by Tillie Cole
As Cromwell made his way back to his seat, he caught my eyes, and in that brief clash of gazes, I saw everything he was feeling. I saw it, because seeing him made me feel it too.
He missed me. He was in pain.
My mama reached over and took my hand. I held hers tightly as the service came to a close. The cars took us to the grave, and I let tears track down my cheeks as Easton was lowered into the ground.
I could hardly remember the rest. I knew I was taken back to our house, where the wake was held. But I spent most of it in my room, reading Easton’s letter. I stared out at the darkening night and thought of Cromwell. He hadn’t come back to the house. I’d wanted him to. But when he didn’t come, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into despair. I needed the light Cromwell brought to my soul. I needed the color he brought to my world.
“Bonnie?” My mama stood in the doorway. She gave me a small smile. “You okay?”
I tried to smile back. But the tears betrayed me. I dropped my head into my hands and cried for it all—Easton, Cromwell . . . everything.
My mama hugged me. “Cromwell played?” I said. It was a question. A question of how.
“He asked us last week if he could.” Mama’s breathing hitched. “It was beautiful. If Easton had heard it—”
“He heard it,” I said. Mama smiled through her tears. “He was there today, watching us say goodbye.”
She stroked my hair. “We need to get you back to the hospital, kiddo.” My heart fell. But I knew it was true. I couldn’t be out long. I put on my jacket and let my mama push me to the car. But when she pulled out of the driveway, I had one place I needed to be. Something was calling me back. And I knew what.
My heart wanted to pay one last visit to its old home. “Mama?” I asked. “Could you go past the cemetery first?”
Mama smiled at me and nodded. She understood what it was like for me to be a twin. We were inseparable. Even death would never change it.
When we arrived at the cemetery, my mama pushed me to Easton. As we drew closer, I saw a figure sitting beside the tree that sheltered his grave. Rustling leaves, and birds singing in the branches.
Mustard yellow and bronze.
Cromwell lifted his head when he heard us approach. He jumped to his feet, his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes on hearing his voice. His deep, accented rasp instantly warmed my chilled body. I opened my eyes just as he passed me. I didn’t think it through. I didn’t have a plan. Instead, I let my heart guide me, and I slipped my hand in his.
Cromwell stopped dead. He took a deep breath then looked down at my hand in his. “Don’t go,” I whispered. His shoulders relaxed at my words.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Mama said. “I’ll be in the car. Let me know when you want to go to the hospital.”
“I can take her.”
Mama looked to me, a question in her eyes.
I cleared my throat. “He can take me.”
Cromwell exhaled a long breath. Mama kissed my head, then left us alone. Cromwell kept hold of my hand but stared straight ahead. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, his graveled voice traveling all the way through to my bones.
I inhaled, the cool air bursting in my chest. “I’ve missed you too.”
Cromwell looked down at me and tightened his grip. “You’re talking better.” I smiled and nodded. “I’ve missed your voice too.”
He kneeled before me, and I met his gaze to see the prettiest of blues staring back at me. His hand cupped my cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. He pointed at the tree. “Do you want to sit with me?” I nodded, and I held my breath when he scooped me into his arms. He sat down, placing me beside him. The birds sang above us, the branches cradling the spot where Easton lay.
I stared at the flowers that had been laid and the fresh soil that had been poured on top of his coffin. This was the perfect place for him to be.
It was beautiful, just like he had been.
“I’m going to put a bench right here,” I said. “So that I can always come and see him.” Cromwell turned to look at me, his eyes glistening. “The way you played for him today . . .” I shook my head. “It was perfect.”
“It was your song.”
I sighed and looked out over the horizon, at the moon starting to rise. “I haven’t been able to listen to music since he left. It makes me feel too much.” The lump bobbed in my throat. “I’ve lost the enjoyment it once brought me.”
Cromwell just listened. Exactly what I needed him to do. Then, “Lewis is my father.”
I whipped my head to him so quickly that I felt it in my neck. Shock forced its way through me. “What?”
