A Song for Tomorrow

by Alice Peterson

  George and Tanya wish me good luck before finding a free table. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ Tom says, almost as out of breath as Susie. He looks over at Trisha. ‘You’re wanted. Go.’ He pushes me away, but I head back, before telling him quietly about Susie and to keep a look out for Ethan. ‘I will, I promise,’ he says.

  ‘Any news on the contract?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.’

  ‘Is there?’

  ‘No. Go.’

  And then the strangest thing happens. A man wearing a woolly black hat strides into the room. The entire audience hushes and stares. Immediately Trisha jumps off the stage to greet him. It is Robbie. Tom and I are stunned. ‘What if I have a funny, what if I can’t sing, can’t breathe . . . I can’t do it . . . Tom, I can’t do this . . .’

  He holds my shoulders firmly in both his hands, looks me straight in the eye. ‘Yes you can. Alice, you have confronted a fear that none of us have to confront: your own mortality. You can’t be scared up there. This is nothing in comparison.’

  ‘But it’s Robbie . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s come to watch you.’ He grips my hand now. ‘Everyone here has come to watch you.’

  We look over at Robbie again to make sure we’re not imagining him. We watch Jake in his element, introducing him to a blushing Lucy, Cat and Mum. I can’t see Dad anywhere. He really must be hiding at the back of the room. I catch Susie and Milly gazing at him in astonishment. ‘Trust Jake to get right in there,’ Tom says, my nerves still in flames.

  ‘This is your night,’ he says, ‘remember why everyone loves you and what you’re made of.’

  Trisha steps forward with the microphone. I wave at the audience, who all cheer. I catch Cat’s eye. She’s sitting next to Tom. I see Susie giving me the thumbs up. I can feel everyone in this room rooting for me, which is the best possible feeling.

  I see Mum’s face.

  I’m so excited she is here. She has never heard me perform. I can’t help thinking this will be it, my only chance to sing live before I have my transplant. I have to give it my all. If I can endure twenty-four hours on an operating table, surely I can do this.

  ‘I’m here tonight,’ Trisha says, ‘with a very special artist who I’ve had the pleasure of working with . . .’

  I clutch the microphone. Here goes. I catch Mum’s eye. One . . . two . . . three . . .

  The moment I sing nerves vanish.

  As if they were never there in the first place.

  Up here, I’m lost in my own world.

  Troubles fade into the background.

  Doubts disappear.

  I feel powerful.

  I am a million miles away from the woman with CF.

  From the machines in my bedroom.

  From the battle to stay alive.

  I am Alice, singing my songs.

  My words.

  ‘The next and last song I’m about to sing,’ I say, ‘is one of the first I wrote and it will always be special to me.’ I catch Pete’s eye, remembering that first meeting with him. It gives me a warm feeling inside to know how far we have come since that day. ‘It’s called “If I Fall” . . .’

  ‘Memories of a little girl

  in my perfect world

  won’t cry

  no need to know

  the reasons why

  my faith is so easy

  in my carefree world

  I’d jump into

  my father’s arms

  trusting that I’d

  be unharmed . . .’

  I must be dreaming when I receive a standing ovation. I see the pride in Tom and Jake’s eyes. Susie and Milly push their way to the front to congratulate me. My instinct had been right that Ethan wouldn’t show up. Deep down he is a coward. He would have known she’d have an army of supporters here tonight. He wouldn’t stand a chance against my bodyguards. Rita climbs onto a chair, waving and clapping.

  I see Robbie talking to Pete and Trisha. Maybe he’s suggesting we write a duet together.

  Dream on!

  But I still can’t believe he turned up.

  I still can’t stop smiling . . .

  Right in front of me are Mum and Dad clapping.

  Don’t cry.

  I’m not sure they’re ever going to stop.

  48

  January 2002

  ‘Are you sure they haven’t forgotten about me?’ I press Professor Taylor again. It’s the New Year and I have been on a transplant list for almost four months now.

