Chambers of Desire: Opus 1

by Sophie Moreau

  When I finally drifted off, I was haunted by the glow of the green cardiac defibrillator, the peaks and valleys of Brandon’s heartbeat. Then suddenly, I was in that bed, battered and bandaged. I tried to open my eyes, but couldn’t; tried to breathe, but couldn’t. I opened my mouth to call for help, but I choked, grasping at my throat, hands stumbling on the breathing tube forced into my mouth. The plastic was cold and hard, filling my throat with its rigid girth. Get it out!

  I was gagging, ripping at the tubes and—gasp! I sat up, still clutching my throat, clammy and disoriented. The morning sun spilled through the windows lighting up the hotel room.

  “Hey!” Calvin said, sitting up quickly. “What’s wrong?” He pushed the sweaty bangs off my forehead, stroking my hair soothingly. I panted heavily, trying to catch my breath.

  “I dreamed I—” I sat back against the pillow shaking my head. I inhaled deeply, the image of the tubes fading. “Wait—what time is it?” Had I overslept? We needed to get back to the hospital, needed to be there if he woke.

  “A quarter to eight,” Calvin said, turning over to read the neon alarm clock.

  Flinging the comforters off, I leapt. “We have to go!” I pulled on yesterday’s jeans, snaking into the sweatshirt I wore on the plane.

  ***

  We arrived at the hospital just before eight-thirty, breathless and disheveled. Calvin had sprung into action as soon as I catapulted from the bed, dressing quickly, phoning his driver to meet us downstairs. Not once did he seem impatient or question what we were doing in Dallas. I had his unconditional support, and it meant more to me than I could put in words.

  “His family just left so you have some time alone with him,” the nurse said smiling. “Just in time. He’s awake.”

  “He is?” I asked, relief flooding deliciously through my body.

  “He’s not out of the woods yet, my dear.” Her expression sobered. “He still has a long road ahead of him.”

  “I understand,” I said but secretly rejoiced. He was awake! That had to be a good sign. Somehow, it seemed as though he couldn’t die if he was well enough to wake. He just couldn’t.

  Calvin squeezed my hand before letting go. “Whatever you have to do,” he said, kissing me gently.

  I nodded and let myself into the hospital room, heart pounding. “Brandon?” I whispered softly. I saw that they’d removed his breathing tube, and he was taking shallow sips of air on his own.

  At my voice, his eyes opened, glazed and unfocused. “Sabrina?” His voice was dry and cracked, like dying embers.

  “Oh, my God, Brandon,” I said, sitting next to him, leaning forward to grab his hand. Sadness seized my heart. “What did you do?”

  He licked his lips carefully, moistening them to speak. “I’m so sorry, Sabrina.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “It’s OK, Brandon,” I said urgently. “It’s OK. I forgive you.”

  He closed his eyes. “I didn’t think I was that person, but I was. I hate what I did to you. Hate what I put you through. You were right. I don’t deserve to be here.”

  “Brandon,” I said, squeezing, “please, you don’t know what you’re saying. You made a mistake, but please, you have to fight. I forgive you, Brandon. And I didn’t mean what I told you last time I saw you.”

  When his eyes opened, they were wet, shining brightly. “I’m not going to make it, Sabs.”

  “Don’t say that!” I said. “You are not going to die, Brandon. You’re going to be fine, OK?”

  He shook his head, a slight move to the right. “There’s nothing I can do to make this right. How can you forgive me when I can’t even forgive myself?”

  A tear spilled over my cheek. “None of that matters anymore, Brandon. What matters is that you get better. That’s the only thing that’s important right now!”

  “Don’t cry,” he said hoarsely. “You’re going to be OK,” he said. “And this is what I want. I don’t want to fight, Sabrina. I don’t. I just want to go to sleep.”

  “We’re both going to be OK, Brandon!” I said. “You have to fight. Just to get better. OK? Please?” I was crying now, my breath coming in short ragged spurts.

  His eyelids floated shut again, and his voice grew softer. “It’s OK, Sabrina. Shhh! Please don’t cry. I’m sorry, Sabrina.”

