by Tillie Cole
But when he was back here, he was thrashing canvases with black paint or out getting hammered.
“I need you to help me load up my truck.” Easton cracked his eye open. I rubbed the back of my head, my chest pulled tight. At every moment, I felt I was only ever one step from falling the hell apart. “I’m taking the instruments to her.”
Easton’s face fell, and I heard him inhale deeply. He knew what it meant. Bonnie was no longer able to come to college. She was no longer able to do much of anything.
“Please, East.” I knew he would have heard the telltale rasp in my voice. Easton got dressed and followed me to the music building. Lewis had given me permission to work with Bonnie at home. We’d gotten far. But now Bonnie could only lie in her bed and listen. If she tried to pick up a violin her arms would fail. If she tried to play the keys of a piano, her fingers would become too numb for her to move. And, the worst part, if she tried to play the guitar she loved so much, her hands couldn’t find the strength to strum.
And her voice. The violet blue. Her passion. Her words . . . they would fade to a whisper, her short breath making it impossible for her to sing. That was the worst of all. Each day she sang. I would lie with her on her bed, and she would sing. And every day the violet blue grew weaker and weaker, fading until it was a diluted sort of lilac. Until there was no pigment left at all.
When the truck was loaded, we made our way to Bonnie’s home. Easton didn’t talk any more. He hardly smiled. I glanced over at him. He was staring out of the window. I had nothing to say to him. What the hell did I say? We all waited, every day, for the call. The call that a heart had been found.
Palliative, Bonnie’s mum had explained to me recently. Bonnie was now officially in palliative care. A nurse would come around every day. And I could see the humiliation in Bonnie’s eyes as she was cared for. The longing to lift off the bed and walk. To sing and to play.
Just to be well.
We pulled to a stop outside the Farradays’ house. Easton didn’t move his eyes from the window. “You okay?” I asked.
Easton turned to me, a vacant look in his eyes. “Let’s get the instruments in to my sister.” He stepped out and began unloading. I followed, carrying a violin, a flute, and a clarinet. As soon as I entered the house, the smell of antiseptic hit me. The entire house now smelled like a hospital.
When I entered Bonnie’s room, it didn’t matter to me that she was lying on the bed, a plastic tube flowing oxygen into her body through her nose, she was still the most perfect thing I’d ever seen. Mrs. Farraday was sitting beside her. Easton put down the drum he was carrying and moved to the bed to kiss Bonnie’s forehead.
Bonnie smiled, and the sight of it split my heart wide open. A drip hung from her arm, fluids to help keep her strong now that she couldn’t eat or drink very well. She’d lost weight. She’d always been slim, but now she was fading before my eyes.
I suddenly couldn’t breathe, tears pricking at my eyes. I turned and went back to the truck to get more instruments. The minute the cool air hit me, I stopped and just breathed it in. Easton came beside me and stopped too. Neither of us said anything. But when he exhaled, his breath shaking, he may as well screamed it from the rooftops.
Bonnie was dying, and there was fuck all we could do.
When I could move again, I took the cello and sax to the bedroom. This time Bonnie was waiting for me, her eyes fixed on the door. As I caught her eyes, a smile so bloody big it lit up the sky pulled on her sallow cheeks.
“Crom . . .well . . .” she stuttered, her voice barely there. I had only left a few hours ago, but when your time was limited, every minute apart was an eternity.
“Farraday,” I said and moved beside her. Her mum was gone, and I’d seen her nurse, Clara, in the kitchen as I’d passed. I brushed back Bonnie’s hair. When her eyes looked around the room, they filled with tears. Her purple lips parted and a wheezy exhale slipped from her mouth. “You . . . brought . . . me . . ” She sucked in a quick breath. Her eyes closed as she fought to simply breathe. “Music,” she said, her chest rising and falling at double speed as she managed to push out the final word.
“We’re getting it done.” I leaned over to kiss her lips. “I made you a promise.”
Easton appeared on the other side of her bed. He sat down and took her hand in his. I could see the torment in his eyes. And I saw the dark shadow that hung around him like a cloak. The navy blue and graphite evidence of how seeing his sister in this bed was his version of hell.
