Almost Forever Page 24

  ‘This is beautiful, thank you,’ I tell Georgie, squeezing her hand.

  ‘Also, this,’ she says. ‘Folic acid. You should start it straight away. I read everywhere it’s very important especially in the first three months.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say again, taking the plastic container from her hands, looking briefly at the label.

  ‘Want to see the rest?’ Harry asks, so we sit at the table, while the rest of the stuff they bought makes an appearance. I look at everything in detail, but I can’t stop thinking that Paul is missing out on so much already.

  Georgie reads my thoughts and says, ‘Oh, look at the time. I’d better be off.’

  ‘Georgie has a date waiting for her,’ Harry tells me in a slightly childish tone. I think he’s trying too hard to be fun today and he’s coming across a little bit forced.

  ‘A date?’ I look at her, surprised that she hasn’t mentioned that, although I’ve been so focused on Paul first and now the baby that she probably hasn’t seen the point of talking to me about her life.

  ‘It’s not really a date,’ she clarifies. ‘Before we went shopping, I stopped to grab a coffee and Darren said that I had a beautiful smile …’ Harry flutters his eyelashes in a playful way, and I decide that I’m going to forgive his weird mood, as long as he returns to normal by tomorrow.

  ‘Anyway,’ Georgie continues, ‘I said I had some happy news so he suggested we celebrate with a drink. That’s all. He was just being friendly,’ she says modestly.

  ‘Well, Darren seems like a decent guy,’ I comment while she stands up.

  ‘I guess it’s just a drink and if I’m too boring, he’ll excuse himself and go home,’ she says, almost as if she trying to convince herself that she is not nervous and has no expectations whatsoever for tonight.

  ‘Have fun and text me later. Let me know how it goes,’ I tell her while we hug each other goodbye.

  ‘Of course, you’ll be the first to know that nothing happened,’ she says, while walking over to Paul to kiss him gently before heading for the door.

  ‘Stay safe,’ Harry calls out to her, but Georgie walks off without a comment. I think she is trying to ignore him.

  When we are alone I look at Harry with serious eyes. He’s never acted this silly in his life and I can tell he’s doing it to hide something, and I want to know what that is.

  ‘Tell me more about Paul’s aneurysm,’ I ask him, needing to know the truth. Not wanting to continue in ignorance.

  ‘There is not much to say. The aneurysm is there and they are keeping a close eye on it.’

  ‘What are they going to do to fix it then?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he answers and my shoulders sag. ‘What the doctor said was that in an ideal scenario he would suggest clipping the aneurysm to avoid the risk of a rupture,’ Harry adds, trying to give me a simple explanation. ‘Although, given Paul’s delicate situation, they think it’s safer to just monitor it for now, hoping that Paul wakes up before they go messing around inside his skull.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound right,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘That’s too dangerous, Harry. That’s like leaving him in a room with a time bomb.’

  ‘Yes, but cutting his head open and tampering with his brain could set off the charges …’

  I cringe at his words and he swears under his breath.

  ‘Sorry, Fran,’ he says crouching down in front of me, moving some of the baby essentials on my lap to the table.

  We are now eye to eye, speaking heart to heart.

  ‘I know this is hard to hear but they are the professionals, and if they think that taking Paul into surgery is too much for him to cope with, I think we should listen to them.’

  I feel a sense of desperation creeping back up from the pit of my stomach. I only seem to spot the roadblocks ahead.

  ‘How about the clinic in Baltimore?’ I ask, allowing myself to feel a little hope, looking at Harry for some reassuring news. ‘What did they say?’

  He shakes his head slightly while holding my hands in his. ‘I called them again earlier, told them about the aneurysm, and they say that until that situation is resolved, they won’t even look at his file. Too risky.’

  ‘Do you see, Harry? We need to tell Dr Stewart that he needs to fix it, otherwise we’ll miss out on this opportunity and God knows what else …’

  ‘Hey. Hey,’ Harry says, squeezing my hands and trying to stop me from freaking out. ‘It’s late now. We can’t really do anything until tomorrow anyway, so why don’t you sleep on it tonight and see how you feel in the morning?’ he suggests and I have to agree with him. Getting all worked up now would do no good to anyone, especially the baby.

