Page 57 of A Wistful Symphony

When we find your room, Mrs Westcott is exiting. From her texts, I assume she’s been staying by your side since yesterday. I’m glad she did. You need to know you’re not alone. That I’m not the only one caring for you.

“He’s awake. Do you want to see him?” she says.

“Go on, honey, I’ll wait outside with Mrs Westcott.” Mum shoots her a glance in some unspoken language only mothers can comprehend. Mrs Westcott nods, and they both make room for me.

My hand trembles on the door handle, afraid of how I’ll find you.

The vivid images of you splayed in the storage unit still haunt my thoughts.

When I open the door, you’re facing the window with the most longing eyes, as if there’s something painfully unattainable beyond the glass. A caged, wounded bird.

You turn to me. Deep dark grooves steal attention from the hazel of your eyes, and though some colour has returned to your sunken cheeks, your complexion blends easily with the linens.

I let out an exhausted sigh, and for a moment, the only sound between us is the agonizing beep of the heart monitor.

“You came,” you say, attempting a smile.

“And you look like shit.”

The joke makes us both burst out with a dry chuckle that lasts only a couple of seconds. Your expression twists in a sorrowful frown and you divert your eyes.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, sitting on a chair by the hospital bed.

“Weak. Sore. Shaky.” You fidget with the linens. “I’ll be fine, though, no worries.”

“Will you? You almost died, Andrew.”

Still looking down, you bite your lower lip. “I know.”

“I was terrified.” The words come out choked. “If we’d gotten to you a bit later, you—”

“I know.” You squeeze your eyes closed. “I didn’t mean to do this. If it wasn’t for you and Astro, I could’ve—”

“I just ….” My voice fades, and I search the ugly green floor tiles for something interesting. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. It almost happened. And it scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m so sorry.” Your strangled words come out garnished with falling tears.

I wring my hands, searching your face. “Why, Andrew? Why did you do it?”

“I ….” You swallow the words. “I just wanted it to stop.” My brow wrinkles in confusion until you try again. “The feelings. The sensations. Everything. It’s always too much. With the drugs, I can breathe.”

Your words echo in my mind for a long moment.

You’ve lost so much, Andrew. Your home, your safety, your future.

Trapped in a hollow shell, having only our relationship as a lifesaver.

How arrogant I was to think our afternoons by the river would be enough to soothe your pain.

That our kisses would somehow erase what happened to you. That I would ever be enough.

“I think I get it,” I whisper, gently touching your arm where it lies on the bed. “But you need help, Andrew. Professional help. Someone who can teach you how to deal with this in healthier ways. I’ll always be by your side, you know it, but I need you to commit to getting better.”

You flinch, making me think you’ll pull away. Instead, you take my hand in yours. The contamination thoughts come, but I let them. You need this touch more than I need to clean my hand.

“I’ll never do it again. Please, believe me.” You squeeze my fingers so tight it hurts. “I’ll do whatever it takes to be clean.”

“Promise?” I blink, feeling my eyes burn.

“Promise.”

And for a long time, there are only our hands, tightly intertwined.

“Hey, I almost forgot.” You rub your drooping eyes. “How was your audition?”

A sting pierces my chest, but still, I fake a lopsided grin. “Dropped the mic with Rach. Let’s hope I make the cut.”

“Of course you will.” You yawn and close your eyelids. “They’d be crazy not to have you.”

“Cross your fingers,” I whisper, the smile turning sour on my lips.

I say nothing and let you rest. You’ve been through enough.

Sleep doesn’t come that night, either. The few hours I snag teem with dreary nightmares of me resuscitating you, waiting for the ambulance to come. Hearing sirens at a distance that only sound farther and farther until you die on me. I wake up covered in cold sweat.

Somehow, I believed talking to you would make things better, but it didn’t. That a single promise could ease my heart and make me hope for a brighter future. One that isn’t filled with the crippling fear of losing you.

What a fool I am.

I’ll have to make the best with what we have.

Pick up the bruised pieces of our relationship and help you through these hard times.

Your mother is there, and that’s something.

At least I’m not alone in offering you support.

Since I’m not going anywhere this year, I can be at your place more often, practicing along with you.

We could even apply together for the RAM or whatever music school you’d prefer.

We will overcome this together. It’s all that matters.

First things first, you’ll have to get out of the hospital.

Find a support group for drug addicts—I don’t even know if we have NA in this town—and stick to a programme.

And most important of all, I’ll have to make you go back to therapy.

I hate it most of the time, but the bloody thing helps. And God knows how much you need it.

When I leave the cottage, my plan is set. Get you discharged, contact NA, find a therapist specialising in drug abuse, practise music together until our fingers fall off, enrol us both in a university. I’ll see it through even if I have to drag you to it. Anything to make you better.

After all, you promised me.

At the hospital, no one stops me when I go straight to the second floor. The corridor is emptier than I remember. Perhaps because it’s Saturday and there’s less staff and visitors. Nevertheless, it spreads a wary tingle down my spine.

Outside the fourth room, there’s not a soul to be seen. No Mrs Westcott, no nurses or doctors. She must’ve gone home to rest, and the staff must be tending to other patients , I reassure myself as I enter the room.

The window is open, the late morning sun bathing the hospital bed in shades of bright yellow. The monitor is turned off and the linens are made without a single wrinkle. Empty. Like you’d never set foot in here. The worst thought scorches my mind, and I sprint out, grabbing the first nurse I see.

“Excuse me,” I say, catching my breath. “Do you know if Andrew Westcott was transferred to another ward?”

