ I say with a shaky voice. ‘I can’t do this any more,’ I confess to him and to myself. ‘I need you to wake up, Paul. I know your body needed to heal, I know your brain suffered a great trauma but I can’t look at you lying in this bed any more. Please open your eyes. Please look at me, Paul. Please …’

  I’m trying my best to keep hold of my control, but I break into a full-on meltdown. The tears are a flood that cannot be contained, and my heart is pumping desperation into my veins. ‘Paul, wake up … wake up …’ I say, shaking him lightly, and when he doesn’t, I do the only thing I can, to get some relief from the pain. I dry my tears with the sleeve of my sweater, turn my head to the side and, leaning softly over his chest, I listen to his heart.

  His breathing is shallow, but his heart is beating strong, full of life, and every time I hear its steady drumming, I can’t stop believing that Paul will be fine.

  Harry comes at midday and so does Dr Stewart. I’m sitting in the chair at Paul’s side; my hand is lying softly on his arm. Harry is standing next to me, while the doctor is facing us from the other side of the bed.

  ‘As I said, Paul’s situation hasn’t changed but I personally feel that a scan at this point may give us a better understanding of what’s happening to Paul’s brain. It would give us the chance to evaluate any possible swelling or bleeding that, if undetected, may lead to further damage, which is something we need to avoid and …’

  ‘Why didn’t you do a scan earlier then?’ I ask, slightly annoyed.

  ‘Scans bombard the body with radiation and we are trying to avoid doing unnecessary procedures where possible.’

  I’m not convinced by his explanation, but before I can challenge him again, Harry steps in to the conversation.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Stewart, we understand you are using a soft touch to keep an optimal balance. We will appreciate an update once you have the results.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replies before excusing himself.

  ‘I think they should do more,’ I tell Harry. He purses his lips, his face serious. ‘No?’ I press on.

  ‘I think they are doing their best,’ he answers, placing his hand on my shoulder. ‘Also, the consultant from the clinic in Baltimore said he needs to see a recent scan to be able to evaluate the situation.’

  Hundreds of questions fill my head. ‘So there may be hope?’ It’s the only comment I make.

  Harry pats my shoulder and says softly, ‘Always, Fran. Always.’

  We leave the room only when they are ready to take Paul upstairs. I kiss him good luck and, reluctant to let him out of my sight, I walk next to him all th
e way to the lift. My heart is beating too fast when the door shuts between us. Feeling quite dizzy, I go to sit in the waiting room while Harry offers to get us some coffee. He returns with two take-away cups, not long after.

  ‘Darren said you only have a single shot these days,’ he comments, passing me the cup in his right hand.

  ‘Very kind of Darren to remember,’ I answer, hoping to move away quickly from the topic – not wanting to have to tell Harry that my nausea is pretty much constant and coffee just makes it worse.

  ‘I thought you liked your latte strong?’

  I cringe inside at his question, but I lift my eyes to him and smile.

  ‘I did,’ I say, trying to keep my tone even, ‘when I had one a day. Now I have at least three and I found it hard to sleep after six shots of caffeine.’

  ‘Mhm,’ he answers, taking at sip.

  I’m waiting for him to keep prodding but the noise of squeaking wheels claims our attention. I turn to see Jane, heading towards us with an empty trolley. When she mentioned a trolley, in my head I pictured a metal one, the kind that you would get at the supermarket, while the one she is pushing down the corridor has shelves.

  ‘Ready?’ she asks, looking from me to Harry who is staring at her with a puzzled face.

  ‘Jane has offered to distribute the flowers from Paul’s room around the ward. The scent is so intense, they are giving me headaches,’ I explain to Harry, who nods in agreement, especially because I already told him I wanted them gone.

  ‘Also, I suggested we donate the balloons and the teddies to the paediatric ward, if they want them …’ I say, looking at Jane.

  ‘Oh, yes, they do. Any excuse to have a celebration and a bit of fun – it’s always welcome.’

  I smile at her words, even if I can read in between them the sadness of her statement.

  ‘I’d be happy to help,’ says Harry and that gives me the perfect opportunity to send him with Jane, in my stead. ‘You go with Jane,’ I suggest. ‘I’ll tidy up the room while Paul is upstairs. Make some space for the next wave,’ I say. Jane nods but I can see she knows I’m just using that as an excuse, so I don’t have to go with her.

  ‘Happy to accompany you, Jane,’ says Harry, pleased to have something to do while we wait.

  ‘Great!’ she answers and we head to Paul’s room. They take with them as much as they can carry, and when they leave, the place seems much bigger and definitely less suffocating without all those flowers. I realise I will miss the balloons but think of the kids who will watch them float and I know it’s better if they have them. With a smile, I get to work.

  I pick the cards, one by one, opening them quickly to see who they are from and reading the messages again, which I only skim-read the first time around because there were just too many all at once.

  The messages are encouraging and warm-hearted. Some are addressed to Paul only, but most of them are for me too, and reading them, I feel the affection of all these people around me.

  I pick up Sara’s card. It was nice to see her after so many years – she still looked so young and it seems impossible to think she used to be our nanny. A photo falls out of it. I pick it up from the floor and look at it with a smile. I remember it was taken the day before Sara had her plaster removed, when she broke her tendon, skipping rope.

  We are all in it apart from Becca, who is the one taking the photo.

  Harry, front and centre, is grinning an enormous smile. Paul and I are either side of him sitting on the grass. We look happy. Sara has Robert on her lap and Josephine is next to her.

