Almost Forever Page 9

  ‘Here you are,’ I say with affection, picking up the well-worn paperback. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius.

  ‘We love this book, don’t we?’ I ask Paul while holding his left hand. His right one has the IV plugged into it and is resting over the bedcover.

  I close my eyes to block out the sight of the infinite numbers of tubes going in and out of him. I try to see him just as Paul, my Paul, the man who was supposed to be my husband by now.

  ‘I know I’ve read this to you numerous times already, and you’re probably sick of hearing it, but you know how much I love the story of Cupid and Psyche, so humour me please …’ I beg him with a smile. He looks so peaceful I can’t resist leaning forward, closer.

  He is so handsome my fingers tremble as they linger softly over the fading bruises around his eye and his cheekbone. He looks asleep and my heart swells at the idea that he may go to sleep, like that, forever.

  I gently push myself even closer and softly press my lips on his, in the same way we usually kiss each other goodnight or goodbye. I try not to think of that. So I sit back again and pick up the book I’ve chosen. I open it to the page where the bookmark is and the awareness of my sadness floods over me.

  ‘I loved reading with you, Paul. We spent so many hours in the quiet of those long sunny afternoons just sitting next to each other. It’s not the same without you, my love,’ I whisper and my voice breaks. I clear my throat and comb my hair away from my face. I close the book, knowing that in this mood I won’t be able to enjoy the story. Instead I just look at Paul for a while. His eyelids are shut, his soft lips slightly parted, and I can’t stop myself from dreaming that one day, soon, I’ll kiss him awake. That his eyes will flutter open, and look into mine again.

  I climb onto his bed and gently curl up against him. His body is warm and his calm regular breathing is soothing and comforting.

  I just want to believe that against all odds, against everything that the doctors have said, Paul will be all right.

  ‘Do you remember the first time I stayed at your house for a sleepover?’

  No answer, of course. But I want to believe Paul can hear me, that he remembers, so I keep talking softly, quietly, snuggling in to him.

  ‘Harry was desperate to go camping in Wales but your mum wasn’t well enough for it, so your dad went to buy a bell tent and got your Aunt Florence and her team of designers to set it up in the garden and furnish it with the coolest furniture I have ever seen! To this day, I still think that your father invented glamping.’

  I smile at the memories of such a magical night. ‘Your dad put logs all around the fire pit and we roasted sausages on the spit and cooked sweet potatoes under the hot ashes. I remember the taste of those giant marshmallows we ate, while the sky turned dark and the moon shone above us. Cambridge felt strangely exotic that night. We lay on the grass and you told us ghost stories until I drifted off to sleep. You carried me into the tent and kissed me goodnight. You thought I was asleep, but really, I was still awake, enjoying being so close to you. I curled up into my sleeping bag dreaming of you. I was eleven then but my dream never changed,’ I say, closing my eyes, and relaxing for the first time in what seems a very, very, long time.

  I only realise I must have fallen asleep when the nurse, who comes to check on Paul, taps my shoulder gently to wake me up.

  Two more days go by and they are so identical to the ones that preceded them I’m slightly losing touch with the real world outside Paul’s room.

  It’s evening now but I can’t remember how the rest of the day went, as every instant blurs around the chatter I keep up hour after hour. The only positive change in this endless routine is that I can see Paul’s body healing. The bruises on his face are not so visible any more, the scars in his stomach have faded, and soft pink new skin is growing back. I’m hoping that his brain is healing too. ‘I just need to be patient, for a little while longer,’ I tell myself when doubts cloud my eyes with tears.

  I lower my forehead onto Paul’s arm and hold his hand in mine. I have a crick in my neck from sleeping on the chair, my hair hasn’t had a proper brush in days, and I worry that the hospital shower isn’t quite doing the job, but I have this constant feeling that something is just about to happen, and I don’t want to leave Paul alone, not even for one minute, just in case something does. This is a chance I’m not willing to take.

  Still, right now I can’t seem to keep my eyes open, so when Jane comes in for her daily routine, I leave Paul in her care and go to grab a coffee.

