Page 48 of A Wistful Symphony

She crosses her arms and flashes a smirk at me. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with him for someone on such a tight deadline.”

“I know.” I close the fallboard on the piano. The subject has been scratching my mind for days, and Zoe is as good a person as anyone to talk about it. “But I’m worried about him. I don’t want to leave him alone for long.”

Zoe sits on the nearest armchair, as if she senses this is an important conversation. “Doesn’t he have friends who could do that?”

“Only one, and he has work and siblings to take care of. Astro can’t be there all the time.”

“Neither can you.” She raises her eyebrows. “Andrew is a big boy. He’ll have to learn to take care of himself.”

“It’s not that simple, Zoe.”

I sigh and comb heavy fingers through my hair.

Mad as I am about the gaslighting you tried to pull last time, I know where this comes from.

The denial, the lies. Trying with all your might to conceal how lost you are right now, how desperate and hopeless.

Drowning yourself in solitude, drowning yourself in drugs, drowning … .

I wince and shut my eyes. Your body sinking into the river haunts my every thought.

“Eric, did something happen?” Zoe says softly. She rarely sounds this worried.

“Sort of, yes.” I twist my lips. “Remember the pills he takes? He’s been doing that a lot. He’s shutting me out, lying, being edgy, and last time he—” I take a deep breath. “He jumped in the river, clothes on and everything, and took a long time to come out. I was scared to death.”

Zoe leans back in the armchair and takes some time to answer.

“You have to break up with this guy,” she says all of a sudden. “I feel sorry for his situation, sure, but if drugs are involved, he’s bad news. I thought you, of all people, would know that.”

Rage bubbles in my stomach. “Right now, when he’s depressed as fuck? Might as well push him off a cliff.”

“He’s not your responsibility, you know?” Zoe raises her voice. “What Andrew needs is a therapist and a rehab programme. Not a teenager bending backwards. You’re in way over your head.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” I spit out. “But I’m all he’s got, and I won’t bail on him at his worst. Now beat it. I still have an hour of practice before I go to his flat.”

Zoe heaves a long sigh and pulls herself up from the armchair. “Suit yourself, Mother Theresa.”

The night at your place was grim, like most of them. You apologised for the afternoon at the pier. We had sex—which we often do when you don’t feel like having a conversation—and we slept. I mean, you did, lulled by the pills I hate so much. My eyes were wide awake the entire time.

It’s five in the morning and you doze by my side, chest moving sluggishly enough for me to fear you’ll stop breathing.

Your arm is tossed over the pillow, covered by a long-sleeved shirt.

You wear them at all times now, but once in a while I get a glimpse of skin when you’re not looking.

The cuts are there, topped with deep wine-coloured scabs.

My gut clenches, realising there are more than I remember.

When the first sunlight bathes your room, I flee to the bathroom.

The cold running water meets my hands like a wake-up call, and I splash a fistful on my face for better effect.

Zoe is right. This has gone too far. Desperate to be a rock for you to lean on, I’ve ignored every single red flag and bitten off more than I could chew.

I need someone to help me, or I’ll lose you.

Furiously shaking my head, scattering water droplets everywhere, I duck out of the bathroom.

You’ve woken up and taken your shirt off.

It’s easy to figure out why you waited for me to step away to change your clothes.

The scabbed cuts cover your forearms from top to bottom, like carvings on a Christmas ham.

However, it’s not the vision of the recent cuts that makes my stomach spasm, but the purplish marks of needles above them.

No. It can’t be.

You rush to put your shirt back on, but it’s too late. Rage already burns in my throat. “You’re injecting.” My voice becomes louder with each syllable. “Are you serious? What are you thinking?”

You wrap your arms around your naked torso, as if hiding the marks will somehow make them disappear. “I was chilling with this guy from work, and he offered me a shot. I’ve just experimented once, okay?” You look away, trembling slightly.

“Once? Oh, right. Why does your arm look like a pincushion, then?”

“Because I suck at getting an IV. That’s all.” Your lying-ass voice is getting louder as well.

“Oh, fuck off.” I grab my T-shirt from the floor and button my jeans. “You sound like a fucking junkie right now.”

“I’m not a junkie, Eric!” You pant, rushing towards me. “I just wanted to ….”

But you never finish what you were going to say.

