Page 39 of A Wistful Symphony

It’s you. Standing in our garden, fidgeting with a creased piece of your T-shirt and rocking back and forth. Your nervousness is adorable. When you notice me, you stop what you were doing at once. A sheepish smile widens your bow-shaped lips.

All the demons from the past weeks tiptoe out the door. Gosh, how I’ve missed you. So much so, I don’t mind being at my doorstep in pyjamas and slippers, with dark circles as big as a raccoon’s and my hair scattered every which way.

You edge closer. “Hey, Eric.”

“Andrew. Hi.” Not an eloquent response, but it’s the only one I manage to find.

“You weren’t answering your phone, so I texted Delia, asking if I should come over. She said you were fine with it.” You squint at my confused face. “She … never talked to you.”

“No, she didn’t.” I grin, half outraged, half amused, trying to put my messy hair in order.

“No worries.” You stuff your hands in your pockets, bouncing a step back. “I’ll see myself out.”

“No,” I cut in hastily, raising a hand. Sudden silence settles between us, and I sigh. “Look, Andrew, last time … you didn’t deserve that. There was a lot going on, and I lashed out at you. I was bloody awful. I’m really sorry about that.”

You smile sadly and shake your head. “I’m the one who should ask your forgiveness. I was a freaking coward for not being there when you needed. Seeing you hurt like that …. I couldn’t handle it. It’s not an excuse,” you add in a rush. “It’s just the truth.”

“It’s alright,” I say, low enough to be a whisper. “We should leave it in the past.”

The corners of your lips widen, and your countenance loses the sombre note. “I’m glad the hearing aids worked out for you. It’s nice to see you’re doing fine.”

“Fine might be a bit of a stretch. But I’m getting there.”

Your shoulders tremble in a silent chuckle. “That’s my Eric.”

“ Your Eric?” I smirk and raise an eyebrow, pleased to see your cheeks turn crimson.

You find something utterly interesting to look at on your trainers.“So, hm, I was just checking in on you. I’ll let you rest now.”

“Don’t you want to come in?” I say before you have the chance to flee. “I was having a late breakfast, if you don’t mind hanging with me in the kitchen.”

You grin. “Okay, then.”

We pass through the sitting room, where Nan Olympia stops us to ask, “Who is this dashing young man?” I die inside watching your awkward smile as my grandmother swamps you with questions. It’s only when she offers you a glass of red in the middle of the morning that I feel the urge to interfere.

“Alright, Nan, that’s enough.” I pull you by the sleeve.

“Oh, you lads are so uptight these days. Back in my day we—”

“What? I can’t hear you, Nan,” I add loudly, pushing you through the corridor.

“Is it hard to understand from a certain distance?” you ask when we’re far enough.

“Hm? No, I was just trying to get you out of there. This shit is useful for something, at least.”

“Oh.” Your eyes widen. “Nice. At least you’re hearing better.”

“Yeah, my left ear is healing well.” I smile. It’s surprising how the nonchalant tone of our conversation makes me at ease with such a hard topic. “The buzzing still drives me crazy, but it’s definitely better.”

Your tone becomes grim. “Nothing on the other side yet?”

I shake my head. You wince, but don’t press the matter any further, which I’m most thankful for.

We reach the kitchen only to find Delia and Zoe spying on us and whispering. Your posture shrinks beneath their curious stares.

“Hi, Andrew.” Delia waves. “Good thing you came. Thought you weren’t going to make it.” Her trickster smile clearly states she’s enjoying every second of this.

“Hey, Delia.” You wave back, staying behind as I join them at the kitchen table. “I thought so myself.”

“Guess we’re not properly introduced yet. I’m Zoe. Heard a lot about you.” Zoe shoves a dishevelled lock of short hair out of her face and holds out her hand. When you hesitate, she adds. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re like weirdo here.”

“It’s a genuine medical condition,” I grumble.

“No, I don’t have OCD.” Your lips move as if to add something else, but you merely shake your head as you take her hand. “Nice to meet you, Zoe.”

“Sit, Andrew, there’s room at the table.” Delia gets up and takes one seat farther, making room for you by my side.

“Thanks. Sorry to intrude on your breakfast.”

“Told you it’s no trouble at all.” I smile as your eyes meet mine for a split second.

My mother enters the kitchen. “Zoe, are you done—oh, honey, you’re up. Want me to fix you anything? Eggs? Toast? The French toast you like?”

“Eggs and toast are fine.” Though French toast is my go-to breakfast, I don’t want to be a bother. “Mum, Andrew is here.”

