Page 50 of A Wistful Symphony

Calamitous Toccata

D elia excuses herself, saying I probably need privacy to deal with whatever happened, and I’m left alone in the sitting room to wonder what went wrong.

My best guess is you received a distressing call that made you rush back to Somerset.

Something about your mum? A guilty sting pierces through my chest. I’ve been so self-absorbed in my mental health problems that I never asked how things went with her.

You might as well be going through a tough time, and I would never know.

“Andrew?” I tentatively open your bedroom door, only to find a jumble of clothes scattered on your bed. “What happened?”

You answer without looking at me, putting a crumpled T-shirt inside a backpack. “It’s Mum. She got admitted to the hospital with some sort of breathing problem.”

I sit on a corner of the bed. “Do the doctors know what’s wrong with her?”

You stop in the middle of packing a pair of jeans. “She ….” You shut your eyes, as if the mere words pain you. “She has breast cancer, Eric. Been in treatment for over six months. She only told me the last time we saw each other.”

“Andrew ….” I get up at once and rub your forearms with both hands. “I’m so sorry.”

You let yourself fall into my arms, clinging to my shirt like a drowning man.

You bury your face in my chest, and I take you into my embrace, stroking your hair as tiny sobs convulse your body.

I don’t know what to say. What string of words could possibly ease your pain?

Do they even exist? I don’t think so. In my powerless position, I decide silence and caresses are the best things I have to offer at the moment.

After long minutes, I ask, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Perhaps.” Your voice comes out strangled against the fabric of my shirt. You detangle from me and wipe the tears from your eyes. “Could you come to Somerset with me? Just for a few days. I could really use your support right now.”

The request catches me by surprise. Eager as I am to fulfil whatever needs you might have, this particular one puts me at a crossroads.

We have to deliver the score on May 10th, only two weeks from now.

If I take any time off, it means I’m out.

As much as it pains me, conceding to your plea means making a choice. You, or my career.

I heave a long sigh. Echoes of a distant past ring in my ears, when I had to make a similar choice. When I forsook whatever needs I had to be your support. What good did it bring me? Only heartbreak and misery. I gave up everything I had, only to be abandoned afterwards.

I can’t afford to lose my dream. And I can’t let the past repeat itself.

“Andrew,” I begin, not knowing how to explain it painlessly. “You know I can’t. Ms Thorne gave me an ultimatum this week, and going away now means dropping from the project.”

You let out a tiny huff and shake your head.

As if you’re not at all surprised, though disappointment drips off every word.

“You should’ve dropped out weeks ago, Eric.

” You say it through clenched jaws, like you’ve been holding back those words for a very long time.

“It’s just a job. There will be others soon enough.

Stop putting it as a priority over everything else in your life. ”

“Just a job?” I grind my teeth, nostrils flared as if you’d slapped me in the face. “This is my dream , Andrew. And quite frankly, it’s fucking unfair that you’re making me choose between you and it.”

“ I’m being unfair?” You point to your own chest, mouth agape.

“I’ve put my issues with my mother aside for weeks and took some time off from the job I love just to be by your side, and when I ask you one thing, I’m being unfair?

” You bite hard on your lower lip, fingers rubbing the cross on your chest over and over as if it could make God materialise like a genie.

“You know what, Eric? If you won’t help me, you might as well leave. ”

“Andrew, please.” I raise my hands but stop myself before I touch you. “I don’t want to turn this into a fight, and I want to be there for you, but you have to understand—”

“Eric, for God’s sake.” You take a step back and brace yourself. “Just go.”

I suck in a long, defeated breath and swallow the lump in my throat before leaving your flat.

There’s no use saying anything else.

“Fucking hell, he actually made you choose between your job and him?” Zoe gulps a pint while Ollie brings a portion of chips to the table. “What a twat.”

Zoe and Ollie came to check in on me, since I’m not staying with you anymore, and they decided it was best to clear my head and discuss whatever happened at the pub on the street corner.

“It wasn’t like that.” The hiss of my soda can opening gets lost in the pub’s murmurs. Why am I making excuses for you when I said that exact same thing? “Andrew is going through a lot.”

