Almost Forever Page 8

  ‘I’ve changed our reservation at The Grove,’ I say to him, playing with his fingers. ‘They have agreed to postpone our date to February next year. If you want to be back on your feet in time for that, you’d better open your eyes now because we have a lot of things to organise. Harry and Georgie said that they won’t let us elope in secret this time so it looks like we’re all going to Vegas. Harry suggested that we go a few days early and do our hen and stag dos there as well. Apparently he knows just the right place.’

  I laugh out loud but it comes out hollow. I take a deep breath, trying to keep the tears away, even if it is getting harder and harder to do. There is so much at stake and I know I can’t start crumbling; so I will myself to smile when the nurse knocks gently at the door.

  ‘Good morning, how’s Paul today?’ she asks.

  ‘Morning, Jane, he looks so much better, doesn’t he?’ I answer her, and I feel like a child, who at Christmas plays make-believe with her parents so that the magic of Santa won’t be spoiled. Swallowing the upsetting reality in front of us, I add, ‘The bruises are almost gone and his breathing is regular.’

  Jane talks about the latest article she read in the newspaper about Paul. She tells me she has donated to the fundraising page Fahim has set up to help a local youth centre and she’s just so complimentary about what we are doing. We chat quietly while she deals with tubes and the catheter and various bags of clear solutions that are dripping straight into Paul’s arm.

  I watch her, thinking that she seems familiar, but I can’t quite recall who she reminds me of. She is probably fifty, has a round face, and an athletic build. She has a friendly smile and kind brown eyes that always seem to look at me in a reassuring way.

  ‘I’m all done,’ Jane says, walking to the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, sitting back on my usual chair.

  ‘Francesca,’ she says and I look up.

  ‘I don’t want to pry,’ she says. Her fingers are gripping the door handle, one foot is already out the door, and I can see she is uncomfortable about sharing what she will say next. ‘But when was the last time you slept for a full night, or had a proper meal?’

  I can see she is genuinely concerned and her kindness touches my heart.

  ‘I slept well last night actually and I’m planning to order myself a pizza with extra toppings as soon as Harry replaces me.’ I try to sound convincing, as if I were actually planning to do just that, instead of surviving on a slice of buttered toast and a cup of tea.

  ‘Good,’ she answers with the smile. If she’s not convinced she doesn’t let it show. ‘Make sure you ask for extra olives – they’re the best ingredient on any pizza.’

  ‘Will do,’ I promise her with a small wave of my hand before she closes the door softly behind her.

  ‘Do you think she believed me?’ I say to Paul when I’m sure that Jane is out of earshot. ‘You know I’ve always been a rubbish liar. It’s been weeks since I slept for more than three hours straight. But you’re not going to tell her the truth, are you?’ I ask Paul, looking at him as if I expect him to answer me.

  When he doesn’t, I stand up from my chair and lean in slowly, my lips softly touching his. Will I ever do that without hoping that I can wake him up with a kiss? That he will look at me with his beautiful eyes and everything will be okay again?

  Probably not. So, I linger, waiting for a miracle that isn’t going to happen.

  I sit back in my chair next to him with a sigh, pick a book from the top of the pile of volumes I’ve brought in, open it at a random page, and start reading aloud.

  When Harry arrives, we get sandwiches from the canteen and eat in silence. We are trying to be upbeat when people are around but it’s hard to keep up the farce; so when it’s just us, we take off our masks and just be.

  We talk to the physician who’s looking after Paul and as time goes by we’ve begun to learn the complex medical lexicon the doctor uses when discussing Paul’s situation; so, slowly, we are getting better at understanding the subtle changes in his prognosis.

  After the initial forty-eight hours, during which we didn’t know if Paul was going to survive or not, the outcome became slightly more positive. Paul’s condition, even if still critical, is considered stable. His severe head injuries are the most probable cause of his coma, the doctor tells us. The swelling in his brain is extensive, and the pressure it’s causing could bring more damage, he adds in a neutral tone that speaks of his experience in delivering bad news to his patients’ relatives. He also reassures us that Paul is under constant observation and they will intervene immediately, if necessary.