  I’ve started to drink coffee in the afternoon, to make sure I stay awake past 7 p.m. The shots of caffeine are helping with my energy levels, but the side effect of too much coffee, combined with the lack of regular meals, is a constant nausea that sneaks up on me throughout the whole day.

  ‘A latte, please,’ I say to the teenager at the till. Gosh, her slightly purple hair and the ring in her nose make me feel ancient in comparison. I’m wearing a pair of jeans and a sweater and I haven’t used any make-up in ages. My skin has a slightly green tinge, my eyes are still puffy and red-rimmed, and my hair is a copper-coloured bird’s nest.

  If Paul wakes up and sees me like this, he’ll get a fright, I tell myself, as I move to the side and watch the barista working the coffee machine. His experienced hands are moving quickly, pressing buttons and turning levers. Almost hypnotised by the noise of the steam frothing the milk, I promise myself that tonight, as soon as I go home, I’ll take a long shower, detangle my hair, and change my clothes.

  The barista passes me the take-away cup with a smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say taking it from his hand, ready to walk back to Paul.

  ‘You know,’ he says, stopping my departure, ‘what your boyfriend did was very brave and I really hope he’ll recover soon.’

  I stare at him slightly dazed. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I saw the articles, you know; your photo was in some of them too. I read about what happened and the foundation you guys have started to prevent young people from getting radicalised …’ He looks towards the till and the teenager with purple hair briefly; but I realise that he’s actually checking if there are people waiting to be served. The place is almost empty so he carries on. ‘I’m from London, you know, a proper Londoner, born and bred in Newham,’ he says proudly and I smile, even if I’m not quite sure where that is. I only know a few areas really.

  ‘East London,’ he says, reading my uncertainty. ‘One of the boroughs with the highest level of child poverty.’ He gives a slight shrug of his shoulders and looks sheepish.

  I stare at him, unsure of what to say.

  ‘I remember know how it feels to grow up watching my parents working their fingers to the bone and just scraping the pennies together at the end of each month to get a loaf of bread because the money was never enough. I remember how much I dreaded the summer holidays – so many weeks without school dinners to fill up my tummy,’ he says sadly but his voice is calm. His eyes are placid as if any scar left by his difficult upbringing healed a long time ago. I admire his strength, and feeding off it, I feel stronger too.

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted to say, your boyfriend’s sacrifice meant something to a lot of people and what you are trying to achieve with your foundation is a worthy cause.’ He looks straight into my eyes, to make sure I understand he means every word. ‘I make your coffee every day and for a long time I wanted to say something but I never really found the right time to say it. Well, today, you look like you needed to hear it, so …’

  I blink twice to make sure the tears, which are stinging my eyes, don’t stream down my cheeks. When I have my emotions under control again, I smile and say, ‘Thank you, I did need to hear it,’ then, stretching my hand out, I introduce myself. ‘I’m Fran – really nice to meet you. You make a great coffee, by the way,’ I say and he laughs with a crystalline voice genuinely full of glee.

  ‘I’m Darren. Nice to meet you too.’ He shakes my hand with strong, steady fingers. ‘Tell your man t
hat I’m cheering for him, and I can’t wait to meet him in person.’

  ‘Will do,’ I answer and then, with a wave of my hand, I walk back to the ward a little more positive than before, keen to tell Paul about Darren’s kind and encouraging words.

  The enthusiasm from Darren and the energy from the coffee wear off too quickly and the hours start to drag again, making me feel sleepy, but there is only so much caffeine I can pump into my veins. I fan myself with a magazine and try to take calming deep breaths, but nothing seems to help. Maybe it’s because the ward is always too warm, or because it smells of medicine and disinfectant, but I’m finding it harder and harder to stay in Paul’s room for long stretches of time without needing to retch. Even now, I feel overwhelmingly close to being sick.

  I swallow the nausea away, willing myself to concentrate on my breathing.

