Me Without You (23 page)

‘I’m not afraid.’ The polished façade slipped and the look she cast me was pure scorn. ‘Of what,
love
? Is that what you think this is? You make an emotional connection with another human being for the first time in your life and you assume it’s love?’

The cruelty was so brutal that it took my breath away. Of course I wasn’t going to beg or cry in front of her, but this was so sudden that I shifted into a state akin to shock.

‘I’ll go,’ I said. I was defeated. There was no coming back from that, not in this conversation. Maybe once she’d cooled down we could talk, and maybe things would be different then. But for now, she’d fired a shot in this battle that I couldn’t recover from quickly enough to keep fighting.

‘Take the car,’ she said. I couldn’t see her face now, but going by the sound of her voice, she wasn’t the least bit upset by what was happening. She could have been discussing the weather. ‘Just leave it at my apartment.’

‘No. It’s better if I don’t.’

‘How will you get home?’

‘I guess that’s not your problem now,’ I said. My throat was constricting. I walked out of the room and into the bedroom—our bedroom—and I packed my things, feeling as if I was trapped in some horrible nightmare that was rooted in all of my darkest fears for our relationship. I packed my suitcase, my camera, my laptop, loaded all of those things into my arms and walked back into the kitchen.

I wanted so much to hear her call me back that I could almost sense the words in the air. But although I hadn’t heard her leave the house, Lilah was gone, and the empty rooms just mocked me. I thought about waiting for her to return, trying to talk it out without the emotion, but even in my grief, I understood that she had made up her mind, and the door was already closed.

I called a taxi and I went home.

3
January

I don’t know if everyone does this, but sometimes I attach a memory to the setting the moment it happened, and I can’t unstick it. The memory and the temperature and the light and the breeze become entwined and I can’t think of the event without reliving the exact moment.

So when I think back to the night Haruto died, more than anything else I remember the cool breeze and the golden sunset. He was comfortable and stable, but his parents had gone to get some dinner and I didn’t want to leave him alone. The nurse told me that on her way in for night shift she’d seen the most amazing cloudless autumn sky and that I just had to get some fresh air and enjoy it. And I did. I walked around the park near the hospital and I watched the ducks huddle together for warmth and I soaked in the last rays of the day’s sun and I loved every second of being out of that godforsaken room.

And then when I went back into the fluorescent lighting and the corridor outside his room was in chaos, I knew I’d inadvertently discovered yet another thing to feel guilty about forever.

The purple twinkling twilight of Sydney Harbour at dusk takes me instantly back to the night Callum and I met, where the sense of wonder hung so heavily in the air that I could barely force myself to breathe. I can close my eyes even now and I’m back there, the smog and the salt in the air, the tension of a fascinating exchange waking up my body and my emotions after the longest drought. I knew almost from the moment we spoke that I’d sleep with him, probably that night, and that we’d be great together, if only I could let us.

Today I made a new memory and it bonded immediately to the shock of a blazing summer sun, midmorning on the coast. There’s nothing like it in all the world I’ve found, where in spite of the cool breeze off the ocean, the sunlight is still hard enough that you know you’ll burn within minutes. As I walked from the house, away from Callum, I knew that the dual shock of the heat and the absolute coldness in my heart would forever be entwined.

I blame hope for this. I went along with her for too long, even though I knew she was lying. Her tumbling twirling promises whispered that somehow everything was just going to work out—yes, in spite of the odds. She was so effortlessly confident that everything was going to be okay. Her relentless optimism wore me down and I bought into the lie of an eternal summer.

Winter came anyway. I managed to ignore autumn, to look aside from the browning leaves and the looming chill in the air. But then I woke one day and I knew hope had left me.

The danger in self-deception is the hunger afterward. It commands a sense of loss, a gap inside that just can't be satisfied. I knew love, and it changed me, and I found a new baseline of happiness that I won’t ever experience again. I've moved from a technicolour world back into a black-and-white one, and while I never thought to question black-and-white before, I realise now what I'm missing.

Oh, Callum. If only there was another way.

I can’t think of a single thing in my life I wouldn’t give to sit him down and explain why I had to do this today, why it had to be so final, and why I had to be so cold. But as much as I trust Callum, I trust the way I know him, and I know that I finally did the right thing for both of us.