  “Brandon, please!” I shook his arm. “Brandon?”

  Beep. Beep. Beep. The monitor maintained its steady rhythm, but there was no sound from Brandon. I dropped my head to his bed and wept. When there were no more tears, I sat up, exhausted and defeated. “Don’t give up on me, B,” I whispered. “I forgive you, whether you’ve forgiven yourself. Don’t forget there are people who love you out here.”

  As I brought his hand to my lips, I heard a loud yell out in the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I heard. My father’s voice. Oh, no! I ran out into the hallway just in time to see my father’s fist connect with Calvin’s temple. Calvin stepped back, momentarily stunned, but easily catching my dad’s arm as it swung for another hit.

  “George—,” Calvin growled as I yelled, “Dad, stop!”

  My dad’s eyes focused on me, and he yanked free from Calvin’s grip. “You’ve got some nerve,” he said. “Coming back now. And bringing him. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “Dad, I’m just here to see Brandon,” I said, backing away. “As soon as he’s out of the woods, we’re going back to—”

  “You’re not going anywhere, young lady.” He reached out, grabbing hold of my elbow. “We’re going home right now.”

  “No!” I tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. “Dad, let me go!”

  “If you think that you’re going anywhere with him—” He glared angrily in Calvin’s direction. “—then, you have another thing coming.”

  “Get your hands off me,” I said, struggling to break free. “Have you lost your mind? You can’t kidnap me!”

  Apparently, he had lost his mind. “I’m your father, Sabrina, and you will listen to me,” he said, his voice low and mean, his fingers bruising my arm.

  I looked desperately to Calvin. His eyes burned. I knew I didn’t need to ask. Didn’t need to say another word.

  “Mr. Clarke,” he said, taking a calm step toward us. “Take your hands off Sabrina.”

  My dad backed up, pulling him with me. “Don’t tell me what to do. She’s my daughter.”

  Then, I saw them, Calvin’s security guards rounding the corner. Broad-shouldered and beefy, these men were burly enough to encourage anyone to do anything.

  Easily, they plucked my dad off me, much to his dismay. “What the—? Get these goons off me! Security!”

  But they’d already dropped him and formed a wall between him and us. When he realized that fighting was futile, he turned his anger back toward me. “Sabrina!” he said. “Don’t get tied up with him, he cannot be trusted, he already showed you that. Do you understand? If you don’t come now, don’t come back home, period. And as for you—” His eyes zeroed in on Calvin. “You’ll pay for this.” It was the last thing he said before Calvin’s men got tired of his ranting and herded him out of sight.

  “I— oh, my God, I—” I stammered, looking at Calvin. “Calvin, you’re hurt!” Blood was smeared above his eyebrow, and a bruise was forming on his left cheekbone. He winced as he reached up and fingered it gingerly.

  “We need to get some ice on that,” I said, seeing the contusion swell as we spoke.

  He shook his head. “I’m fine. He just caught me by surprise. Your old man throws a mean right hook.” An amused smile crept over his lips.

  I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe he punched you. What an ass!”

  “Really, I’m fine.” His eyes changed, softening with concern. “How’s Brandon? Is he OK?”

  I looked at him in amazement.

  “Is he going to make it? Were you able to talk to him? I’m worried about you and the toll this is taking on you.”

  My eyes filled with tears at his tenderness—moments after
being mauled by my father, and all he could think about was me… and my worries for my ex-boyfriend.

  Carefully, he dried my face with the soft hem of his T-shirt. “What can I do to make it better?”

  In that moment, I’d never felt such an overwhelming rush of emotion for anyone in my life. Worry in his eyes, the selfless support, it swept me off my feet. Studying his beautiful face, I raised my lips to his, warmth flooding my body.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  Calvin’s whole body tensed, and he broke free of my embrace. “What did you say?” His voice was gravelly, eyes panicked.

  My heart began to beat nervously; this wasn’t the response I’d hoped for. “I said, I love you,” I whispered. Didn’t he feel the same?

