Sleeping Brides

by fallensea

  “It was good enough before I was sick,” I told him. “I like it here.”

  “Go live,” he iterated. “You’re too young to die the death of the old.”

  ***

  Piles of clothes were scattered around the living area, flung from the numerous suitcases that occupied my apartment. Bronco was messy, but I didn’t mind. He was my caretaker and my friend. There had been some nights when I didn’t think I’d wake. He’d seen me through them. He’d seen me through all of it. I picked up a beige flannel shirt from the couch, and I set the shirt on the floor before folding into myself on the cushions.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” I asked.

  Bronco sat next to me. “You do as your boss says,” he counseled. “Let’s go have fun. Make life worth the trouble of death.”

  I considered it. Shopping was fun, but I was certain both Mr. Tremblay and Bronco meant something more adventurous. “How about paragliding?”

  “You mean jumping off mountains?” he asked, making a dark face.

  His reaction made me all the more eager. “Exactly.”

  “No way,” he protested. “I said something fun, not stupid. I’m a nurse. I’ve seen what stupid looks like. The furthest I want to be from the ground is the back of a four-wheeler.”

  “But haven’t you always wanted to know what it’s like to free fall? To feel all the weight lifted from your shoulders? To be free?”

  “I feel that now. Here, with you. And for the record, the weight is not lifted from your shoulders. Gravity is pretty much trying to suck you back down, and at a very fast rate if your parachute fails.”

  He’d convinced me. “Fine. No paragliding. Or free falling. It feels too much like saying goodbye anyway.”

  Bronco grew solemn. “Hayley, it is saying goodbye.”

  “I know,” I said softly.

  He set his hand on my arm and moved in closer to me. “Do something fun, but make that something a lot less dangerous. That way, you can invite your dad.”

  “Bronco,” I warned, growing tense. “I’m not in the mood to discuss this.”

  Bronco was persistent. “I understand why you don’t want to tell him about the cancer, but you can’t avoid him like this. It’ll ruin him when you’re gone.”

  “My father is strong,” I maintained. I really didn’t want to discuss it.

  “But not strong enough for you to tell him? Or see him, for that matter.”

  I drew in all of my patience and attempted to explain. “I saw what he went through when my mother died. I can’t bring myself to be the one to do that to him again.”

  “Just think about it,” he urged, standing.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have to go to work.”

  I watched him hunt through the mess for a clean set of scrubs. I was relieved the conversation about my father was over for the night, but I was sad Bronco had to go. He’d be back in the morning, but not until I’d already left for work. I missed him when our schedules conflicted. It was an odd friendship, but it worked. It kept me intact.

  “I should really give you space to hang your stuff,” I supposed. “It’s the least I can do for making you sleep on the couch for the last two months.”

  “Oh no,” Bronco whipped. “I won’t come between a woman and her wardrobe.”

  I smiled at him. “You’re such a wise man. I wish I could bring you with me.”

  ***

  Marietta stood outside my door holding a basket full of muffins as golden as the brown of her hair. She wore a cardigan over a short denim dress and leather thigh-high boots, a look that was popular in the magazines that season. I knew the boots. They were way more expensive than her paycheck allowed, but I was not one to judge a woman for spending a ridiculous amount of money on clothes. My red pantsuit probably could have fed all the homeless in Toronto.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  She held the basket of muffins up higher, as if it were a sacrifice she was honoring me with. “I bring gifts.”

  Nimbly, she pushed her way into the apartment and set the basket on the island in my kitchen. “I’m sorry for visiting so late. I heard you weren’t feeling well and left work early, so I brought ginger muffins.”

  “Did Edna tell you that I left early?”

  Marietta shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “It’s just a flu.”

  I was glad to see her, but I wasn’t comfortable having company over. I would have rather met her for a coffee at a café. At least Bronco had already left for work. I didn’t need the awkwardness of trying to explain who and what he was.