Cromwell leaned his head back against the trunk of the tree. “You were right. Synesthesia’s genetic.”
“Cromwell . . . I . . .” I shook my head, unable to grasp the truth.
“He knew my mum in college.” He laughed without mirth. “More than knew. From what I can tell, they were together.”
My fragile heart struggled to comprehend what he was saying. Yet it beat fast, the strength of it making me breathless at what had just fallen from Cromwell’s mouth. “Cromwell . . . ” I murmured. “I don’t know what to say. What . . . what happened with them?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to ask him. He wants to tell me. I see it in his eyes every day. He told me he wanted to explain . . . but I can’t hear it yet.” He lowered his head, red bursting on his cheeks. When he looked up again, he said, “But he’s been helping me. We’ve been working together every day.”
I frowned, until it dawned on me. “You’re playing the gala?”
A flicker of a smile pulled at his mouth. “Yeah. And I think . . .” He looked into my eyes. “I think it’s good, baby. The symphony I’m composing . . .”
Baby. The endearment circled my head, only to float down and take up its rightful home in my new heart. As it settled I felt calm. Warm and safe beside the boy I loved.
“Easton wrote me a letter.” I closed my eyes, still feeling the sadness it brought me, but . . . “He’s at rest now.” I tried to smile. “He’s no longer taunted by the demons that took away his joy.” My eyes stayed on his grave. And I wondered if he saw us here now, needing to be with him. Missing him so much it hurt.
I turned to Cromwell. “What color do you see around his grave?”
Cromwell exhaled. “White,” he said. “I see white.”
“And what does that mean to you?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Peace,” he said, a relieved calm to his voice. “I see it as peace.”
The final tether that had kept me chained to the grief I couldn’t release floated away to the dark sky above us. I leaned against Cromwell, sighing in contentment when he put his arm around me and held me close.
We stayed that way until the night grew cold and I grew tired. “Come on, baby. Time to get you back.” Cromwell picked me up and led me to the car. He put me in his truck then went back for my chair. Sleep pulled me under, and I didn’t wake until I was back in my bed. I opened my eyes to Cromwell kissing my cheek. He met my gaze, a plea in his expression. “Come to the gala.”
My heart fell. “I don’t know, Cromwell. I don’t know if I can.”
“I have to go to Charleston. To work with the orchestra. But please come. I need you to see it. I need to know you’re there, in the audience . . . the girl who brought music back into my life.”
I went to answer, but before I could, Cromwell leaned down and kissed me. He stole my breath and my heart in that one sweet kiss. He walked to the door, then stopped in the doorway. “I love you, Bonnie. You’ve changed my life,” he said without looking back, then he walked away.
I was sure he took my heart with him as his footsteps faded away. And I knew that the only way to get it back was to go to Charleston in a few weeks to see him perform.
My boy, who once again had music in his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cromwell
Several weeks later . . .
I sat back in my seat, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. My chest was tight, but my heart beat like a heavy drum. Adrenaline rushed through me. A switch had flicked on within me the minute I came to Charleston several weeks ago. When I stepped into the rehearsal room and was faced with a fifty-piece orchestra. The orchestra who would be playing my music at the gala.
Music that I’d composed.
I shook my head and took a drink of my Jack. I hadn’t drunk in weeks. Stopped smoking that day outside the hospital when I’d thrown my packet of cigarettes into the rubbish bin.
But I needed a few shots of Jack right now.
I got up, taking my Jack with me, and walked out of the dressing room and through the corridor into the theater. The sound of the door closing echoed around the vast space. I stared up at the painted ceiling and down to the rows and rows of red velvet seats. I made my way up onto the stage and moved to the front. I stared out over the theater, and my blood spiked with heat.
I focused on a spot in the center of the theater. The chair I’d reserved for Bonnie. Doubt sat like a lead ball in my stomach. I had barely spoken to her in all these weeks. Christmas and New Year had passed. She’d called me on Christmas Day, sounding like the old Bonnie. Her voice was strong, and she told me her heart was beating hard.
