Back to You...

By Richard Plourde

John Fisher will risk everything to find the anonymous female bone marrow donor who gave him another chance at life.

After thirteen years of unhappiness, self-absorbed millionaire John Fisher becomes convinced that the anonymous female bone marrow donor who saved his life could be the answer to all his woes - his true love, his soulmate.

There is a problem... Donor information is kept confidential under lock and key in a secured building thousands of miles away. John believes he has found a way to get to his file, but a slight mishap will certainly land him in jail and ruin his career.

Alongside mischievous childhood friend Daniel and beautiful Emma, an old flame he was sure the years had extinguished, John embarks on an epic journey in search of this mysterious woman.

What John uncovers along the way challenges everything he thought he knew about fate, love, and the true meaning of second chances.

ABOUT BACK TO YOU...
« I had difficulty putting my tablet down. » Books With Natasa
« A real gem! » Christine Michaud, Le Lundi
« I was captivated by this cleverly woven tale. The storytelling was brilliant. » Books & Bindings
« You just have to read this book. » Rayo Reads

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Plourde
• Release date: Jan 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9782924099858

Richard Plourde

Richard Plourde lives in Edmundston, a lovely town nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains in New Brunswick (Canada). His first three novels were published in French and all have had a resounding success. Two of his books have been translated and published in English. « Back to You… - The astonishing fate of John Fisher » This unconventional love story chronicles a man's extraordinary journey to find the woman whose selfless act saved his life. The French version was a finalist for the "Prix France-Acadie" International Literary Prize. « The Koi and the Frog » A heartwarming love story between a fish and a frog that celebrates the beauty of differences and promotes self-acceptance. The French version was called one of the best Canadian children's book of the year by the reputable consumer guide magazine Protégez-vous. Richard is currently working on his fourth novel and is also writing the screenplay for his first novel.

Book preview

Prologue

I haven’t always been a pain in the ass. A few old friends might even say that I used to be nice—even charming! But that was before. Before moving to the big city to pursue ambitions considered excessive by most of my acquaintances. Before I burned all the bridges that linked me to those who claimed to love me. Before the success and more money than I would ever know how to spend. Before the endless outings to bars and nightclubs, where I drowned my boredom in the infinite sea of fools. Before the one-night stands that drained me of my sexual energy. But, mostly, it was before my diagnosis. Before a little six-letter word derailed my lifestyle.

There are no words to describe how you feel when you learn that you have cancer at age twenty-seven. I doubt even the best of writers could accurately illustrate the pain, anger and dismay, but during my treatments at the hospital the psychiatrist suggested I try writing.

I think it would help you, he advised in his quiet, parental voice.

His recommendation struck me as ridiculous, not unlike attempting to interpret inkblots on glossy cards. Yet I admit that, little by little, I allowed myself to be convinced I should give it a shot.

At first, I categorically refused his visits, which were mandatory as part of the treatment protocol, but the sixty-five-year-old doctor persisted. Every day, he would show up at my bedside, his wise gaze looking out beneath dishevelled grey hair. Seven days a week, during the entire four weeks of my hospitalization, he would don the required medical attire and greet me in my isolation room. He ignored my silences. He overlooked my outbursts. He assiduously continued his visits, without ever knowing if he was penetrating the psyche of his recalcitrant patient.

Early one Sunday morning, as the sun was rising in a cloudless Montreal sky, I finally asked him, "Do you ever take time off, Doc?"

As was often the case, he just smiled. His piercing gaze reminded me of Albert Einstein, albeit without the mustache.

What a weird guy, I thought. He’d never asked me a single question that I assumed a psychiatrist would ask, and aside from his innocuous comments about the weather, current arts and sports, the only idea he kept repeating was the suggestion that I should write.

While I obeyed even the slightest request from the oncologists treating my leukemia, I stubbornly refused to jot down a single word. My psychological problems, if I actually had any—and that was a big if—were obviously due to this damn cancer and to the people I had abandoned along the way.