“Oh, hello Andrew. Eggs and toast for you, too?” She ties her apron and takes the egg carton from the fridge.

“Hello, Ms Lowell.” You hide your hands under the table, shoulders hunched rather timidly. “Thank you, but I already ate.”

“I’d like eggs and toast, Aunt Trish,” Zoe says.

“Sure, darling. And please, Andrew, call me Patricia. Ms Lowell makes me feel so old.” She lets out a sweet giggle. “Anything else I can get you? Tea? Coffee?”

“He doesn’t like coffee and most teas,” I answer.

You nod apologetically. “That’s right. I’m sorry.”

“Really? And Eric still dates you? You must be a very special young man.”

“Mum!” My face burns hot and everyone laughs. Even you hide giggles behind your fingers as if ashamed that someone might see you happy. You shouldn’t. You have such a beautiful smile.

“I don’t know.” You shrug, traces of laughter still colouring your voice. “Maybe he made an exception for me. It’s not like he has friends to spare.”

My eyebrow shoots up, and I almost don’t believe my one good ear. A playful grin takes over your lips.

“Ooh, burn,” Zoe sneers as Delia gasps through hearty chuckles.

A sudden clang of metal on hardwood abruptly cuts their laughter. We all whip around as Mum hastens to clean the scrambled eggs scattered all over the floor. I rush to her, grabbing a dishcloth to put the hot pan away in the sink.

“Shoot, stupid hand,” she mutters, flexing her stiff fingers. It still pains me to look at her scarred skin. “I’m sorry, honey. I’ll make you another.”

“No need, Mum. I’ll just have my toast with jam.”

She promptly takes a slice from the toaster, covers it with blackberry jam and refills my coffee mug. I could’ve done it myself, but I know my mother needs to make herself useful whenever this happens.

The joyful air fades. Delia gets up to help Mum, and back at the table, Zoe and I concentrate on our toast. The only sound in the kitchen is the clanging made by my mother and Delia doing the dishes.

You’re quiet by my side, looking rather curiously at the room: the dark wooden cabinets, chipped and stained in multiple places; the faded flower print curtains of the most doubtful taste; the rectangular table where we sit, big enough to accommodate our large family.

Is it so different from what you’re used to, growing up with your mum and the reverend in that big house?

Or the barren solitude in your current flat?

I try not to dwell on these thoughts as I take one last sip from my coffee and enjoy your serene presence.

Someone opens the front door and Aunt Petra’s resounding voice breaks the grim silence. “Great news everyone!” Her high heels clatter through the corridor until she shows up at the kitchen door. “I sold the house.”

“The fancy one on Birch Street?” My mother puts away the dishes and dries her hands.

“The very one.” Aunt Petra looks rather victorious in her grey suit and pearl earrings, one hand planted on her waist.

“Pea, that’s great!” Mum fondly hugs her sister.

“Does it mean I can have a new phone?” Zoe asks.

“We’ll see about that. Now move away from the stove, Trish. I’m cooking my famous roast. We need to celebrate.”

“Yes! Aunt Petra’s roast is everything. No offense, Mum,” Delia says. “Will you stay for lunch, Andrew?”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Aunt Petra rebukes with a wave of her manicured hand. “We always have room for one more, and my roast is absolutely delicious. You must try it.”

“Okay then, I guess I’ll stay,” you surrender in a low, intimidated voice.

With the matter settled, the buzzing of chatter fills the kitchen once again. You’re quiet and dead-eyed in your seat, aloof to everything around you. You do that frequently when you’re overwhelmed. Maybe my loud and pressing family is too much for you to bear.

“Mum? Andrew and I will go to my room, okay?”

“Sure, honey. I’ll let you know when lunch is ready.”

I nudge you with an elbow and indicate the door with my head. You wake from your trance and follow me to the corridor.

We walk up the stairs, the old wood creaking under our feet as you peer at the picture frames on the wall.

A young Nan Olympia with dashing long hair, Mum and Aunt Petra in their teens sitting at the cottage’s garden, Mum playing her cello, a baby picture of me and Delia surrounded by stuffed toys, me playing my first concerto at the teen orchestra, Zoe running at the park covered in mud, all of us singing Delia happy birthday just a few months ago. You can’t look away from them.

When you finally break the silence, your voice is hazy and distant. “They’re nice, your family. You’re lucky.”

I gaze down, trying not to ponder how you must feel. “Yeah, I am.”

