When I Lost You: A Gripping, Heart Breaking Novel of Lost Love.

I
have realised
that it is possible to love someone with your whole heart, but at the same time to hate them with an equal force of passion. These emotions can somehow balance each other out, leaving an exhausted sense of emptiness. In the ten days I’ve spent sitting by this hospital bed staring at my husband, I have wondered again and again how we got here. Not how
he
got here, into this ICU ward and in such a terrible state – that was almost inevitable. No, the surprising
here
to my current scenario is my ambiguity towards the man on the bed. Leo was –
is
– the love of my life. I will love him until I die. It still seems impossible that I can loathe him too, and yet here we are.

This comatose Leo is still handsome despite the uneven beard and the swathe of bandages he’s been left with after the injury. He is pale and unconscious but he still looks dangerous… he
is
dangerous. Leo has always treated his body and his life as if they were nothing more than sacrificial offerings to be made to his work. Beneath the sheets and the hospital gown his body is covered in scars – those from this current disaster, and an endless series of faded marks from so many earlier incidents.

My husband has a way of dragging people along on a journey with him – even, apparently, when the journey is to nowhere at all. In the days since his accident I’ve become a member of the living dead myself – leaving his side only to sleep when my body forces me to do so, passing through the days in a strange kind of coma of my own. Unlike Leo, I have of course been conscious, but every non-essential function of life has been put on hold.

All that I have really done during these awful days has been to feel the full gamut of emotions arising from our situation. In the last few years of my life I have thought of myself as something of an expert in loneliness but for all those days apart from Leo, I realise now that I’d only ever experienced a shadow of it. For the last four years, through ups and downs and rough patches and good times, Leo has been my ‘go-to’ person. More than once lately I have picked up my phone to tell him about how scared I am and how lost I feel – but right now, I realise that
every
one
of the layers of lost and alone in my life is his fault.

I was stunned when the doctors said it was time to reduce the sedation that had induced Leo’s coma. In the first few hours I’d signed organ donation forms and discussed with his specialists at which point heroic measures would still be appropriate. I’d even made the awful call back to Leo’s parents and his editor in Sydney to discuss a potential funeral. Even when he’d stabilised his doctors were determined to keep my expectations realistic, and so any time I displayed my habitual optimistic streak, I was quickly corrected with a dose of reality. The chances of a full recovery had been slim to start with and they grew less likely with each passing day. Even if Leo woke up, they said, there was almost no chance he’d still be the man he once was.

But then they started turning the respirator off for trial periods and I got to watch him breathe on his own again for brief stretches of time. I’ve so loathed the sound of that damned machine – the incessant
whoosh
as it filled his lungs with air, and the matching
hiss
as it sucked it back out again. Twenty-four hours a day the respirator has been a soundtrack to the waiting and the fear, grating on my nerves at times, leaving me feeling strangely ungrateful whenever I reflected on the safety net it had provided him. One night I went to the hotel for a shower and a bit of sleep and when I came back early the next morning, the tubes had been removed from his throat. Watching him breathe so steadily on his own has filled me with a hope that I desperately needed. Despite everything that has happened between us in the last twelve months, and the ocean of despair of these past weeks, I still can’t bear to give up hope. I want people like Leo in the world, whether he’s in
my
world or not.

I
t’s late
in the morning of day eleven after my arrival in Rome when I am woken by the sound of Leo coughing and grunting. I have been asleep in the chair under the window, my head on one armrest, my legs dangling over the other.

‘I’m here, Leo,’ I call. I’m not sure if he can move his neck, so I lean over the bed as I reach it. I see frustration in his wrinkled brow, so I fumble for his glasses. It’s a relief to finally slip them back onto his face. Now that the swelling and bruising are fading, he has looked so strange without his trademark tortoise-shell frames. I see his pupils shrink and expand as he adjusts to the lenses again and then his gaze fixes on mine. I offer a smile, but it’s weak and wobbly because I am too scared even to breathe. At first, Leo doesn’t react at all – and for a moment I feel the crushing swell of disappointment in my chest – what if this is as good as it gets? What if he is awake now, but will never speak or respond to my presence?