  The tenderness in his eyes gave way to terror. Calvin reached out and grabbed my wrist. “I don’t want to ever hear those words again, do you understand me?”

  My eyes widened. “What? I—”

  “The only thing I asked of you, Sabrina, the one thing—no falling in love—and you throw it in my face. I don’t want to hear it; I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to think about it.”

  I searched his face for understanding, feeling a painful grip tighten around my heart. “But that was before—”

  His eyes flashed a menacing blue. “No, Sabrina,” he interrupted. “I wasn’t fucking around. Not then, not now, not ever.”

  “I didn’t think you were fucking around,” I said. “But so much has happened… I just said it, Calvin. I didn’t ask you for anything. I didn’t even expect you to say it back. I said it because I meant it. I love you.”

  He dropped my wrist as if he had been scalded. “No!” His eyes went wild with fury. “No!” He took a step away from me, distancing himself from my contagious virus.

  “Calvin,” I kept my voice calm and moved toward him. “I don’t care about your stupid rules. I love you. You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way. I know you do.” I can feel it.

  He backed out of my grasp. “No, Sabrina.” His voice was dangerously low. “No! Don’t say that to me! Just don’t.”

  He spun around and strode down the hall, long legs carrying him away from me. I watched him for a moment before sprinting after him, catching up to him as he burst through the wide double doors into the warm morning. “Calvin, wait!” I wasn’t going to let it end like this.

  His breathing was heavy, and he raked a hand through his hair frantically, as if to keep from putting his fist through a wall. When I reached out to grab his hand, he jerked away.

  “You just don’t get it,” he said. “I can’t; I just can’t! That word… that idea… it’s poison. Stay away from me, Sabrina!” He turned back around and began to jog toward his car, desperate to make a getaway.

  My mouth fell open as he climbed into his car, engine roaring to life. The Mercedes peeled out of the driveway and zipped out of the hospital parking lot. He left? He left me here?

  Stunned, I looked around the parking lot in a daze. What had just happened? I dropped to the curb, never having felt so alone in my life.

  Chapter 22

  He’ll call, a part of me thought, he has to. I refused even to consider that this was more than some crazy misunderstanding. When afternoon turned into night, and night turned into dawn, the hope began to fade, and the grayness set in.

  But there was Brandon to think of, to take care of. Not that I could do much. I talked to him constantly. I held his hand. I was never sorry we weren’t together anymore, but I stopped thinking about the cheating, the lies, and the last month. I thought about him as a man… as a boy. The boy I grew up with. We’d grown up together, after all. The mechanical beeps of the monitors became the backdrop to my hoarse voice, recalling this or that summer afternoon, sometimes singing songs I knew he loved, not caring if I knew all the words. At least, it felt as if I was doing something for him.

  At times, I ran out of words. I’d sit in silence, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles as I squeezed his hand, watching the rhythm of his heart on the screen. The tears came to the surface, and I swallowed them desperately. Somehow, I thought if I believed he’d make it, he would. And crying, breaking down, would be giving up. So, I didn’t cry, not in front of him. Instead, I grasped at something, anything to say… “Remember our first kiss, Brandon? My first kiss ever?” I laughed, and I knew it sounded raw, but I forged ahead.

  When I left for moments, to go to the restroom, to get a fresh bottle of water, the tears leaked out, running down my face, but I ignored them. I washed my face and went back in.

  Two days after Calvin left, Brandon opened his eyes. I gasped, at a loss for words. He didn’t look at me; he didn’t look at anything. I stood, took his hands in mine, and leaned in. “Brandon! Brandon? Nurse!” I yelled, afraid to look away. No one heard me. His eyes fluttered shut. I ran to the nurses’ station, nearly dragging the nurse back with me, frustrated at her seemingly slow pace. “He was awake,” I said, breathless. “Maybe there’s something you can do…”

  “Hmm,” she said noncommittally. Kindly, but it was dismissive, and it stung. She checked his vital signs. “Ma’am,” she said, “It was probably just an involuntary reaction. It happens. Sometimes, the medications…”

  I stopped listening. I didn’t want to hear that. I nodded along until she left.

