Almost Forever Page 26

  Restless days and sleepless night roll into one uncomfortable nightmare. Another week goes by, then one more. The same schedule every other day, the same lack of clarity on what I should do, are my only companions. I’m approaching the twelve-week mark of pregnancy but the nausea that follows me everywhere is not subsiding, as I had hoped it would.

  The list of food I can stomach is very limited but Harry is cajoling me so I’m now eating regular healthy meals. He comes with me to the appointments with the midwife, and my first official scan is due today. Having Harry there with me, to hear the news that everything looks good, gives me someone to share my joy with. We have photos of the little person growing inside me to take home and when we look at each other, we purposely try to ignore the elation of this brief moment of happiness that we shared.

  For the first time, since tragedy struck my life almost three months ago, I feel that Paul may be right in his letter, and the only way ahead is to embrace the future, even if he will not be in it. Still, that’s easier said than done, so, for now, I keep spending most of my days hoping to find somewhere the answer I’m desperately searching for.

  It’s mid-morning and I’m trying to catch up on some sleep after another difficult night of tormented thoughts and frightening nightmares, when the phone rings.

  It’s Becca, asking me how the scan went yesterday.

  ‘Yes, and yes. I’m fine, Becca,’ I say, walking downstairs while speaking on the phone with my sister who is becoming incredibly overprotective and, frankly, quite annoying, since I told her I’m pregnant.

  ‘I will, I promise. I’m sitting down right now. Yes, Becca, I will. Okay, yes. Bye. Bye.’

  I sigh at the stream of advice she gives me, and sit on the sofa in the front room, stuffing my phone in between the cushions, and turning the telly on, hoping that it will offer some distraction. I’m in the middle of a peaceful slumber when I hear Harry calling my name.

  ‘Francesca! Fran … Fran!’

  I cry out when he shakes me awake.

  ‘Fran … God, you scared me. I called you so many times.’ Harry is holding me by the shoulders, his eyes full of concern. I’m still confused as I sit up straight, blinking my dream away and forcing my brain to wake up.

  ‘Fran, are you all right?’ Harry asks, crouching down in front of me, sliding his hands from my shoulders to my wrists.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just trying to wake up. Give me a chance!’ I snap at him, annoyed that I’ve been woken, again.

  ‘Are you sure you are okay? I ran home when you didn’t pick up your phone,’ he says as I’m still trying to return to the here and now. ‘Oh, Fran … you made me so worried,’ Harry says, stroking his chin in the same way he always does when he’s tense.

  ‘Everything is fine, Harry,’ I tell him. I’m grateful for his help but I’m concerned that he feels so responsible for me, that he’s consuming himself with worry.

  I look at him carefully for the first time in many weeks, only to realise how deeply what happened has impacted him too. I’ve been so busy worrying about Paul, worrying about myself, worrying about the baby, that I’ve forgotten to worry about him, to be there for him.

  I let him support me day in and day out, without offering him anything in return, and now, his striking eyes are tired and full of sadness; his beautiful smile is just a grimace. A desolate expression had sunk into his usually charming expression and he seems a shadow of the happy man he used to be.

  ‘You’ll need each other,’ Paul had written in his letter and only now I understand what he meant. I feel I’m letting him down, letting them both down.

  ‘Sorry I made you worry,’ I say, stroking Harry’s hair.

  My gesture is soothing for us both and I feel a smile tugging softly at my lips, when I feel he’s relaxing.

  ‘Would you like something to drink? A cup of tea? Some juice?’ I ask him, feeling guilty at the realisation that he has cooked for me and catered to all my needs, day and night, without a word of complaint for months. His eyes soften.

  ‘How about a cup of tea?’ he suggests, standing up and offering me his hand.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I answer, following him into the open-plan kitchen.

  The glass roof on the side, and an entire wall of folding doors, creates a light and airy space. We make the tea together and settle on the stools at the breakfast bar, talking about something casual, taking a minute to breathe in the atmosphere of normality around us.