My hips and legs are stiff. I can’t stand over him forever, so I sink slowly into the chair beside his bed. Suddenly, my emotions swing again – now I’m excited because he turns his head to follow me. He stares at me – concentrating intently, but then his eyes narrow suddenly and I’m sure I see something of an accusation in them. I am instantly defensive – is he questioning my right to be here? What did he expect me to do – stay in Sydney and leave him here alone? Once again, he has no idea what he has put me through. The hide of the man is incomprehensible.

But I can’t snap at him – he’s emerging from a coma, for God’s sake. Just as this thought crosses my mind, Leo’s eyes drift closed again.

The doctors warned me that this might take a while and that we have no choice but to be patient – but I have already been patient for far too long and I have well and truly exhausted my supply of that virtue. I realise belatedly that I am so hungry that the bitter taste of nausea lingers in my throat and I rise reluctantly to head for the cafeteria. As I leave Leo’s room I ask myself what I really want out of the next few days. The answer is waiting at the forefront of my mind, but even as I acknowledge it, the guilt begins to rise.

I want Leo to wake up as quickly as possible and to somehow be completely okay. And then I want to go home and finally get on with my life.

H
i Leo
,

I hope this email finds you well. I have been following your career – congratulations on the Pulitzer and the wonderful success you’ve achieved. My brother would have been so proud of you, he always told me you were going to do something great with your life.

As I’m sure you know, it was the tenth anniversary of Dec’s death a few months ago. I was hoping you could spare me some time when you’re next in Sydney to have a chat about his last days. I do understand that I’m asking a lot of you but if you are able to sit down and chat with me, I think understanding things a little better might bring me the closure I need. My contact details are below; please give me a call if you can.

I
was
in a field hospital in Libya when I saw her note nestled in the first few entries in my inbox. It had been three weeks since I checked my mail. So many emails, so little care – hers was the only one out of the 200-odd waiting that I bothered to open. I was sitting on a stretcher, my left arm in a sling, a bullet lodged in my shoulder. I’d been lucky; there was minimal damage – supposedly. Still, it throbbed like hell and I was distracted when I first read Molly’s email on the screen of my satellite phone, but that wasn’t why I sent it straight to trash.

‘So,’ Brad Norse, my photo-journalist partner-in-crime, was seated on a chair beside me. ‘Home we go?’

‘Home?’ I repeated, then I sighed. ‘Brad…’

‘When one of us gets shot, we get to go home for a while. It’s one of the perks.’

‘Please––’ I turned off the satellite phone. ‘This barely counts as “getting shot”. The bullet missed all the important bits.’

‘That’s the morphine speaking.’

‘They didn’t have any morphine. I think they gave me paracetamol.’ Or maybe it had been some kind of sugar pill because whatever it was I’d swallowed two hours earlier, it hadn’t done a thing to ease the thumping pain in my shoulder. The truth was I almost wanted to go home too. The field medic had assessed me with the equipment he had available, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t going to wind up with permanent damage – and I really needed something stronger for the pain. But we had only been in Libya for a few weeks and I wasn’t at all satisfied with the progress I’d made on my research. And now, if I went home to Sydney to recuperate, I’d have to face Molly Torrington and her uncomfortable questions about her brother’s death.

‘We’re going home, Leo,’ Brad said suddenly. I shook my head, and then winced as the movement inadvertently triggered a damaged muscle in my shoulder.

‘There’s more to do here,’ I said, when I’d caught my breath again.

‘There’s
always
more to do. I’m going with or without you. Your psyche might be made of cast iron, but mine isn’t – that bullet could have killed either one of us. I need a chance to regroup.’

In the end I didn’t have any choice. I’d used the words ‘flesh wound’ when describing the incident to our editor, Kisani Hughes, but when Brad called her later that day, he gave a different assessment and she recalled us to Sydney. I grumbled, but by the time our plane touched down, I had a fever and signs of infection. Begrudgingly, I agreed that she’d made the right call.

I did not, however, agree with the medical leave the staff doctor then insisted I take. Several weeks of enforced time off was my idea of a nightmare. Within a few days I was bored out of my skull. I couldn’t exercise or walk my dog, or ride my motorbike. I couldn’t even run karate classes as I normally would when in Sydney between assignments. I did a lot of reading and an awful lot of thinking, but whether I was trying to focus on a novel, or awkwardly making breakfast with my one useful arm, my mind constantly circled back to Molly Torrington.

