Don't Tell Me If I'm Dying - Part 2

When Hastings reached his home he lingered for some moments outside the building before going in and making his way to the flat he and Poirot shared. He paused again before the well known door, gathering his strength. He reached out his quivering hands, and entered into flat. Miss Lemon greeted him warmly from her little office.
“Hello, Miss Lemon,” he said with a faint smile. “Is Poirot in?”
“Yes he is.”
He paused a moment. “Would, would you mind joining Poirot and me in the sitting room. There’s something I need to tell you both.”
Miss Lemon looked slightly concerned, but she stood from her desk and followed Hastings into the sitting room where Poirot sat at his desk.
“Ah, mon ami, Hastings!” Poirot said with a smile. “I am delighted to see you back so early. I thought we might choose together the hotel we will be staying at for your birthday.”
Hastings felt his stomach do a flip-flop. “There’s… something I need to tell you both, Poirot. Please Miss lemon, sit down.”
Miss Lemon did as instructed. A worried expression came over Poirot’s face.
“Mon ami?” he said quietly. “What is it that is wrong?”
Hastings took in a deep breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, and licked his try lips. His stomach churned wildly inside him. “I, I want to thank both of you for how good you have always been to me. You are like – family.” He paused a moment. “Miss Lemon, you have been so kind to always take care of Poirot and me the way you do. Thank you for that. Poirot…” Hastings voice cracked and he held in a faint sob.
Poirot rose, alarmed, from his chair. “Hastings! What has –”
“Please Poirot,” Hastings said quickly. “Let me finish.”
Poirot sat back down and he and his secretary exchanged frightened glances.
“Excusez-moi, mon Hastings. Please, continue.”
Hastings took in a breath and began again. “Poirot…I, I don’t know quite what to say. You, you have been my best friend for so many years… you’ve been like a brother to me. Thank you, for planning my birthday trip to the links. It would have been wonderful, I am sure.”
Poirot opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again at a raise of Hastings hand.
“I’m very sorry, you have no idea how sorry I am, but I will not be able to go with you. You see… when I told you that my trip to the doctors went it, well it was a lie. You know I haven’t been feeling well recently, all the trouble with my head and eyes and such. While I was at the doctors I asked him about it. He, he told me I have a brain aneurysm. It’s in its final stages, and…” Hastings stopped. He stared into the eyes of his long time companion for only a moment before the pain became too great. He looked down at the floor. A tear trickled down his gentle cheek. “Poirot… Miss Lemon… I’m going to die, and most likely very soon...”
Hastings’ voice trailed off and there was silence in the room. No one spoke for what seemed like years. At last Miss Lemon stood quietly and slipped her hand into Hastings’.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured quietly. He looked at her, unspeakable sorrow in his pale blue eyes.
“So am I,” he said hoarsely.
Miss Lemon gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Tears welled up in her eyes and she glanced at Poirot. She paused a moment, and left the room, and the two friends were left in silence.
“P-please, Poirot,” Hastings said at last. “Say something.”
Poirot stood slowly, moving around the desk and towards his friend. He reached out his faintly quivering hand and placed it on Hastings’ arm.
“Mon cher ami…” His lips quivered and he swallowed, turning his face downward.
“I – I didn’t know how to tell you last night,” Hastings said slowly. “Japp spoke with me in the park. Somehow… he knew something was wrong. I… didn’t want to tell you, I didn’t know how I could, but he said… he said…”
Poirot looked up into his companion’s eyes. “I am glad, mon Hastings, that you have told me. It is not news I would ever wish to hear, but it is better – better to find out this way, than to… to…” Poirot’s voice faded. They both knew what he meant, but he seemed not to be able to bring himself to say it. He slowly reached out and took Hastings hands in his. “Mon cher ami, oh mon ami, mon frère.” His voice cracked, tears filling his bright green eyes. “This, it cannot be so…”
There was a long moment of silence. “What am I to do now?” Hastings said at last. “Do I go on as normal? Can I?”
Poirot paused a moment. A decisive look passed suddenly across his face. “No.”
“No?”
“No, we do not go on as normal. We go to France for your birthday trip, now.”
“But Poirot –”
“You will –” Poirot paused a moment as if afraid to speak his next words. “You will spend your last days, mon ami, doing what it is that you love so much. Playing golf on those so famous links.”
“But I can’t go alone; I – I don’t want to be alone.”
“You will not be alone, mon cher, I will be with you.”
“But you’re in the middle of a case, aren’t you?”
“Bah! A little thing. I will discard it.”
“But I – I don’t feel right taking you away from a case.”
Poirot had not yet let go of Hastings hands, and now he squeezed them gently. “You, Hastings, are far more important than any case I could ever have.”
Hastings eyes fell and his face went a little red. After a moment he looked back up. “Thank you, Poirot…thank you.”
Poirot nodded slowly. “For you, mon cher ami, Poirot, he would do anything.”
Hastings smiled, a warm, comfortable, peaceful feeling rising in his chest. But before he could respond he felt a sudden, terrible pain in his head, a pain worse than anything he’d felt before. He let out a little exclamation and raised his hand to his head. Poirot flinched, unsure of what to do. They’d both gone very pale.
“It’s alright,” Hastings said quickly. “Just a headache. I have them nearly all the time. It’s –” But he never finished. Very suddenly he fell to the ground, completely unconscious. His body quickly stiffened and his neck arched. Poirot cried out, a fear like he’d never experienced before encompassing him, and fell on his knees.
“Miss Lemon!” he cried out, his voice and hands shaking. “Miss Lemon! Venez vite! Vite! Aider! Hastings, he is, I think, having a seizure!”
Miss Lemon ran from her little office and into the sitting room just as Hastings cried out and began to convulse. She gasped, but didn’t hesitate a moment. She ran back into her office, grabbed a book from the depths of her desk, and began to flip wildly through it. Poirot watched his companion helplessly, entirely unsure of what to do, and afraid any aid he tried to provide would only make things worse. He saw blood was trickling form the corner of Hastings mouth, from where he imagined he’d bitten his tongue, and his head was hitting hard against the floor with each convulsion. Poirot felt in an absolute panic. He stood quickly, grabbed a pillow off of the sofa, and pushed it underneath his companion’s head. Half a moment later the seizure suddenly slowed and stopped. Poirot stood for a moment, too afraid to look closely. Miss Lemon came back quickly into the room.
“The medical book says we ought to –” she began, but she fell silent when she saw how stilly Hastings lay on the floor. Transfixed with fear, neither Poirot nor Miss Lemon could move. “Is he – is he –”
Poirot knelt slowly. “He is breathing a little,” he said at last.
Miss Lemon gave a little sigh of relief, her hands held tightly over her heart.
“His face is rather blue.”
She suddenly remembered what she’d read. “We ought to turn him on his side and loosen his tie so that his airway is clear. He should wake up in ten to thirty minutes.”
Poirot nodded slowly, reached out his hands, and gently turned Hastings on his side, carefully loosening his tie and unbuttoning his collar. He looked up at Miss Lemon. His face was glistening with sweat and a sort of hopeless agony filled his green eyes. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke volumes. It was as if he was asking, how can I carry on without him?