  He was gone, but his clothes weren’t. “Do you have a visitor?” Marietta asked, lighting up as she pointed to the piles of clothes on the floor in the living area.

  “I’m just helping a friend out,” I lied.

  “Too bad. You deserve a good man.” She left the kitchen and, stepping around the clothes, went to the floral dress I had on display. She lifted the skirt, full of wonder and awe. “I know this is your favorite, otherwise I’d ask if I could borrow it.”

  “It is my favorite,” I said. I couldn’t promise it to her, not the way I had the red pantsuit to Olivia. I wanted to own the dress until my last breath.

  She dropped the skirt, much more sullen. “I miss you. I miss the four of us. We used to have so much fun together. You should come out for drinks with me next week. There’s this new girl at the salon, and she is hilarious. She’s done so many cool things. She’s even met Prince William! How amazing is that.” Marietta spoke with a profound adoration for her new friend.

  “Sounds good,” I said. “If I’m feeling better. This flu is really sticking to me.”

  “The alcohol will kill off the germs. I’ll text you the details. You’re coming.”

  “Fine. I’ll go.” I spoke with true intention. It would probably be my last girls’ night out. I wouldn’t tell Marietta that, not without the risk of her telling Edna, thinking she was doing good, but I would go. Champagne was a marvelous send-off.

  Marietta focused back on the dress. “So, any word on mine?” she asked. “I’m sorry to pester you about it, but the gala is in three weeks.”

  I’d completely forgotten. “I’m sorry. Things have been so hectic. I have it.” I went to my room then returned with her dress. “Here.”

  She cried out in happiness. “It’s even more stunning now that it’s mine,” she sang, grabbing it out of my hand. She held it against herself and twirled, causing the peach chiffon to flow in smooth waves. “Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Money doesn’t mean anything anymore.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she insisted. “How much?”

  “You can buy the first round of drinks next week,” I bargained as I handed her a garment bag. “That’s all I want.”

  “That’s so nice of you,” Marietta said, folding the dress into the garment bag as if she were tucking in a baby. “I’m going to get this home before I wake up and it’s all a dream.”

  I saw Marietta to the door, and then I went to bed, exhausted. I wrapped myself into my heavily-threaded sheets, creating a wall of comfort around myself, but it did little to ease my mind. Living required movement, and I had so little of it left. I was afraid to sleep. I did not feel safe in my own body. I did not know if I would wake, if this was my last night. The filter that prevented people from fearing such things was gone. I was fully aware that I had a heart I could not control, that I was made of a flesh that lacked immortality. I was a living machine that could die against my will.

  ***

  Montreal was the beginning, and Montreal was the end.

  Several days after Marietta’s visit, beneath the Bird of Paradise graffiti on the brick of the warehouse where I lived, there was a bike the color of a blue sky on a cloudless day. It had a yellow pinstriped bow wrapped around the handlebars and a tag with my name on it, announcing it as mine.

  “What’s t
his?” I asked Bronco, wheezing as we approached the building, returning from the park where we’d watched a summer fashion show.

  “Fun,” Bronco answered. “You told me how you and your mom had planned to ride bikes in Montreal before she passed. I thought we could do it.”

  “But the park was fun,” I moaned, not sure how I felt about the gift. Painful memories were attached to it. Unable to control my breathing, I set a hand on the brick next to the bike, steadying myself.

  “Think of Montreal as a park,” Bronco suggested as he passed me a bottle of water from his backpack, as if I were a child being handed juice. “A big park surrounded by water and full of croissants.”

  I didn’t think I was physically capable of it. “This is such a nice gesture, but Bronco, I’m not sure I can. Actually, I’m pretty sure I can’t.”

  “That’s why I only bought one bike,” Bronco said, gathering it from the wall. “I’ll pedal. You can sit on the handlebars.”

  Without moving from my spot, I took a sip of the water, feeling dizzy. “That won’t work.”