I’d always felt for her but I knew that any conversation about her brother’s death was going to be painful for both of us. I could never give her the closure she was seeking anyway; there had never been any easy answers when it came to Declan Torrington.

I’d never really known her well. For years I’d floated on the periphery of their family life, but as an unwelcome guest at the best of times. The last time I’d seen her in person had been at her brother’s funeral, when she stared down at the gravesite almost unblinkingly – a shocked expression on her face throughout the entire proceedings. Every other time I’d ever seen Molly, she’d been laughing or smiling – the kind of joyous and privileged child who approached every situation with a broad, generous beam. Declan used to joke that her riotous laugh always arrived at a room before she did – announcing her arrival like a town crier might have announced royalty.

His funeral was the first time I’d seen her look sad and the depth of misery in her eyes that day made me wonder if the sheer size and shape of this sudden grief would change her; maybe she would never wear that same brilliantly easy smile again? In this unexpected email all these years later the lingering grief in her words suggested that I’d been right.

I’d seen her in the press at times – including the cover of a finance magazine only a year or two earlier when she was promoted to VP of something or other at
Torrington Media
. I remember spotting the magazine in a newsagent at Dubai airport and doing a double take – surely she was too young to be working for her father? I’d calculated the years and realised with some shock that she was in her late twenties. To me it seemed unfathomable that cheerful Molly Torrington would one day lead a global media empire, but in the article she was already touted as the logical successor to her father.

Molly was doing what Declan could not: forging a path from childhood to adulthood in the immense shadow of Laith Torrington’s expectations and legacy. But judging by that studio-shot cover photo, the carefree kid I’d once known had altogether gone. She had cut off the caramel hair that she’d worn to her waist in her younger years and what was left was now a stark blonde. In the photo she was smiling, but the smile stopped dead at her lips. Her blue eyes were hard and her gaze was sharp as she met the camera, almost issuing a challenge –
you want to mess with me?
If I hadn’t seen her new look evolve via the media, I’d never have recognised her – she had morphed from a fun-loving kid to a very grown-up corporate shark.

I wondered how much of that transformation was the result of the loss of her brother. Then I wondered what Declan would make of it all and what
he
would have me do. I’d never been a fan of leaving skeletons to rest – it went against my nature and even my training – but I’d also made a point of not applying that philosophy to personal matters. Deeply held moments should definitely be left to fade into history. Still, I accepted that I couldn’t make that decision for Molly and I recovered her email from the trash folder. As I dialled her mobile phone, I ignored the sensation of dread in my gut. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable call, but I was
fairly
sure I was doing the right thing.

‘Molly Torrington.’ Her greeting was abrupt.

‘Hi – Molly – it’s Leo.’ When she didn’t respond, I clarified carefully, ‘Leo Stephens.’

‘I know, sorry… I just… I didn’t think you were going to call,’ she said. I glanced at the email and realised it had been over month since she’d sent it.

‘Sorry it’s taken so long,’ I said. ‘I was on an assignment and then I was injured.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Oh yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing.’

‘Right, well…’ she paused a little awkwardly. ‘God, Leo, sorry to hear that, anyway.’

I tapped my toes against the carpet to expend the strange nervous energy I felt. The small talk felt unnatural and it was only prolonging the inevitable. ‘You wanted to talk about Declan?’ I said.

‘Yes, I really did – do. Can we meet?’

‘Meet?’ This was unexpected, but as soon as she said the word, I realised it shouldn’t have been.

‘Uh, I’m…’

‘Please,’ she said quietly. The rhythmic tapping of my toes against the floor stopped. ‘I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.’

‘Okay.’

‘When suits?’

‘I’m on sick leave. I can meet whenever you want to.’

‘Now?’

‘Now? But…’

‘Later today then?’

‘No, now is okay.’ I sighed, then cautioned, ‘I don’t know what you think I can tell you, Molly.’

‘But you found him, didn’t you?’

At the memory I felt my chest contract. I could still see him in my mind’s eye – Declan, lying limp on the filthy, threadbare carpet in a storage room in the basement of my cousin’s building.

‘Yeah.’

‘Then…’ she let the word hang.

I waited for her to finish the thought, but when it became clear that she wasn’t going to, I said, ‘Okay, where do you want to meet?’

