by Tillie Cole
I was transported back to our first meeting. When I’d left the club and walked down to the beach in Brighton. I’d always loved the water, and there was something so majestic about the thrashing waves of the sea in Britain. Even in summer it was turbulent and cold.
The calm of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A Major had been playing beside me, a stark contrast to what I’d been watching. Then, as turbulent as the waves, Cromwell Dean had staggered down to the beach, Jack Daniels in hand. His troubled eyes had snapped to mine as he heard the music from my phone.
And now, “Mozart?” I asked and smiled. He must have remembered that meeting too.
“Amadeus and I have reached an understanding.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded. “We’re friends again.”
“Good,” I said in response. But there was more to that word. Because Cromwell was in love with classical music again. He was playing again. I tipped my head to the side as he sat back in his seat. I waited until there was a dip in the symphony to ask, “What do you want to do with your life, Crom?”
Cromwell sat forward and took my hand. It was as if it gave him strength. A man in a vintage canoe paddled past. Cromwell watched him. “I always see him here,” he said absently. He shrugged. “I want it all.” He squeezed my hand tighter. “I want to create music. That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” He smirked. “I don’t have any other talent.”
I wished I had the ability to speak more than a few breathless words. Because I would have told him that he needed no other talent. Because how he created music, his ability, was like nothing I’d ever seen or heard. It was above sheer talent. It was divine. And it was exactly what he was meant to do.
“I like EDM, but I need to compose classical too.” He rubbed his lips together. “I just want to play. Create. For whoever, wherever, as long as I have music in my life. I love EDM, but I suppose nothing quite gives me the same feeling as classical.” He nodded his head in my direction. “You were right. Through classical, you tell a story without words. Move people. Inspire them.” He sighed like he had found a glimmer of peace in his tortured soul. “When I play classical, when I compose . . . it means something. It gives meaning to my life.” He looked at me and paused, as if stopping himself from saying something.
“What?” I tugged on his hand.
He searched my eyes, then said, “Lewis has offered me his place in the show that’s coming to Charleston soon. To compose and show my work.” My eyes widened. If my heart could have raced, it would have kicked into a sprint. Cromwell ducked his head, like he was embarrassed. “A symphony.” He inhaled, and I saw the weight of what he had carried for three years, with his father, shine in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have long. To compose. But . . .” He could do it. I was sure he already had a symphony in his heart just waiting to burst out.
“You need to do it.” I thought back on all the video I had seen of him playing as a child. The music that had come to him as naturally as breathing then. What was an even stronger need now. “You must do it.” I used the little energy I had to lean forward and cup his cheek.
Cromwell looked at me. “I don’t want to leave you.” In case this is all the time we’ll ever have. I saw the words in his head as vibrantly as he saw color when he heard a simple noise. I thought of the gala—to me, so far away. And I knew that if a heart didn’t come, I wouldn’t be there to see it.
It was funny. My heart was dying, yet I never felt any pain from it alone. But in that moment, I was sure it was crying at the fact that it might not see Cromwell Dean in his element, on the stage he was born to stand on.
“You . . . you must do it.” Because if I didn’t make it, then I would be looking down from the heavens, beside his father, watching as the boy we loved captivated the hearts and minds of everyone in the room.
Cromwell looked at the canoeist. The man nodded his head and silently passed us by. Cromwell watched him go. “And you?” he asked. “What do you want to do with your life?”
Cromwell moved my hair from my face. I thought it was just an excuse to touch me, and that brought warmth to my chilly bones. “Writing is my passion . . . I always thought I would perhaps do something with that.” I exhaled a difficult breath. “Hear my words sung back to me.” It wasn’t an overly complex dream. And it had already come true. I held his hands tighter. “You have already given me that.”
But I had a greater dream in my mind, and it was only now I understood just how unreachable it was. Some might think it simple, or nothing of great importance, but to me, it was the world.
“Bonnie?”
“To be . . . married,” I said. “To have children.” My bottom lip wavered. Because even if a heart came, it could be difficult to have a family. Carrying babies post-surgery brought even more risks, but I knew I would chance it. I felt my lashes grow wet. “To be forever in love . . . and to be forever loved.” I gave a watery smile. “That is now my dream.” When the threat of death hung over you, you realized that your true dreams weren’t so grand. And they all came down to one thing—love. Material possessions and idealistic goals faded away like a dying star. Love was what remained. Life’s purpose was to love.
Cromwell brought me to his lap. I melted into his chest, and we drifted that way for a while. “Crom.”
“Yeah?”
“You have to play the gala.”