  ‘Alice, no one could forget about you.’

  ‘Why isn’t my bleeper going off then?’ Since my gig five weeks ago, I want the transplant even more now. There was an article in The Times, a great write up about the evening, saying I offered something new and fresh to the music industry, that my lyrics had soul. Seeing that standing ovation and hearing everyone clapping is a moment that I will take with me, forever, wherever I go.

  But not to my grave . . .

  Professor Taylor folds his hands. ‘The pool of organs available is limited, Alice, we are asking for three perfect ones.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I understand it must be a strange time being on a list, but all we can do is wait.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Is it going to happen?’ I know I shouldn’t ask, I shouldn’t put him on the spot like this, but . . .

  ‘I can’t possibly answer that.’

  ‘But if you had to say one way or another?’ Here I go again, pushing him into a corner. This isn’t about a new hip or knee replacement. It’s not about slotting me into a schedule. It’s about the lottery of life. The chance of someone who has donated their organs after death, someone who just happened to be my height, my blood type . . .

  Life is a lottery.

  But someone has to win.

  He closes my heavy file. ‘I can’t predict one way or other,’ he says, just as I’d expected. He can’t offer me false hope and guarantees. No one can. ‘I wish I could reassure you, reassure all my patients. All I can say is we carry on the fight.’

  ‘What are the chances of me surviving the operation?’

  Professor Taylor looks at me as if he wishes I hadn’t asked that question. ‘Roughly,’ I persist. He has to give me something, anything to work with. It’s more frightening guessing.

  ‘I would say thirty per cent.’ His face remains neutral but there is feeling in his voice.

  ‘That’s one in three who make it.’ For a brief moment I see myself as a ten-year-old falling over on the netball court, but getting back up and looking Daisy Sullivan in the eye before I play on. ‘My bleeper will go off,’ I tell him, ‘and I will be that one.’

  49

  It’s Friday evening and Tom has called to say he’s on his way over from the airport. He and George have been snowboarding in France for five days. I haven’t seen Tom since he left to go home for Christmas. For the next hour I sit, cross-legged on my bed, working on some lyrics when Pete rings. We’re having a session in the studio in a few days. ‘I’ve got an idea, something I need to run past you.’

  ‘How exciting, tell me.’

  ‘Not on the phone.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘A different approach, that’s all I’m going to say.’ He hangs up and before I have a chance to ring him back my heart lifts when I hear the sound of Tom carrying his bike down the stone steps. I rush to open the door.

  ‘Anyone would think you hadn’t seen me for years,’ he says, as I throw my arms around him.

  ‘I’ve missed you.’ I lean forward to kiss him.

  ‘Alice . . .’ He glances at his watch. ‘Before we get too carried away . . .’

  ‘Let’s get carried away.’

  ‘How about something to eat? I’m starving.’

  ‘Or we could stay here,’ I suggest, taking his hand and leading him towards the bed, ‘and order takeaway.’

  He drops my hand. ‘Let’s go round the corner.’

  To
m means the Italian place literally down the road, where Jake and I often eat too. When he sees me frown, ‘We’ve got lots of time.’

  ‘But you’ve only just got here.’

  He seems awkward, somehow. ‘I haven’t eaten all day.’ He offers his hand. ‘Come on, funny feet.’

  I watch Tom pick at his pasta, unaware I’ve even asked him a question about his holiday in France.

  ‘Sorry?’ He looks up. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Knackered, that’s all.’

  ‘How was George?’

  ‘Oh, you know George.’

  Not really. I can feel the effort it takes for him to ask, ‘Any music news?’

  ‘Pete says he has this idea, a new approach.’ He’s not listening.

  ‘Did I tell you George proposed to Tanya over Christmas?’

  ‘No. That’s exciting,’ I say, feeling anything but, and wondering why he hadn’t mentioned it before.

  ‘He’s got to plan the wedding quickly, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘She’s pregnant?’

  ‘Yep.’ He pushes his plate aside.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes, wow.’ Tom’s ‘wow’ sounded as flat as mine.

