Almost Forever Read online

  I force Harry to tell me all the possible outcomes we can expect, and those possibilities are so bleak that Paul dying during surgery is by far the kindest option.

  Desperation takes hold of me and I sink to a dark, scary place, where fear is so complete, it is my only companion.

  Albert and Robert arrive at the hospital soon after I did and the look of distress on their faces is a match for mine. We hug in silence, knowing that we are waiting for a miracle.

  I talk to Becca and my father, and ask them not to come. I do the same to Georgie even if I know she won’t listen. I want their support, but if they are all here, it will feel too much like a goodbye, and I’m not ready to accept that.

  The wait in the relatives’ room is just as excruciating, almost as frightening as the first time I was here, and in many ways even more so, because now the hope that we had back then has been wiped away by the doctor’s lack of faith in Paul’s recovery.

  There are other people in the room with us this time. Some have smiles on their faces; others have sorrow in their eyes. I look away from all of them, keeping my head bowed.

  I walk to the window. The brick wall stares back at me, straight and still and unchanged, but spring has arrived and nature is waking up in all its beauty. If I go on my tiptoes I can see a glimpse of green. I can see the top of the tallest tree from the park on the other side of the square. I turn my attention to the outside world, which keeps spinning unaware of my pain. Harry comes to me, sits on the windowsill.

  ‘Fran,’ he says, but I look at him and softly place my finger over his lips and shake my head, begging him not to say anything. He takes my raised hand in his and kisses it softly in understanding and I know that if Harry leaves me even for just a second I will succumb to the horror of what’s happening to Paul.

  I’m sicker than ever before, desperately hungry but even a morsel of something inoffensive would make me run for the toilet, so I fight the pangs in my stomach, sipping ice cold water and sitting near the window.

  When Dr Stewart enters the room, my breathing turns into quiet sobs. His face tells me what my heart doesn’t want to know and my brain doesn’t want to understand.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I whisper ready to crumble.

  Albert is the one taking charge of the situation. Dr Stewart tells us that they did their best but the damage to Paul’s brain was so extensive that he is now on life support.

  There are words floating around me, but I can’t seem to grasp the meaning of them. All I know is that Paul is not dead and all I want is to be with him. Nothing else matters.

  ‘I want Paul,’ I say so quietly that only Harry seems aware I have spoken. I say it again louder, and he pushes the request further on my behalf.

  Dr Stewart seems reluctant to grant my wish. ‘Francesca,’ he says, looking at me with a detached and professional demeanour. ‘Paul is in recovery now. You will be able to see him when we bring him back into his room. I have to warn you,’ he says, clearing his throat, ‘he has a large scar over the side of his head, and he’s now attached to a ventilator and several other machines. I want you to be prepared because it will be quite traumatic.’

  I lift my hand over my mouth and his eyes soften.

  ‘He is not in any pain, I can assure you of that, and we’ll adjust his medication to guarantee that he’s comfortable.’

  Harry encircles my shoulders with his arm and I rest my head on his chest for a minute, letting Dr Stewart’s words sink in.

  When I’m finally allowed to see Paul, I’m a nervous wreck. My hands are shaking so much, Harry has to open the door for me. No forewarning could prevent the shock of seeing Paul attached to a ventilator with a dozen tubes going in and out of his body. I suck in air trying really hard to stop the scream that wants to escape my lungs and fill the heartbreaking silence around me.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ I say to Paul, walking to his side and taking his hand in mine. ‘You’ve been really brave, all the way through this,’ I say with enormous pride, thinking that he really has endured a great deal already and he deserves a breather. ‘Have some rest now,’ I say. ‘Get your energy back ready for the next round.’ I smile at my own lies while tears are flowing down my cheeks. I can’t even kiss his lips now that he has the tube of the ventilator running into his mouth and my heart is breaking, the only connection I had left with him has been taken away from me.

  A blast of intolerable pain explodes into my chest, so I try to rub the ache away with my fist while I look at the man I love so completely, in the very last stage of his life.