  I put the card to the side and sit on the bed looking at the picture in detail.

  ‘I wish you were here,’ I whisper, looking at a beautiful Josephine. A teardrop falls on the photograph, and I dry it off gently with my fingertips, realising that I’m still grieving her death.

  It has been less than six months since Josephine passed away, I tell myself as justification for the pain that I feel in my chest and, even knowing it will break my heart, I let the memories transport me back in time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Josephine Du Pasquier was just incredible. As a woman, as a dancer, as a mother.

  I met her when she had already retired so I never got to see her dance live on stage. I watched the recordings of her performances many times, so I know why they called her ‘l’Ange’ – the Angel. She literally flew on the notes of beautiful classical music, she was weightless in the arms of her partners, unforgettable in the eyes of her fans.

  It was not difficult to believe that she had so many admirers. She struggled to fend them off when she was at the peak of her career. The week leading up to her twenty-second birthday, Josephine was so fed up with the constant attention from the media and her suitors, so annoyed with the fact that she couldn’t leave her hotel room without being surrounded or followed, that she took off without saying a word to anyone and vanished from Paris for an entire week. Leaving the paparazzi without a target, and the gossip magazines to speculate about her disappearance, she involuntarily started a manhunt that would last several weeks.

  She went home to Marseille to take a breath of fresh air. Luckily no one thought of looking for her there. In fact, they were all too busy speculating about her secret relationship with a sheikh, her possible involvement in a Hollywood movie, or the fact that she was hiding an illicit affair, that nobody thought she’d simply gone to a place where she could be herself.

  Her parents owned a restaurant, La Falaise, on a rocky cliff over the Mediterranean Sea. Her brother Marten, who studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, and spent a few years in a two Michelin star restaurant in the capital, returned home ready to transform his parents’ friendly diner into a top-end nouvelle cuisine establishment. He succeeded in a very short period of time, taking his name and his parents’ restaurant to the forefront of world culinary fame.

  Still, La Falaise was home for Josephine, so she stripped off her celebrity status together with her designer shoes and her make-up, put on an apron, and resumed her old, simpler role of daughter and waitress. After a day, she was already finding her balance and her confidence, then Albert walked into the restaurant with a group of friends and swept her off her feet. In return, she put a spell on him that never wore off.

  Albert was twenty-seven at the time, fresh out of a university course that he stretched out further than necessary to avoid having to start working in the family business. He had been spending the summer in the family villa in St-Tropez and was on his way to a weekend of horseback riding, in Camargue. Having read rave reviews of La Falaise in the paper, he insisted they stop there for lunch.

  Albert always said it was love at first sight between them; Josephine was convinced it was already written in their destiny, and they were just playing it out in their own way. They saw each other for who they really were in a place where they were just Josephine and Albert, and not a prima ballerina and the heir to the FitzRoys’ fortune.

  ‘Come with us,’ Albert had said to her spontaneously.

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed just as impulsively.

  When Albert’s entourage returned to the Cote d’Azur, he and Josephine decided to stay behind and take a little time alone to get to know each other better. They managed to visit Montpellier, Carcassonne, Aigues Mortes, and Nîmes, before the press got wind of Josephine’s whereabouts and splashed their faces on the front pages of all the main tabloids.

  The allegations about their affair were varied and fanciful. Most of them seemed to agree that the FitzRoys had forced her to give up her career for him, and because of the bad publicity, she lost her position as prima ballerina in Paris. Josephine didn’t care about that, nor about the wicked gossip they published, because she was happily tucked away in a love bubble with the man she wanted to marry and didn’t think that those lies could cause any harm.

  Albert, however, was shocked to discover Josephine’s real identity, as he thought he had fallen in love with a waitress. He was upset by the fact that she
had hidden her fame from him, as much as the fact that he came across as a chauvinist in all the major European newspapers.

  Albert decided to return to London, promising Josephine that he would never get in the way of her fame and her career again.

  They were separated for a few months, and after putting her heart back together, Josephine resumed her career, and moved to London.

  Albert was unhappy. Unable to get Josephine out of his mind or his heart, he was desperate to find a way to win her back. So when he found out that Josephine was performing Giselle at the Royal Opera House, he couldn’t resist the need to see her.

  The story of Giselle was so tragically romantic, in its desperately sad account of her unrequited love and her death caused by her broken heart, that Albert couldn’t any longer separate Giselle’s fictitious character from Josephine, the woman performing it. He was in love, desperately in love, and he jumped through all the hoops she put in his way to her heart.

  When she was sure he was in love with her, she forgave him and they were engaged soon after. They looked amazing together, and their life seemed to be carved out from a fairy-tale book. I think everyone who ever saw them together wanted to believe their love would last forever. Josephine had become my surrogate mother. Since the day I met her and for the fifteen years that followed she had supported me and helped me through life.

  She died when I was twenty-five, the week before I started my PhD, a month after Paul and I moved in together.

  One Saturday morning, during the last summer we had with her, Paul brought me breakfast in bed and three boxes stacked on top of each other.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said impressed by the way he always pampered me. ‘What are these?’ I asked him intrigued by the mysterious boxes.

  ‘Presents for you.’

  ‘It’s not my birthday for a month yet,’ I reminded him.

  ‘I know, but twenty-five is quite a special number so I want to make sure I have enough time to organise it properly.’

  ‘Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re giving me presents now?’