My room is the last one in the corridor, and I welcome you in without much of a fuss.

In a couple of weeks, what used to be spotless has turned into a hot mess.

There are books tossed all over the floor and so many sheets of paper scattered over my desk that I can barely see the dark wooden surface.

The only organised thing is my bed, made without a wrinkle, marred only by a stack of ironed clothes.

I put them away and show you to a chair.

You sit down with a gloomy expression, gaze lost in your shoelaces.

“You pretty much disappeared. I was worried sick,” you say.

“Sorry for the trouble. It had nothing to do with you, really; it’s just—” I heave a sigh. “I needed to get my shit back together. To let it sink in that this is how my life is going to be from now on.”

“I get it. Hope the time has cleared your head.” You force a grin that only reaches one corner of your lips. “What have you been doing cooped up in here?”

“Besides feeling sorry for myself?” I titter and look down, wondering if I should share my latest accomplishment. “I, uh ….” I scratch the corner of my nail and inhale deeply. “I wrote a song.”

“Really?” You beam. “Can you show me?”

I nod before leaping to the digital piano.

My fingers hover over the keys, unsure of their place, and my heart hammers so hard I’m afraid you’ll see my shirt pulsing.

With closed eyes, I exhale and hit the first chord.

I’ve played it so many times, the melody comes to me by heart.

From this point on, everything feels natural.

My hands move as if detached from my body, and I wallow in the sound, as muffled and metallic as it is.

I only remember you’re here after I hit the last note and turn to your mesmerised face.

“It’s raw,” I say, before you can react, “and the bridge definitely needs work, but what do you think?”

I clench my jaw, breath trapped inside my chest. You’re not the type of person to lie or coddle me with kind, empty words. Honest to the last strand of hair. But how will I cope if you tell me my song isn’t good? That I should be doing other things with my life? I don’t think I could bear it.

“Eric ….” You gently shake your head, smiling widely. “It’s beautiful. And to think you did that recovering from your injury. That’s incredible.”

I stare at you in utter disbelief.

“I’m so relieved,” I breathe, the words desperate to come out. “All this week, I’ve been scared to death that I couldn’t do this anymore. That I would never play or compose like I used to.”

You let out a sweet chuckle. “You’d find a way to keep playing even if you’d gone completely deaf. Nothing can ever take your music away from you.”

I wasn’t ready for that, Andrew. Blame it on my fragile emotional state, or the week-long lack of proper conversation, or perhaps the fact that it’s you saying these things to me. I smile back, lips trembling, and lower my eyes to the piano so you won’t see them glisten.

“Thank you,” I whisper at last.

“You’re welcome.” You pause for a long time before continuing. “Eric, if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here for you, okay? I promise I won’t let you down again.”

“I appreciate it.” A strained grin etches its way to my lips. “Actually, now that you mention it, something does come to mind.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ll soon go back to school, and I’m kind of scared of how I’ll adjust in a room full of people talking all the time. Could you come with me?”

To be fair, I’m not that concerned about class.

It’s Benson and the other two who make my heart race every time I think about school.

They were only suspended for a week after the assault and are waiting for the hearing as if nothing’s happened.

I need your emotional support for this, but I don’t want you to feel guiltier than you already do.

You have enough on your plate. And if we get to spend more time together while I help you get your future back, then what’s the harm?

Your lips purse, and you avert your gaze. “I don’t know. It’s been months since I dropped out. I’m not even sure I’d be allowed in again.”

“Mum is part of the parenting board. She could put in a word with the headteacher. Who knows, if you go back now, you might even graduate and take the A-levels.” I throw in a hopeful shrug.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Seems like you gave serious thought to this.”

“It’s me we’re talking about. I always give serious thought to everything.”

“Truth.” You laugh aloud. “Okay, I’ll go back. Just for you.”

“I’ll take it,” I answer, merrily pulling you into a kiss.

“So, what do you want to do now?” You caress my chest with a devilish smirk.

“What do you say we work together on my piece and fix those parts that are bugging me?”

You raise an eyebrow, probably amused by my obliviousness. “That works too.”

We revise the intro until my mother calls us for lunch.

The roast is a succulent delight and judging by the hums you make while you chew, I suspect you think the same.

My family swamps you with questions that make your cheeks colour more than once, and even if you retreat at times, you seem to be enjoying yourself.

After that, we come back to my room, work out the arrangements for the bridge all afternoon, and kiss a lot more until it’s time for you to go home.

I haven’t felt this hopeful in weeks.