You Me Everything Read online

  “I’m not anyone.”

  “No, I know, but—”

  “When you get married, it’s meant to be in sickness and in health. Most people never have to think about that bit at the beginning, but I have. A lot. And I’m in.”

  I’m faltering, stumbling over what to say. Until a smile creeps to my face, and I realize I don’t really need to say anything.

  “Well, now we’ve established that—and the pianist has started up again—I’m going to try for a second time,” he says.

  I let out a spurt of laughter and wipe away my tears.

  He lifts up the ring and holds it up, sparkling under the lights. “You’re not going to make me get down on one knee again, are you? I mean, once in one evening is acceptable; twice just looks desperate.”

  I laugh. “No, don’t.”

  He falters. “Okay. I won’t embarrass you. But I will ask you again, Jess. Will you marry me?”

  I stop smiling and look into the eyes of the only man I’ve ever loved.

  We were never perfect, but we were made for each other. It’s taken ten years, a baby, a terminal illness and a roller coaster of emotion in between to work that out.

  So I suppose there’s only one answer.

  “Okay, Adam.”

  He frowns. “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes. Yes, it’s a yes.”

  His face breaks into a greedy grin. “Christ, that was hard work,” he says as he leaps across the table to fling his arms around me and the guy with the filet de rouget bursts into rapturous applause.

  Chapter 81

  I drift in and out of sleep in Adam’s arms that night, stirring only to feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest underneath my fingers. A high moon shimmers through the gap in the shutters, casting mysterious shadows across the room.

  I can’t sleep because I’m high on excitement, on whatever unexpected and glorious thing it is fizzing inside me. For the first time in years, I’m thinking about the future with optimism and an almost supernatural certainty that everything’s going to be okay, no matter what life throws at me.

  A smile creeps to my lips as Adam sleepily pulls me closer into him and, almost unconsciously, leans in to kiss me, pressing his mouth against mine, his eyes still closed.

  “You’re awake,” I whisper.

  “Only just. What time is it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . six o’clock or something.”

  His hand travels down the skin on my back, and I press myself against him, brushing my lips across the rough part of his chin. Then my phone starts to ring.

  It takes a second for me to register it, and we both freeze at the same time. I scramble away from Adam, out of bed and across the room to the phone I’d left on top of my bag underneath the window. I fumble with it, my fingers not functioning as fast as I need them to, before I finally hit the answer button.

  “Dad?” I say urgently.

  When my father speaks, it’s very clear from the tremble in his voice that this is the call I’ve been dreading for the last ten years.

  “Jess. I’m phoning about your mum.”

  Chapter 82

  I barely remember the clamor to return home. All I know is that I managed to catch a flight later that day, alone, leaving William and everyone else in France, along with my car and most of my worldly belongings.

  I do remember looking bleakly out of the window onto the tops of the clouds and thinking how peaceful and blue and perfect it all looked up there, knowing that as soon as the plane dipped below them, I’d be plunged back into a world that was far darker.

  Five days later, the “when, not if” that Dad and I have talked about over the last ten years is imminent. And it’s only now that I realize how unprepared for it I was. I don’t think anything could’ve prepared me for this.

  My mum is dying a wretched, ugly death, one it feels impossible to believe is really happening. The choking that had worsened in the last few months was what finally did this to her.

  The doctors think that she inhaled some food, and it went on to cause the pneumonia that her body was already too weak to fight. Since then, she’s been pumped full of antibiotics, but her lungs are so ravaged, so tired, that they stand no chance.

  It’s not that people aren’t trying to make it better, because they are. Everyone’s doing their best. But their best isn’t helping. And the sight of my mum right now is one that will haunt me forever. Even when she’s sedated, she never looks comfortable. She looks tortured.

  Dad and I have taken turns by her bedside, stroking her knuckles, watching as she moves underneath her thin cotton nightie, her skin draped across her bones.

  My father’s heart is being slowly crushed with every cry that escapes her lips. And I am so overwhelmed by the sheer awfulness of this that on some days it takes all my might to look out of the window and not despise every last person going about his business. I’ve cried so much in the last few days that the skin on my cheeks is raw.

  Adam drove William to Manchester in my car shortly after I left, and is currently staying at our house with him. My son keeps saying he wants to see his grandma, but I haven’t let him. I blamed the medical team, saying they wouldn’t allow it. I might have promised him honesty while we were in France, but absolutely no good could come out of him witnessing this: his grandma slowly being suffocated by her own body.

  “You should go home and get some sleep, love,” Dad says to me for the fourth time today.

  But the decision to go always involves a gamble. I want to be here when she dies. I’d thought it was going to happen days ago, when she was still trying to communicate as best she could.

  I’ve repeatedly braced myself that this is it, convinced that someone couldn’t possibly keep fighting when her body was in this state.

  Yet here she is, clutching onto life. Part of me hates myself for wishing it were over. But she no longer looks like my mum, or smells like my mum, or sounds like her.

  “I will soon, Dad.”