D
eclan
and I met in the first few weeks of our course at Sydney Uni in the mid-1990s. We were paired together in a tutorial group to complete a joint assessment that in hindsight was most likely a cruel joke on the professor’s part; the kid who still lived in a public housing unit with his unemployed mother partnered with the son of a billionaire who had been raised in a mansion on Sydney Harbour.

I was rough around the edges in those days, and I knew it. I remember sitting down next to Declan and feeling so intimidated I could barely bring myself to speak. Fortunately, I soon realised I wasn’t the only person feeling out of my depth; Declan
looked
confident, with his uppity clothing and his carefully enunciated speech. The façade didn’t last long – within one study session it was pretty apparent to me that he was going to need me to pass that assignment much more than I needed him.

Dec and I bonded deeply and quickly as only teenagers can, collectively stewing over a shared sense of injustice about our individual situations. As a young Aboriginal man in the sea of mostly white students in our class, I was an outsider and I was only there because of a special entry programme and my ability to write a convincing essay. But even as an exceedingly wealthy white kid, Declan did not belong in that group of students either – at high school he’d failed his final exams miserably. Were it not for his father’s deep pockets, Declan would never have made it to university at all, let alone gained entry to a highly sought-after course at a prestigious institution like Sydney Uni.

With all his easy privileges it should have been easy for me to hate him and there were some days that I did. But Declan had one beautifully redeeming quality: he did not see money or lack thereof, or colour or race or any of the other trappings or categories that most people filter the world by. Right from the very beginning, I was nothing more or less than a friend; somehow, it never really occurred to him that there was any reason why I shouldn’t be. When I finally, reluctantly, invited him to my home, he stepped into the tiny, dank apartment I shared with Mum and looked around.

‘Shit, Leo!’ he had said, genuinely confused and shocked. ‘You’re
poor
?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t realise,’ he said, and he shrugged and opened the fridge to look for a snack.

Declan was one of a kind – one of the good guys.

O
nly an hour
or so after our phone call I waited in a café at The Rocks for Molly to arrive. The dull thud of dread in my gut had not abated. There was no denying that the Torrington family had been embarrassed by Declan’s death – the instant cover-up they manufactured for the media had more than proven that. I wondered whether anything I could tell Molly would comfort her.

‘Sorry, I’m late…’

I hadn’t noticed Molly approaching, but now she was standing right beside me and so I shot to my feet. We stared at each other for a moment, and then she opened her arms – offering me a hug. We’d never really touched before, not even at the funeral. Her father had made sure I was kept well away.

I accepted her embrace, turning my sling-clad arm away from her and gingerly reciprocating the hug with my good arm. Molly was much taller than I remembered – almost as tall as me – but as I had expected, she had the polished, careful air of a woman of significant wealth. She was wearing a lot of make-up –
too
much, to my eye – and a very heavy perfume. As we released one another and she took the seat opposite me, she fiddled awkwardly with the belt of her dress and then smoothed her hand down over the front part of her hair. Her white-blonde hair was so short – shorter even than mine. The only softness about her look was a slightly longer fringe that was brushed forward, curving down over her forehead towards her cheek.

‘I can’t thank you enough for this,’ she said.

‘Like I said – I just hope you’re not expecting me to have any real answers. I can only tell you what I know.’

‘Should we order coffee?’ She was already flagging down a waiter, who nearly fell over himself rushing to greet her. I’d forgotten what it was like to be in public with a Torrington – Molly and Declan had never really been household names, but they were familiar to many people because of who their father was. Whenever Dec and I had spent time at bars in our uni days, we were always plied with free drinks – a bonus for me, who couldn’t have afforded the drinks otherwise, but it amused Declan, who even in his late teens had access to a trust fund that was virtually limitless.

Once we’d each ordered a coffee, Molly and I got somehow stuck in a holding pattern, each waiting for the other to begin. After an uncomfortably long time, I found myself prompting her to start the conversation that I didn’t even want to have.

‘So, what
did
you want to know?’

‘I know this is weird,’ she admitted. ‘I thought about getting in touch with you a lot, even right after it happened. But it was just such a mess and it had been such a shock. And I was embarrassed because of how Dad treated you at the funeral. I didn’t know what to say to you or how to apologise.’

‘It wasn’t your place to apologise. It still isn’t,’ I told her.

She sighed heavily. ‘Well, I
am
sorry. You deserved to be with us that day. No one knew Declan like you did.’