Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“I’ve fed him.”
I look up and find Magda standing at the entrance to the kitchen, a cup of tea in her hand. “Evening,” I greet, approaching and eyeing that lovely hot cuppa. “What are you still doing here?”
She smiles and hands the mug to me, and I wrap both hands around it, relishing the warmth seeping into my numb fingertips. “I thought I’d hang back for you to get home.”
“You didn’t need to do that.” I take a sip of tea, humming as I feel the hot liquid trickle down my throat and warm my insides. “It’s so cold outside.”
Magda shakes her head, her thoughts no doubt centered around the fact that I’ve walked home again instead of taking the bus or the Tube. But I won’t be getting into that conversation, so I pass her static form and make my way into the kitchen, being hit by the delicious smell of . . . something.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Magda says, as I settle on a stool and she pulls on an oven glove. “But I had some spare sausages at home so I made you a casserole.” She opens the oven and pulls out a pot, sliding it onto the stove. Boris catches a whiff and makes a beeline for her ankles. “Should be about perfect by now.” Looking down at my dog, she chuckles. “It’s not for you.”
She just happened to have some spare sausages? Of course she did. “Magda, you really shouldn’t—”
“Let’s not make a huge fuss over it.” After ridding her hand of the oven glove, she smooths back a few gray wisps of hair into her tightly secured bun. For a woman in her sixties, she looks remarkably well. She insists that her clear complexion and healthily plump frame are down to a lifelong Mediterranean diet. She’s been threatening to get me on that diet for months.
“You’re not here to cook for me.”
Rolling her eyes, she collects her huge duffle coat from a nearby chair and slips it on. “You will eat,” she orders sternly, looking me up and down. “You’re no good to anyone if you have no energy, Lo.” Collecting her bag, she makes her way to the door, stopping on her way when she reaches me. Offering a small smile, bursting at the seams with that dreaded sympathy, she reaches up and smooths down the cold skin of my cheek. “Try to get some sleep, Lo. You look tired.”
I nod and take her hand, squeezing my understanding. Sleep is rare. “As soon as I’ve scoffed your sausage casserole.”
Magda smiles mildly. “Good night.” A breeze of cold wind whips around my legs a few seconds after I hear the door shut, and I shudder before quietly taking in the kitchen. Silence. The silence of my home is beginning to drive me mad. But it’s quickly broken when my stomach rumbles, and I reach down and circle my flat tummy with my palm. I’m suddenly starving, but before I allow myself to tuck into Magda’s casserole, I make my way up to the bedroom.
With every step I take, I breathe in more air, trying to keep a hold of the inevitable emotions. It’s a silly effort. As soon as I’m on the threshold of the bedroom, I see him, lying as still as can be, tucked in neatly. The sight of Billy looking this way will never fail to break my heart that little bit more each time. Today is a bad day. A day when he doesn’t get out of bed. A day when I wonder if this is the beginning of the end. He’s virtually skin and bones, his skin practically transparent, his eye sockets dark. Even his thick hair looks as if it’s lost weight. I reach up to the door frame to steady myself, my eyes filling with the usual, hopeless tears. The man before me is a shadow of the strong, handsome man I married. That was twenty-five months ago. Month after month of hurt, pain, grief. Anger. So much anger. Life is so cruel. I close my eyes and hear his squeals of agony, shuddering where I stand, the sound haunting me once again. And the look on his face before he passed out. I swallow and open my eyes. He knew. That look on his face before he closed his eyes, he knew something was horribly wrong.
The aggressive course of radiotherapy Dr. Smith put him on didn’t shrink the tumor. The limited medicines on offer had no effect. Our only other option was the specialist in America who was prepared to operate to remove as much of the tumor as possible. It was hope in our turmoil, but that hope was quickly dashed. The cost of the treatment would buy a small flat. The banks wouldn’t lend us the money. Our parents aren’t wealthy people. We don’t own our home. Short of begging the specialist in America to waiver the medical bills, something Billy has refused to let me do, I’ve explored every avenue. And found a dead end each time. My husband’s life is in the hands of God, and I’ve prayed to Him every single damn night for help. But He’s not hearing my prayers. Billy’s getting weaker by the day, his body thinner, and his resolve is dying along with it.