“To be fair, my friend, so are you.” Ollie takes a sip of a drink that smells like vodka. “Remember the airplane instructions? Put the oxygen mask on yourself first, then help others.”

“That.” Zoe points at Ollie, munching on a chip. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

“But it’s his mum we’re talking about. I know I’d be a complete mess if something similar happened to mine.” I heave a sigh and rest my glass on the table. “Am I a shitty boyfriend for bailing on him at this hour?”

“No, you are not,” Ollie states. “Is it a shit situation? Sure. But you can’t throw away everything you’ve worked for because of him. It would be 2013 happening all over again.”

“Yeah, Eric.” Zoe gently presses my forearm. “You’ve set a boundary, which is, like, a first, and I’m proud of you. Doesn’t Andrew have any friends or someone else who can be with him?”

“Not really.” I take a sip of my soda to mask the worry in my expression. “There’s only Danny, and he’s swamped at work as well. He told me he’d check in on Andrew frequently, but that’s it.”

“It’s something, at least,” Ollie says. “And you can do the same. Call him, or text, whichever Andrew prefers, as much as you can. Show him you’re there for him, even if not in person.”

“I’ve tried.” I shake my head and comb fingers through my hair. “But Andrew isolates when he’s feeling sad. I’ve left like a hundred messages and only got one response.”

“And? What did he say?” Zoe asks.

I search for the brief exchange in my text messages and show it to them.

Do you have any idea when you’ll be back?

Please, Andrew, I’m so worried about you

Tuesday

no worries

I’m fine

“Jeez, it’s like he’s being billed by the word.” Zoe grimaces. “Well, nothing new there. Sounds like the old Andrew.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” I raise my voice and gesticulate. “Being isolated and depressed is exactly what made him turn to drugs. What if I’ve pushed him into a relapse?”

Just like it happened with me and smoking. Stress is my trigger, and it’s made me fall into the nicotine trap time and time again. What if your mother’s illness does the same to you?

Images of ten years ago come rushing into my mind, a horror movie I tried so hard to forget, playing in a constant loop. The storage unit. The ambulance. I shut my eyes and ball my hands into fists.

Please, don’t remember this now.

“You’ll have to trust him, Eric.” Ollie rests a palm on my arm, and I relax my death grip. “He’s been clean for eight years, hasn’t he? All you have to do is trust that he’ll do the right thing.”

“And besides,” Zoe continues. “He’ll be back in two days. That’s right around the corner.”

“Yeah.” I lower my hand to my lap and scratch the corner of my thumb. “It’s out of my control.”

I fucking hate that expression.

The weekend passes in some gruesome limbo. Since I’m not yet allowed to use the piano at home, there’s little I can do to turn my mind away from you.

Looking out the window as I fix my morning coffee, I imagine you holding your cross, fear twisting your face.

When I wash the dishes, the water reflects images of your sunken eyes.

When I make my bed, I remember you asking me to come to Somerset with you.

When I put on some music, I hear your voice, roaring that I’m the one being unfair.

I swallow a Xanax, only to remind myself of you, pulling away from me, saying I should just go.

I’m going to lose my mind like this.

On Monday, I check my messages every thirty minutes.

Nothing. You’re pulling away and hiding things.

I’ve seen it too many times and I know better.

That’s your coping mechanism. You close yourself in a shell and don’t come out until you make sense of things.

The problem is, last time your senses made you believe the better option was to do drugs.

No , I censor myself. He’s been clean for eight years. He won’t do this again. I reason with my mind constantly, searching for the logical reasons I might have to trust you. One more day. Then I’ll be by your side, and everything will be fine.

However, there’s a gut feeling inside of me. It crawls underneath my skin as I come home after work. Carves its way into the depths of my body as I take a shower and fix a late supper. Screams inside my mind as I hopelessly try to sleep.

Something is not right.

On Tuesday, my mind is all over the place. I try to concentrate on the post-production of a track, but I take my phone out of my pocket every minute, checking for messages, asking Danny if you’re home yet. My focus goes to space, and I have to redo the work all over again.

“Is it done yet?” Ms Thorne approaches the production table in the afternoon.

I take the headphones off and turn to her. “Not yet. But it’s going to be ready today, I guarantee it.”