  ‘Fine, I won’t do anything now but I don’t need to sleep on it. I want to talk to Dr Stewart tomorrow and ask him to set a date for the surgery.’

  ‘Fine,’ Harry agrees.

  ‘Promise?’ I ask in confirmation.

  ‘Promise,’ he replies, kissing my hands, which are still in his.

  ‘Now, let’s eat some dinner. All that shopping really made me hungry,’ he says, standing up and rubbing his tummy like a toddler would do. I smile, grateful that he’s here helping me through this. And help is definitely what I need for what’s about happen.

  I don’t know if it’s just because I’m exhausted, or because the grace period I got from the saline they gave me has run out already, but what hits me after a few mouthfuls of food, any food, is a stomach-churning, will-bending, life-sucking sickness, which turns me inside out.

  Absolutely everything, and anything, makes me feel sick. Eating or drinking is out of question and even the smell of dry toast brings up the bile that sat in my stomach.

  I spend a lot of my time walking from Paul’s room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the waiting room and from there, back again in the bathroom. I don’t know if this is caused by the fact that my brain is now aware I’m expecting, and has decided to bombard me with as many early pregnancy ailments as possible, or I’m just one of those unlucky people who’s going to have a rough ride.

  Apart from the constant nausea, I have a splitting headache, I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open, and my breasts are so big and tender that I don’t have any bras that fit me any more. I’m too exhausted to do anything. Even getting out of Paul’s bed, washing myself, or getting dressed, is too much to ask.

  ‘Look, Fran,’ says Harry after a week of this. ‘You really look terrible. You need to go home, take a shower, sleep, and vomit in your own bathroom.’

  ‘I showered earlier and these are the fresh clothes you brought me yesterday.’ He raises an eyebrow at my lie so I say, ‘Fine, the day before yesterday. Who cares, they are still good,’ I tell him, scratching the back of my head that’s getting intolerably itchy as discreetly as I can.

  ‘The doctor gave us a date for the surgery,’ Harry reminds me. ‘And it’s next week so nothing is going to happen until then. Also, there is really nothing we can do that the doctors are not doing already. Go home, Fran. Run a bath, watch a chick-flick with Georgie, book an appointment with the hairdresser, and look after my niece …’ he says halfway between encouraging and fed up.

  ‘How are you so sure she’s a girl?’ I carefully choose to ignore the rest of his demands.

  ‘She told me so,’ Harry answers, smiling down at my tummy.

  ‘Yeah? Did she also say what name she’d like to have?’

  ‘Giselle,’ he answers, leaving us both gobsmacked.

  I look at him, swallowing so many emotions I can’t even understand them all. Harry seems as shocked as I do.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says quickly, mortified. ‘It just came out. I wasn’t thinking straight and then it just came out. It’s really not my place and I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘No, no,’ I tell him, placing my hand softly on his cheek. ‘It’s perfect. It’s just perfect.’ And I really love the name but the fact that I should be discussing names with Paul and not Harry is quite disconcerting for bot
h of us. Since I found out that I’m pregnant, Harry has been covering for Paul’s absence and sharing the responsibility for this baby. We are both cautious at acknowledging that these specials moments are the only glimpse of happiness we have in our lives at the moment.

  That aside, I go about doing the things that I usually do. Talking to Paul, reading him a book, holding his hand, caressing his hair; but something has changed inside my heart and I can’t stop fidgeting. The baby needs my attention as much as Paul does, and by neglecting myself I’m neglecting the baby and letting Paul down.

  ‘I think I should go home, take a bath, relax,’ I eventually say to Harry, three days after he first mentioned it. ‘Are you sure you are happy to stay here tonight?’ I ask him.