“I’ll leave you to the music.” He looked up at me. “Cromwell’s got you now, okay?” He kissed her hand. “I’ll see you, Bonn.” Easton’s voice cut off. The lump in my throat was getting bigger and bigger each day, shutting off my ability to swallow. And right now, seeing Bonnie shed a tear, watching as it rolled down her pale cheek, made it swell so big I couldn’t breathe.
Bonnie tried to hold onto him tightly. But I could see she was struggling to move her fingers. Easton stood and kissed her forehead. He looked at me. “Cromwell.”
“See you, East,” I said, and he left the room.
A sob came from Bonnie, and I was on the bed in two seconds flat, lifting her into my arms. I felt the tears on my neck. She weighed nothing in my arms. “Don’t want . . .” she whispered. I held still while she finished the rest. “To make him sad.”
My eyes squeezed shut and my jaw clenched. I held her tighter. The piano I played at most days stared at me. I moved my mouth to her ear. “I wrote something for you.”
I laid Bonnie back on her bed, wiping her tears away with my thumb. “You have?” she said.
I nodded then kissed her quickly. All our kisses were quick now. But I didn’t care. They were no less special. I ran my hand over her hair. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met.” Bonnie blinked, her eyes closing a fraction too long as my words sank in. Her skin was clammy, so I pushed back the long brown hair that framed her face. “You’re going to win, Bonnie. I’m never giving up hope. I wanted to create something to remind you of it, the fight you told me you’d put up. I wrote something for you to play when you lose hope.”
Excitement flared in her eyes. It always did when I played. She reminded me of my dad in those moments. Another person I loved who believed in me so much. Whose greatest joy in life was listening to me play. The loss I felt in these moments were extreme. Because if my dad had met Bonnie . . . he would have loved her.
And she would have loved him.
“You ready?” I said hoarsely, those thoughts stealing away my voice.
Bonnie nodded. She didn’t release my hand until I got off the bed to walk across the room. I sat down at the piano and closed my eyes.
My hands started to play the colors that I had committed to memory. The pattern that poured from my soul and whose music filled up the room. A small smile pulled on my lips as I let the images that had inspired this piece spring to mind. Of Bonnie walking ahead of me, holding my hand. Of her smile and pink lips. Her pale skin flushed with color under the weight of the heavy South Carolinian sun. And her, sitting down in the grass with me, overlooking the lake. Canoeists and rowers moving slowly along the water, no urgency or rush. The breeze would flow through her hair and I’d notice the freckles the sun had brought out on her nose and cheeks.
She’d move above me to kiss me. I’d hold her waist, feeling the fabric of her summer dress. And she’d breathe easily as I took her mouth. Her body would be strong. And when I laid my palm over her heart, it would beat a steady, normal rhythm.
Her lungs would breathe in the fresh air.
And she would laugh and run just like everyone else.
Then we’d sit together, in the music room. Her, next to me on the piano. I’d play, and her voice would fill the room with the most vivid violet blue I’d ever seen.
I’d hold her in bed at night, and she’d fall asleep with her head on my arm . . . happy.
My fingers lifted off the piano. I took three deep breaths before I turned aroun
d. Bonnie was watching me, a floored look on her face. “Perfect,” she whispered, shattering my heart. I sat down on the edge of the bed. I took her phone off her bedside table and loaded the piece onto it. “When you’re lonely, when you’re feeling down. When you’re losing hope. You play this, and get back that strength you’ve shown me since I first met you in Brighton.”
Bonnie nodded her head. Her finger clumsily pressed play. The piece I’d just played drifted between us. Bonnie closed her eyes and smiled. “It’s like . . .” She worked on her breathing. “Being on the lake.”
“You like to be on the lake?”
Her eyes opened. And she smiled, ruining me. “Yes . . . especially in summer.” I nodded my head. “In a . . . boat.”
I held her hand. “When you’re better, we’ll do it.”
She smiled wider. “Yes.”
Bonnie’s eyes closed, and with my music still playing beside her, on repeat, she fell asleep. I stayed beside her until night fell. When Bonnie still didn’t wake, I kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back soon.” I got off the bed and walked to the door.