  ‘So it wasn’t planned?’

  ‘No. But George seems happy about it . . .’ He trails off. ‘Anyway . . .’ He picks up his glass of wine, finishes it off, before calling a waiter to order another. ‘Do you fancy anything else?’

  I want you to tell me what’s up.

  ‘How are Nick and Mary?’

  ‘Good.’ He sounds weirdly polite.

  There’s another uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Tom, you’d tell me if anything was going on, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  There’s that word. ‘How’s work?’

  ‘Still no news.’

  ‘This company, they must give you some idea when they’ll let you know or explain what the delay is?’

  ‘You sound like my parents,’ Tom snaps as if I don’t understand the entrepreneurial game either.

  ‘Sorry, I—’

  ‘I hate all this waiting around, it’s like living in limbo land.’

  ‘A place I know well.’

  At last Tom looks at me face on. ‘That was such a stupid thing to say, I’m sorry. I have no right—’

  ‘Yes you do. It’s frustrating. I understand.’

  ‘Is there any news?’

  Of course he knows there hasn’t been, otherwise I’d have told him. I tell him I saw Professor Taylor this morning. ‘I don’t know, Tom, sometimes I don’t think my transplant will ever happen. I mean, what are the chances of finding a new set of lungs, liver and a heart?’

  ‘It will happen,’ he says, which annoys me because he doesn’t know.

  I play with the corners of my napkin. ‘Do you want to know what I’m thinking?’

  He nods.

  ‘I’m wondering if someone will have a road accident tonight, someone driving in the wet and cold.’

  ‘Some idiot driving a Fiat Panda.’

  ‘Exactly.’ At last we smile at one another. ‘Some idiot in a rush will crash and I’ll get a call. How messed up is that, to want someone to die so that I can live?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be your fault if anyone died. If I’d died the night of my accident I’d have deserved it. I was lucky I didn’t kill anyone else and that the emergency services saved me. It’s not messed up, Alice. It’s a place called hope. Somewhere we all need to visit.’

  When we return home, immediately I turn on the TV for some background noise. Without talking to Tom I attach myself to my oxygen machine and almost cry at the sight of my overnight feed, so carefully prepared by Mum. As we get into bed I know something is wrong. Did Tom enjoy the time apart? Did he love the freedom with George so much that he dreaded coming home, back to my machines and my restrictions that mount by the day? When I feel his arms around me, gently making sure he doesn’t dislodge the tube in my stomach, relief overwhelms me, followed by a nagging doubt that I shouldn’t feel quite so thankful that Tom has touched me.

  The following morning, Tom’s side of the bed is empty. It’s coming up to nine. I glance at my mobile to see if he’s left a message. Nothing. I dial Cat’s number.

  ‘Something’s not right,’ I say to her the moment she picks up.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I tell Cat about last night.

  ‘He’s probably tired after the flight and went out for a run?’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  ‘Don’t panic. When he gets back—’

  ‘Who’s that?’ I interrupt when I hear a flushing sound and a male voice in the background.

  ‘I’ve been shockingly bad and slept with someone,’ she whispers, ‘he works with me and I don’t even like him.’

  We laugh, before I beg her to tell me all about her evening, which sounds much more fun than mine. What’s he like? What’s his name? Cat promises she’ll call me later. ‘He sits opposite me. I have to get a new job now.’

  It’s close to lunchtime and Tom still isn’t back from his run or whatever it is he’s been doing. I have finished all my treatments and have been reading the same page of my book for the past hour. I’m beginning to wonder if he has any intention of returning until I hear him walking down the steps with his bicycle.

  When Tom comes into the bedroom carrying a cup of coffee, ‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask, trying not to sound like a nagging wife.

  ‘Swimming.’

  ‘The Channel?’

  He doesn’t laugh at my joke. ‘I needed a good stretch.’

  ‘You could have made coffee here.’