  I’m desperate for some fresh air, but it would take too long to go all the way outside so I stand up, deciding that a walk to the waiting room is a good compromise. I’m leaning over Paul to kiss him before going, when I notice that the sheet around his hand is crumpled. I stare at it for a moment and realise it looks as if Paul has made a fist, snagging the fabric with his fingers and then quickly releasing it again, leaving just those few creases as a sign of what happened.

  My heart spikes with hope.

  ‘Paul?’ I whisper leaning closer to him. ‘Paul, darling, can you hear me?’ I wait for his answer holding my breath.

  Nothing.

  No movement.

  No answer, but I know this is the first time that he’s moved at all, so I run out the door to get a doctor to have a look at him.

  One of the nurses, I think she is called Holly, comes over to check Paul’s vitals. She is not looking after Paul as often as Jane, and I’m not quite as familiar with her so I step back while she checks the machines and looks into Paul’s eyes with a small torch.

  ‘Everything looks normal,’ she says and I almost scream at her – didn’t she notice that Paul’s in a coma and now the cover near his hand is crumpled?

  ‘Nothing about this situation is normal,’ I mutter under my breath. I know I’m being prickly with her – after all she is just doing her job – but the disappointment of her non-explanation irritates me.

  ‘Involuntary muscle spasms can occur even when the patient is in a deep comatose state,’ she says in a neutral tone. I nod at her. Rationally, I understand her warning; emotionally, however, I can’t stop hoping that Paul is actually regaining consciousness, so, when she leaves the room, I lean closer to Paul again. Touching him softly, I call his name.

  ‘Paul. It’s me, Fran. Can you hear me?’

  I wait for his answer, holding my breath. Nothing.

  I exhale, trying to convince myself that I’m not upset by his lack of response, even if, deep down, every time I hope Paul is about to wake up and he doesn’t, my heart breaks in thousands of tiny pieces, which I have to painstakingly weld back together.

  I remind myself that Paul just needs a little more time.

  Tomorrow – I tell myself – tomorrow will be the day.

  ‘You look so young with your eyes closed,’ I whisper, looking at him. He’s lost some weight and he reminds me of the way he looked when he was a teenager. I start to think back to a summer we spent at Lake Garda in Italy. He was eighteen then and he was right on the cusp between the boy that he was and the man he was becoming.

  A dreamy smile curls my lips at the memories of the clumsy way we interacted with each other. Paul was convinced I was Harry’s girlfriend because of the infamous kiss he witnessed the previous summer on the beach in St-Tropez. Paul had been avoiding me all year and when we were forced together he was aloof and distant, which made it difficult to be myself around him.

  I remember how our interactions were always short and tense, and how I tried my best to stay away from him even if he was always on my mind, haunting my dreams, bothering me.

  ***

  It was the week before my fifteenth birthday. As usual I went on holiday with the FitzRoys. That year we went to Italy. They rented a villa on Lake Garda, hoping that the thermal waters of Sirmione would help Josephine’s lungs. We liked to believe that one day we would stumble across a miraculous cure for her emphysema, even if we all knew she was on a one-way street. We were good at pretending otherwise.

  It’s hard to find the words to describe the confusion and the angst of that summer – the last one we spent together before he left for the States. Those memories pull at my tender achy heart as I break down my feelings, trying to remember exactly what was happening in my head back then.

  I felt self-conscious when Paul came too close. If we sat shoulder to shoulder watching a movie, I could feel myself stiffening instead of relaxing. If he touched me, the rare times we played together, I’d blush instead of laughing, and it wasn’t like it used to be between us. I started to worry that when he would leave for Stanford at the end of the summer, we would grow even further apart than we already had. I just didn’t know how to bring him closer again. My feelings for him were deep and complicated and full of doubts.

  As soon as we arrived at the lake house, Harry ran upstairs and demanded to have the room on the top floor; he also decided that I should have the one next to his. Paul indulged him. I didn’t mind and no one else in the family really cared about room allocations and the further I was from Paul the easier it was to actually sleep.