Bonnie’s mum stood by the doorway. She smiled at me. “That was beautiful, Cromwell. The music you played for her.”
I ran my hand around the back of my head. “Thank you.” I didn’t want to ask. I couldn’t take it if it was bad, but I asked anyway. “How long have we got?”
Mrs. Farraday stared at her daughter on her bed, listening to the music I’d composed for her. “I was just speaking to Clara. She thinks it’ll only be a few more weeks, maybe a month, before she’ll have to be in the hospital.” Mrs. Farraday’s eyes watered. “After that . . .” She didn’t finish that sentence. I didn’t need her to. Because after that, the time we had was only as long as Bonnie’s heart could hold out.
“She’ll get one,” I said, and Mrs. Farraday nodded.
“She’ll get one.”
I drove toward home, but I found myself driving in the direction of the clearing Easton had taken me to. I came here most days. Sometimes Easton came too. I pulled my truck to a stop and sat on the grass overlooking the lake. The same canoeist I saw every time was here. The one I believed didn’t sleep at night either. Needed physical exercise to exorcised his demons. And at the dock to the right sat a small boat. It’s like being on the lake . . .
I stared at the moon and its reflection on the water. And I found myself doing something I’d never done before. I prayed. I prayed to a God I’d never spoken to before. But one I was sure had brought Bonnie into my life for a reason. And I had to believe that it wasn’t to help me through this, through my rejection of music, only to lose her at the end, knowing she owned my heart as much as the failure owned hers. Completely and irreversibly.
I sat watching the canoeist in the distance until he rowed out of sight into the dark distance beyond. I got to my feet and drove back to the dorms. The place was quiet as I walked to our door. The room was dark inside. I flicked on the light and stopped dead as the smell of paint smacked me in the face.
Black and gray paint had been smeared on all the walls. Easton’s posters had been ripped down, the remnants lying on the bed. I stepped further into the room. What the hell had happened?
And then I saw a pair of feet around the side of the wardrobe. I stepped closer, a deep thud starting to slam into my chest.
Then I saw blood.
I moved quickly around the corner. The wind was knocked from my chest and the blood drained from my face as I saw Easton sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall, blood seeping from slashes in his wrists.
“Shit!” I dropped to the floor and covered his wrists with my hand. Warm blood coated my palms. I looked about the room, not knowing what to do. I ran to my bed and pulled off the sheet. I ripped it into strips and tied them around Easton’s cuts.
I fumbled for my phone and called 911. “Ambulance,” I said, my words rushed and panicked. “My friend has slit his wrists.”
“Is he breathing?” I saw he wasn’t unconscious yet. His chest was moving up and down. His eyes rolled around.
I moved my hand to his neck. “He has a weak pulse.” I gave them the address and dropped my phone. I held Easton in my arms, wrists held up in my hands. “Easton, what the fuck?” I whispered in his ear. My voice was hoarse with devastation. He lost consciousness just as I heard the ambulance sirens outside.
The paramedics burst into the room and took him from me. I stood and watched, feeling like I was seeing the scene from outside of my body as they got him on a gurney and rushed him from the room. I didn’t think; I just ran with them. I rode in the back of the ambulance as they worked on him. And when they burst into the emergency room and through a set of doors I wasn’t allowed to go through, I stood in the waiting room, with dozens of eyes set on me.
My hands shook. I looked down; I had blood all over my hands and shirt. I walked out of the doors and into the night air. My hands were still shaking as I took my phone from my pocket, shaking even harder when I brought up Mrs. Farraday’s name and pressed call.
“Cromwell?” Her surprised, tired voice greeted me. She must have been in bed. It was late.
“It’s Easton,” I said, my voice raw. Mrs. Farraday went silent on the other end. “He’s in hospital.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t know if he’s going to be okay. There was so much blood . . .” I didn’t know what the hell else to say. He’d gone white in the ambulance. He wouldn’t wake up.
“We’re on our way,” Mrs. Farraday’s voice hushed out, panicked fear lacing her every word. Then my phone went silent.