On the day I was discharged from the hospital, I was packing up my things when Dr. Einstein dropped by as usual and greeted me cordially.

Good luck, Mr. Fisher. It was a pleasure meeting you.

And without giving me time to object, he walked over and hugged me tightly. I froze, my arms hanging down on either side of my body. The warm embrace lasted only a few seconds, but had a calming effect on me. He released me and gave me a knowing wink, turned and walked out of my room. But before disappearing at the end of the hall, I heard him shout back like an old friend, Remember to write, Mr. Fisher. I look forward to reading your work!

Physical signs of my illness gradually diminished over the coming months. My greenish complexion progressively faded and soon returned to normal. Although the bald look suited my colleagues who were losing their hair prematurely, I was particularly relieved when my full head of hair returned.

I finally regained the energy I had enjoyed before the chemo and radiation, and I started full-time work four weeks before the doctor’s recommended date.

To the delight of my employers—for whom I was amassing small fortunes—I resumed my usual pace in no time. I went to the office very early each morning to complete a full day, and then continued working from home until late at night. Enjoying my new-found vitality, I resumed the jet-set life I had appreciated so much before my illness.

One can party until the early hours, socialize in the most exclusive country clubs and sleep with the most beautiful women, but the fact remains that there will be times when one finds inevitably himself alone. That is when the malaise one desperately seeks to crush resurfaces.

It was during one of these annoying circumstances that the old psychiatrist’s imperturbable smile and confident recommendation that I should write came back to haunt me. True to myself, as stubborn as a mule, I resisted the idea. For months, I refused to put words onto paper. But that was before. Before her. Before a woman and an incredible adventure changed my life forever. But that’s a whole different matter. It’s a story I sometimes share if the wine is good and the guests insist. And each time I am told, unequivocally, that I should write it down. It would be a bestseller, for sure, they say.

You believe the story because you know me. You know it’s true. But a reader wouldn’t be so generous! I respond.

But they persevere.

Yet, with a simple radiant smile, she never encourages these pleas. She is content to offer me support with her simple, knowing laugh, and her gaze… how to put it? … her gaze that, by itself, contains all the love in the world.

On two or three occasions, I actually managed to write a few lines, but each time I was left feeling paralyzed by the experience. Perhaps it was my subconscious mind that refused to reveal such a personal story. One does not share their life’s most intimate details with everyone! But recently, little by little, more and more, the desire to write began to haunt me.

No one will believe a single word of it, I kept telling myself.

But one day the need became too great and I dared to start. I opened an intimidating blank page on my laptop, which until then had only known Excel spreadsheets. I took a deep breath and I began.

At first, a few words slipped out. Then, slowly, a trickle. But after a few short minutes came the tsunami, the catharsis that Dr. Einstein had predicted.

The result is the book you hold in your hands. I chose to write it in the form of a novel, because no one would believe this story to be true. It’s like that, I’m told, when truth is stranger than fiction.

Finally, if we ever come to know each other, please do not ask me to clarify what is real and what is fabrication. It’s a secret, but I will give you a hint: I’ve never been very good at making up stories.

So for those of you who begged me to write, for you, my dear Dr. Einstein, and especially for you, my love, let me tell you the astonishing story of John Fisher.

1

The silver Mercedes-Benz logo on the stick shift shone between my fingers as I downshifted before coming to a full stop at the traffic lights. Tapping the steering wheel to the beat of John Mayer’s guitar riffs, I turned up the volume with a flick of my thumb. … She’s slipping through my hands. She’s always buzzing like neon, neon.

The August sun was shining on Montreal. The convertible roof was down, and I had the air conditioning aimed directly at my face. Through my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, I inspected my reflection in the rearview mirror and ran my fingers through my thick black hair. I smiled with satisfaction.