T
he very worst
of it was I had two weeks of leave still stretching before me, the endless barrenness of my life before Lilah—without even the distraction of work. It was as if Lilah and the universe itself had conspired to remind me of just what sunshine she’d brought to my world.

I could barely bring myself to get out of bed those first few days. I’d had breakups before, bad ones even, but this… I was lost.

I hadn’t seen it coming. As I lay in bed, I replayed the days and weeks leading up to that awful morning over and over, looking for signs. I’d been so sure I understood the situation I was in, that we’d found each other and we’d build a future now, and that any little hurdles along the way could be explained away by Lilah working too hard or Lilah’s past history or Lilah’s quirks. Now it occurred to me that Lilah had never reciprocated the level of feeling I had for her, and maybe her stress over all of these months had been because I’d pushed her into a relationship she really wasn’t interested in. I sank further into myself, and wondered how I was supposed to pull myself out of the hole she’d left me in and get back to life again.

And so there were days and then weeks of me letting the filth pile up in my apartment, not eating or bathing, generally wallowing in utter misery. Every few days I’d drag myself into the kitchen, make a stiff espresso, and try to face the day and the world. Then I’d decide it was all too much, and I’d slink back to bed, defeated and desolate.

I felt the absence of friends and family. Someone should have been knocking on my door, demanding I find my bootstraps and pull myself up by them. No one knocked, and although I checked my phone a hundred times an hour, no one called—least of all Lilah. There were people who
might
have called, maybe my brothers, maybe even Karl, if only I’d let them know I was back and I needed to be checked in on. But that wasn’t my style. And so I waited alone with the damn phone never far from my hands.

My self-control wavered only once. At eleven a.m. one weekday morning, I scrolled through my phone contacts and looked at her listing.

Lilah.

The word held such beauty to me that staring down at it, my vision had blurred. Before my brain could kick back in, I sent her one text message.

Are you sure this is what you want?

Her response was immediate.

Yes
.

There was no arguing with that. I’d given her a long window of opportunity to cool down and call me back to her, and she was refusing me again.

So… that was that.

A
lthough they were
the longest weeks of my life, my leave did end, and I went back to work.

‘So glad to have you back. The place has been falling down around my ears without you here,’ Karl greeted me as we met at the stairwell for coffee. ‘How’s Lilah?’

I just shook my head. In the unspoken way of long-term friends, Karl had learnt everything he needed to know.

L
ife became
about getting through one more day.

Every day I knew the ache was easing, but it wasn’t easing fast enough. It was at night I missed her most. Our comfortable companionship had been such a revelation to me—the first time in my life I’d been able to just sit in the presence of another human being and feel connected. I could fill some of that space with work, but when the work had to stop, I’d lie awake and feel the ache deep in my soul. There was no way the wound would ever heal, I knew. There would be a scar there that was a part of me now, because at last I understood what it was I’d been missing.

M
y phone rang
early on a Tuesday morning, twelve weeks and three days after Lilah threw me out of her house and her life. It was an unknown mobile number, but work calls often were and I didn’t think anything of it.

‘Callum Roberts.’

‘Cal, its Peta.’

I only knew one Peta, but even if I knew two, I’d have known that voice. Peta’s syllables were rounded from a lifetime of travel, and there was a musical lilt to her tone, even just in a greeting. For a long moment, I couldn’t even breathe. I spun slowly in my chair and looked out to the harbour. Clouds had gathered since my sunlit ferry ride, and the day was ominously grey.

‘Cal?’ Her prompt was hesitant. Uncharacteristically hesitant.

‘Yes, I’m here. ‘

‘I’m so sorry to do this to you.’ Peta sounded genuinely heart-broken. ‘But can we meet?’

Peta was in the city—she was actually in the coffee shop on the corner between the street I worked on and the one Lilah worked on. Lilah and I had met here for lunch more times than I could count—and I did try to remember them all as I walked from my office. But I was nervous, and I walked so slowly that when I arrived, Peta looked as if she might be getting ready to leave. She had her handbag on her lap and she was staring at the door.

‘I’m just not sure anything good can come out of this conversation,’ I said by way of greeting as I sat down opposite her in the embroidered bucket chairs of the corner cafe.

