Page 56 of A Wistful Symphony

Aftermath Partita

T he entire afternoon, I pace throughout the A&E waiting room. Scratching the corner of my thumb, biting my barely existent nails. Having a cup of water, a cup of coffee, a cup of whatever they have in the machine.

Astro stays with me, both of us in sorrowful silence. He disappears from time to time, coming back stinking of cigarette smoke. I’m tempted to go with him more times than not, but I’ve decided to quit. Manage my anxiety in healthier ways. I just don’t know how.

At some point, he asks, “Can I get you anything from the snack bar?” My stomach grumbles in pain, making me nauseous, so food is out of the question. I shake my head, and he goes on his way.

Perhaps Astro needs some time alone. Perhaps he needs to process what just happened away from me.

Or maybe he was just hungry. Who knows? Anyway, I’m glad he’s gone.

My mind has been screaming for the past hour, and I need to breathe the bad omens out.

I can’t cope with thoughts of you lying in that horrid storage unit, your life hanging by a thread.

A shudder runs through my body as flashes from the ambulance ride come in dreadful images, tastes, and smells.

Gosh, your smell. Old sweat and puke. I don’t think I’ll ever get that out of my nostrils.

I rock my head, trying to wash these memories away. Replace them with comforting thoughts. The doctors are taking care of him. He will be alright. It was just a scare . Every time I try to soothe my dreads, one phrase screams louder and louder.

Andrew is going to die.

My phone rings for what must be the hundredth time. Mum again. As hurt as I am, keeping her in the dark for so long isn’t fair. None of this is fair. An endless cycle of unfairness choking us until the first one collapses.

“Hey, Mum,” I say, exhaustion oozing from my voice.

“Where are you?” she shrieks. “You lost your audition, Eric. What the hell are you thinking? You come home right away, and we’ll have a—”

“Mum, I’m at the hospital.”

She pauses.

“Are you okay, honey? Has something happened to you?”

“No,” I tell her, my throat hoarse. “It’s Andrew. It’s pretty bad.”

“Andrew.” She controls her tone. “What happened to him this time?”

“He ODed.”

“He—?” The sound on the other side of the line might’ve been a huff.

“You mean you threw away your chance at the Royal Academy for an addict?” She shrieks again.

“Look, Eric, this is too long a conversation for us to have over the phone. When you come home, we’ll have a serious talk about you and Andrew. ”

“I know, Mum, I know.” I put one hand on my forehead. “Just… let me find out if he’s okay. Then I’ll come home.”

“Fine. Call me when you’re ready and I’ll pick you up.”

She hangs up, leaving me with an agonizing tightness in my chest. The Royal Academy of Music.

Another thought to add to the scrutinising ones I already have.

Best-case scenario is I delayed my future by a year.

But missing the audition was a tremendous lack of decorum.

Will they have a record for missing applicants?

One that will kill any chance I have to audition for the following year?

And worse, what if that information is shared with other institutions and they all blacklist me?

What if I threw away my future and you die anyway?

No. I can’t think like that. And I can’t sit still anymore. The need to know something about your condition surpasses anything I might feel at this moment.

It’s all that matters.

The corridor is filled with people coming in and out: nurses, patients, doctors. I stand there, barely focusing on everyone’s blurred features, until I glimpse the young doctor who received your case when the ambulance arrived.

“Doc,” I call, and he turns to me. “Please, I’ve been here for hours, waiting for an update. Can you give me any information on Andrew Westcott’s state?”

“Westcott? Oh, the kid they brought in earlier.” He shakes his head. “Are you family?”

“No, I’m … I’m his friend.”

“Sorry, we only give medical information to family.”

He tries to leave, but I grab his green scrubs.

“Please, Doc, I’m worried sick here. I’m the one who found him, and he’s estranged from his family. Can’t you give me something? Anything?”

His eyes turn softer. “Look, all I can tell you is he’s in no immediate danger and has been transferred to intensive care. He should wake up soon, but the ICU staff won’t let you in outside visiting hours if you’re not family. I’m really sorry.” He walks away.

You’re alive. In no immediate danger. But being in the ICU means things can change at any given second. Shit. Fucking shit. I grab another glass of water and return to the waiting room, fidgeting with a tiny piece of paper I’d forgotten inside my pocket.

Claire Westcott’s number.

I reach for the crumpled Post-it and dial at once.

