Beautifully Unbroken Page 3

  Eventually we ended up moving from our family home in Kent to Kensington so as Dad could be closer to work. He was spending every waking minute on cases and was hardly home, so moving closer to London pulled the family closer before we started drifting away.

  “He’s never lost a case before,” I replied.

  “I’ve never seen him so … I don’t know … he was just devastated,” Mum recalled. “It was late. He came walking in, and for the first time in thirty-five years, he wasn’t smiling. He was sweating. His face was so pale; he looked terrible. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.” She shrugged. “What do you say to someone who had been invincible until that day?

  “I did the only thing I knew to do. I kissed him, hugged him, and told him everything was going to be okay. I told him to sit while I got him something to eat, but he kept insisting that he wasn’t hungry and to just stay and hold him for a while.” She sniffed. “Eventually I loosed him and headed to the kitchen. And then” – she let out a loud sob – “I heard him. He cried out in pain, and then I heard this heavy, horrific thud.”

  Mum was now crying uncontrollably. I wrapped my arms around her. “Shh, it’s okay,” I choked out. “He is going to be okay. We’re going to get him better, Mum, I promise.”

  “You need to get some rest,” Mum said, looking up at me warily.

  “No, I need to be here with you and Dad.”

  “You must be exhausted, Josephine; you haven’t slept for so long, and the flight over. Go home and get some rest, please.”

  “Mum, you haven’t rested either. If anyone needs rest, it’s you.”

  Mum let out a tired laugh. “You know I don’t sleep anyway, Josephine; this chair is good enough for me. Please, go home, have a couple of hours. I’ll call you if I need to, I promise.”

  I didn’t want to leave them, and even though I was exhausted, there was no way I was going anywhere.

  “Please, Josephine. I know you want to stay, but you are going to end up dropping. I need you strong. Here, call Uncle Anthony; he will come and get you.” she handed me her mobile phone.

  “No,” I said, handing her phone back to her. “I just need coffee. Can I get you some?”

  “No,” Mum said with a smile, placing her phone back into her pocket. “I’ve drank enough tea and coffee to sink a ship this past twenty-four hours.”

  “I will be down in the cafe. My phone is on; if you need me, you call me,” I said firmly.

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  I gave Dad a long kiss and told him to have those eyes wide open by the time I arrived back. As I approached the café, my phone buzzed. Immediately thinking of Blake, I dug into my handbag and removed it.

  It was Casey calling, and even though I felt a slight disappointment, I was grateful.

  “Hello,” I answered as I sank into one of the uncomfortable plastic seats in the cafe.

  “Jo” – I heard her exhale – “how is he? How’s your dad? I’m so sorry, I only just found out.”

  Thinking that Casey must have had one too many champagnes the night before to remember Sara had told her, I replied, “No change. I’m so scared, Casey. He’s going to die; I just know he is.” I tried to hold back the tears, but it was impossible.

  “Oh, Jo, I wish there was something I could do to help you,” she said sympathetically.

  “Just talking to you means so much,” I replied.

  “I miss you,” Casey said. “We all do.”

  “I miss you too,” I said, sucking in a sob.

  “You call me, okay?” she said with emotion in her voice. “Any time; day or night, I may be thousands of miles away, but I love you.”

  “I love you too,” I replied.

  Mum was reading sections of the Financial Times out to Dad when I walked back into the room. She looked up at me and smiled. “You weren’t gone long.”

  “I didn’t like being away from him,” I replied. I walked over and kissed her on the cheek before then going to Dad and doing the same. “Any change?”

  Mum shook her head slightly as she looked at him. “They’re not really saying anything; they come in and out all of the time but don’t tell me anything.”

  “That’s good though, surely?”

  Mum didn’t reply; she just carried on looking at Dad. I could see all of the emotions running through her; I could see her love for him, the need she had for him – it was all there to see.

  “Mum?”

  “Yes dear?”

  “I think I’m in love,” I said quietly.

  Mum gasped in surprise and turned her full attention to me. Even though her eyes looked so heavy and desperate, she wanted to hear about Blake.

  “Tell me everything. How did you meet? What does he do? Does he feel the same?”

  Shaking my head as I smiled at her, I said simply, “It’s Blake.”

  “Your co-star?” she said with a hint of amusement.

  I nodded.

  “And does Blake know?”

  “Yes. Well, I think so. He wants to take me out to dinner.”

  “Oh, darling, it’s about time,” she teased.

  “I’m scared, Mum,” I admitted.

  Mum took my hand in hers. “He’s not Michael, Josephine.”

  “I know.” I nodded in agreement but frowned.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s been so long, Mum; I’m scared of letting him in, getting close and …”

  “And?”

  “What if it happens again?”

  “Darling” – Mum wrapped her arms around me and kissed my head – “you can’t live your life worrying about what ifs. There are no guarantees in life, but what happened to you” – Mum paused, deciding on her next words – “what happened was …”

  “I know what you are trying to say, Mum, I do. But—”

  “Ah.” Mum placed a finger to my lips. “No buts. Do you know how long your father and I have waited for you to find someone who can give as much love as you can give to them?”