  ‘Of course. You just go, take the weight off your feet for a few hours. I’ll call you if there is anything, even the smallest thing. I promise.’ And with those words still ringing in my head, I leave the hospital for the first time in what feels a century. I decide to walk to the station and ride the train home. I just need to see people and the city alive and buzzing around me.

  It’s nice to take a breath of fresh air after interminable days and restless nights closed into those four hospital walls. I take a deep breath and think of Harry and how much harder it must be for him to be stuck indoors. I was always a bookworm, happy to sit for hours in the same spot with my nose in the pages of the latest book, but Harry was never like that.

  I remember how much he always suffered when we were little and Josephine was in hospital for weeks at a time. I sat and read to her. Paul was older and very disciplined. Robert was too young to stay over at the hospital for a long time so he just came to say hello to his mummy and then went back home with Sara. Harry, however, understood the need for him to be there, but I could see the suffering in his eyes as he forced his body into restrained passivity.

  Harry had always been the most outdoorsy of us all. Over the years he dragged us up mountains, and down deep caves, forced us to into week-long scuba-diving adventures and into the rainforest. We went around the world with him, and for as much as I made his life a misery during those numerous expeditions, complaining about the lack of facilities and the bad sanitation, the size of the seaplane and the safety of the pirogue he made me get into, the numbing cold and the blazing heat, I’m glad he took me with him.

  I smile at the incredible memories of so many adventures, so many exotic places, just the three of us, always together. How would we ever cope if Paul’s surgery didn’t go to plan? Paul’s recovery is paramount for all of us, and not just for me and his baby growing inside me, unaware of how poorly her daddy is. Her … I realise Harry has convinced me we are having a girl. We? Oh my God, this is getting so messed up. I cover my face with my hands and try to put everything into perspective.

  I remind myself that Paul is just a few days away from a surgery that will change everything for the better, and even if, at times, it’s hard to maintain a positive outlook, I tell myself that everything is going to be all right. I walk out of the station with the best intentions, thinking of the healthy dinner I’ll cook for myself and the long shower I’ll take after my substantial meal, but when I finally get into the house, I’m so tired from the walk that all I want is to rest for a while. In fact, as soon as I reach my bed, I’m too tired to do anything other than curl up under the duvet and fall asleep immediately.

  I’m struggling to tell if I’m dreaming or I’m awake when I hear an insistent, familiar noise, invading my slumber. It’s slowly bringing me back to the surface of consciousness, layer by layer. I feel my body and my mind rising from the torpor, as I become more and more aware of my surroundings. I open my eyes but I can’t quite focus on the room around me, or the noise that woke me in the first place. I feel uncomfortably hot, suffocating, so I kick the duvet off me only to realise I’m still completely dressed.

  The curtains are open and a dull grey glow is illuminating the room. The beeping noise is still harassing my hazy brain. I know the sound but I’m unable to remember exactly what it is or where it’s coming from. I close my eyes and force my brain to snap out of its lethargy. When it does so, I realise that the noise is my phone ringing.

  Panic takes over as I scramble off the bed and run for my handbag. I reach for my mobile and drop it as it slips through my clumsy, sleep-filled fingers. Kneeling on the carpet to retrieve it, I try to answer the call. Seeing the number, I realise it’s my answering machine and immediately I press two to hear the message.

  A robotic voice tells me I have five new messages. The first one plays.

  ‘Fran! Where are you? Call me!’ Harry’s voice is frantic and I start to shake harder as the second message starts to play. ‘Fran, they’re taking Paul into theatre. Are you on your way?’

  It’s not just my hands that are shaking now; it’s my whole body as I process what’s happening. I struggle to press the right number to skip the pre-recorded instructions and get immediately to the next message. It’s Harry again.

  I know there are other messages queued in the answering machine but I don’t care to hear them, instead I just hit Harry’s number. I fidget with my engagement ring as I impatiently wait for the phone to ring through. It feels like it takes an eternity.

  When Harry finally answers, the news he gives me doesn’t actually register. I’m too busy trying to calm myself down.

  ‘Harry, please say that again,’ I beg him.