The warm breeze carried a delicious amalgam of summertime scents, but I could also detect the fascinating aroma of the new leather in my SL-350 roadster. I was fulfilled. My life was finally getting back to normal. Things were good, if not perfect.

When the light turned green, the 315-horsepower engine propelled me across the intersection in mere seconds. A few precise turns of the steering wheel, and I joyously wove in and out of traffic. I was headed in the direction of the most prestigious district in downtown Montreal. In no time at all, I reached my destination, pulling up to one of those buildings that had once been an old factory but was recently converted into sumptuous million-dollar condominiums.

As the sunroof began to close, the car slipped down the ramp leading to the underground garage. I glanced at my Rolex, a gift I had received from a very satisfied customer for whom I had saved astronomical sums in taxes.

Twelve minutes, I said to myself.

It had taken less than a quarter of an hour to drive from my office in the city centre. It would have taken almost the same amount of time on public transit, but that was a thing of the past for me. A past I had quickly and effortlessly wiped from my memory.

A distinctive beep echoed against the concrete walls and confirmed that my car’s anti-theft system was engaged. As I walked towards the elevators, I took one last look at my new acquisition and could not help but admire its precise lines, its shining the exact colour of the money I was accumulating to the rhythm of my ambitions.

As usual, I got home slightly before 5 p.m. I would resume work until my girlfriend, Claire, arrived, and that rarely happened before six.

We both devoted a lot of time and energy to our careers; a lifestyle choice we had made together.

Hungry for money and prestige, I had accepted a position at the largest and most esteemed accounting firm in Montreal. I had since built up my client base, and I managed the financial affairs for some of the country’s largest corporations. For her part, Claire had opted for a job that she found challenging, yet assured her a more reasonable schedule. She was now senior manager in the administrative sector of Montreal General Hospital.

During the week, despite the high-end appliances that embellished our modern kitchen, our dinners comprised mostly of take-out. We would enjoy our meal seated at the kitchen table, and I would scan emails on my cellphone as Claire recounted the details of her day. Once our plates were rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, we would retire to the living room with its spectacular view of the skyline and the St. Lawrence River. Claire would sit on the couch and leaf through magazines or watch television, while I would get back to work on my laptop, updating spreadsheets and responding to the never-ending emails. Claire typically retired at ten-thirty. Around midnight, I would shower and join her, but she was usually fast asleep by then.

But today, as I was soon to discover, this routine would be disrupted. Arriving at my front door, I rummaged in the pocket of my lambskin jacket for the key, inserted it into the lock, and stepped confidently into the foyer.

I was about to set down my briefcase when I noticed the large suitcase standing in the way. I barely had time to make sense of this unusual scene when, to my surprise, I heard Claire’s voice, no more than a mere whisper.

Hello, John, she said simply.

Sitting on a chair at the kitchen table was the woman with whom I had shared the last five years of my life. A lady full of ambition and determination. An intelligent and independent companion who was an astonishing natural beauty. And most importantly, she was the one who had stood by my side through my worst nightmares during my recent bout with cancer.

I recognized the scene immediately. I had been through it a dozen times before, but I was usually the person calling the shots—and I know for a fact that I had never exhibited the tortured look Claire was presenting at the moment.

In the past, when I found myself in this position, I simply explained things in the same way I might tell a co-worker that I had accepted a better job with a competitor. I couldn’t understand why the women I had dumped had reacted by taking offence. We’d had exciting times together, gone on extravagant outings and memorable trips but, lo and behold, I found I was bored, often adding that it was as much a surprise to me as it was to them. But, right now, the tables had been turned. I was the cause of the boredom, and for some annoying reason it felt different.

Go ahead. Say it, I said, collapsing into the chair at the other end of the table.

Claire stared briefly at the ceiling and then blinked several times, trying to maintain some composure. She took a deep breath.

I hadn’t imagined I would be shedding tears. I don’t cry often, as you know. But this, she said, gesturing between the two of us, saddens me a little…

After a shaky exhale, she resumed with more confidence.