But I could hear the thick lacing of sadness in her voice. She’d barely asked about the music. My music. “I miss you, Cromwell,” she’d whispered. “Life just isn’t the same without you here.”
“I miss you too, baby,” I’d said in response. I’d paused. “Please come to the gala. Please . . .”
She hadn’t said anything to that. Even now, the night before the show, I didn’t know if she was coming. But she had to. She had to hear this piece.
I’d written it for her. Because of her. Everything in my life was now all about her.
I didn’t want it any other way.
I jumped off the stage and sat on the chair on the front row. I stared up at the theater, at the background that had been constructed for my performance. I sighed and took a long drink of the Jack.
I closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of the theater. I remembered this smell. Lived for it. You belong on that stage, son. My father’s voice circled my head. You’ll have them captivated the same way you do me.
The lump that always came to the surface clogged my throat. Then I felt someone drop down beside me. I opened my eyes and saw Lewis. He’d been with me all these weeks. He’d never left my side. Working with me day and night on my symphony. He hadn’t talked to me again about what I’d discovered. Just worked with me, composer to composer, synesthete to synesthete.
He understood me more than I ever could have known. He’d felt every note I’d played. And he felt every emotion my music tried to convey. And better still, he’d supported me when I decided to be different. My piece tomorrow night would divide opinion. I knew it. But it had to be done. It was the story I needed to tell, in the only way I knew how.
“You nervous?” Lewis spoke quietly, yet his voice echoed off the walls of the theater like thunder.
I sighed. I didn’t answer him at first, but then said, “Not about the performance . . .”
“You want Bonnie to be here.”
I clenched my jaw. I wasn’t good with letting people in. With showing my emotions. But Lewis had seen me compose. He’d helped me all the way. He knew what my piece was about. There was no point in hiding it from him now.
“Yeah.” I shook my head. “Not sure she will be. Her mum is trying, but she’s still in a bad place.” My stomach dropped in sadness. “Deep down she loves music. But since Easton, it’s been lost, and she doesn’t know how to get it back.”
“She sees this,” Lewis said, pointing at the stage that tomorrow would be filled with a full orchestra, lights and . . . me, “she sees you on that stage, conducting a piece inspired by her, and she’ll see. Music will find its way to her again.” I turned to face him when he went quiet. “I’ve never seen or heard anything like what you’ve created, Cromwell.” Lewis’s voice was husky, and the sound of it made my stomach tense.
I’d been good these past several weeks. Managed to not think of the truth. Of who he was to me. The composing consumed me. My days and minutes were taken up by notes and strings and crescendos. But right here, right now, I couldn’t fight it even if I tried.
“You’re better than me.” Lewis laughed. “It’s not easy for a composer to admit that. But it’s true . . . and it makes me so goddamned proud.” His voice broke off, and I had to grit my teeth together to stop the lump in my throat from growing. My pulse beat faster.
“I was selfish,” he said, his voice raspy. I gripped my bottle of Jack so tightly I was sure it would smash under my hand. Lewis ran his hand through his hair. “I was young and had the whole world at my feet.” He inhaled deeply, like he needed the break. “Your mama was someone I didn’t expect.” I dropped my eyes to stare at the floor. “She walked into my life like a tornado and knocked me on my ass.” My hand shook, the amber liquid sloshing around in the bottle. “And I fell in love with her. Not just a little bit either. She became my whole world.”
Lewis stopped speaking. His eyes were shut, his face was pinched as if he was in pain. He kept his eyes closed as he said, “But I had my music . . . and I also had drink and drugs. Your mama didn’t know about that until later.” He patted his chest. “It was the emotions. They helped quell the emotions.”
I looked down at the Jack in my hand. I thought of how it was all I drank when I’d lost my dad. When it all became too much.
