Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Ben
Saturday morning rolls around again. This has become our habit. Our routine.
Antonia and I meet at the retreat and undertake some simple tasks. Not the spreadsheets, not the planning. The nice things. Plant the flowers. Walk around the gardens. Take in everything we’ve built so far.
I check my phone again. She hasn’t messaged me, so no results. Nothing.
They could come any time now.
It’s been ten days since she went into the hospital.
I know it can take time.
But I messaged my contact yesterday anyway, asking her to hurry them along. She told me what I already knew. The lab’s been dealing with sickness. There are delays.
I sighed and put the phone away.
I hate this part of my job. The waiting. The not knowing.
It’s the part I can’t control.
Anyway, it’s Saturday today. Not a day to think about lumps or futures or diagnoses. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I pull into the small coffee shop just before I turn off to the retreat. The queue is out the door, the line stretching around the corner. Everyone must have the same idea—they need something sugary to start the day.
I wait patiently.
Not so patiently. My foot taps against the pavement, keen to get to the retreat, keen to get to her. I eventually get to the front of the queue.
Two milky lattes and something sweet. Today it’s a cream-filled doughnut. Antonia loves those.
***
The retreat gates come into view as I turn off the main road. There’s a scattering of protesters now, not many. They’ve really thinned in the past few weeks.
Antonia instructed Julian to reduce PR. She needed a break. And for once, he’s done as he’s told. It seems to be working. The stories are fading; time is passing.
Funny how something that felt like the end of the world a few weeks ago can fade so quickly.
A break.
That’s what we all need.
More so now than any time.
I park up in the gravel next to the half-finished gardens. We’re busy today. The sun’s shining. That always brings out more volunteers. The recruitment program is new in the last month, but growing day to day. It’s great to have the extra help. We’ll need it for months and years to come.
I spot Antonia immediately. She’s on her knees in the soil, light blue tracksuit, pink wellies, planting flowers. Sure, she sweeps the pathways, washes the windows, but gardening is her happy place.
After cutting the engine, I sit watching her. Taking her in while she doesn’t notice.
Ear pods in, she hasn’t heard the car, and she certainly hasn’t spotted me. Her lips move, singing away to herself to whatever tune is playing.
She looks peaceful for once.
Calm.
More like herself than the CEO. Too peaceful. Like none of this is touching her, but I know that’s not true.
I climb out of the car, coffees and doughnuts in hand, and as I approach, she looks up. Her lips split wide in a smile, lighting up her face.
Framed by the flowers behind her, she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in years.
“You’re early,” she says. Her eyes move to the drinks and food in my hands. “But you have your uses.”
She plucks out her earbuds and wraps her arms around my neck, popping a kiss on my lips. For a second, I forget everything. Whatever may be coming for us.
Hell, despite everything looming over us, I’m so fucking happy.
Which makes all this seem even more fragile.
We just stand there for a few minutes, staring at each other, fluttering odd kisses on each other’s lips.
“I assumed you’d be hungry,” I say.
She grins. “I’m always hungry.”
The undercurrent in her words is not talking about food or drink. I laugh then.
Her eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”
“More than okay,” I tell her. “We’re here, we’re together, and the sun is shining.”
I guide her over to the nearest bench, and we sit. They’re scattered throughout the gardens, each one dedicated to a patient of mine who lost their battle. This one’s Jeannie’s.
Antonia sips her coffee.
“It’s actually still warm,” she says. “I don’t know how they manage it. Normally, I’m always complaining about them going cold.”
I laugh.
“I gave them instructions to make it super-hot because I know how much you hate cold coffee.”
I take a bite of my doughnut. “Oh, that’s good,” I say louder.
“That’s what you always say,” she murmurs. Her eyes move to the plaque behind us. “Jeannie. I wonder who she was.”
“She was another name that needed more time. And deserved it,” I whisper. My eyes stay on her. Not the name. And I’m terrified she’ll become one of them.
“That’s why we’re doing this,” she says.
We both fall silent. Because we both know exactly what we’re not saying. That we’re sitting in the same place both of us have sat separately before. That time may run out again.
I try to ignore it, pushing the thought down.
My eyes scan the gardens.
“All these people are here to help us,” I say. “Most of them touched by the same illness as we’ve been touched with. So it’s as important to them as it is to us.”
She nods but doesn’t respond, just continues to eat her doughnut silently and sip her coffee, making little noises of pleasure. Like nothing’s wrong.
As she pops the final bite into her mouth, she drains her coffee and stands.
“Come on then. We’ve got some flowers to plant. You didn’t come here just to eat doughnuts.”
I chortle.
Even with the situation as it is, she still keeps moving forward.
I drain my own cup, take her wrapper, and go throw it in the trash. By the time I’m back, she’s on her knees, covered in dirt, handing me a trowel. I drop down beside her, taking one of the small white flowers, digging a hole and popping it in.
“That’s not straight,” she says.
I glance over, raising my eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Well, if you’re going to do a job, do it right.”
She smirks but doesn’t look at me, her eyes back on her own plant. I remove the flower and move it three millimeters to the left.
We work away quietly, the bed coming to life. Small white flowers alternating with pink ones.
Each area designed with flowers to create a different theme. This is Antonia’s. Pink and white.
Looking at her in the boardroom, she’s the least pink person you’d ever imagine. All hard-nosed and black suits. But outside, she’s soft. More herself. The woman I’ve come to know.
I love the contrast.
With the flowers done, she sits back on her heels, the sun on her face, closing her eyes. I just watch her.
She’s tired. I can see that. The shadows under her eyes give it away.
But there’s a calmness there that hasn’t always been these last few days. It’s as if she’s in her own place, in her own peace. Or maybe she’s just holding it together.
“What are you thinking?” Antonia whispers.
Her eyes are still closed.
“How do you know I’m thinking anything?”
“You’re quiet,” she says. “And when you’re quiet, you think.”
That’s true. I pause, not quite sure how to say what I want to. “I’m just thinking I’m proud of you.”
She falls silent then. Her eyes open, looking straight through me.
I hold her gaze and pray that this time the story ends differently. Because I don’t think I can survive it if it doesn’t.