  Paul and I always spent lots of time here, enjoying the sunrise or listening to the rain, or looking at the sky at night. Harry is talking but I’m suddenly thinking of Paul’s words in his letter. ‘I trust you with everything. I know you’ll make the right choices,’ he wrote, but now that his life is on the line, I’m struggling to figure out what the right choice is.

  ‘Fran?’ Harry says, squeezing my hands gently but firmly. ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘No sorry. Say that again?’

  ‘I spoke to Dr Stewart today. He said that continuing life-sustaining treatment at this point stops providing a benefit to Paul and is not clinically indicated. He is just getting more and more susceptible to infections so he strongly recommended that we agree on …’ He looks away from me without finishing his sentence. He doesn’t have to spell it out, anyway. I knew this moment was coming; I just hoped to have a little bit more time.

  ‘What do you think we should do, Harry?’ I ask, watching him as he returns his eyes to meet mine.

  ‘I don’t know, Fran,’ he says taking my hand in his, ‘but I truly believe Paul wouldn’t have wanted to spend the rest of his life unconscious in a hospital bed. He would have hated seeing the hurt in your eyes every time you look at him. I think he would have wanted quality over quantity. I think he would have wanted for us to let him go.’ I can see the tears in his eyes and the desperation I was holding in my throat just breaks free.

  ‘How about the baby?’ I ask him. ‘The due date is not for another six months. We need to wait until the baby comes … I know that Paul will want to meet his child. I know he would want that.’ I sob, thinking of the battle ahead of me if I want to keep Paul on life support until then.

  ‘We’ll wait as long as you want,’ Harry answers. ‘We will get the lawyer to contact the hospital. We will work something out – if that’s what you need.’

  I cry. Harry is crying too now and I think back to a time before any of this happened, a time when we used to laugh, used to have fun together. That time is now long gone – all we do is cry. Most upsetting is the fact that Paul would have hated to see us like this and I think he would disapprove of me. It hurts to think like that because I desperately want him to be proud of me. Strengthened by that thought, I force myself to regain some control, and then, for once, I’m the one drying Harry’s tears and I steer the conversation towards something happy, something we can smile about. I choose our past adventures, feeling the need to celebrate Paul’s bravery and laugh at his bravado, instead of crying over the thought that he will never wake up and leave that hospital bed.

  ‘Do you remember when Paul dared you to jump in that lake in Iceland and you totally went in when he stopped on the bank watching you freeze your butt off?’

  Harry is looking at me with bright eyes and his lips are turned upright at the corners. His cute dimples appear when he says, ‘The bastard.’ The laugh is so genuine it echoes in the air.

  ‘My brother pulled off more than one surprising stunt in the past. Didn’t he?’ He laughs and I nod in complete agreement.

  ‘Do you remember when he fell off the top of scaffolding and knocked himself unconscious?’ he asks and I nod again unable to supress my smile.

  ‘He was trying to put one of the starling’s chicks back in its nest when he slipped and fell. I thought he had broken his back. We were already calling 999 when he opened his eyes and said, “This is what I call falling with style.”’ Harry rolls his eyes before adding, ‘He fell from a two-and-half-metre height, landed on gravel with
out a scratch, and quoted Toy Story.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I reply, thinking back on Paul’s numerous escapades. ‘Do you remember when he almost lost his little toe after he was stuck on Ben Nevis overnight?’

  ‘Oh yes, the frostbite was horrific! I really thought he was going to lose all his toes.’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ I say.

  ‘He didn’t,’ Harry repeats my words with a sigh and a shake of his head. ‘I can think of ten other times when he cut it really close to ending up in the hospital and he didn’t.’

  ‘Your mother had more than her fair share of worry when we were growing up,’ I say. ‘I wish Josephine was here.’ A knot in my throat stops me from adding that at the same time I’m glad she didn’t have to see her eldest son on a ventilator.

  ‘Me too, Fran,’ Harry says, too emotional to say anything else.

  ‘She was the mother I never had. She meant so much to me that I know I wouldn’t have been who I am without her.’