  It’s too soon. It’s too sudden. It’s not the end, I tell myself, placing my palm over his heart and closing my eyes. I tune out the beeping and the noise of the pump, and imagine us in all those beautiful moments that made our lives so perfect, and I let the hours pass.

  When the night falls over the city, Harry takes me home. He has to force me out of the room when the nurse says that I’m not allowed to stay with Paul out of visiting hours.

  The idea of leaving him alone all night is terrifying. I think of him imprisoned by the dark, bound to a bed, alone, with strangers who may frighten him and noises he won’t recognise, and I fight with everyone who’s trying to make me leave. Only when I see the distress on Harry’s face, do I relent and let him guide me outside.

  We ride all the way home in silence, sitting next to each other in the back of a cab. I feel numb and maybe that’s for the best.

  We get out of the cab and walk up the steps. I get the keys from my purse but my hands are shaking so much, my eyes are blurred, and I can’t find the right one.

  Harry gently takes them from me, opens the door, and helps me in.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble, walking to the lounge and immediately collapsing on the sofa. I close my eyes and rub my face with my hands. I feel sick, but the pregnancy is not to blame this time.

  I take deep breaths and let the exhaustion numb the pain. Time goes by but I no longer care. I don’t know what day it is; I don’t care if it’s time to sleep or eat. Without Paul I’m stuck in an alternative dimension where nothing really matters.

  ‘Here,’ Harry says, sitting next to me.

  I open my eyes, and he smiles, holding a mug. I can’t stop admiring his patience. He should be shouting at me for the scene I caused at the hospital; instead he’s made me a cup of tea. I’m too bitter, too sad, too scared to be nice so I say, ‘I can’t have caffeine any more.’ A reminder of the long list of thing I can no longer ingest now that I’m pregnant.

  ‘It’s decaf. Georgie bought it for you the day we found out about the baby,’ he says in a disarmingly caring way that warms my heart and sweeps aside my negative emotions.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, taking the mug from him with both hands and smiling for the first time since I left the hospital the day before. I sip it carefully and it’s delicious, a mix between vanilla and coconut that smooths my rough edges. I try to think of tomorrow with positivity.

  ‘How long before I’ll be allowed back at night?’ I ask Harry, worried that he may say a week, or, worse, a month.

  He looks back at me with troubled eyes. ‘Fran,’ he says, shifting his position so he can face me. He swallows, then says, ‘I don’t think you’ll ever be allowed to stay with Paul at night again.’

  I stare back at him with a frown. I understand why he’s so pessimistic, but surely this is just temporary, like the last time he was in surgery. Things will settle down again and they will bring the folding cot back into his room so I can be with him, all the time. Harry lifts his hand and softly moves a strand of my hair that has gone astray. He then lowers his palm to caress my cheek before returning it to his lap. He lowers his gaze too, fiddles with his watch, and then turns to me again.

  ‘Fran.’ His voice comes out strangled. ‘I wish there was something that I could say to change the reality of what happened to Paul, but he is on life support, sweetheart. He is not going to get better …’

  ‘I heard his heart beating, Harry,’
I say, blindly believing that as long as he has a strong heart everything is going to be fine. He takes the mug from my shaky hands and puts it down on the coffee table.

  ‘I heard his heart too,’ he answers, looking at me with the expression that only someone who’s about to lose someone very dear could ever understand. ‘His healthy heart, Fran, is not going to be enough to keep him with us,’ Harry says and his eyes fill with tears.

  ‘Please don’t say that,’ I beg, holding tightly to him. ‘Please tell me there is something we can do, please. Please, Harry, I need you to tell me that the doctor has a plan and that plan is going to work, or we could just wait until the baby is born. I’m sure that when Paul hears his own baby crying, calling for him, he’ll wake up … he’ll wake up!’ Harry takes me in his arms trying to calm the pain that is slashing through my flesh, bleeding me from the will to live, to fight, to survive. Leaving me powerless and lost.

