‘T – I – M – E!’ I say to him. ‘I gave you that line, thief.’
He shrugs at me. But he is right. His suggestion, as casual as I first thought it might be, has actually helped and I will leave this dreary hospital office with a purpose, something to cling on to and to make happen as soon as possible. I like his thinking. I will start to make plans. I’m good at making plans.
‘Will you miss me when I go?’ I ask him as I gather my handbag and coat from the back of the chair.
He looks at me and lets out a deep sigh, then shakes his head and laughs in disbelief, knowing that my question has two very different meanings. Will he miss me when I go on my break, and will he miss me when I go forever?
‘Only you would ask such a question, Juliette Fox. Only you,’ he replies. ‘I can’t bear to think of it and I‘m trying not to think about it. We’re good buddies now, me and you. I miss you when you go home after your appointments, never mind …’ He leaves the rest unsaid.
I close my eyes.
‘Well, I’m going to miss you, that’s for sure,’ I tell him and a huge whoosh of nerves fills my tummy. We shuffle towards the door, not knowing what else there is to say in this sterile, hospital office where bad news is delivered on a daily basis.
‘I won’t miss this office or that carpet,’ I tell him, trying to lighten the mood. ‘And for goodness’ sake change that horrible painting above your desk. You really need to brighten this place up, pronto.’
We both look up at the painting. It’s not that bad really, but I’m trying to make a point.
‘Caroline thought she was quite the artist, didn’t she?’ Michael says to me, and then he reaches up to the painting, takes it down and leans it on the wall with its back to us. ‘There you go. Done.’
‘I bet you feel better already,’ I say to him, folding my arms.
He smiles at me and I wonder why on earth his ex, the free-spirited Caroline could ever have thought she would find better than the gorgeous, gentle being before me.
‘I’m going to miss you. Call me when you need a chat,’ he says when we get to the door of his office. ‘Or when you get back from Ireland if you do decide to go?’
‘I will. I promise...’
His eyes fill up and he bites his lip.
‘I’m so sorry, Juliette. I wish there was more I could do.’
‘Ssh or you’ll have me started,’ I tell him, trying to keep things light in the most impossible of circumstances. I don’t want him to cry but I know that the minute I close this door and walk away from him, he will bawl his eyes out. I know, because as he’s admitted to me before, he’s done that many times before when he has tried his hardest to make things work for his patients against all the odds.
‘Enjoy your break,’ he tells me, and I hear his voice crack under the strain of sorrow. ‘Make sure it’s the best of the best from here on in because that’s exactly what you deserve and nothing less. Oh, and Juliette?’
‘What?’
I know what’s coming. I know exactly what he is going to say next.
‘Find Dan, for goodness’ sake,’ he tells me. ‘Find him and tell him you still love him before it’s too … you know what I mean.’
‘Before it’s too late?’ I suggest.
His face crumples and he nods his head. He actually is crying now. My doctor, my good old buddy Michael, is crying.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper, putting my hand to my mouth and closing my eyes to push away the pain.
The reality of this is like a deep blow to my gut and the butterflies return again to my insides. I nod and my bottom lip starts to wobble. My eyes sting like hell.
So, this is really it then. This really, really is it.
I am actually going to die.
Shelley
Killara, County Galway, Ireland
FRIDAY
The apple tree sways in our garden and I stare at it through the window until it blurs, unable to decide if its three-year growth heals or hurts me more. Right now, it scoops out my very core just to see it standing there, alive and proud, oblivious to what it represents and so ignorant to the agony I am still going through since I first planted it there in her memory.
Matt’s arms snuggle around my waist from behind and I feel his soft stubble on my neck, his familiar smell easing the hurt just a little as I close my eyes tight and fight back the tsunami of tears building inside me.
‘Breathe,’ he whispers, doing it for me as he speaks. ‘You aren’t breathing properly, Shelley. Let it out if you have to. Cry hard if you have to. I’m here. I’m right here.’
He rocks me gently before I push him away, and when I finally let go the release of tears is overwhelming, stronger than ever as I recall this time three years ago.
‘It’s just so unfair,’ I manage to say to my husband between choking sobs but he doesn’t reply because he too is broken still. I can tell by his own breathing that this is killing him. The cruelty of it all, the deep-rooted pain that will never go away as we struggle to come to terms with the loss that has ruined our lives.
‘At least you had her for three precious years,’ they said.
‘At least you got to hold her and say goodbye …’
‘At least … at least … at least …’
But there is no ‘at least’ when it comes to loss.
There will never be an at least. Tomorrow we should be celebrating her sixth birthday with balloons and bouncy castles and princesses, but instead all I have is an empty house, boxes of stowed away photos that I can’t bear to look at and a tree in the garden that is supposed to remind me of her. There is no at least.
‘Fancy a walk on the beach before I go?’ asks Matt, turning me round and wiping my eyes with his thumbs. We hold eye contact for a few seconds then he leans in and kisses my forehead so softly and somewhere within, I find the strength to thank God for this glorious man I’ve been blessed with. I lean on Matt’s chest and let him hold me close just one more time, feeling his warmth and the sound of his heartbeat, which reminds me that we both are still alive. And then as always, just before it makes me feel better, I let him go – because I don’t deserve to feel anything but pain.
‘I’d like that,’ I reply to him.
He always knows what’s best when we find the clutches of grief becoming too much to bear. Or when I am too much to bear, I should say. I know that the cracks in our marriage are slowly starting to show, no matter how much I deny it and no matter how patient Matt tries to be. I fear I may be running out of time and I will push him away once too often.
Moments later, we are walking along the sandy Killara beach in silence, with nothing but the lapping of the waves for company and the splashing of our golden retriever, Merlin, as he bounds in and out of the water alongside us.
This place truly is heaven on earth. It is absolute paradise, with the village harbour dotted in the distance and the white sandy