  No one seems to be able to predict what might happen, or when it might happen, and what the possible consequences will be. The lack of a firm answer, when I ask questions, is what frustrates me the most.

  ‘I can deal with what’s coming, if they tell me what that is,’ I complain to Harry, pacing up and down Paul’s room later. ‘Maybe we should get a second opinion. These people don’t seem to have a clue about what’s happening to Paul.’

  Harry patiently lets me get this stuff off my chest. He knows I need to vent my anger, so he lets me, and I’m grateful because I know that I’ll feel better after I get it all out.

  I pace and talk and pace some more. He listens and nods and watches me with weary eyes. Once I’m done he suggests we take a breather. The lack of sleep and the irregular eating habits are taxing, and I feel extremely tired all the time. My thoughts are fuzzy, I’m constantly nauseous, and a fierce migraine slows me down to the point that even the most basic task is a struggle.

  I’m glad that Paul’s way to recovery doesn’t just lie on my shoulders. I’m glad Harry is at my side through this because I don’t know what I would do without his support.

  There is nothing we can do, apart from wait and stay with him. So that is what we do: we sit on a chair in the relatives’ room waiting for an update, or we sit next to Paul talking about our childhood or about Josephine or about what’s going on around the world. When I’m alone with Paul, I share with him the dream of our life together, which has now been taken from me, of the future I saw for us, of the family we could have. I talk about anything and everything but one topic: the present.

  ‘Do you remember when we went to visit Becca, a few years ago? Sophie was only six months old and Tom was just turning four? You were so comfortable with the kids, tickling Tom and kicking the ball with him in the garden. Picking up Sophie and making her giggle. You were grinning, really happy, and so were they. I watched you thinking that I wanted that – I wanted to see that happiness in your eyes as you played with our children.

  ‘That was the moment I knew I wanted a family with you. I just never said anything, because I thought we would have lots of time for that. So, I told myself, after. After I finished my PhD, after I put a few solid years into building a reputation as an archaeologist, the female Indiana Jones.’ I laugh softly at the image of me with a fedora and a whip. ‘Anyway, I just thought: no need to rush, Fran, you will get your shot at little sticky fingers and snotty noses and smelly nappies and night feeding, no need to worry about that now …’

  I’m suddenly going from the happiness of those memories to the sadness of the reality that Paul may never wake up, with a mood swing so sharp that uncontainable sobs are now shaking me. My hands clutching Paul’s fingers are trembling as I look at him through the tears.

  ‘Paul,’ I beg him. ‘Please come back to me. I want us to be a family, I want to have your children, raise them with you, together, love them more than anything else in the world. They’ll come into our big bed on Sunday mornings and we will read them stories. We’ll travel, show them the world. We will teach them to be generous and brave and accepting and grateful. We will teach them that respect is important and they will grow up into amazing people who will make the world a better place for us all …’

  I take a few deep breaths and dry my tears, looking at Paul who’s still lying there, unconscious. ‘Paul. I’m
scared,’ I admit to him and for the first time I have doubts about his ability to hear me. I wish with all my heart that I’ll find a way to reach out to him, but the truth is that I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know if there is anything that I can say to make him wake up. I lower my head onto his bed and close my eyes.

  ‘Knock-knock …’ says Becca, peering through the door.

  ‘Oh my God, Becca!’ I say, looking up. ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask her as I walk to her, but she just wraps me in her arms, hugging me tightly, in soothing silence.

  When she is ready to let me go, I step away from her so that I can look at her properly. ‘Where are the kids? And David?’ I ask her, wondering if there are two little munchkins in the waiting room wreaking havoc.

  ‘They’re at home.’ She sounds apologetic but I totally understand that this is not the place for children. ‘David’s parents are staying over for the weekend, so I could stay in London for a couple of days, if that’s okay with you?’