“The boy from 204?” The woman smiles fondly at me. “He was discharged quite early in the morning. He must be home by now.”

“Home?” I furrow my brows and pick up my phone. No messages. “He would’ve said something.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, are you Eric Lowell?”

“Yes, I am.”

“He left something for you.” She takes an envelope from her scrubs pocket and hands it to me. “Old fashioned, but I thought it was quite cute of him.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the piece of paper with the utmost confusion.

“You could open it in the room if you want some privacy. There are no admissions for now.” She smiles sympathetically and wanders off.

I go back in and sit on the tiny sofa by the door. The envelope twirls back and forth between my fingers like it has a bomb built in. With a sigh, I gather the courage to open it.

There’s a photograph inside. The one Delia took of us in front of the cottage just before we went to the Spring Festival.

I caress the image, circling our features with the tip of my fingers.

Our smiles are wide and genuine, like the calm before the storm.

On the back of the photograph, there’s a single word in your angular handwriting.

“Sorry.”

Sorry. For what? For the day of the fair?

For being expelled? For having an overdose?

Or something else? A shiver runs down my spine, and I hastily search inside the envelope, hoping you’ve left some explanation for that apology.

Nothing. I turn it inside out until it rips, but nothing else materialises from that paper.

A lump grows bigger in my throat, but I swallow it down.

There could be a million reasons for this, and I can’t cry until I know more.

I put the photograph in my back pocket and run to the reception where my mother is waiting.

“Mum, Andrew was discharged. Can you drive me to his place?”

She frowns at my urgency but does not argue. “Sure, honey.”

The short drive has an ominous weight, and my heart races through the entire route. As soon as my mother pulls over by your complex, I run to the front door. I buzz and buzz. There’s no response. Another tenant lets me in the building, and I gallop the stairs to your flat.

Your door is open, like always. But unlike any other time, the entire flat is empty.

The bookshelf clear, the kitchen cabinets deprived of your meagre silverware, and your wardrobe doors open and stripped bare.

My chest clenches. What’s the meaning of this?

Did you move out? Did you go back to your parent’s house?

Of course. You must’ve gone back to your parents. Mrs Westcott must have put her foot down and let you go back to their home. After all, you need someone to take care of you while you recover. Yes. That must be it. It’s perfectly reasonable.

I run back to the car. “Mum, can you drive me to Westcott House?”

“Westcott House?” Her brows knit. “Wait, Eric, what’s going on?”

“Mum, please, not right now. Just step on it.”

Knowing well when I’m too distressed to be questioned, my mother complies.

I take the photograph from my pocket and stare at it through the entire drive, my heart tight with dread.

I tether myself to your smile on the paper to reassure my dismayed mind.

It’s alright. Andrew will be safe at his parent’s house.

But the bad omens never leave my thoughts.

I buzz the doorbell countless times. Knock and buzz, again and again, each screeching sound tying my insides into knots. I raise my fist to knock one last time when the door opens.

“Who the hell is—” Reverend Westcott locks his gelid eyes on mine. “What are you doing in our home, lad?”

The words rush out. “Is Andrew here?”

“Andrew?” He frowns. “Why would that wretched boy—?”

“Richard,” Mrs Westcott says in a soft tone, touching his shoulder. “Please, let me deal with that kid. He’ll be out in no time.”

He glances from me to Mrs Westcott and leaves us to it.

“Now, what can I do for you, Eric?” She clasps her hands in front of her body.

“Please, Mrs Westcott, can you tell me where Andrew is?”

The tightening of her lips almost stops my heart.

“He left town. Packed a bag with a few belongings and got on a bus.” She dabs a tiny tear from the corner of her eye. “Andrew asked for my help to clear his flat, but I don’t know any more about his whereabouts than you do.”

“Wait, that can’t be.” I swallow hard and shake my head. “Andrew would never—”

“I’m afraid he did.” She offers me a sad smile. “It’s for the best, dear. Now you can move on from all that—”

“What do you know of what’s best for me?” I scream and turn back to the car.

Mum startles when I slam the passenger door.

She asks what’s wrong, her voice a distant echo.

I take out the photograph again and stare at our smiling image.

We were so happy. Why couldn’t you believe we would go back to this?

Why couldn’t you trust me to be by your side?

Is my love not enough? Am I not enough? Why, Andrew?

Sorry … for leaving me?

My jaw trembles, and wet droplets stain the paper. I don’t know how they got there. A hiccup comes, then another. By the fifth or sixth time I read that word, my sobs wail uncontrollably.

You left town. You left me. After everything we’ve been through, you chose to abandon me.

I can’t believe it.

I won’t believe it.

I won’t. I won’t. I won’t.

I crumple the photograph and toss it on the windshield, only to pick it up and flatten it furiously against my thigh. I read the word again, foolishly thinking the apology will shift into something different. It doesn’t. What an idiot I am.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

Hours might have passed in that enclosed space. Or just a minute, I can’t tell. A hand on my shoulder wakes me from my trance, making me wipe the blurry mess of tears.

“What happened, honey?” Mum’s voice is as sweet as a lullaby.

My words come out between strangled sobs. “Andrew … left.”

“Gosh,” she murmurs. “At least he did the right thing. It’s for the best.”

My bloodshot eyes narrow as I spit. “Why do you all keep saying that?”

Mum puts her arms around me, and I weep against her chest.

“It will pass,” she chants, rubbing my back. “You’ll be alright, honey, you’ll see. It’ll pass.”

Except my mother is wrong.

I don’t believe it will ever pass.