  Smiling, I removed her finger from my mouth. “You don’t even know him, Mum.”

  “No,” she admitted, “but you do, and after four years it was going to take a good man to break you down.” She smirked and sat back down in the chair she had become so used to.

  I shook my head in disbelief at the conversation I was having with my mum. “Every single man that I have ever dated cheated on me, Mum; who is to say he won’t do the same?”

  “There are no guarantees in life, Jo. Sometimes we have to just take a chance. So when your dad gets better and you go back off to your new life, you go get him, you hear me?” She picked the newspaper back up and continued telling my dad about the world and its problems.

  I laughed for the first time in days. She was such an old romantic at times.

  It started to become easy sitting and talking to Dad as though he could hear me. The constant beeping and pumping sounds were beginning to fade now. I had become so used to them that I barely noticed they were there without looking directly at them. It was my turn to read to Dad now, so I took the sports pages in hand and read Dad the main stories. There were plenty of stories because the World Cup was about to start, and that was one tournament that Dad loved.

  I was in the middle of telling him about an incident that was being reported regarding a scuffle between some fans when I felt his hand tighten around mine.

  I froze; unable to breathe for fear that I had imagined it. He squeezed again.

  Mum was dozing in her chair. “Mum,” I said in a hushed tone. “Mum, he can hear me; he’s squeezing my hand! Mum!”

  Mum shot quickly out of the chair. “Can you hear us, John?” she said desperately. “It’s me, Diana, and look, our baby girl is here too! Darling, press for the nurses; get them in here!”

  Suddenly there was hope. He was wriggling, and even though his eyes were still closed, I had felt it, I had felt him with me, and now I could see that he was trying desperately to come back to us.

  He
let out a groan.

  “Come on, Daddy, open those eyes,” I pleaded, holding his hand tightly in mine.

  He groaned again. This time it was more of a strangled moan. “What’s wrong with him? Why can’t he open his eyes? He’s trying. Look, look at him.” I said as a couple of nurses came rushing in.

  “Can you step out of the room, please?” one of the nurses said firmly before pressing another buzzer.

  “What’s going on?” my mum pleaded before turning to me. “Josephine?”

  “Please, come with me, Diana.” Another nurse had wrapped her arms around my mum and was tugging her to leave the room. “They’re doing everything they can, but they need you both out of the way.” she said, even more insistent.

  “What do you mean, ‘doing everything’? He was waking up!” I yelled.

  But then I saw it.

  The machine that was monitoring his heart rate was no longer giving out its steady rhythm of a beat, but instead there was one constant beep, a droll, deep noise. There were no lines bouncing up and down, indicating a heartbeat; no numbers … nothing.

  “Mum,” I said, panicked. “Mum, what’s happening to him?”

  A nurse gently took us both out of the room, where we both stood watching; screaming for him to come back, yelling at them to help him, to please help him.

  People were coming from everywhere and rushing into the room. Every so often we would hear the word “clear” followed by a loud popping noise that made my stomach churn.

  “Come on, Daddy, come on. Don’t you do this; don’t you dare give up,” I whispered under my breath over and over as if he would somehow hear me and come back to us.

  Eventually the door opened, and out stepped the doctor.

  “I’m sorry,” he said sympathetically. “We did everything we could.”

  3

  My dad had passed away four days ago.

  Nothing felt real.

  Mum and I hadn’t left the house. We were being looked after by Uncle Anthony and his wife, Elizabeth, who were also grieving their loss. My cousin Jemma was around a lot, which also helped; we had grown up together and had been inseparable until I moved to New York. She was the closest thing I had to a sister; we even looked alike, only Jemma’s hair was bright blonde. Our facial features were like those of sisters. Her eyes were brown just like mine, and she was slim, too, but slightly taller. It was nice having her close again, even under such strained circumstance.

  Something in my mind wouldn’t let me accept that my dad was never coming home. Every time the door would open, for a split second I would think it was him, home from another day fighting off baddies.

  But he was never coming home. I couldn’t accept it.

  I saw my mum falling apart around us all, and yet I had no idea how I could help her, or even if I had the strength to. For thirty-five years her whole life had revolved around my father. She would wake every morning next to him, and they spent every minute of their lives loving each other. She cooked for him and cared for him, and suddenly everything that she knew as routine had gone and left her, leaving behind only memories. That was all she had now – all any of us had – memories.

  We were living a real-life nightmare, only this time there was no waking up from it, no escaping. We would live through this nightmare now for the rest of our lives. I wasn’t sure either I or my mum was even capable of that.

  Funeral arrangements had begun. I couldn’t even bear to think about it. I listened to what was being planned, but I couldn’t process that we were going to be burying my dad. I couldn’t accept it, and neither could my mum.