  ‘Of course it is!’ I exclaim, excited to have my big sister around.

  ‘Good,’ she says, patting my hand and then walking towards the bed. She lowers her lips to Paul’s forehead. Her gesture almost makes me cry again.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she says softly, looking at him for one more second before turning to me. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier – David had a business trip booked already and I couldn’t leave the kids,’ she says, her voice dripping with guilt.

  ‘Please, you don’t need to apologise. I’m just happy that you’re here.’

  ‘Any changes?’ she asks and I can see the hope shining in her eyes.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘No improvement, yet.’

  ‘A little longer. Paul just needs a little longer,’ she says, looking at him again. ‘You, on the other hand …’ She turns her gaze on me. She seems concerned when she points her accusatory finger straight at my nose. ‘You, missy, are not looking after yourself.’

  ‘I’m doing the best I can,’ I say defensively, with a shrug. I don’t need another lecture.

  ‘Clearly, it’s not working. You look terrible!’

  ‘Gee, thanks! I’m really happy to see you too,’ I say, but she is totally unfazed by my bad temper. ‘I don’t need another person on my case. Harry and Georgie are doing a great job already at bossing me around about how much I should be sleeping and eating.’

  ‘Right, food is a great place to start. Let’s go get something to eat,’ she orders already walking towards the door.

  ‘No wait!’ I shout at her, slightly panicky. ‘Harry’s not coming until later. I can’t leave Paul alone,’ I tell her as if there is nothing she can say or do that would make me change my mind. I can see she is trying to find the right way to dismiss my worry, but then she has a change of heart.

  ‘Are we allowed to eat here?’ she asks and I nod in answer. ‘All right then, I’ll get us something and we can catch up while we munch on something. How’s that?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I reply, already dreading the sight of food.

  Becca returns with all sorts of different stuff.

  ‘I didn’t want you to find any excuse not to eat,’ she says with a sly smile when I comment about the fact that she’s bought enough food to feed a small army. I look suspiciously at it and then eventually pick something that looks inoffensive. I take a bite of the cheese sandwich I’ve chosen, and when it stays down, I take another. To my surprise I keep at it, until it’s all gone. Becca is not making any comment about how much I eat but she is watching me like a hawk, so I decide to take on the banana she’s placed right in front of me.

  ‘I’ve got something for you,’ she says as soon as she finishes her slice of carrot cake. She cleans her fingers on a napkin and then takes a big jute bag from under the table and pulls it over her lap.

  ‘Here,’ she says. ‘It’ll really help – just take it, every day, even if you start to feel better.’

  ‘What is it?’ I ask, interested.

  ‘It’s a natural antidepressant: St John’s wort,’ she explains pushing a blister pack of tablets towards me. I thank her, asking myself if I really need to take any kind of antidepressant. ‘You can’t take it if you are on the pill,’ she adds, but I don’t even have the time to fully consider the warning because more and more potions are making an appearance in front of me.

  ‘I brought you vapours. They are meant to relax you but you can’t use them in the bath – too strong. Here, this is great,’ she says, showing me something else I’ve never seen before. ‘I have it in my handbag too, life-saving!’ She sounds like a TV advert, but this is the most fun I’ve had in two weeks so I’m not going to stop her. ‘See this: it’s a roller stick for your temples. I use it on my wrists too but that’s just me. You stick with the instructions, just in case.’

  ‘What’s this little one for?’ I ask her, lifting a tiny brown bottle with a big yellow label.

  ‘Bach’s flower remedies: four drops under your tongue,’ she says, showing me how to do it.

  ‘I know how to stick out my tongue,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ she answers, getting more stuff out of her Mary Poppins-style bag. Holistic self-help books, spiky massage balls, and tiny homeopathic sugar pills.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, trying to take it all in and knowing already I won’t bother with any of it. Not because I think that what she is offering isn’t going to work, but because I know I’d just forget about them, like I’m already forgetting about any other part of my life that’s not Paul.

