The Best of Friends, Alex Day [feel good books to read .txt] 📗

I stop dead, staring at him, horror overtaking me, causing my blood to run cold and my hands to tremble. I’ve never seen him ill, not really ill – he’s the healthiest, most robust person I know. This was never part of the plan, that he’d come over for dinner and get sick.

‘What’s the matter? Dan, for God’s sake, what’s the matter?’

He tries to move, to get up, but he can’t. It’s as if he’s paralysed, his limbs not working.

‘Charl, I can’t move. My legs aren’t working. And I don’t feel too good at all. My heart … racing …’ His words dry up as if speaking is too much effort.

I feel paralysed myself, with fear and dread and desperation. I look at Dan, my handsome, charismatic, successful, much-coveted husband, suddenly, inexplicably, rendered incapable, incapacitated, and I don’t know what to do.

‘What’s wrong? Is it too much to drink? Are you ill?’

The questions fire out of me as if there’s any way he will have an answer. He’s had a stroke, I think. He’s going to be an invalid for life. And I’ve just been droning on about myself. I feel nauseous at the thought.

‘The curry,’ he says. His diction is completely clear even while it’s obvious that his body is shutting down. ‘Maybe the meat was bad …’

He shuts his eyes.

I hadn’t imagined any of this.

When I asked him over, I’d thought it would be a chance to articulate our differences, to clear the air. Perhaps make him think – really think – about what he’s done to me and how he’s made me feel. But this has gone too far.

I press my fingers to his wrist and detect the faintest whisper of a pulse. I lean my ear against his mouth and cannot be sure if it is tickled by the weakest breath. I don’t know what to do. I’m frantic with worry, with horror and terror. He cannot die before my eyes. Whatever he’s done, I cannot lose him.

I grab the phone and dial 999. As I’m asking for an ambulance I’m wondering if this is the right decision. It will take them ages to get here, to find the place. The ambulance person is asking for symptoms and I’m trying to explain. That it started with paralysis and laboured breathing though he was conscious and talking. That now I’m not sure if he’s doing any of those things.

The ambulance handler says the crew are on their way, but there have been reports of trees down on the side roads, and the rain is making driving conditions treacherous. I imagine the vehicle, lights flashing, sirens blaring, making its way towards us at a snail’s pace, unable to pick up speed in the terrible weather. It’ll never get here in time.

I stop giving the address and scream down the phone, telling the handler not to bother. Dan is fading fast; I’m going to drive him. It will be quicker and anyway, I can’t stand the inaction. I can’t sit here waiting. Watching him die.

Pulling him from behind his arms, I somehow manage to get him the short distance to the back door. My car is parked outside; I often leave it there rather than at the front or in the garage, in order to make a quick getaway if my mystery caller comes back. It’s lucky I did so today. And that I filled the tank yesterday.

Even though he’s definitely lost weight, Dan is still much bigger and heavier than me. But years of physio and Pilates to strengthen my back, plus fat-busting weight-training, mean that I am strong. Somehow – I have no idea how – I get him out of the door and into the car, willing my back not to give out on me now. I’m talking to him whenever I can, whenever I have enough breath, in between the monumental bursts of effort involved in lifting and man-handling him, trying to soothe him, comfort him. Keep him conscious.

His arms still work and, as I pull and haul, he helps me by dragging himself into the back seat where he lies prone, his legs stuffed in any old how.

‘I don’t think it can be the food,’ I say, as I start the ignition and drive, desperately trying to keep my words reassuring, my voice even. ‘It was made fresh today and they’ve been serving it in the cafe. Susannah made it. She said it went down like a house on fire. Everyone was ordering it. Fire is about the right word though, isn’t it? It was very hot …’

My voice trails away. I don’t feel too great myself. My legs are heavy and I’m having to concentrate to make them work, to depress and release the pedals, to brake into and accelerate out of the bends, to change gears. I will myself to function, to keep going, to overcome the seeping lethargy that’s engulfing me.

‘Charlotte,’ his voice is still audible, still Dan. ‘I’m sorry. And I love you.’

And then the realisation comes to me, as I tear through the darkened lanes, barely heeding the surroundings, skidding slightly on a rain-slicked incline, like a religious epiphany. The true awareness of how much I love him and always will. We’ve been through so much together, me and him, over so many years. I couldn’t live without him, and I don’t want to. I want us to be together forever – as long as he’ll have me, after my confession.

Whatever I texted to you in a moment of madness, I don’t want him to die.

I’ve never really wanted that.

Chapter 38

Susannah

Dan and Charlotte will be having their cosy date-night reconciliation, their let’s-forget-all-about-it evening right now.

All I can do is wait.

I waited before, for weeks; the waiting for the sentencing seemed to go on forever, though of course it would have been even longer if I had not pleaded guilty and my case had gone to trial. I knew what was going to happen