I breathe deeply, thankful not to hear any more of your stupid-arse lies. “I’m going home. I have a lot of practice today.”

You do nothing but face the ground, and I slam the door in my wake.

I bike along the country road to the town centre.

I can’t get the image of your scarred arms from my head.

The needle marks. I need to do something about it, anything, but what?

You lie to me at every chance, but I know you’re only getting worse.

I’m tired. Desperate. Heartbroken to see you turn into a pale shadow of what you were, the once bright soul I love so much dimming its fire every day.

I cannot see it extinguished.

With every ounce of determination in me, I turn to a higher power. Someone who might get through to you better than I can.

Claire Westcott.

I’m a firm believer in the healing power of mothers. Mine is a fine example. Even after years of violence, she always found the strength to protect us from harm. I only hope your mother is the same.

I abandon my bicycle next to a bush in front of Westcott House and rush to the doorbell. The wait makes me hold my breath. I don’t expect to run into the reverend, since his first service is at six sharp, but now I fear your mother decided to join him.

Moments later, Claire Westcott answers. She has short dark hair, neatly brushed behind both ears, and droopy eyelids that make her look constantly sad.

“May I help you?” she asks, brows knit.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Eric Lowell, Andrew’s boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think we should be talking.” She hurries to close the door, but I put my hand in the way.

“Please, I just need a minute of your time. You don’t even have to show me in.”

She hesitates for a second, then opens the door. “Alright, but quickly. Richard can’t see us.” She glances at the street, as if her husband could materialise out of thin air. “How is Andrew?”

“Since he was expelled from school, he’s been worse.

He’s doing drugs. Heavy ones. I’m trying to get through to him, but he’s in denial about everything.

” I suck in a bracing breath and go on. “He needs rehab. He needs a home and someone who can take care of him better than I can. Perhaps you could—”

“I’m deeply sorry.” She raises a palm to silence me.

“It breaks my heart to hear my son is going through all this, but I can’t do a thing.

Richard’s made clear that Andrew is not allowed into this house again.

I already pay Andrew’s rent and make sure his fridge never goes empty, without my husband knowing.

If I risk anything else, the small help I provide might be lost. My hands are tied. ”

I blink twice, not believing my one good ear.

“Are you serious?” I blurt, more aggressively than I intended. “He’s your son. It’s your job to take care of him, and now you tell me your hands are tied? What kind of mother are you?”

Her eyelids lower even more and her eyes glisten in the morning light. For a second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far but discard the thought in the same instant. Claire Westcott deserves to have the truth thrown at her face.

She swallows hard, a slight tremble in her lips. “I believe you should leave now.”

The door closes on me.

I stand alone in her garden, facing the decorated white wood. A pretty wall between me and what could be your salvation, mocking me. I kick it hard. Again and again, but she won’t open. Pointless. I sit on the pavement and bury my face in my hands, trying not to scream.

Pointless. Pointless. Pointless.

It’s a quarter past nine and everyone is in the house.

Mum isn’t happy with my hectic hours and all the time I’ve been spending with you, especially so close to my audition.

Since I’ve lost my hearing, everything has been difficult.

Too difficult. I can’t waste a single minute.

Mum likes you, but right now she’s pissed about the expulsion and is framing you as a distraction from my goals.

She doesn’t even know about the drugs. I don’t intend to let her find out.

My phone rings, and Astro’s forced nonchalance greets me on the other side of the line.

“Hey, Eric, do you know where Andrew is?” Techno music blasts in the background, making it extra hard for me to understand him.

“What? It’s pretty noisy over there. Can you say that again?” I escape the sitting room and run up to my silent bedroom.

“Andrew,” he says, enunciating every syllable. “Have you seen him?”

“Not since earlier today. He had to go to work, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t shown. He called in sick yesterday, but he didn’t even bother today.”

My eyes widen. “Wait, he was perfectly fine both yesterday and today. And he told me he was going to work.”

“Fuck.” Astro stays silent for a second. “I have to go on stage in a few. Can you check on him?”

“Sure. I’m on my way.” I hang up the phone and head for the door. “Mum, I’m going to Andrew’s for a bit.”

“Now, wait a second.” Her tone is brisker than usual, which makes me halt. “You’ve just come from his flat and your practice hours aren’t over. You shouldn’t be wasting time so close to your audition.”