  ‘Fran.’ Harry’s voice breaks before he can say anything else.

  ‘I love him so much. So much … Why is my love not enough to save him? Why?’ I ask Harry in between sobs, my voice broken by frustration and anger.

  ‘I love him with all my heart,’ I whisper. ‘They say love conquers all, so why he is dying instead of getting better? Why, Harry? Why?’ I start shaking at the reality that my love is not going to be enough to save Paul, and the truth of what happened to him slips inexorably into my heart. ‘I’m not ready for this, Harry, I’m not ready to lose him,’ I say, covering my face with my hands.

  ‘I don’t think we will ever be ready, Fran,’ Harry says, holding me in his arms – and when I feel his hands quivering, as he tries to comfort us both from an unbearable agony, I collapse under the weight of my despair. Harry is speaking soothing words, telling me that I have to be strong for the baby, that Paul would want me to be strong. After a while, he starts sobbing too and we cry, inconsolable tears, in each other’s arms, unwilling to let go of the only other person who understands how profound the depth of our sorrow is.

  ‘We will get through this,’ Harry promises me, kissing the top of my head when we lie down on the sofa, holding each other tightly so we won’t fall apart.

  ‘We’ll get through this, together,’ he repeats just before we both give in to the exhaustion. We fall asleep before dawn breaks.

  Maybe it’s because I’m in Harry’s arms and I feel safe, or maybe it’s because I have depleted all my energy, but I actually sleep without nightmares. It’s the unexpected knock at the door that wakes me up with a jolt.

  I blink the tiredness away and gently try to free myself from Harry’s embrace, without waking him. I smile at the sight of his peaceful face, thinking how rare it has been, lately, to see him without a frown.

  Whoever is at the door knocks again, and Harry wakes up, looking at me slightly disoriented.

  ‘The door,’ I say before he can ask.

  ‘Right,’ he says, sitting up and pulling me with him.

  Another knock.

  ‘Coming!’ he calls out, rubbing his eyes and raking his fingers through his hair. He looks as expected given the rough night we had. I watch him padding out of the room as I stretch my back and roll my stiff shoulders.

  The exchange at the door is quick so I don’t give it too much importance, but when Harry returns, his face is pale and his eyes have a haunted expression in them.

  ‘What is it?’ Panic is stomping on the little good that the few hours’ sleep have done for me. He swallows and walks to me with a white envelope in his hand.

  ‘For you. Special delivery,’ he says, reluctant to let go of it. ‘From Paul,’ he whispers eventually, and I almost pass out.

  ***

  After a second of hesitation, I take the envelope from his hand with shaky fingers. I can’t even remember the last time my hands were steady. I look up at Harry then pull at the corner of the letter, trying to open it as carefully as I can. Paul touched this paper, I think, and the thought makes me cry with joy. As tears come rolling down my cheeks, I hear Harry leaving the room. I want to thank him for being so thoughtful, but I can’t peel my eyes off the sheets of paper in my hands.

  Paul’s handwriting is neat and strikingly accurate, his distinctive italic style brings back all the beautiful memories I have of the cards and letters he wrote to me over the years.

  Unable to wait any longer, I take a deep breath and read his last words to me.

  Francesca, my love,

  I’m sitting at my new desk, in the office that used to be my father’s, and I suddenly feel the full weight of the responsibilities on my shoulders. I’m writing every word, of this difficult letter, slowly and carefully, while holding on to the deepest hope that you will never have to read them.

  Since the day I knew I loved you, I dreamed of our life together, of marrying you, of making a home and a family with you. I dreamed of us growing old and happy. I pictured us sitting next to each other, hand in hand, looking back at the greatness that we shared, at the beauty that we created, at the love that made even the smallest detail of our life special.

  As I write this, everything that I just described is still ahead of us, in my dreams, in our future.

  I hope that what I’m wishing for will be your memories.

