Page 54 of A Wistful Symphony

Harrowing Concerto

M y keys clang against the bowl by the door.

It echoes through the empty sitting room, bright at one in the afternoon.

The excess of light is foreign to me. I’m not used to being home at this hour.

In rehearsed movements, I take off my shoes and put them on the rack.

The light unsettles me. Like a sleepwalker, I go to the window and shut the blinds.

Darkness covers the room, and I welcome it as a friend.

I should change my clothes. Have something for lunch.

Figure out what to do with my life. Instead, my body stays frozen in a corner of the sitting room, deprived of any sense of purpose.

With my last shred of energy, I let myself fall on the sofa.

That’s it. Just like I lost my spot at the Royal Academy ten years ago, I lost my shot with the BBC.

All my work, all my efforts, wasted. My career, down the toilet.

My dream, smothered. Like a premature newborn struggling to breathe with undeveloped lungs.

You’re all I have left.

I take my phone from my pocket. The stark blue light makes me wince after hours in the dark.

Aside from a couple of messages from coworkers saying they’re sorry I lost the project, there’s nothing else.

No news from you. I text Danny, who confirms you’re not back yet. Then, I try texting you once more.

Andrew, please, I need to talk to you.

Please, pick up your phone.

I need to hear your voice.

Please.

It doesn’t go through. Damn it, Andrew, I need you. Your kiss, your embrace, your kind words reassuring me that everything is going to be okay. That this is nothing but a hindrance. A hiccup in the path of a brilliant career. It has to be you. If it comes from you, I might actually believe it.

After all, you’re the reason this all happened. All this mess, because of you.

In a fit of desperation. I start calling.

Voicemail. I do it again, and a second time, and a third.

Like doing the same thing over and over might magically bring a different outcome.

I light a cigarette and take a deep, esurient drag.

Then another. A missed call, then a cigarette.

I cough, my throat acrid with smoke. The pack is empty.

I can’t remember the last time I chain-smoked like this.

The piano stands out, mighty and shiny, in the corner of the sitting room. Fuck it. I can’t stay away from it anymore.

The first note comes out like sweet salvation, and song fills the room. Every cadence blooms like a field of marigolds. Sweet. Honey on the tip of my tongue. Soon my heartbeat steadies, and my mind falls into array. Silence. A complete absence of thought. Only music.

Will it stay like this if I play forever?

At some point, a chirpy ringtone disrupts my music. I pay it no mind. When the bloody thing turns too insistent for me to ignore, I get up, cursing to myself, and grab the phone I tossed on the sofa.

The name on the screen almost stops my heart.

“Andrew? Is that really you?” My voice is hoarse from thirst and smoke.

“Yes, Eric. It’s really me.”

A sigh of relief leaves my lungs. You’re alive. Thank goodness. “Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”

A sweet chuckle sounds on the other side of the line. “I’m okay. Ish. But we can talk about it later. Look, I just got home and saw your messages. Sorry I let my phone die. I—” You pause. “I wasn’t in a good place.”

A sting of resentment burns in the back of my throat, but I swallow it dry. You weren’t in a good place, and that allowed you to disappear. To make me so worried, I lost the BBC job.

“It’s fine.” The words come out strangled. “I’m happy just to hear your voice.”

“Eric, are you okay? Some of your messages worried me.”

“I’m—” My voice cracks. “No, I’m not.”

“I’m coming over,” you answer at once. “Hang tight, okay? I’ll be there in an hour.”

When the doorbell buzzes, I’m still playing the piano. It feels like a minute has passed. With a rush of relief, I leap up from the bench and skip down the staircase to the front door. You’re here. In the flesh. After losing something so important to me, having you back is the soothing balm I need.

I jump in your arms as soon as I open the door and inhale the scent coming from your skin. Once. Twice. I cling to your T-shirt as if it’s the only thing preventing me from falling.

“I missed you so much.” My voice is muffled against the crook of your neck. “Thank goodness you’re safe.”

“It’s okay, Eric. I’m here now.” You hold me tight and comb fingers through my hair. “Let’s head up, shall we?”

You follow me to the flat and leave your jacket on the rack. The sitting room is pitch black.

“Why is it so dark in here?” You flick the switch on the lamp by the sofa.

