Love Letter

Once More With Feeling

"Breathe darling, breathe. It's ok, I'm here..." Tom stroked her back, holding her hair back from her face.  She looked at him with exhausted eyes, then turned and vomited again. Little of her strength left now; she was a pathetic sight.

When she was sure there was nothing left for now, she sat back, eyes closed and breathing heavily.  Through ulcer encrusted lips, she whispered
"I can't do this anymore, Tom. I just can't. It's too much. For me, for you, for us."

Tom held her close, rubbing her back gently, wiping her face with a warm damp face cloth. Carefully, he applied the ointment she'd found that soothed her lips just a little, then took the baby brush he'd bought especially for this, and gently brushed her hair.  The soft bristles soothed her scalp.

"Better?" He said softly, kissing her sallow cheek. She nodded a little.

"Thank you. You're so good to me." There was a tired hitch in her voice, tears not far away.  Tom felt a pain in his chest that he couldn't believe wouldn't kill him. "I just... it's too much. This is the last time. Whatever happens, this is the last time." She looked up at him, and he nodded.

"Ok, you don't have to think about it now, Ali. You're tired and weak and probably not thinking as sharply as you can. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Rest now, love.  Day four is always better."

He laid back with her on the pillows, thinking how small and frail she looked.  The bed swamped her, the nightgown, once alluringly fitting hung like a... oh dear God. His mind lurched. He'd almost thought 'shroud'.

"Yes, sleep now... talk tomorrow... talk... " her eyelids fluttered shut, and she drifted off in his arms.  For a few minutes, he just sat on the bed beside her, holding her and gently stroking her arm as he did so. Despite it all, her  skin was still soft, and she still smelled wonderful. Her favourite perfume radiated gently, the one thing she insisted on to make herself feel more 'together'.

"Ali darling,"  he whispered. "Please don't give up. I know it's hard..." he dissolved into silent tears, unable to speak. He had so much he wanted to say, but for once, no words.

When he was sure she was asleep, he stood and carried the basin out of their bedroom with the washcloth and took them both to the kitchen to wash out.

As he stood, he spied the little leather folder that Ali kept her special stationery in. The paper and envelopes she used to write to him.

Thin as a whisper, delicate as her smile, the paper was their lifeline. Travelling sometimes thousands of miles, it had linked them through the good times and the bad.  Now, he thought, now he would do for her what she'd done for him.

Taking the lush dark blue folder from the corner of the breakfast bar, he walked into the living room and, grabbing one of their coffee table books to lean on - ironically a pictorial of Chris Hemsworths series on living longer - he began to write.

And write.

And write.

By the time he was finished, it was dark outside, and Ali had been asleep for hours. He looked up at the clock beside the fireplace. 6.45pm. He needed to eat, and he needed, cruel as it seemed, to make Ali eat.  At least some toast. She would hurt herself dry heaving. 

He stood up, put the letter in an envelope, and propped it up against the clock.  He'd think about when to give her it later.

Just as he walked into the kitchen, snapping on the light, a small voice behind him broke into his thoughts.

"Don't know about you, I could murder some tommy soup and toast!"
He spun on his heel to see her standing in one of his t-shirts, which actually went almost to her knees, and a pair of comfy leggings. Her face had lost its nauseated sallow colour, and her smile, despite the cracked lips, was almost as bright at ever.

He walked over and hugged her gently. "Are you sure you should be up, love?" He guided her to a seat at their little wooden table. She sat down heavily, proving her show of strength and resilience was just that. A show.

"Yes." She sounded emphatic even if it was still a drained whisper. "I need to get my shit together, dont I?." She grinned again, and he felt it bubble up until he could hold it in no longer.

"Oh Ali, I love you. I love you so so much." He hugged her tightly, no tears on either face, just a heartfelt bond that nothing, absolutely nothing, would break.

"Well, in that case, could I have TWO slices of toast, please?" She giggled into his chest. He pulled back, raising an eyebrow.

"TWO?" he sounded shocked, making her smirk and stick her tongue out. He smiled. "For you? Anything. Then, my darling, we are going to veg on the sofa, watch some tv, eat some crisps, and pretend we're actually normal for a while."

"Oh Tom, you big softie!" She laughed loudly, "Eat crisps? I've never had such a romantic proposition in my life!"

He winked and set to work on the soup and toast. He paused, wooden spoon in the air, "Just one thing, love, and I know it's probably not what you want to talk about right now, but... I've had a start date for filming. Luke texted me while you were sleeping."

Ali smiled to his surprise and immense relief. "You know something?"

He shook his head, hardly daring to breathe she was taking this so well, "What's that?"

"I can't wait."

"I beg your pardon?" He furrowed his brow. This was NOT the reaction he'd expected in a month of Sundays.

Ali laughed softly, "What I mean is, if you're gone, if it's just me and Bobs - and truthfully, probably your Mum and Emms - then I'm managing. Im doing 'life'  I'm not 'Ali Cancer Battler' or 'Brave Ali fighting courageously', Im just Ali. Bobs' mum. Emms sister in law, Diana's daughter in law."

Tom smiled and nodded. She took a breath, "So when do you go?" Torn in two, she wanted to be with him, but she wanted to prove she could cope.

"Six weeks. I'm sorry darling, I won't be here for your appointment. I just can't..."

She stood and crossed over to him, slipping her arms around his waist as he stirred her soup. 

"Like I said, normal Ali. Just run of the mill, normal Ali. Now, how's that soup coming along."

Tom smiled down into the bubbling pot, the letter sitting on the shelf fresh in his mind. He'd leave it for her to read tomorrow while he met with Luke.  This, with luck, would be the last day she EVER thought of herself as just 'run of the mill'. He certainly never had.

He had no idea, though, just how extraordinary she would prove to be.