  He perches down on the bed next to me. ‘I felt like froth. I wondered if you fancied seeing a film later?’

  ‘Maybe.’ It’s much easier watching a film in bed.

  ‘Or we could go for a walk?’

  I can’t walk far now without getting breathless and I don’t like the idea of Tom pushing me in a wheelchair.

  Tom must pick up on my reluctance. ‘Just a short stroll?’

  ‘Let’s stay here.’

  ‘I feel like getting out.’

  ‘You’ve just been out.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Any fool can register the bite in his tone.

  ‘Fine. If you want to see a film, go and see one.’ Any fool can register the bite in mine.

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  I watch him get up. ‘What’s going on, Tom?’

  Hesitation is written across his face when he says, ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’

  He’s pacing the room now.

  I feel as if I’m teetering on top of a cliff, looking down at the sheer drop.

  He stops. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ He’s unable to meet my eye. ‘I feel terrible.’ He wipes a tear away. ‘I can’t carry on like this.’

  I feel sick.

  ‘I’m finding this too much,’ he confesses.

  ‘Tom, I’m on the list now. Remember what Professor Taylor said, it could be a door—’

  ‘But it’s still uncertain.’

  ‘Life’s always uncertain.’

  ‘Not in the same way.’

  I do understand it’s a lot for Tom to take on. What I don’t understand is how, in only a matter of a few weeks, he has changed his mind. We were so happy before Christmas. I’d never felt so close to him as I did before my gig. ‘Is this about George?’

  ‘I can’t pretend he hasn’t made me think. My friends are marrying, they’re beginning—’

  ‘But what about our plans to travel and—’

  ‘We can’t even leave the house! The door is locked, Alice.’ He sits down next to me on the bed, buries his face in his hands.

  ‘I can’t lose you,’ I say, too numb to cry, too scared even to contemplate a life without him. ‘I love you.’ I reach out and touch his hand.

  ‘I love you too,’ he says, t
ears filling his eyes as he places his hand over mine.

  ‘So stay. I can battle CF but I can’t do it without you.’

  ‘You can, you’re one of the strongest—’

  ‘I’m not.’ Without Tom, who am I? ‘I’m scared of everything without you.’

  Tom takes his hand away from mine. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t . . .’

  ‘I know it’s hard and you’ve been so patient but when I have my transplant . . .’

  ‘What if you don’t?’

  ‘I will,’ I say, when I’m not even sure I believe it myself.

  ‘George is going to be a dad and . . . I want that.’

  ‘We can have that too.’

  When I look at him I can see the hope that has kept us going since I’ve been on the list has drained from his eyes. It’s only been four months, yet there’s nothing left anymore. It’s as if, deep down, he doesn’t think I will find a matching donor. I won’t get ‘the call’. He doesn’t believe I will get through this and that is terrifying.

  ‘Tom, please . . .’

  He looks at me helplessly. ‘I want to get married. I want a family.’

  I am fighting back the tears. ‘How do you think that makes me feel?’ is all I can say quietly.

  He hangs his head, as if in shame. ‘Hate me, Alice. I deserve it. Hate me.’

  ‘I could never hate you.’ Tears begin to stream down my face now.

  He takes my hand again. I let him for a moment, before withdrawing it.

  ‘This has nothing to do with not loving you, Alice, it doesn’t change the way—’

  ‘It does. It changes everything. I think you should go.’

  When I hear the back door close, desperately I pray he’ll come back. When I hear him carrying his bike up the steps, I still have a flame of hope that he will turn round, realising he has made a terrible mistake. That he can’t live without me either. But then I don’t hear a thing.

  I curl up on my bed. In my mind I’m at the bottom of that cliff face, bruised, battered and dead inside. All I can hear is silence and the beat of my broken heart.

  50

  Four days after our break up, Mum enters my bedroom carrying a tray with a bowl of tomato soup.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I murmur.

  She sits down on the chair beside me. ‘Alice, you have to eat something. Please. Even if it’s just a few mouthfuls.’