All I Have Left of You Read online

  ‘Wow, thanks,’ I said, taking one and sitting back down on the grass.

  ‘My mum made them last night,’ he said as he sat down next to me, shoving the bun in his mouth whole. I didn’t even see him remove the casing. ‘She was trying to cheer my sister up. She’s not too pleased about the move,’ he said mid-chew. Chocolate covered his teeth.

  I laughed and took a small bite of my own. ‘Mmmmm. This is gorgeous!’ I said, licking my lips. The bun was soft and moist, and the chocolate was rich on my tongue.

  Michael nodded, his cheeks still full. ‘You should come round after school. We can have more! And maybe we can even watch The Philosopher’s Stone.’

  ‘Yeah!’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I think I must know that film word for word by now.’

  ‘Mum, I’m home!’ I called brightly, as I burst through the door after school, jumping over the unpacked boxes that scattered the hall.

  ‘How was your first day, darling?’ Mum’s voice sounded from upstairs.

  I followed her voice and shot up the stairs, taking two at a time. I found her folding up clothes in my room and putting them neatly away. ‘It was excellent thanks, Mum! How was your day? Are my jeans in that pile?’

  Mum laughed as she rummaged through the basket of clothes, finding my jeans. I snatched them out of her hands and pulled off my school jumper, tossing it to the floor. ‘Someone’s come home in a good mood! I’ll get us both a snack, and then you can tell me all about it! I’ve only got a few boxes left to unpack.’

  ‘It’ll have to wait until tea-time, Mum. I’ve made plans,’ I told her, quickly changing out of my uniform and into jeans and a long-sleeved purple t-shirt.

  ‘Oh?’ Mum said with a raised eyebrow. ‘I take it you’ve made a friend or two?’

  ‘Yes.’ I grinned. ‘He only lives across the road, can you believe it? His mum made these gorgeous buns, so we’re going to have some and watch Harry Potter. That’s okay isn’t it, Mum?’

  Mum nodded, pleased. ‘Of course, as long as you’re back by half-past six to tell your dad and me all about your first day of school over tea! I’m making your favourite. Fajitas!’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said, looking about my room, wondering if I should take something for us to do once the film had finished.

  Seeing nothing else of much excitement, I grabbed a deck

  of playing cards from my bookshelf and shoved them in my bag. I didn’t know many good card games, but I bet that Michael did.

  ‘What’s his name, love?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Michael. Michael Mills!’

  Chapter Two

  24th June 2019

  Time without Michael: 1 Year, 6 Months, 7 Days

  Sunlight burst through the windows and dust danced on the air. It was just after nine on a Monday morning, and I was making my favourite banana pancakes for breakfast. My trick was to use an egg and a banana and use that as the batter. With a generous helping of blueberries, honey, and natural yoghurt, I’d decided that alongside an iced coffee with a splash of hazelnut syrup, it was my favourite way to start a summer’s day.

  I hummed to the radio as I attempted to flip the pancakes. They were playing ‘oldies’ this morning, and the fact that ‘Jenny Was a Friend of Mine’ by The Killers was now considered an oldie made me feel like an oldie too. Had that much time passed?

  It had been fifteen years since I’d got their first album and I’d known even back then that I’d never get sick of listening to it.

  I winced as I flipped the pancake, watching helplessly as it fell apart when it landed back in the pan. ‘Shit!’ I muttered. I was rubbish at flipping pancakes, so much so, that whenever I actually succeeded, I performed a celebratory dance. No such dance would be danced today. ‘That’s not how you flip a pancake is it, Indie?’ I said to the golden retriever that sat at my feet with its tongue hanging out. She could have probably done a better job, to be honest.

  I’d had Indie for almost a year. My friend, Max, had given me the idea of buying a puppy after I’d told him that my apartment was too quiet without Michael. It had been the best idea he’d ever had. Indie had helped me through the darkest moments of my grief. She’d sat with me while I’d cried my heart out for my late husband, had taken me for walks to get me out of the house when I felt like everything was hopeless; when the world was nothing but a vacuous black hole. In her, there was an innocence and a purity that had helped me through the blackest of days, when anger and despair had gripped me within its iron fist.

