When I Lost You: A Gripping, Heart Breaking Novel of Lost Love.(2)
But I can’t snap at him – he’s emerging from a coma, for God’s sake. Just as this thought crosses my mind, Leo’s eyes drift closed again.
The doctors warned me that this might take a while and that we have no choice but to be patient – but I have already been patient for far too long and I have well and truly exhausted my supply of that virtue. I realise belatedly that I am so hungry that the bitter taste of nausea lingers in my throat and I rise reluctantly to head for the cafeteria. As I leave Leo’s room I ask myself what I really want out of the next few days. The answer is waiting at the forefront of my mind, but even as I acknowledge it, the guilt begins to rise.
I want Leo to wake up as quickly as possible and to somehow be completely okay. And then I want to go home and finally get on with my life.
2
Leo – 2011
Hi Leo,
I hope this email finds you well. I have been following your career – congratulations on the Pulitzer and the wonderful success you’ve achieved. My brother would have been so proud of you, he always told me you were going to do something great with your life.
As I’m sure you know, it was the tenth anniversary of Dec’s death a few months ago. I was hoping you could spare me some time when you’re next in Sydney to have a chat about his last days. I do understand that I’m asking a lot of you but if you are able to sit down and chat with me, I think understanding things a little better might bring me the closure I need. My contact details are below; please give me a call if you can.
Sincerely,
Molly
I was in a field hospital in Libya when I saw her note nestled in the first few entries in my inbox. It had been three weeks since I checked my mail. So many emails, so little care – hers was the only one out of the 200-odd waiting that I bothered to open. I was sitting on a stretcher, my left arm in a sling, a bullet lodged in my shoulder. I’d been lucky; there was minimal damage – supposedly. Still, it throbbed like hell and I was distracted when I first read Molly’s email on the screen of my satellite phone, but that wasn’t why I sent it straight to trash.
‘So,’ Brad Norse, my photo-journalist partner-in-crime, was seated on a chair beside me. ‘Home we go?’
‘Home?’ I repeated, then I sighed. ‘Brad…’
‘When one of us gets shot, we get to go home for a while. It’s one of the perks.’
‘Please––’ I turned off the satellite phone. ‘This barely counts as “getting shot”. The bullet missed all the important bits.’
‘That’s the morphine speaking.’
‘They didn’t have any morphine. I think they gave me paracetamol.’ Or maybe it had been some kind of sugar pill because whatever it was I’d swallowed two hours earlier, it hadn’t done a thing to ease the thumping pain in my shoulder. The truth was I almost wanted to go home too. The field medic had assessed me with the equipment he had available, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to wind up with permanent damage – and I really needed something stronger for the pain. But we had only been in Libya for a few weeks and I wasn’t at all satisfied with the progress I’d made on my research. And now, if I went home to Sydney to recuperate, I’d have to face Molly Torrington and her uncomfortable questions about her brother’s death.
‘We’re going home, Leo,’ Brad said suddenly. I shook my head, and then winced as the movement inadvertently triggered a damaged muscle in my shoulder.
‘There’s more to do here,’ I said, when I’d caught my breath again.
‘There’s always more to do. I’m going with or without you. Your psyche might be made of cast iron, but mine isn’t – that bullet could have killed either one of us. I need a chance to regroup.’
In the end I didn’t have any choice. I’d used the words ‘flesh wound’ when describing the incident to our editor, Kisani Hughes, but when Brad called her later that day, he gave a different assessment and she recalled us to Sydney. I grumbled, but by the time our plane touched down, I had a fever and signs of infection. Begrudgingly, I agreed that she’d made the right call.
I did not, however, agree with the medical leave the staff doctor then insisted I take. Several weeks of enforced time off was my idea of a nightmare. Within a few days I was bored out of my skull. I couldn’t exercise or walk my dog, or ride my motorbike. I couldn’t even run karate classes as I normally would when in Sydney between assignments. I did a lot of reading and an awful lot of thinking, but whether I was trying to focus on a novel, or awkwardly making breakfast with my one useful arm, my mind constantly circled back to Molly Torrington.
I’d always felt for her but I knew that any conversation about her brother’s death was going to be painful for both of us. I could never give her the closure she was seeking anyway; there had never been any easy answers when it came to Declan Torrington.
I’d never really known her well. For years I’d floated on the periphery of their family life, but as an unwelcome guest at the best of times. The last time I’d seen her in person had been at her brother’s funeral, when she stared down at the gravesite almost unblinkingly – a shocked expression on her face throughout the entire proceedings. Every other time I’d ever seen Molly, she’d been laughing or smiling – the kind of joyous and privileged child who approached every situation with a broad, generous beam. Declan used to joke that her riotous laugh always arrived at a room before she did – announcing her arrival like a town crier might have announced royalty.