  But I don’t move. Instead, I allow my eyes to drift across the room, to the windowsill, the pictures Dad had brought from the care home, small trinkets for her to focus on, in the days when she could focus on anything.

  There’s one of their wedding day, a balmy September Saturday that they both always said must’ve been the hottest day of the year. At nineteen, Mum was an impossibly young-looking bride. Her dress was high necked, with lace that caressed the length of her arms, and she wore a hat—a jaunty, wide-brimmed kind of thing, with a veil that went right down her back.

  I was tickled by that hat when I was a little girl; I used to try it on and dance in front of her bedroom mirror, swirling the tulle around me like a gymnast. My mother’s radiance shines through in the picture, my dad looking dapper, beaming like the cat that got the cream, as they stood side by side ready to embark on their adventure together.

  There are five or six other framed pictures, of people, places and—in the case of our old dog, Lady—animals she loved. The one that catches my eye is the photo of the two of us together, on my sixth birthday, standing behind the fairy-tale castle cake she’d made.

  People always said we looked alike, but it’s in that photo that it’s most striking. I’ve got the same full mouth, pale coloring, smattering of freckles across the nose. My only hope is that, when it’s my turn, I will have the same amount of fight.

  The most recent addition is one I had printed in a little booth in the supermarket when I went to buy Dad and me some sandwiches a couple of days ago. It’s the picture I took on my phone, of Adam and William laughing by the lake that day. I don’t know if she ever registered it, but I hope so. That and the engagement ring I showed her and Dad, as he clutched her hand and smiled for the one and only time since I’ve been home.

  For no other reason than to stretch my legs, I decide to stand and fix the curtain that’s
been crumpled in one corner since the nurse opened it this morning. I brush against Mum’s hand as I stand up and realize it feels cold.

  My heart starts racing, and I panic that it’s already happened. Then a sound escapes from the back of her throat.

  “Jess,” Dad whispers, but his eyes aren’t on me; they are fixed on the face of a woman he’s loved for his entire adult life. He clutches her as she rasps intermittently, her breathing becoming quiet, before it starts again. I am rooted to the seat, until the stop-start of her lungs changes.

  When life leaves my mum’s body, it is quicker than I’d imagined.

  The expression on her face softens. There are no more movements, no more twitching, no more of the sounds or grunts we’d all become used to. And, between our tears and shock and overwhelming sadness, the room is filled with something that comes before grief.

  The room is filled with peace.

  Chapter 83

  Twelve months later,

  summer 2017

  Adam turns the ignition on the VW camper van, and as it springs to life, William and I let out a cheer. I’d never seen the appeal before, but having bought this one last year and spending the next three months doing it up on weekends with William, Adam is completely smitten. I’ve never seen him so happy as when he slips into that driver’s seat—you’d think he was in a Lamborghini.

  It’s sage green and white on the outside, with a retro interior that features leather seats, new Shaker cupboards and gingham curtains tied back with yellow ribbons. We’ve called her Lisa, after Adam’s mum, and his favorite photograph of the two of them, in front of their own camper van all those years ago, is pinned on the sunshade at the front.

  Of course, the problem with driving something built in 1962 is that it’s not hugely compatible with hilly terrain, particularly if you’re hoping to travel faster than the average lawn mower. This meant that our drive all the way from Manchester across the French countryside took longer than we’d imagined—and that’s saying something given how pessimistic I was.

  Still, eventually, we near our destination, even if my heart has almost stopped every time we’ve had to negotiate some of these treacherous mountain roads.

  “Why do you look so nervous, Mum?” William asks.

  “Oh, I don’t know—something to do with the cliff below, perhaps?”

  “That’s a hill.” Adam smirks and puts the van into second gear.

  “If you say so,” I reply, distinctly relieved as the road widens and we pull up to the spot where we’ve arranged to meet Enzo, the guide who took us canyoning last summer.

  As I step out of the car and look out across the sweeping valley, I’m reminded of the singular but monumental lesson I’ve learned in the past year.

  Everyone’s future is uncertain.

  Most of us don’t think about the fact that we could be run over by a bus tomorrow. We plod through life, taking everything for granted.

  I, on the other hand, take nothing for granted. Not a single thing. I savor every kiss from my son, every bite of chocolate, every leaf that falls from an autumn tree and every burst of laughter with my friends.

  I have a good life.

  An amazing life.

  I no longer walk through it terrified about the future, because that would be a waste of my limited time. I live my wonderful, rich life with the courage I never had until recently. Sometimes it takes darkness to see how we shine.

  That’s not to say that the last year has been easy, although this week, with the anniversary of my mum’s death looming, that feeling is probably magnified. Being back in France for a holiday has helped all of us, including Dad, who flew in to meet us a few days ago. Nevertheless, the ache of loss is permanently inked on his broken heart. He misses her desperately. We all do.

  I miss her smile. I miss her wisdom. I miss her cakes. And I miss her breezy humor, the one that never faltered no matter what life threw at her.