  Memories of us playing in the garden, or teaching our kids to ride a bike, of us swimming in the sea, of our laughter on Christmas Day. I can taste our happiness; I can feel your soft lips on mine; I can see my love reflected in your eyes. However, there is an inexplicable presentiment that forces me to put these thoughts on paper so that you’ll know what’s in my heart.

  I’ve instructed my lawyer to deliver this to you the day I die, so if you are reading my words, it means I’m no longer with you. This thought brings into my eyes an unspeakable sadness even if I believe that the strength of our love would never cease.

  My message for you, Francesca, is not one of sadness and loss and regret, but one of hope for the future ahead of you, my love.

  You will need to be strong, but that doesn’t mean that you have to shoulder everything alone, without asking for help. Let Harry be there for you. He won’t let you down. He’ll carry some of the weight when you need him to, and will love you unconditionally, like he always has. Please don’t close your heart to him right when you need each other the most.

  I trust you, my darling, with everything. I know you’ll make the right choices; you will do the best in the most difficult circumstances. I know you’ll push through and succeed, even if the obstacles in front of you seem insurmountable.

  I want you to live, I want you to love, because only knowing that you are happy and fulfilled will give me peace.

  I love you with all my heart, Francesca.

  Forever yours,

  Paul x

  Chapter Seventeen

  Even with Paul’s letter asking me to be strong, telling me to look ahead with hope, promising me that he will be with me forever, I fall apart.

  So, while Paul lies in a hospital bed, kept alive only by machines, the darkness of my pain swallows me. The hours are slipping away while I keep reading Paul’s letter over and over again, until my eyes, stinging with crying, are too sore to stay open.

  I can’t eat, I can’t function, I can’t do anything that Paul asked me to do.

  I push everyone away, isolating myself from Becca and my father, from Georgie and even Harry. I let myself spiral down into the abyss of despair as I watch the dark approaching, incapable of doing anything to stop it.

  Four days after Paul’s surgery, three days after the letter arrived, I’m too weak to even speak, so when Harry comes to my rescue like a knight in a shining armour, I let him. He helps me survive, taking the weight of my desolation on his shoulders, supporting me and loving me unconditionally, just like Paul said he would.

  Without a word, he scoops me up from the sofa – where I’ve been since the morning I woke up in his arms – and runs me a bath. He helps me out, dries my hair, helps me get dressed, and makes me
eat. He patiently waits until every small bite I take is chewed and swallowed.

  He holds my hand when the tears flood my eyes and desolation hammers my heart.

  He doesn’t leave my side for two days straight, sitting in silence, waiting for me to be strong enough, holding me tight when the dark hours of the night are too frightening to sleep. Quietly, he carries me to the other side of the numbness that came with my sorrow.

  ‘I’m moving in,’ Harry says, sitting on the bed next to me. A tray with a fruit salad and buttered toast is wedged between us.

  ‘Okay,’ I answer him, thankful.

  My life is better with Harry in it, and even if his presence doesn’t help with the sickness I’m no longer quite so scared. The light of normality flickers, hazy and dim, a long way away, but there is a speck of courage inside me, which, thanks to Paul’s letter, is raring to emerge and push me forward. Even with that, seeing Paul attached to the ventilator is heart-rending.

  Harry is the one who helps me through the trauma of each visit.

  He makes sure I’m up and dressed every day, so that we can go to the hospital together and spend the day with Paul.

  Dr Stewart is pressuring us to make a decision about Paul’s future and I feel judged every evening when I tell him that I’m not ready yet. He’s recommended that we let Paul go. He thinks it would be better for him at this point, but I can’t even think of that as a viable option. So I just shake my head, biding time, hoping for a miracle.

  The routine is taking its toll, physically and mentally. I’m more and more exhausted as the days go on, and after a week of this stress, I look so poorly that Harry suggests we go to the hospital every other day, so that I can have some respite.

  ‘You have to look after yourself, Fran, for the baby’s sake,’ Georgie says while we are having dinner together, and I know she is right, so I agree to halve my visits to the hospital and book antenatal yoga classes that I’m not really planning to attend.