I wandered back into the waiting room. I didn’t remember anything else until Mrs. Farraday came rushing through the door. She darted to the desk, then her eyes fell on me. I got to my feet. Right now I was numb. But I knew what would come next. The emotions would come and smother me, making it impossible for me to breathe.
Mrs. Farraday grabbed my arms. Her eyes were huge and rimmed with red. “Cromwell, where is he?”
I swallowed and looked toward the closed doors. “They took him through there.” I followed her gaze as it fell to the blood on my hands.
“He slit his wrists,” I said, my voice coming out whether I wanted it to or not. “I found him in our room. He sliced them open with a knife.”
A choked sound came from behind Mrs. Farraday. When I lifted my head, Mr. Farraday was there . . . and in a wheelchair in front of him, oxygen mask on her face and IV in her arm, was Bonnie. My heart pounded in my chest, the numbness falling away as I laid eyes on her face. Tears dropped in freefall down her cheeks, and her brown eyes were wide, looking almost too big for her face. Her frail hands shook as they lay in her lap.
“Bonnie.” I stepped closer to her. With every step, more tears fell from Bonnie’s eyes. I stopped and looked down at myself. At the blood. Her twin’s blood. “Bonnie,” I whispered. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Are the parents of Easton Farraday here?” a voice asked from behind us.
The Farradays rushed to the doctor. He led them through the doors I wasn’t able to go through. I watched the door close, keeping me out. And then I heard them. The sounds of doors closing, bringing orange to my mind. The sounds of pencils being scratched on paper. The dings of the speakers. The sniffles of crying friends and family members in the waiting room.
I started pacing, trying to push them from my mind. And the numbness that had begun to fall away when I saw Bonnie shed to the floor in strips of scarlet red. I sat down, hands on my head, as the rush of emotions I knew I’d feel came barreling at me like a freight train.
The sight of Easton on the floor, covered in blood, smashed into my head. I could smell his blood, the tinny scent of metal bursting on my tongue. Pain split into shards in my chest, the spiked fragments blistering my skin. Easton’s eyes. The blood pooled on the floor. The black paint. Easton’s eyes. Mrs. Farraday’s voice . . . then . . .
“Bonnie,” I whispered, the memory of her face as she looked at me, as she cowe
red away from me, was a hammer to my ribs.
I fidgeted on the seat, not knowing where to go or what to do. I didn’t know how much time had passed when someone sat beside me. I glanced over, raking my hands through my hair. Mr. Farraday was sitting next to me.
I froze, waiting for what he would say. Then his hand came down on my shoulder. “You saved my son’s life.” Relief like nothing I’d ever felt surged through me. But it only heightened the already elevated emotions. I needed to leave. I needed . . . needed . . . I needed music. I needed to get these emotions out of me in the only way I knew how. “You saved him, son,” Mr. Farraday repeated.
I choked on the lump in my throat. I nodded and looked at Mr. Farraday. He looked destroyed. He had two kids. One was dying of heart failure. The other had just tried to take his own life.
I couldn’t take being here. My heart felt like it was trying to rip from behind my ribs. My skin felt itchy. I needed to leave, but . . .
“Bonnie will be a while yet.” Behind the pain, there was a look of understanding in Mr. Farraday’s eyes.
“I can’t leave her,” I said softly. Because even though I felt like I was coming out of my skin, I wanted to see her. To be sure she didn’t blame me somehow. I wanted to hold her hand. It was always cold now. It only ever warmed when I held it.
“Go and get changed. Freshen up. She’ll see you soon enough.”
I wanted to burst through the doors that led me to her. I wanted to screw what anyone said and run to Bonnie. Make sure she was okay after her twin tried to kill himself, as all the while she was fighting to stay alive. How the hell did she wrap her head around that?
“Please, Cromwell,” Mr. Farraday said. I glanced at him. He was broken. My father’s face flashed through my mind. Of how he looked the last night I ever saw him. When I lashed him with my words and ripped apart his soul.
I jumped from the chair and ran out of the door. I drove to the nearest liquor store and bought my old friend, Jack Daniels. I hadn’t drunk it in weeks.