  She gave a little yelp, asking for a treat, and I laughed, pointing to her half-eaten bowl of dog food. ‘No treats until you finish, missy!’

  When my pancakes were ready, I took them outside onto the balcony while I pondered over what to do that morning. I’d been writing articles all weekend, both freelance, and for my blog, ‘What’s a Widow to do?’, so I’d decided to give myself the day off.

  I’d started my blog about a year ago to give myself an

  outlet for my grief. Writing out my feelings had helped me out of the darkness once before, so I’d decided it was worth trying again. If nothing else, it’d get my thoughts out of my head and onto paper where I’d hoped they’d make a bit more sense. I’d written about my experiences; I’d poured my heart out in the pages, knowing they might never be read. But at least my feelings were out there, at least they weren’t bottled in any longer.

  It had, however, unexpectedly become my most successful writing ambition yet, and it was now my primary source of income.

  I watched as the city started its day and leaned back in my chair with my iced coffee. People-watching had become one of my favourite breakfast hobbies. I found them so fascinating to watch, to wonder what each person was thinking, where they were going, what their dreams were and what their demons were. In the winter, I’d stand by the window with a lamp on and watch from inside as I sipped a hot coffee in the morning or a glass of wine in the dark evenings. I’d tried many times to write a book based on the loose idea of it, but nothing had come of it yet. I had a few paragraphs here and there but nothing else, nothing substantial enough.

  Indie cleaned her paws beside me, and I reached down to stroke my fingers through her soft, golden pelt. ‘Do you think I should try and do it, Indie? Do you think I should try and write a book?’

  She looked up at me with her happy, innocent eyes.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it,’ I told her. ‘But I’ll need to finish my breakfast first.’

  Once I’d finished my pancakes and put all my crockery in the dishwasher, I changed out of my lemon nightie and into a pair of denim shorts and one of Michael’s t-shirts. It was black and had a picture of Darth Vader on it. It read ‘I woke up like this’. Although I’d washed it plenty of times since he’d last worn it, I could almost swear it still smelled a bit like him. It was probably only in my head, but I took comfort wherever I could get it.

  Once changed, I headed to our bookcase in search of inspiration. I knew I wanted to write a book about people and the secrets they harbour, but I didn’t know how dark I wanted the secrets to be. I didn’t think I was ready to write something dark; I was only just starting to see the light again myself.

  I’d thought more than once about writing a book about Michael, about writing our story the way I’d always thought it would end, with a happily ever after. I wasn’t ready yet. But I promised myself that one day I’d do it. I promised myself that one day I would find the strength to write about our love.

  I sighed as I got to my knees and pulled a few books from the shelves. I didn’t know what inspiration I was looking for and where exactly I might find it, but I just knew that I had to find something there. Michael and I had always loved reading, and there were hundreds of books on that shelf.

  My breath caught in my throat as I pulled one from the shelf without realising at first what it was. It was The Snowman by Jo Nesbo.

  I smiled wistfully as I looked at the cover.

  I recalled one wintry afternoon when we’d both
been sat reading on the sofa. That evening we’d ended up having an exciting night out that had resulted in, quite frankly, the very best sex we’d ever had.

  ‘What a night you gave me, Michael,’ I whispered, as I traced my fingers along the words on the front of the book.

  But that evening had also been a prelude to something horrible, something life-changing.

  I flicked through the pages absently, and then something slipped out and fell to the wooden floor.

  I frowned and picked up the two pieces of folded A4 paper.

  Swallowing hard, I unfolded them.

  My hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh!’ I breathed as I saw what it was.

  In my shaking hands, I held a letter written in Michael’s messy scrawl. Addressed to me.

  Lina,

  I know you’re probably sick of me going on about how short life is recently. And I know it’s probably making you sad, so I thought I’d write all this down, and maybe you’ll read it one day. And then perhaps you’ll hit me with it and tell me for the millionth time that you don’t want to think about either of us dying.