  “Then you peddle, and I’ll sit on the handlebars.”

  I laughed. “That won’t work either.”

  With the bike in his hands, he kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry, little runaway. I’m kidding. I bought a second seat. I just haven’t installed it yet. It goes over the back tire. All you have to do is hold onto me.”

  “I’m already holding onto you,” I uttered, losing focus of my surroundings. I couldn’t let go of the brick, which had blurred beneath my sight. If I did, I’d meet the pavement.

  Realizing this, Bronco let the bike drop and helped me inside. “I didn’t realize it was so bad,” he said in the elevator. “Maybe it’s time I got you a wheelchair. I can sign one out from the hospital tomorrow.”

  “I don’t need a wheelchair,” I protested. A wheelchair was a trumpet, a billboard. I was still trying to hide my illness. God forbid if my father caught me in it if he stopped by after the courthouse. Or Jean-François at work.

  Bronco didn’t fight me on it. “An oxygen tank then. They have portable ones that are small. You can hide it in your desk at work and use it when you really need it. We’ll get a bigger one for the apartment.”

  I wanted to refuse, but I couldn’t. Oxygen was exactly what I felt I needed. “Do they come in purple?” I asked buoyantly.

  “No, but they should.”

  “No worries. I’ll just paint it.”

  Bronco brought the tanks home the following day. It frightened me as he fitted the tube into my nostrils for the first time, but I did not tell him so. I never told Bronco when I was frightened, but he knew. He took that fear from me and laid it upon himself.

  “Looks good,” he said when it was fitted.

  “It feels good,” I admitted, inhaling deep. “I feel… fixed. If only I were.”

  Bronco fumbled with the tank, hiding the restlessness that overcame him. “I was thinking we’d head to Montreal tomorrow,” he said.

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Tremblay won’t mind.”

  “No, he won’t,” I admitted. I didn’t want to go, but I knew how much it meant to Bronco, so I agreed. “Tomorrow then.”

  ***

  As Bronco drove, I stared quietly out the window, watching the landscape change, a landscape that would outlive me and everyone important to me. A landscape that would probably outlive the cities. It was early morning. The drive between Toronto and Montreal was long, so we’d escaped in the dark, stowaways riding the new light.

  “Do you have to work tomorrow?” I asked Bronco, groggy.

  “Double shift.”

  “Too bad. I thought we could watch a film together after I got back from the office.”

  “How about tonight when we get home?”

  I’d be asleep by the time we got home, but I didn’t say so, nor did I say much more, not until we were well into Quebec. I sat up as we passed a beautiful country home built of rustic stonework and encircled by vibrant gardens. A gazebo stood out front, in which a couple enjoyed a late breakfast. A timber sign advertised the home as a bed and breakfast.

  “How lovely,” I said. “It wish we had time to stop and look around.”

  Bronco slowed. “We have all the time you want. Do you have the strength?”

  I glanced at the bike in the backseat. “I better save it,” I said. “Keep driving.”

  It was a wise decision. As we cycled near the river in Montreal, the warmth of the sun destroyed me, despite the breeze. It was a peaceful torture. As he pedaled, I held loosely onto Bronco from my seat over the back tire. I did not want to suffocate him with the heat of my body, and I wanted to leave room for the breeze to pass between us. The breeze was like a song, lulling my eyes to close and my heart to open. I could float in the breeze, as light as a feather.

  My eyes were closed, but I was terribly aware of the man in front of me. I could smell his sweat, taste his goodness. I thanked God for granting me such a friend, but I was tormented. The closer I was to death, the closer I was to life. The closer I was to death, the closer I was to Bronco.

  When we returned home, Bronco carried me into the apartment, thinking I was asleep in his arms. “I love you,” he whispered as he laid me in bed, and he left the room.

  “I love you too,” I returned, unheard—the way it was meant to be. Montreal had stolen the last of what energy I had left. I’d be leaving soon, to a place lovers did not follow.