‘Hello, Callum,’ she said as she smiled at me. Peta looked beyond tired—exhausted was probably a better word. For the first time it occurred to me that maybe Lilah had been injured.

‘Is—Lilah okay?’

Saying her name hurt my throat. I swallowed as I awaited Peta’s response. I willed her to provide me with the answer I wanted.
Of course she is. I just wanted to catch up with you.

‘I’ll get us some coffees,’ Peta suggested instead and my stomach sank. I wanted simultaneously to hasten and to prolong this moment. Potentially, this was the last moment before I knew that Lilah was
not
okay—that she’d been hit by a car, or fallen ill, or married someone else.

Married someone else
. It seemed the worst possible outcome.

‘A latte please,’ I said.

Peta rose and walked to the counter, and I watched as she placed our order and made her way back to me. She didn’t smile at the server, and she didn’t make eye contact with me as she returned. Once she’d taken her seat again, her eyes finally filled with tears.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

‘Is she…’ I didn’t finish my sentence. I couldn’t. Images of Lilah lying in a morgue had filled my mind and I was frozen.

‘No, no.’ Peta shook both her hands and her head violently. ‘No, she’s not dead. But, Cal, Lilah is very sick.’

‘She can’t be.’ What a stupid thing to say. I wanted to breathe the words back in. ‘I’m sorry, Peta—I just mean—she’s so healthy.’

Even as I said it, I knew I didn’t fully believe it. There had been signs that all wasn’t entirely well with Lilah. I’d explained them away and with an almost arrogant hope had believed that I could fix whatever ailed her. I remembered the blind innocence of my thought that just a measure of rest would do the job.

‘I assume Lilah never told you about James.’ Peta’s voice was a whisper and she didn’t bother waiting for me to confirm I had no idea what she was referring to. I knew Lilah’s father’s name was James, and that he had died, but that was about it. Whenever she did speak about him, it was generally about his life, not his death.

‘James had a genetic disorder. We are pretty sure his mother had it too—she was the original Saoirse. I knew we shouldn’t have given her that stupid bloody name.’ Peta smiled weakly. ‘She died just before Lilah was born, back in Ireland, and all that James ever knew until he got sick was that she went crazy and had been institutionalised.’

I had been looking at Peta, waiting for the blow to fall, knowing that there was an understanding coming that I’d never be able to unknow. Suddenly, though, I couldn’t bear to see Lilah’s mother; it was bad enough to have to listen to these words, but to see those familiar eyes was just too hard. I looked out onto the street beside us and watched the flow of traffic as the soft rhythm of her story continued.

‘Lilah was only eleven or twelve when James started having problems. I actually remember the first time he told me about it—he was just having trouble using a shovel. Decades of doing garden work and suddenly he just couldn’t dig.’ She laughed softly. ‘I thought he was making excuses… being lazy or a coward… he never wanted to travel; he just wanted to be with me. I know he worried about Lilah and our lifestyle. I actually thought he was trying to trick me into settling down somewhere in some desk job, just when my career seemed to be taking off.’

A waitress silently slipped our coffees onto the table. I stared down now at the creamy milk and the swirl in the shape of a leaf on top of it.

‘And of course, not only did I not believe him, but even if he would go to a doctor—which, incidentally, he very rarely did—he never would have gone for something so vague. After a few months, he started this nervous twitching in his fingers.’ Peta was whispering now. ‘And then his personality began to change. He became depressed, angry, confused…’

She sighed, physically shook herself and reached for her coffee. Now I looked directly at her and she was shaking and pale.

‘It’s called Huntington’s Disease,’ she told me. I’d never heard of it, but that didn’t stop me from making wild assumptions.

‘And what's the cure for it?’

‘There is no cure.’

‘There
has to be
.’

I had raised my voice and the café fell silent. Peta reached across the table and put her hand over mine. Her hand was warm, and mine felt cold, and I realised I was shaking too now. I wasn’t in touch at all with the emotions that were pummelling my body. Maybe I was in physical shock.

‘I’m so sorry, Callum. There just isn’t.’

‘We’ll find someone,’ I said. ‘If she needs help, we have to find something—there just has to be something.’