  I don’t want to think about it either, you muppet, but if the past few months have taught me anything it’s that life is precious. Now, the doctors say I’m going to beat this illness, and it’s looking good, so I’m confident that we still have time. I’m hopeful that we’ll even get to raise a child together one day, and I’m optimistic that we’ll finally get to go on our bloody honeymoon at some point.

  But none of us know what’s around the corner, so I want to tell you this.

  I love you, Elina Mills.

  God, even calling you Elina Mills makes me the happiest man on the planet! I am so bloody lucky that you’re my wife. You are the sweetest, kindest, most loving person I have ever met. Not to mention you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and give the best blow jobs in the entire world! Sorry to make it dirty, but it had to be said! Quite frankly, Elina Mills, you’re my life, and for as long as I’m living you will be.

  The thought of something happening to either of us before we’re able to get our senior railcards or go to the cinema at eleven o’ clock on a Wednesday morning, terrifies me. It scares me to death. But something else scares me even more.

  If anything happened to me, if the illness came back, or if something else took me from this world, the thought of you being alone kills me. I want you to move on. I want you to be happy. Against all the odds, we’ve won the lottery of life! But we only get one of these lives, Elina, and I’d hate for you to waste it by not letting yourself love again. You love so well, Elina. You love with such passion.

  So, here is what I would like you to do.

  The next time you see me I want you to hug me. I want you to kiss me, and I want you to tell me that you will love for as long as you live. And if you’re in the mood, you can also do this in your underwear (maybe even the lacy red set you bought for my birthday last year). But only if you want.

  I’ll be waiting.

  All my love,

  Michael xxxxx

  A tear rolled down my cheek and landed on the page.

  Longing for my husband swelled within my chest, but a surge of happiness soared too. His death hit me again as it so often did. But this time, I had something new from Michael. I’d heard his voice telling me new things. When he died, I couldn’t believe he’d never say another word to me again, but now he had. He’d told me he loved me again. He’d given me a brand new memory. I thought we’d never make a new memory ever again, but through this letter that he’d hidden, we had.

  I read the letter a few more times, savouring each word, noting the familiar curl of his letters, and then I looked to the second page.

  Michael’s Bucket List

  1. Ride the Stratosphere in Las Vegas (finally!! Convince Lina to do it with me!)

  2. Go cage-diving with sharks

  3. Take Mum to the opera

  4. Climb Mont Blanc with Dad

  5. Raise a child with Lina

  My heart sank as I read the list. Sadness overwhelmed me. Michael hadn’t done any of these things before he’d died. He’d wanted to ride the Stratosphere roller coaster in Las Vegas ever since I’d met him but every time he’d had the chance something had stopped him. We’d talked about doing some of the things together. We’d planned to go travelling; maybe we could have done some of it then.

  I wiped my eyes and got to my feet, clutching the letter and the list in my shaking hands, knowing I had to do something about it.

  I woke in the middle of the night with a mental idea.

  I found myself on google, searching for websites that turned ashes into jewellery. I hadn’t been keen on the idea when it had first been suggested to me; the thought of losing a piece of jewellery made from Michael’s ashes was too much to bear. But if I got a pair of stud earrings and never took them out, surely I’d be less likely to lose them. The studs I had in then hadn’t been removed for two years.

  I found a website that would make a pair of sterling silver earrings for just under two-hundred pounds. Or if I really wanted to push the boat out, I could have them made in white gold for just under five hundred.

  I excitedly requested a free order-pack from the website and turned to the urn that sat on Michael’s bedside table. After looking over his bucket list, I decided that my husband wouldn’t want to be sat in our bedroom forever.

  And that was when I had my next great idea.

  Chapter Three

  6th October 2003

  ‘Are you coming climbing again tomorrow lunchtime?’ asked Michael as I sat down for lunch at our usual table in the school hall.

  I shook my head and scoffed. ‘I’m still aching from last week!’