  ***

  Sitting at my desk at work, I surrendered. The day would be my last at the firm. The crowded corridors gave me headaches, and the tang of tea and cakes passing my office every few minutes made me want to hurl. I was an addict to my secret oxygen tank, taking deep breaths after every turn of my pen, every click of my tablet. Most of all, the walk from the taxi to my office had become impossible. That morning, I had to pretend I’d sprained my ankle to get Olivia to assist me, acting as my crutch. I couldn’t do it anymore.

  Grabbing my satchel, I looked around one final time, taking it in. The office itself I cared little for. My goodbye was to my career and all the memories I’d made at the firm. I’d been happy here, despite the miserable ending. I didn’t know how that happiness fit into the wider scheme of things, but it meant something.

  After leaving my office, I went to see Mr. Tremblay. “Hayley,” he greeted warmly from his desk. “What can I do for you?”

  I would miss him. Men like him were rare. I saw a lot of Bronco in him. “It’s my last day,” I told him, deflecting the sorrow I felt. “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  Mr. Tremblay swallowed back his own grief. He nodded, saddened. “Goodbye, Hayley. You’ll be greatly missed.”

  Unable to say more, I stamped his words into my soul, hoping they would carry with me, and I turned around. Unbeknownst to me, Jean-François stood close by. He held a report I assumed he meant to give to Mr. Tremblay. His grip on the report was tight, as tight as the worry that furrowed his handsomeness.

  “You’re leaving? Why? Hayley, tell me what the hell is going on.” Jean-François was a composed man, but I’d pushed him to his limits. In frustration, he threw the report on the ground.

  I didn’t know how I was capable of it, but I quickly bent down and picked it up. “Let’s meet for dinner tomorrow,” I told him, handing him back the pages. “It’s time you knew.”

  It was time everyone knew, everyone except my father. I still couldn’t bare telling him. I couldn’t watch his heart break all over again. It was selfish, I knew, but it was my one greed in death—to die without hearing my father’s sobs.

  At home, I called Marietta. It wasn’t the first time I’d tried calling her over the last week. We were meant to meet up for drinks, but I never received the details she said she’d text me. I hadn’t heard from her since the night she’d dropped off the muffins and collected her dress. It was a hobby I reserved for boredom, but I signed into my social media account, figuring Marietta had lost her phone.


  She hadn’t. New to her profile was a selfie of her, Edna, Gerty, and a fourth woman I had never met, likely the hairdresser Marietta had raved about—her new, cool friend. The woman wasn’t hard to judge. She bore a smug, calculating smile that surpassed even Gerty’s. Under the selfie was the description:

  Girls’ night out! #realfriends

  Stung, I reached for my pain meds, knowing they wouldn’t help. “I guess you got what you wanted,” I murmured. “You got your dress for the gala.”

  Jean-François had been right. Bitches did come in pairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hold Me Down

  Three Weeks Later

  With the lively jaunt of the park around me, I sat in a wheelchair, unable to stand. I wasn’t sure I’d ever stand again, not on my own. It was too much of a struggle. Life was a struggle. It hurt to sit. It hurt to breathe. I wanted to live, but for the briefest of moments, I wondered if surrendering myself to my momma would be more of a blessing than a tragedy.

  “Bronco?” I called through my oxygen tube when I felt movement behind me, but it was only a pair of kids running after a ball.

  Bronco had been my escort to the park, but he had left to make a phone call, away from the brash, sun-kissed glee of those around us. He had positioned me near the gardens to look at the sprays and the blossoms, which reminded me of the floral dress in my collection. My veneration for gardens had swelled over the last couple of months, coinciding with my disappearance. In the blossoms, I saw the wistfulness of dreams, the softness of love, and the cruelty of hope. Nothing escaped the seasons. We were all blossoms, left to be adored then wither at the perusal of our creator.

  From the pocket of my thick cardigan, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Edna.