  She was breaking, slowly, into millions of pieces. She was putting on such a brave face, but I could see the real Diana Summers behind the mask she was wearing. I had heard her every minute of every night since we lost him; she would sob uncontrollably in their marital bed, where he should have been lying next to her. Each night, I would go to her and comfort her. Eventually she would doze off to sleep, but then she would start crying again. Her heart lay with my dad, and it was slowly beginning to shatter. How could you ever get over losing the man who you had loved unconditionally for the majority of your life? How do people ever get over that? I don’t think I could, and I certainly couldn’t imagine that my mum was going to either.

  With that in mind, I decided that New York was now a chapter in my life that I had loved but I would not be going back to. My life was back here with my mum; she needed me, and I needed her. I couldn’t even think about leaving her, not now, not after the death of the man that had kept us all glued together.

  It would be selfish of me to ever think that Mum would be okay alone.

  Leaving New York behind also meant leaving Blake behind too. But after seeing the pain that Mum was suffering, I knew I needed to do it. I couldn’t be strong enough to cope if the man I loved suddenly left me. I would rebuild a new life here in London; I needed to.

  My theory about happiness always coming with pain was becoming more and more apparent. I had allowed myself to feel happy about Blake; I had let down the barrier and had been about to let him in. With that happiness came the phone call about my dad, the pain. Would I ever be shown that happiness doesn’t always go hand in hand with pain? I doubted it very much.

  We buried Dad ten days after he passed away. It was the hardest day of our lives. I clung to Mum as we mourned our loss together in a church that was overflowing with friends and family.

  You never truly realize how many people’s lives someone has touched until he or she is gone. There were people who I had never seen before crying for my dad, telling me and my mum later what connection they had had to him. It was comforting to know that he was loved and known by so many people. He had touched so many lives and all of them in a good way.

  I wouldn’t say things became easier in the following days, but they certainly became more acceptable.

  Every now and then I would lose all track of thought and forget that Dad had gone. Especially when I would hear a car pull up outside, I would momentarily think he was back from work, but as quick as I would think it, the reality would pop up and remind me that he wasn’t home, and never would be.

  It was the strangest feeling.

  Mum and I started to spend each evening looking through old photos and family videos. There would be tears followed by laughter followed by yet more tears. But it was helping us both; we were becoming more accepting of our loss, and the grieving process was helping us both come to terms with everything that had happened so suddenly. Mum would tell me stories every night about how she and my dad had met, where they had spent their first date, and how my grandfather had taken a while to warm to my dad’s charms. The latter story reminded me so much of my own dad; I had always been petrified to tell him that I was dating. I had always been his little girl. The only man in my life had always been my dad; he hated me growing up and finding the real world and, worst of all, boys.

  Mum beamed with pride when she told me about how exited he was when they found out Mum was expecting.

  They had been trying to conceive for over five years with no luck and were eventually told by a doctor that they had little chance of becoming pregnant, owing to a problem with Mum’s fallopian tubes. They decided to stop trying, but it became unbearable when Aunty Elizabeth found out she was pregnant with her first baby, but by the next month, as if not trying had had the reverse effect, Mum became pregnant too.

  Dad had wrapped her up in cotton wool, as she put it, looking after her every second of every day until I made my appearance nine months later.

  Talking about Dad helped, and listening to mom’s stories also helped.

  It all helped.

  It also helped me make my choice to stay in London with Mum easy. This was home; this was where I had made most of my happy memories while growing up. I couldn’t leave her again. I would tell her the following day that I was coming home to stay.

  I felt nervous as I stood and chopped the vegetables in the kitchen.


  “You’re not going to be hungry, darling, if you keep chewing those lips of yours,” Mum laughed. “Is there something on your mind dear?”

  My eyes shot up to meet Mum’s as she looked at me with a waiting glare.

  “Just want to get this right. It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked for you,” I lied.

  “You sure that’s it? You have been distracted all day.” Mum handed me a glass of wine from which I took a massive glug.

  “I’m fine.” I forced a smile and continued looking down at the vegetables as I chopped.

  “Have you decided when you are heading back to New York yet?”

  Mum’s question took me by surprise. The knife slipped, and I sliced my finger instead of the potato.

  “Shit!” I cursed as I quickly put the finger into my mouth. “I mean shoot,” I said with a smirk when I noticed Mum snarling at my choice of words.

  “Let me see.” Mum pulled my finger from my mouth to examine the cut. “You’ll survive.” She smiled. “Let’s run it under the tap.” Mum walked me over to the sink and held my finger for me while the cold water washed away the blood. I felt like a child again; she had done this many times when I was growing up, mostly when I would graze my knees and hands falling from the tree swing that Dad and Uncle Anthony had built at the bottom of the garden.

  Mum was deep in thought watching my finger as the water lashed off it.

  “I’m not going back to New York, Mum; I’m staying here, with you.”

  Mum let out a hard laugh. “Oh no,” She shook her head. “You most certainly are not staying here; I don’t need a babysitter, Josephine.”

  “I know that, but—”

  “Your life is in New York now, not here.”

  Her eyes never lifted from my finger, so it was hard to read her expression.