  ‘Oh, come on! You have to!’ Max urged me, putting down his knife and fork and taking a break from his chips and gravy. ‘We do everything together!’

  Max was right. The three of us did everything together.

  Michael and Max had started talking in Science the week after Michael and I had met last year, and since then we’d become a close group. Max was just like Michael in many ways; sweet, kind and loyal. But he wasn’t as confident as Michael; Max was more like me in that sense. But, we all shared very similar interests. We each loved Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings and Star Wars.

  Just last week, the three of us had gone to a climbing club that was run by one of the P.E teachers, Mr Clarke. As our school specialised in sports, a climbing wall had been installed in one of the gyms over the summer, and as impressive as it was, I’d learnt last week that not only did climbing make my shoulders ache, but I was also absolutely petrified of heights. The latter I hadn’t disclosed to the boys.

  They, on the other hand, had absolutely loved it.

  ‘I think I’ll let you two have this as a boy’s thing,’ I said, cutting into my square cheese and tomato pizza.

  ‘So what will you do at lunchtime?’ Michael wondered, a little downhearted, pushing stale chips around his plate with his fork.

  ‘Jodie and Amie asked me if I’d like to go to choir practice with them,’ I replied quietly. I knew Michael didn’t like those two. I had Art with them, and they were also in our form. Michael thought they were shallow and mean, but I quite liked talking to the girls every now and again. With them, I could talk about which celeb had the cutest hair and how fit Orlando Bloom was - things I couldn’t talk about with Michael and Max.

  His jaw dropped and his brow screwed up with disgust. ‘Jodie and Amie?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re alright, you know,’ I said, a little annoyed. Sometimes I just thought that Michael was jealous whenever I decided to hang around with anyone else, which wasn’t very often at all.

  ‘They’re horrible, Lina. Jonathan Briggs said he heard them making fun of the three of us in Drama,’ Michael said

  with warning.

  I shrugged and took a bite of my pizza. It was barely warm, the dough was stodgy, and the cheese had hardly melted. ‘He probably misheard. They’ve
invited me over for a sleepover on Saturday.’

  Max raised his heavy eyebrows, and his eyes went wide behind his thick rectangular glasses.

  ‘But we always spend Saturdays together!’ Michael stressed.

  ‘That’s the point!’ I sighed. ‘Maybe I want to do something different. It’s okay for you two; you’re boys. Sometimes it’d be nice if I had some girls to talk to.’

  Michael stared at me for a moment, and I could see that he looked a little hurt. ‘Just watch they don’t put your hand in warm water,’ he said snidely.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I frowned.

  Max shook his head, bouncing his black corkscrew curls. ‘My brother’s friends did that to me. It makes you wet the bed.’ He shivered at the memory.

  ‘Charming,’ I said, turning my nose up. ‘But I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  The following day, for the first time since I’d started school, I didn’t spend my lunchtime with Michael. He and

  Max went off to their climbing club, and I followed Jodie

  and Amie to the toilets to get ready for choir.

  ‘Do you want to borrow some lip-gloss, Elina?’ Jodie offered with a giggle as she checked herself in the mirror, bouncing her bright blonde curls with one hand and handing me a sparkly pink tube with the other.

  ‘Uhm, yeah. Okay,’ I said, taking the gloss from her. I’d never actually worn lip-gloss before. I didn’t have any sisters, my only friends were Max and Michael, and it wasn’t something my mum wore very often. Especially not something this sticky and sparkly.

  ‘Why don’t you wear any makeup, Elina?’ Amie asked, pulling out a full bag of the stuff. It was purple and had pink and yellow flowers on it. ‘I think you’d look lovely with pink cheeks and some nice bold eyeshadow.’

  ‘I’ve never really thought about it,’ I admitted, looking in the mirror and carefully applying the sparkly sticky stuff to my lips. It tingled a little and tasted like watermelon.

  ‘Why don’t you let us do you up?’ Amie said with a smile, running her fingers through her dark, glossy hair, passing a glance to Jodie.