“My music was starting to get noticed, and the pressure built. And your mama stayed by my side, helping me by just being there and loving me.” I was frozen as he admitted that. I pictured my mum in my head. I tried to imagine her when she was young and carefree. She’d been so quiet and reserved my whole life. I struggled to understand her, but now I was starting to see it made sense. Lewis broke her heart. For the first time in years I felt like I knew her. Then I thought of Bonnie. Because Bonnie was that person for me. The one I let in. The one who helped me through the emotions when they became too much. The one who believed in me. The one who I’d tried to push away. But she stayed beside me. Right now, I felt sorry for Lewis, because he’d lost his Bonnie. My stomach fell as I thought of the distance between Bonnie and me now. The pain of it was unbearable.
“But the more the music consumed me, the more the alcohol and the drugs became the one real focus in my life.
“It went that way for months, until she found me with the drugs.” His face contorted, and his voice lost strength. “She begged me to stop, but I didn’t. I believed at the time I couldn’t, because of the music. But I was selfish. And it has been the biggest regret of my life.” He finally met my eyes. “Until I found out about you.”
“You left her pregnant?” I asked, the black, simmering anger I was feeling showing in my voice.
“I didn’t know she was pregnant at first,” he said. “I was an addict, Cromwell. And your mama did what was best for you both at the time. And that was not having me in your life.” Lewis ran his hand down his face. He looked exhausted. “I found out she was carrying you when she was six months along.”
“And?”
He met me square-on, let me see the shame in his eyes. “Nothing. I did nothing, Cromwell.” He blew out a shaky breath. “It was the biggest mistake of my life.” He leaned forward, and his gaze became lost on the stage. “My life was the music. It was all I had. Made myself believe it was all I had. Later, I heard your mama had met someone, a British Army officer, when she was pregnant. He’d been stationed over here in the States.”
I tensed. This was the bit that involved my dad.
“I found out she had moved to England to be with him. That they’d married . . . and that you’d been born. A boy.” He looked at me. “A son.” His voice cracked, and I saw the tears brimming in his eyes.
“It killed me at the time, but like I did with everything else, I drowned the feeling in liquor and drugs.” He sat back in his seat. “I toured the world, playing packed-out theaters and creating some of the best music of my life.” He sighed. “I blocked it all out. Hardly ever went home.”
He clasped his hands together. “Until one day I did, to see a pile of letters. Letters from England.” My stomach flipped. “They were from your dad, Cromwell.” I fought back the tears that were threatening to fall. I pictured my dad, and all I could see was royal blue. I saw his smile and felt how it was to be around him. How he’d always made everything so much better. How he’d always prided himself on doing the right thing. He was the best of men.
“They were letters from him, telling me all about you.” A tear fell down his cheek. “And there were pictures. Pictures of you . . .” The lump in my throat grew thicker and my vision blurred. Lewis shook his head. “I stared at those pictures for so long that my eyes were strained. You, Cromwell. My little boy, with my coloring, my black hair.”
My heart slammed against my chest. “I fought for years to get sober after that. It was a battle I didn’t get a hold of until you were a lot older.” He went quiet. “I lived for those letters. I lived for those pictures. They became the only real thing in my life . . . and then, one day, a new letter came. One that had a video inside.” Lewis shook his head. “I’ve lost count of how many times I watched that video.”
“What was on it?” I asked, voice graveled.
“You.” Lewis wiped a fallen tear from his cheek. “You playing the piano. Your father’s letter told me that you’d never had lessons. But that you could just play.” His eyes became lost to his memories. “I watched you play, your hands so skillful . . . and the smile on your face and the light in your eyes, and I felt like I’d been hit by a ten-ton truck. Because, there, on that screen, was my son . . . a music-lover just like me.”
I turned my head away. I didn’t know if I could hear this. “Your father told me of the synesthesia. He knew of my tour to Britain, to the Albert Hall, and asked me something I never thought would happen. He asked me to meet you. To help you . . . he thought I should know you. Because of how special you were.” My head fell forward. My dad had been special too. He’d loved me so much. I wished I’d told him how much I’d loved him when he’d been here.