I’m leaving you, John. Please don’t try to insist otherwise.

But I’m not insisting, I answered flatly.

I could tell my insensitive response hit Claire hard. She cocked her head to one side and squinted as if to make sure she had heard right. She stared at me like she no longer recognized me, pausing for a moment.

During this brief instant, I began looking for a reason that could justify her decision. It was difficult, if not impossible. At the risk of sounding conceited, I could think of none. I was handsome, intelligent, funny and ambitious. I worked hard at maintaining the sculpted body of a Greek god, and I made love with the same intensity. Of course, I spent a lot of time on my job, but that was nothing new. I climb the corporate ladder two or three steps at a time so as to amass as much money as possible in order to afford everything I want: luxury cars, trips abroad, a million-dollar apartment in the most exclusive building in the city… and that’s just for starters. No, I definitely couldn’t come up with one single reason that could motivate her to leave. Unless…

Looking at me directly, Claire said, John, it’s taken me almost three years to finally grasp the obvious—there is no place for me in your life.

What are you talking about? We’ve been a couple for over five years!

Aw, John! Please! For the past two years we have been, at most, two roommates sharing the same bed.

That’s not what you were implying last weekend, I said with a broad smile.

Clearly frustrated, Claire threw her arms up in the air. It’s always about sex with you, John! The only time you ever show any interest in me is when you have a testosterone overload that needs to be managed. The rest of the time I play second fiddle to your laptop. She took a deep breath and added, Do you want to know the main reason I’m leaving you, John?

I shrugged slightly. Actually, I don’t care.

This comment should have shocked her, but instead of losing her temper, she just shook her head in annoyance.

"Why does that not surprise me? With you, it’s always me, myself and I. I don’t care. I go out with my friends. I go to the gym. It’s my car, my apartment, my camera, my television, my trip to Rio de Janeiro!"

Silence.

Claire continued, "In five years, I have never heard you refer to us as ‘we’ or ‘our’. The trip to Rio was our trip. We moved into this apartment together, it is ours, not yours. You will have to learn one day that the universe does not revolve around you!"

She paused, then added, "I’m sick and tired of being your sidekick, your trophy girlfriend that is now collecting dust on a shelf. I deserve better!"

I stared at her. I took the blows without flinching.

"Have you ever loved anyone, John? Claire continued. Tell me honestly, have you ever truly been in love?"

An image immediately appeared in my head. I hastened to make it go away. Claire didn’t seem to notice.

Seeing that her question would not be answered, she kept going, "In the beginning, I thought I was that person. I hoped that, with me, you would come to dream of a pretty house in the suburbs overlooking a large backyard, located close to an elementary school. But it never happened. Sometimes, I could feel you toying with the latch to your heart, but never once did you dare to open it."

I tore my gaze away from hers, afraid she might detect more truths.

John, I want you to know that I did love you. I was fuelled by a naive hope that I would succeed with you where others hadn’t. For years, I loved for both of us, but I can’t do it anymore. Since you came home from the hospital, your heart has been further away than ever.

Ironically, instead of being appalled by the words of the woman who had stood by my side during the fight of my life, I was disappointed that my feelings had been so easily perceived. Feminine intuition is something to be taken seriously. If she only knew the whole truth…

As her despair gave way to pity, Claire just stared at me in silence, as would a mother patiently waiting for a response from her misbehaving teenage son. I didn’t like that parental gaze at all. I shifted in my chair, ran my fingers through my hair before letting out a huge sigh.

So, this seems like a done deal. Don’t let me hold you back! I burst out, annoyed. I thought you were happy, but hey! I guess not. You could have lived the life of the rich and famous, yet you’re giving it up like that! I added, snapping my fingers.

Claire suddenly looked as if she had a few more arrows to throw in my direction, but then seemed to change her mind. Noticing her pause, I gladly poured fuel on the fire.