  ‘All right, please try to stay calm. There was a rupture and they had to rush Paul into the operating theatre.’

  ‘Oh my God, they should have scheduled the operation sooner,’ I whisper, holding my hand against my mouth to stop the sobbing as I fall to the floor, after my knees crumple under the weight of Harry’s words.

  ‘It’s not the same aneurysm that ruptured, Fran. There was a second one – a smaller one – that went undetected. They don’t know when the rupture happened; they only discovered it in the morning. Paul’s still in surgery,’ Harry says.

  With my phone still attached to my ear, I grab my handbag and run to the door. ‘I’m on my way,’ I say with a voice strangled with fear.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It takes almost forty endless minutes to get to the hospital.

  As I approach the entrance, I spot Harry waiting for me at the door. His face is pale, and with bags under his eyes, he’s almost unrecognisable.

  ‘Any news?’ I ask, afraid of what he may answer.

  He shakes his head. ‘Still in surgery.’

  ‘I need to see him,’ I say to Harry, who’s somehow obstructing me.

  ‘You can’t. Paul’s still in surgery,’ he repeats, slower.

  Exhausted, still wearing the same clothes as the previous day, with my empty stomach now full of fear, I’m spoiling for a fight.

  ‘I’m going up anyway. I want to be there when he comes out.’

  ‘Fran. We need to talk first.’

  I walk to the lift, ignoring him.

  ‘Fran, please, I need to talk to you. Please, let’s just sit down for a minute.’

  I’m not listening to him. I know he wants to warn me about everything that could go wrong during and after the surgery, and I don’t want to hear it again. I don’t want to think of that.

  ‘I want to go up to the ward – we can talk there,’ I say, calling the lift.

  He stands next to me, then steps in front of the door when it opens.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask him with unexpected anger.

  ‘Fran,’ Harry says calmly and I’m suddenly scared by his composure. ‘They will have to take him back to the ICU when he comes out.’

  ‘I don’t care, I’ll go to ICU, but I’m certainly not going to wait here. Now get out of my way.’

  Harry doesn’t move and I feel a panic attack brewing in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Harry?’ I shout.

  So, very close to becoming hysterical, I can feel I’m losing the grip on my control.

&nbs
p; ‘Fran, they don’t know how much damage the bleeding has done to his brain,’ Harry says eventually, while holding me by my arm. The elevator’s door shuts again.

  ‘The chances of Paul making it out at all aren’t good. Fran, you need to prepare yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that maybe Paul won’t make it out of surgery today.’

  ‘B-but …’ I stammer. ‘That’s just nonsense …’ I say, trying to tug my arm free from his grip.

  ‘Please, Fran, you need to pull yourself together,’ Harry says with a finality that tells me he has reached the end of his patience.

  ‘Just let go of me,’ I demand and he does it immediately, but still barring the way.

  ‘Come with me,’ he begs me, taking my hand in his.

  He walks down the corridor, turns to the left into a little quiet area near the service lifts that no one is using, and turns to me. We stand in front of each other for what feels like an eternity and then he says calmly, ‘Paul may not make it.’

  His words sting and I flinch at them as if he has slapped me.

  The realisation that Paul may die and I will never see his eyes again, or talk to him, or kiss him, or hold him – the reality that he may never get to meet his baby – it’s crippling.

  I lean against the wall behind me for support, but when my legs buckle, I slide to the floor, in too much pain to even cry.

  ‘Harry,’ I whisper, and his name is the only word I can say before the world comes crashing down on me.

  Harry holds me in his arms, trying to stop me from falling apart, but this time not even his strength and his affection can stop that from happening. I feel the hope I’ve cultivated so carefully dying away like crops under the ferocity of the sun and I don’t know what I should do, so I cry and cry, purging my heart from the pain and fear.

  Eventually, we make it back into the world around us. The hospital is full of people busy with their own lives, with their own joys, and their own tragedies. A powerful force, a mix of fear, stress, anxiety, and frustration, is gnawing at me as we wait, consuming all my energy.