‘Sweetheart, there are therapies, they help with the symptoms.’ She was speaking to me as if I was a child, and strangely, I needed that. ‘But nothing takes the condition away. It’s a mutation of a gene—there’s a protein that is missing from their brains. Over time, usually in middle age, the brain becomes damaged. It can’t be stopped.’

I pulled my hand from hers and rubbed my face with it. It was almost funny how those last few miserable months suddenly seemed blissful in comparison.

‘Is there nothing?’ I whispered. ‘Nothing at
all
?’

‘Not at this stage. Well, not that we know of.’ Peta sipped her coffee. ‘Lilah knew she was going to get Huntington’s; she’d been tested after James died. She only started getting sick maybe… I don’t know… five or six years ago. Somehow she went into remission.’

There it was. The glimmer of hope I needed to hold myself together. I stared at her.

‘So she did it once—she can do it again.’

There was pity in Peta’s eyes, and it was beyond frustrating.

‘Has she told you about Haruto, Callum?’

Oh, great. Now I had the ex-partner rubbed in my face too, the lover who had lasted a whole
year.

‘She mentioned him.’

‘She told you he died?’ I nodded. ‘Haruto had Huntington’s too. They were travelling, in Mexico I believe, and he was injured somehow and left completely brain damaged. It happened at the same time she miraculously recovered.’

The meaning in her tone went over my head. I stared at her, and when she didn’t elaborate, my words were too harsh.

‘I’m not following, Peta.’

‘It’s just a theory, but Lilah’s doctor and I have wondered if she and Haruto attempted some kind of experimental therapy while they were over there. And yes, maybe whatever they tried helped Lilah, but it’s likely the same treatment all but killed Haruto.’

‘Have you asked her?’

‘She denies it. Of course,’ Peta sighed. ‘Whatever happened over there is not something she’s willing to share, and if it cost Haruto his life and they should never have been doing it in the first place, I can understand why.’

I’d convince her to talk. And then I’d convince her to get back on a plane and find whatever magic potion she’d swallowed all over again. I just had to see her, and before I did that, I needed to know what to expect.

‘So what’s happened to her now?’

‘At Christmas, the chorea—that’s the medical term for the twitching—started back again, like it had all of those years ago. The progression of the disease is usually pretty predictable—but no one knew what to expect after a five-year holiday from the symptoms. Mainly of course because no one has ever had any kind of holiday from their symptoms before.’ Peta idly wiped a smear of lipstick from her mug with her fingertip.

‘And now?’ I asked. She twisted the cup this way and that, and although she didn’t look at me, I saw her eyes finally fill with tears.

‘Her doctor tells me it’s like her body is making up for lost time; her progression has been unusually rapid. I don’t know how long she has, Callum. She’s had pneumonia three times in the last month. Every time she tells me she’s going to let it take her so she doesn’t have to die from the Huntington’s, and every time her damn body claws its way back. I can’t help but feel she has some unfinished business, and I think you and I both know what that is.’

‘So she twitches? She’s clumsy? What else?’

‘Her gait has changed and she walks differently. Her speech… I don’t know, it’s hard to explain. She just sounds different, maybe she slurs a little. The worst of it is that she’s having some issues with swallowing which is why she keeps getting chest infections. As it progresses, she will progressively lose cognitive function—there will be psychiatric symptoms—James had severe depression and crazy, impulsive mood swings. It’s a neurological disease…’ Peta bit her lip and stared at me for a moment before the finished her sentence, ‘Callum, her brain is basically going to melt down.’

‘Are you sure this is why she ended things with us?’

Everything hinged on that. Everything. I would need time to process this, time to research it, time to understand. But before I could even decide what my next steps would be—I had to know that Lilah had really not wanted me to leave her to deal with this in her own way.

‘There is no dignity in this death.’ Peta wiped at her cheeks as the tears spilled across them. ‘It took James ten years to die, and we both wished him dead a thousand times a day by the end. We sent Lilah to live with my parents and we tried to
live
, but it was impossible, especially in the last few years. Life became about managing, and waiting for release. The only thing I can imagine worse than this disease is to die from it alone. I suspect for my daughter the only thing she could imagine worse than this disease was to put someone else through the pain of having to watch her suffer it. But I wasn’t sure that you’d feel the same way.’