“Guess I forgot to turn on the lights.” I clean the ashtray on the coffee table, overflowing with cigarette stubs. The sitting room smells of smoke and sweat, so I hurry to open a window. “How’s your mum? Has her condition improved?”

You grimace and sit on the sofa, hands clasped. “The cancer has spread to her lungs, and she went into respiratory failure. She’s stable now, off of the breathing tube and everything, but—” You swallow hard. “It’s too far gone. She has little time left.”

“Andrew, I’m so sorry.” I sit by your side and rub your arm. “How are you feeling?”

“Lost. Frustrated. Angry.” You heave a heavy sigh. “It’s like God put her back in my life just to rip her out again. I don’t understand it.”

I try to offer sympathy. “Maybe He gave you one last chance before it was too late.”

“Perhaps.” You smile sadly. “But it’s still unfair. I spent the last few days wandering the neighbouring towns, trying to make sense of everything. Trying to cope with the fact that she’ll be gone soon.”

“So that’s what you were doing,” I utter, a sour taste on my tongue. You were strolling along the countryside like a fucking Jane Austen heroine while I was here, losing my mind over your whereabouts. While I lost my job, worrying about you.

No , I censor myself. I can’t say anything about that. It’s not the time.

“Again, sorry about not warning you I was going to take longer to come back. It was selfish of me, but I wasn’t in the right headspace to talk to anyone. I hope you understand.”

Yes. I understand that you’d rather be a dick than send a fucking text warning me you’re not coming home.

Stop, Eric. Stop thinking about those things.

“It’s fine. The important thing is you’re here now.” I force a smile and look away. “Fancy something to eat? A cup of tea, perhaps?”

“Tea would be fine.”

I get up from the sofa and stride towards the kitchen.

The tea break will give me precious minutes to sort out my thoughts.

As I wait for the kettle to do its business, I take a long breath.

I wish to rip this rage out of my chest. Take away this resentment and toss it in the bin.

Why is it even here? I love you, Andrew.

With all my heart. Why am I so angry with you?

“Eric.” Your voice behind my back startles me. “Will you tell me what’s troubling you?”

“Nothing, really.” I try to downplay it. If we have this conversation now, I might scream. “I’m having an off day, that’s all.”

“Stop lying to me.” You take me by the arm and make me face you. “After all those texts, after cracking on the phone, you expect me to believe that? And then I find you in the dark, still in work clothes, smelling like a freaking chimney. What happened, Eric?”

I grit my teeth, struggling to control myself. “I don’t think you want to know.”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I lost my fucking job, Andrew.” It comes out louder than I intended. There’s no controlling it now. “I lost the BBC score because I had a fucking mental breakdown at work worrying about you!”

“You … lost the BBC score,” you repeat with a fraying voice. “Because of me?”

The guilty look on your countenance makes the rage boil harder in the pit of my stomach. I put out the stove and storm out of the kitchen. My breath is heavy and my heart hammers against my ribcage. I need a cigarette. Some music. A bash to the head. Anything to prevent me from talking.

“Yes,” I roar, arms flailing in the air. “Because you couldn’t bother to send a fucking text warning me you’d be coming home later. You left me here thinking you were high or dead in a fucking gutter just like ten years ago!”

“You thought I was—” A condescending huff blasts out of you. “After I changed my life, after being clean for eight years, after I promised you I would never touch drugs again, that’s the first thing on your mind?” You shake your head. “Do you seriously trust me so little?”

“Oh, how I wish this was just about trust. Do you know how my mind works?” I point at my temple, my throat burning. “It’s like a disc on repeat, playing the same horror movie again and again. You made me relive the worst day of my life for two days, Andrew. Two fucking days straight!”

You stand in the middle of the sitting room, sagging shoulders and drooping eyes, like a dog that was caught in mischief. When it’s clear you won’t counter my words, I go on.

“You know, I really thought I had things together this time. I didn’t abandon everything to run after you, like in 2013.

I set a boundary and concentrated on work.

And it should’ve ended fine, because you’d be back on Tuesday like you said.

But no.” I whip a hand through the air. “Because you had to throw a disappearing act and mess with my head all over again. And now you’ve cost me my dream. Again.”