“Mrs Westcott? It’s Eric Lowell again.”

“Oh, heaven’s sake, have you found Andrew? Is he alright?”

“I’m at the hospital. He ODed.” Before she can pour out her shock, I press forwards. “He’s out of danger now, but they won’t let me see him. Doctor says only family can go in.”

“I can’t.” Her breathing is ragged. “You know I can’t see him. Richard forbade me.”

“You mean to tell me he’ll wake up after almost dying with no one by his side other than the ICU staff?” I spit, my voice getting louder. “How cruel are you?”

There’s only silence on the other side of the line.

“Please,” I cry, leaning on the wall. “Please, Mrs Westcott, if you ever loved him, if you have an ounce of compassion in your heart, don’t leave him alone now.”

She takes another couple of seconds to answer. “I’ll do my best to sneak out when Richard’s not looking.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” I heave a sigh of relief before hanging up.

Astro comes back a few minutes later, and I fill him in.

He’s relieved that Andrew is stable, though not surprised by Mrs Westcott’s attitude.

He knows the woman better than me. Astro announces he needs to go home, because his scumbag mum went out and left his siblings alone at their house.

He urges me to warn him if anything changes, and we say our goodbyes.

I’m left alone, rooted in an uncomfortable plastic chair, waiting for the goodwill of doctors who never come.

A few hours later, Claire Westcott’s minimalist pumps staccato in the corridor. She nods at me, and I do the same, but we do not talk. One look in each other’s eyes and we know. There are no words for the pain we’re feeling at the moment.

Naturally, the reverend’s wife can summon the nurses’ attention far better than I, and soon they lead her to the intensive care floor. I run at their heels and enter the elevator to the third floor. The nurse stops me at the ICU doors, but Mrs Westcott comes between her and me.

“Don’t worry.” She fondly touches my shoulder. “I’ll come out soon and give you an update.”

I nod and watch her disappear through the visitors’ entrance.

There’s nothing left for me but to pace from one side of the corridor to the other, drowning in anxiety and spiralling thoughts.

There’s a rubbing alcohol dispenser next to the door, and I squirt it on my hands, one, two, three times.

A fourth one, just for good measure. Just so the contamination thoughts won’t be triggered by the closeness to the ICU.

I look at the clock on the wall. Fuck, only three minutes have passed . I pace around some more. Scratch the corner of my thumb. Rub more alcohol on my hands. Suppress a curse when my bruised thumbnail burns. Look at the clock again. Rinse and repeat.

Mrs Westcott comes out twenty-three minutes later.

“He’s not awake yet, but he’s stable,” she says before I can ask. “He responded well to the treatment, and his reflexes are coming back. They assume he’ll wake in the next hour or so.”

“Then I’ll wait here until—”

“Eric, darling.” She raises a hand to stop me.

“You’ve done more than enough. You must be exhausted, and from what they tell me, Andrew will wake up quite weak and confused.

Go home. I have your number now, so I can update you on his condition and tell you when he’s fit for visits.

Don’t worry, it won’t be long. My Andrew is a fighter. ”

I consider her offer for a moment. I am indeed drained to my bones, and my being here will change nothing in your state. You’re stable. Soon to wake up. The doctors got you covered.

It’s alright, Eric. It’s going to be alright.

“Okay. But please ring me if anything changes.” I call my mother to pick me up.

The car ride has the most oppressively loud silence.

Mum glares at the road, grasping the steering wheel like it did something to wrong her.

When we arrive at the cottage, it all explodes.

Mum has never screamed at me before. Saying how irresponsible I was, how I let this infatuation go too far, how she would not allow you to drag me down with you.

I keep my head down and don’t utter a word. What else can I do?

Delia and Zoe knock at my room a few times, until the locked door makes them realise I don’t want to talk to anyone. Ollie calls as well, but I let it go to voicemail. Knowing me better than the other two, he doesn’t try it again.

I don’t catch a single second of sleep. The entire night passes with me staring at the ceiling and hoping, praying, you’ll be well enough tomorrow.

The next day, Mrs Westcott texts me, saying you’ll be transferred to the infirmary and will be allowed visits.

My heart thumps with excitement and dread in equal measure.

Mum makes a face when I ask her to drive me to the hospital, but doesn’t say no.

Instead, she goes to reception with me and asks for information in her most charming and polite manner.

Sometimes I’m astounded by my mother’s capacity to bottle her anger.