  There is no doubt that it has been a difficult twelve months.

  And sometimes my instincts get the better of me. Every time I drop a glass or feel short-tempered or forget the name of our new neighbor, the familiar rush of panic returns.

  I’ve come to the conclusion that to live any other way would be impossible, given what I’ve seen and what I know. But I refuse to let the fear rule me. If there’s one thing my mum taught me it’s to go down fighting. I won’t waste time on sadness.

  It helps that we’ve had some nice things too. Moving house, for one thing. Once the sale of the château was finalized and Adam was back in the UK full-time, it became clear that having the three of us under one another’s feet in one tiny terrace house wasn’t going to work, especially now we have a son who’s almost as tall as me and seems to fill the entire sofa every time he slumps down on it.

  So we looked into trading up to somewhere bigger. I’ll be honest: it was so much fun spending weekends nosing round other people’s houses that I was almost sorry when we actually found somewhere.

  We now live in a four-bedroom redbrick house in Didsbury, which we moved into three months ago. And I love it. I love the way its high windows allow brilliant light in every room, how the big old staircase looks as though it’s been there since the dawn of time, and that every twist and knot of nature is ingrained in patterns on the heavy pine doors. And William’s over the moon with his new bedroom, which is a shrine to Match of the Day—a taste-free zone with pictures of soccer balls and players on every available surface.

  There’s also the wedding to look forward to, the nature of which has been the source of some discussion, shall we say. I’d been thinking of something low-key, a hotel or posh pub with only a handful of us. Adam had been thinking something on the scale of the opening of the Rio Olympic Games.

  We met somewhere in the middle and are planning a Christmas wedding, with fifty or so friends and family; not too small, but enough of an unabashed celebration to shout from the rooftops that we’ve found each other again.

  It made sense on every level, because spending any more than we are on a wedding was out of the question. We’re not broke, but the proceeds of the château sale are mainly being plowed into Adam’s new business venture. He is setting himself up as a property developer and has found a beautiful but crumbling house last used as a nursing home. It’s not as big as Château de Roussignol but has all the same issues it did when he first bought that—possibly more. There’s nothing like a leaking roof and dry rot to really get my future husband going.

  His plan is to renovate it, turn it into swish apartments and then either sell it on or rent them out himself, before looking for his next project. So there hasn’t been much time for holidays, until now, when we’ve spent the last three weeks exploring France, ending up back here in the Dordogne. We spent last night in Château de Roussignol, as guests of the new owners.

  It’s lovely to be back and experience the nostalgic pang of all the sights and sounds of last year: the climbing flowers rampaging across the walls, the nightingales and the butterflies, the scented air and warm breeze.

  As we follow the same waterfall trail that Enzo brought us on last year, I’m reminded how gorgeous it all is, flanked by damp, sweet-smelling grass and a necklace of ferns along its craggy rock side.

  I’m also reminded about how ridiculously scary it was.

  Not that you’d think it to look at William as he plunges into the turquoise pools and is carried on his back by the undulating slipstream. I follow along dutifully at first, scrambling tentatively down the banks after them, squealing under my own breath every time my foot slips.

  But although I’ve got goose bumps, I no longer feel cold. I am too busy splashing with my son, laughing with my fiancé, feeling the icy water against my hot cheeks, sunshine burning it away as soon as it touches my skin.

  “Okay, you were right,” I say to Adam. “This is quite good.”

&n
bsp; He glances at me. “Quite good? It’s brilliant. You just need to get into it.”

  I’m about to reply when William comes wading up to me, running so fast through the water he almost falls flat on his face. “Mum! It’s the big one next. Are you jumping in? Come on.”

  “Your mum has absolutely nothing to prove,” Adam tells him, then turns to me. “You really haven’t.”

  I stride to the edge of the rock and look down, as water rushes past my feet, adrenaline racing inside the pit of my belly. I clamp my teeth together and inhale.

  “We could do it together.” William slips his hand in mine.

  Adam clutches my other hand, and I lift my chin up until my eyes focus on the brilliant blue of the sky.

  I have William on one side. I have Adam on the other. All we have to do is step off. As they start counting down to the moment when we plunge into the crashing water below, their hot fingers squeezing mine, I remind myself of one other thing I’ve learned in the last year.

  When you are surrounded by love, you have nothing to fear.

  Author’s Note

  In December 2017, following several decades of research, scientists announced a major breakthrough in their work on Huntington’s disease.

  A human trial of a new “huntingtin-lowering” drug successfully and safely reduced levels of the harmful protein that causes HD. The research team at University College London says there is now real hope that the disease can be slowed or prevented altogether.

  At the time of writing, vital long-term data is still needed, and the next wave of trials will set out to show whether lowering levels of huntingtin will change the course of the disease.

  To learn more about Huntington’s disease, or find out how you can help, visit the Huntington’s Disease Association in the UK (www.hda.org.uk) or Huntington’s Disease Society of America (www.hdsa.org).