  The summer went by too quickly, as always, and there were only a few weeks left before Paul’s flight to the US. I remember how the panic of losing him seeped deeply into my veins and circulated painfully from my heart, all around my body. It was similar to the fear I feel now – the difference being that Paul’s entire life is at stake now.

  Since the first day I met Paul, he was stuck in my head. After a few years he had claimed my heart, and by that summer he was in all of the other parts of my body that I was more comfortable not thinking about. I always thought he was clever and handsome and funny but lately his body had started to fill up with muscle and his face had changed into interesting male features that fascinated me as much as they made me uncomfortable.

  My body was changing too, but I was still a willowy teenager with grey eyes, too big for my face, that were always full of wonder instead of the sassiness I’d seen in other girls my age. My nose was tiny and starred with dozens of precise, tiny freckles that made me look young and cute, while I desperately wanted to look grown up and mysterious.

  I could never tame the mane of copper hair framing my, still-too-round cheeks. I remember the way, that summer, I craved for Paul to look at me as if I were pretty. I remember the way my body ached when he was near, and the vacuum I felt inside my belly when he was not. Still, he treated me like a sister and that made my feelings all the more complicated.

  When he received his acceptance letter from Stanford, my smile as he told me had been more bitter than sweet. His decision to study in the US meant a forced separation of four years from him and it was all becoming very real as the day of his departure grew nearer and nearer.

  I remember how I kept looking at the little silver ring he gave me for my birthday, trying to read in his gesture a secret message of love and commitment that wasn’t there.

  It was a slim silver filigree looped into a figure-of-eight knot, but the emotions I felt wearing it on my finger – with the possibility that Paul wanted me to wear it so that I would think of him – were expectedly intense. Although, in the card that came with the ring he only wrote: ‘A token to remind you how much you love all those evil boating knots.’ So, it really wasn’t the romantic declaration of love I hoped for, but still, I couldn’t quite get it out of my head that he could have chosen anything else, but he chose a ring.

  I remember how Georgie agreed with me on that. ‘A ring is a ring!’ she had almost shouted down the phone while I wiggled my fingers in front of my face and walked up and down my room sharing with her even the most insignificant details of what he had
said or done since.

  I also remember how she laughed at me when I explained to her the story behind the figure-of-eight knot. ‘All I wanted,’ I explained to her, ‘was to be out at sea, and not sitting on the pier tying ropes.’

  But when I asked Albert to take me out in his sailing boat he had been unshakable about the knowledge I needed before I could sail off into the sunset. He strongly believed that anyone going out on a boat needed to learn at least the basics, so he made that a condition for me too. Harry, Paul, and even Josephine had to go through the same pain. Robert and I were just the next on his long list.

  Frustrated about the slow progress I was making with the lessons, I went to the library, borrowed a copy of Sailing for Dummies, and taught myself not just the required basics but everything someone should know about the subject. I felt so smug when I twisted a perfect double figure-of-eight knot and presented to Albert with a cheeky, ‘TA-DA.’ The episode made into the family collection of anecdotes. Not so much because of my fast learning but because when I was finally allowed on the FitzRoys’ sailboat for the first time, I discovered that I was seasick and I had to lie as flat and as still as I possibly could while Albert hurried back to the harbour.

  Anyway, with only a day left before we were supposed to return to Cambridge, I still hadn’t made any progress with Paul. I could feel the minutes slipping by and with it the chance to hint to Paul that I had feelings for him. Then, when the chance finally materialised, I was too slow to grab it. Robert and Harry were going to play golf, so I decided to stay home hoping to find an excuse to speak to Paul privately.

  So I went into my room and put on my nicest bikini, then covered it up with my usual tank top and shorts, to ensure Paul wouldn’t notice I had put more effort into my appearance. Just as I was putting the finishing touches on my subtle make-up, I saw from my window that Paul had picked up his windsurfer and was already getting in the water. A string of profanities left my glossy lips as I remembered that last time he went out with his windsurfer he circumnavigated the west coastline and didn’t return to shore for hours.