  I put the various bottles and packages into my handbag. When we’re done with dinner, I go back to sit in my usual place next to Paul, while Becca sits in the chair on the opposite side of his bed.

  ‘I’ve searched online: a few forums and some personal blogs,’ Becca says cautiously, removing her glasses to clean them with the bottom of her shirt. I can’t help noticing how much she looks like our father, now that she is growing older. ‘I was reading a post from coma survivors – you know to gain at least a vague understanding of what Paul is going through. It’s impossible to know exactly what it’s like for him, but I wanted to at least get a sense for it. Anyway,’ she says slightly flustered, ‘the experiences I read about all seem to be a little different from one another but there are a few similarities, and I wanted to tell you about them, in case it benefits him.’

  ‘Sure,’ I answer. ‘I’ll do anything that may help Paul to wake up.’

  ‘Well, this is not about the waking up part; it’s more about what happens while people are in the coma. As I read through the material, I noticed two common themes amongst the literature and personal experiences. One was the intensity of their dreams and nightmares, and the second was the fact that so many survivors seem to suffer from post-traumatic stress after spending an extended period of time in ICU.’

  ‘Oh …’ I answer her, realising that I didn’t really think of any of that, mostly because I didn’t anticipate Paul being in a coma for this long. ‘What can we do?’ I ask her.

  ‘I don’t really know – maybe you should check with the hospital, see if they have counselling, so you can talk to someone who can actually give you the correct answers,’ she says honestly. ‘Either way I suggest you just keep talking to him – you know instead of thinking things just say it out loud. You know my field is child psychology, so take it with a pinch of salt but I really believe a familiar voice would feel reassuring. As for the PTSD, maybe you can try to explain to Paul what’s happening to him, why he has a tube in his arm, and talk him through the nurses’ routine, just to make sure he’s not frightened by it and knows that everyone around him is trying to help him get better,’ she says with a sigh.

  I nod, overwhelmed by what she’s told me. ‘It’s just so hard to see the man I love, lying here, trapped in an impenetrable limbo, hanging between life and death like a pendulum that never stops,’ I confide in her looking at Paul while I gently stroke his soft hair.

  When
I turn my gaze back to her, I can see tears rolling down her cheeks – and someone else’s pain is just too hard to bear.

  Chapter Six

  The weekend with Becca goes by too fast. I had dinner with her and Georgie, and even though I only managed a small portion of the pizza in front of me, it was nice to be out of the hospital for a few hours. I missed Paul terribly but knowing that Harry was with him kept me from worrying too much. He would call should anything change.

  After the meal, we went back home and they insisted on pampering me, so I let them paint my nails and give me a facial, mostly because I didn’t have the strength to fight them off. But eventually I allowed myself to settle into the evening and I even laughed, enjoying an evening that almost allowed me to forget what was happening around me.

  Monday morning, I’m back at the hospital. My exhaustion is growing with every minute Paul is unconscious and, lately, I feel as if I’m living a nightmare, as if I’m trapped in this scary and unsettling parallel reality that I’ll only escape if Paul wakes up and pulls me out, with him. Maybe I should take Becca’s pills and remedies; after all I’ve been through a lot and it’s understandable that I’m finding it hard to cope. If I could just get rid of this constant headache, I think I’d feel instantly more positive. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  As I enter Paul’s room I think of how long he’s been here. Days and nights that I’ve spent curled up in the chair to the side of his bed, watching over him while nothing happens. I sit down and pick up one of the many books I’ve brought from home. The monotony of the routine is mind-numbing and somehow reassuring, at the same time. Part of me wants it this way because it’s helping me cope.

  I mostly read to him in the lonely hours we spend together because the fatigue is overwhelming and reading is the only activity I have enough energy for. I read passages I know Paul remembers: French sonnets and classic literature. All his favourites. Sometimes, I find myself staring at the words for a long time almost as if I had actually fallen asleep with my eyes open, and when that happens I default to a book I love so much, I can never get distracted. I look for the right volume in the pile on the floor.