  Once she was gone, I talked to him frantically. I forgave him repeatedly. I told him about Calvin. I talked about how we could be friends for the rest of our lives. How our children would know one another. How in the grand scheme of things, the only bit that mattered was that we cared about each other. I was afraid to sleep that night, biting my lip and pinching myself to stay awake, praying he’d open his eyes again. He didn’t.

  I wasn’t the only one there to see him. His parents came every day. At first, I was terrified they’d make me leave, but they didn’t say a word to me. I could read the accusation in their eyes, but I didn’t blame them. I was grateful they let me stay. I gave them their space, slipping out, sitting in another waiting room down the hall, watching the clock, creeping back every fifteen minutes to see if they were still there. When they left, I’d take up my post by his side again.

  I was starting to feel like a ghost myself, invisible to the nurses and the doctors, as they came and went, carrying out their routines. I caught bits and pieces of their conversation about his condition, but I didn’t listen too hard. They had nothing good to say. Infection. Brain death. Oxygen levels. Blood pressure. I let these words float by me as if they were a foreign language. I focused on him. Now, I was repeating the stories, the songs, and the forgiveness. It didn’t matter. He was still alive; that’s what mattered. Where there’s life, there’s hope, right?

  One day I realized he was almost unrecognizable. Ashen, thin. Skin sagging. It’s as if there’s no one in there anymore, I thought, and then felt like a traitor for thinking it. That was the day the doctor noted how shallow his breathing had become and sighed. They were going to put him on a respirator. I could tell by their attitudes that this was bad. They were giving up. I wanted to scream at them. I wanted to say his breathing was fine, but I could see for myself that it wasn’t. I kept my mouth shut, but I hated them anyway, as if they were killing him.

  I lost track of time, then, the rhythm of the machine hypnotizing me. I still talked, but I don’t know how long the silences between stretched. Minutes could feel like hours, but hours could feel like minutes too. Now and then, a nurse suggested I eat something; I suppose those were meal times. Shifts changed, the light behind the curtains swelled and faded, but none of it made much difference to me.

  I thought of Calvin—almost constantly. It was almost as if I had two brains. One here, striving for Brandon’s survival, in the grey-curtained gloom of the ICU, while the other replayed my relationship with Calvin, repeatedly. Examined him, remembered him—the curve of his lips, the texture of his skin, the heat of his passion, his vulnerability. When I grew sleepy in the uncomfortable hospital ch
air, I’d curl in on myself, close my eyes, and imagine Calvin holding me. I still didn’t feel as if it was over, although at this point, I had no idea how many days had passed without hearing from him.

  I imagined him back in New York and wondered what he was doing. I knew he had to be thinking of me. I remembered how he looked at me, how he touched me, and I knew he felt the same way I did, so it was unimaginable that he’d have forgotten me already. I had no doubts about that. So why did he leave? Sure, he’d told me he didn’t do the falling in love thing, but it was so obvious he had. There came a point where it was silly to pretend it wasn’t happening. I was sorry the words had upset him, but they were just words. The reality was inescapable. Not saying the words wouldn’t change it. Why couldn’t he see that?

  ***

  On Saturday night, six days after I arrived back in Dallas, a nurse threw me out. I’m sure now it was out of kindness, but at the time, I was furious. “You need rest,” she said. “Go back to your hotel; have a shower and a nap, OK?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “We need to do some things here,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d have to ask you to leave for a while, anyway. You might as well get some rest and a meal in the process.” I wonder whether it was true or whether she just realized I couldn’t leave unless I was forced.

  I hung my head in surrender but promised I’d be back right after a shower and dinner. “Will that be long enough?” I asked, hearing the pleading note in my voice.

  I headed back to the hotel like a sleepwalker. I ordered room service and then stripped to shower. It’d been two days since I’d even bothered to wash my face at this point, and I was surprised by how good the warm water felt, by how cleansing it was just to brush my teeth. I turned on the news, sat on the bed, and picked at the food, not really watching.