  Harry looks at me. We both smile in silence remembering his mother, who we both loved so very much.

  Harry makes dinner and we eat sitting on the bar stools in the kitchen, where we had spent the best part of the afternoon. Music is playing softly in the background.

  When dinner is over we curl up at opposite ends of the sofa, bingeing on reruns of The Simpsons until we can no longer keep our eyes open.

  When I wake up, it’s early in the morning. Harry’s still asleep on the sofa opposite me, and in the peace of his rest, I recognise my best friend.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen, trying not to wake him at least until breakfast is ready. Feeling lonely, I turn on the telly, while I scramble some eggs.

  I don’t bother to choose a channel as I only want the noise for company, and I’m really only half listening to the chatter from a morning talk show that’s currently on.

  As I’m brewing two cups of tea, like I’ve done a million times before, I realise I will never be making one for Paul again, and the sadness of such a simple gesture breaks my heart. I look at a picture of Paul and me, which I stuck on the fridge with a magnet the day we moved in. We are smiling at each other with silly grins that show off our happiness. In the background, I see piles of boxes and a noticeable lack of furniture.

  ‘Paul, please tell me what to do. I need you to tell me what to do because I can’t ask the doctor to stop your heart beating but I can’t see any way to make you better, either.’ My voice is a whisper, holding the hope of an answer.

  I shake my head slightly at the thought that I keep kidding myself about someone answering my prayers. The eggs are gently sizzling in the pan so I pick up my cup from the counter and turn to look at the telly.

  One of the anchors is announcing the next segment and introducing the guests sitting next to her. There is a young man smiling and a couple in their sixties sitting next to each other, holding hands. The expression on their faces is one of pride. The way their mouths are set in half smiles tells me they went through a tragedy. I can see the ache still lingering on their faces, but the look in their eyes is one of hope and peace.

  I watch the screen, gaping at their story, which hits home with too many similarities with what happened to Paul to leave me unmoved. I smell the eggs burning but I don’t care – this is more important. So I step closer to the screen, and standing still while my body shakes, I give her my full attention.

  When the woman’s voice breaks, as she is telling the anchor the details of what happened to her son, I start to cry. The young man sitting on the sofa takes the woman’s hand and presses it against his chest, and when he speaks for the first time, I know Paul has just answered my wish. Paul is showing me exactly what he wants us to do, and my tears are now a mix of sadness and joy, of hope and loss at the same time.

  ‘Fran? Are you okay?’ asks Harry, entering the kitchen and rushing to the stove to take the pan off the heat. ‘Are you trying to burn the house down?’ he asks with the tiredness of another restless night still hanging over him. I watch as he drops the pan with the charred eggs into the sink and runs cold water on it. Black smoke and steam come out of it.

  ‘Fran?’ he asks, turning to me once he’s disposed of the fire hazard I created.

  I stare back at him unable to say or do anything other than let the tears drip off my face. ‘Fran, what’s wrong?’ he says, coming to me with eyes full of concern. When he holds my shoulders gently, I take a deep breath and steady myself.

  ‘Harry,’ I say with a sad smile. ‘I know what Paul wants us to do. I know. Now I know.’ And when he takes me into his arms I sob desperately, but for the first time, I feel hope returning into my heart.

  Eighteen months later

  I hold Giselle, my beautiful daughter, tightly in my arms while I walk down the gravelled path. Dozens of guests are waiting for us inside to celebrate her first birthday. Harry and Georgie were so brilliant in organising such a big party for her that I’m afraid to think what they’ll suggest we should do when she turns eighteen.

  I’m grateful still, and not just for what they’ve done today, but for their support in the past year and a half. I know that without them I wouldn’t have managed to emerge from the sorrow of losing Paul. Harry’s been with me every step of the way, helping me through the toughest stages of grief and supporting me as the birth of Giselle approached. He was my rock, always at my side, even changed more nappies than I ever expected he would.

  Slowly, the joy of looking after an adorable newborn filled our hearts with a happiness we had forgotten existed. The deep affection we had for each other turned difficulties into solvable problems. The love we had for Giselle turned us into a family.

  Harry looked after Giselle and me, tirelessly, month after month, until I was finally able to stand on solid ground again. It was hard to get back on track after Paul’s funeral, after the paper talked about him again and again, celebrating his life that culminated with one last act of generosity.

  When the doctor first told me that Paul’s brain was irreparably damaged, and he would not survive without life support, it had been impossible for me to accept that reality. I couldn’t accept the idea of turning off the machines that kept him alive. Only when I heard the moving story of a mother of a teenager who was in a coma after a motorbike accident, heard her talking about her struggle to accept that he would never recover, and listening to the relief she felt when she agreed to organ donation, I realised that was exactly what Paul would have wanted.

  I remember so clearly still as she described the moment she heard her son’s heart beating in the chest of the man who received it, and the sincere joy on her face as she told of her experience. Listening to her story had been cathartic for me. Her poignant words were inspiring, and made me think that Paul’s generosity was one of his greatest qualities and his way of living. He lost his life to save another one that fateful day in February, and now several more people were alive because of him.

  As soon as I suggested that we sign the organ donor papers I felt a sense of closure. Harry and Albert and Robert all agreed that was what Paul would have wanted. As the ink dried on the dotted line, I felt the healing process starting. Paul’s heart would not stop beating, and the thought gave me joy. The bravery demonstrated by the father of my child, the man who loved me, made me burst with pride. So it was holding on to this feeling, and to my beautiful little girl, that I walked out of my inconsolable grief and into the rest of my life.

  Today we are here to celebrate the first of Giselle’s many happy birthdays ahead of her.

  I kiss her soft cheek, open the door, and walk down the same corridor I stepped into for the first time, twenty years earlier. I’m no longer eight but the emotions in my heart are still the same: a sense of awe and wonder that I felt that very first time some two decades ago.

  I’m amazed by the incredible work Harry has done to transform the beautiful FitzRoy mansion into a children’s paradise. There are clowns and circus artists entertaining a small crowd of guests i
n the drawing room. The dining room has been taken over by a giant ball pit full of squirming toddlers and there is even an indoor bouncy castle in the old playroom. I’ll have to ask him how he managed to get that monstrosity inside the house.

  I smile at the sight of glittery fairy cakes and big jars of sweets, platters of exotic fruits, and buckets of ice cream in every colour and flavour. Balloons, pinwheels, and colourful bunting are hanging from the ceiling and they create a festive joyful atmosphere fit for a carnival.

  Harry has set a seriously high bar for any future parties we’ll have to throw for her. I make a point to find him, and when I do, I raise my glass to him. ‘You’ve surpassed even my wildest expectations,’ I say with a smile. He waves back from the opposite side of the room and I remember how much I love him. When he keeps his eyes on me I’m reminded that he loves me just the same. Once again, the words from Paul’s letter turn out to be true. Harry and I needed each other, more than we knew or wanted to admit.

  Paul asked me to live and love, so that he could rest in peace. It hasn’t been an easy request to fulfil, but I’m finally ready to do what he asked. I sold the house in London, because the happy memories we made there were mixed with the more recent tragic ones, and they were a painful reminder of what could have been, and no longer was.

  I leave Giselle with Georgie, to make sure I have a minute to thank the many people who have come to her party. Some of the guests are the recipients of Paul’s organs and seeing them here today, after we’ve been in touch for months, seems the best way to celebrate Paul’s life. The emotions are running high, and when I know I can’t keep the tears hidden any longer, I go and hide in the bathroom.

  When I’m back in control, I go looking for Giselle, amazed to find her sitting quietly on the floor watching a puppet show. Her blue eyes are wide with wonder; her soft auburn hair is falling on her brows and curling up around her ears. She is the perfect mix of Paul and me, and with the addition of a feisty personality she has without a doubt inherited from Josephine and a joy for life, which she is learning from Harry. For the first time since Paul’s funeral I let myself believe that he would be proud of me, of us.