Cromwell tensed. It was a few moments before he said, “I’ll do it, if you make me a promise in return.” I looked up into his eyes. Cromwell was waiting for me. “If you promise you’ll be there, watching.” I didn’t want to promise that, because the chances of it being possible were slim. And it terrified me to think of it. But when I thought back to Cromwell, slumped at the piano all those weeks ago, tortured over his father, needing to play the music in his heart, but pushing it away so it didn’t hurt, I knew I couldn’t do it to him.
“I promise,” I said, voice shaking. Cromwell blew out a breath I didn’t even know he was holding. “I promise.” He took my fingers and kissed each one. He brought his lips to my mouth, then my cheeks, my forehead, my nose. He held on to me, as if I’d slip through his hands and drift down the stream if he didn’t.
“Cromwell?” I asked when a bird sang again. “Who has synesthesia? Your mama or your papa?”
Cromwell’s dark eyebrows pinched. “What do you mean?”
“It’s genetic . . . isn’t it?”
Surprise washed over Cromwell’s face. He shook his head. “It can’t be.” He glanced away to the water. “Mum hasn’t got it, and Dad definitely didn’t.”
I frowned, suddenly feeling off. “I must have gotten it wrong.” I was sure I hadn’t, but in that case I had no idea how to explain Cromwell.
Cromwell didn’t say much after that. He appeared deep in thought. I stayed in his arms, listening to Mozart and picturing him up on that stage. I rubbed at my chest when a pain started to build there. Cromwell put me back on the seat and started making our way back to the dock. But with every stroke of the oars, I felt less and less okay.
Panic rushed through me when my left arm started to go numb. “Bonnie?” Cromwell said as we reached the dock. He threw the rope around the post on the dock just as pain, so great it winded me, seized control of my left side. I reached over to hold my arm as the ability to breathe was ripped away.
“Bonnie!” Cromwell’s voice filtered into my ears as the world tipped on its side. My eyes snapped up, and I saw the sun spearing through the gaps in the trees. The sound of the rustling leaves grew louder, and the birds singing sounded like an opera. Then Cromwell was over me, his blue eyes wide and panicked. “Bonnie! Baby!”
“Cromwell,” I tried to say. But my energy drained from my body, the world fading into muted tones of gray. Then worst of all, everything went quiet; the music of Cromwell’s voice and the living world plunged into silence. I wanted to speak, I wanted to tell him that I loved him. But my world faded to black before I could.
And then a heavy silence took me i
n its hold.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cromwell
“Bonnie! Bonnie!” I shouted as she slumped in her seat. Her right hand clutched her left arm, and her eyes started to close. Panic rushed through me like a river.
Bonnie’s eyes fell on mine, and all I saw was fear staring back at me. Then her eyes shut. “No! NO!” I shouted and moved over her. My hand searched for her pulse. It wasn’t there. I didn’t think. I just let instinct rule my actions. I took Bonnie in my arms and carried her to the dock as quickly as I could. I laid her down and started resuscitations, something my dad had made me learn years ago. “Come on, Bonnie,” I whispered, my blood running cold when her pulse didn’t come back.
I kept going, breathing into her mouth, pushing at her chest, when suddenly someone came beside me. I looked up to see the canoeist. “Call 911!” I shouted, not daring to take my hands off Bonnie. Because she had to live. She couldn’t die. “Tell them she has heart failure. And to hurry!”
It was all a fog. I kept going and going until someone pulled me aside. I fought them to get back to Bonnie. But when arms held me down, stopping me, I looked up. The EMTs were here. “She’s got heart failure,” I said, watching them take Bonnie from the dock and onto a gurney. I sprinted after them and climbed into the back of the ambulance and stayed frozen against the side as the paramedics worked on Bonnie.
Her hand had fallen over the gurney. And that was all I could see. Her limp hand, one that only a short while ago was holding mine. The doors to the ambulance started to close. When I looked up, the man in the canoe was gone.
The ambulance pulled out, and the whole time I stared at Bonnie’s hand. I called her parents. I didn’t even remember the conversation. I followed the gurney through the hospital, as doctors and nurses swarmed around Bonnie like bees. I heard the beeps and whirrs of the machines keeping her alive. And I heard the pounding of my heart in my ears. The colors flew at me like shrapnel, hitting me with every strike. Emotions buried me until I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I stayed against the wall, watching Bonnie’s hand that still hung over the gurney. I wanted to hold it. Wanted her to know I was here, waiting for her to wake up.
“No!” Bonnie’s mother’s voice rang out behind me. I turned to see her father and brother coming in behind. Bonnie’s mum tried to run to the bed, but Mr. Farraday held her back. Easton stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his sister, a scarily calm look on his face. Like he wasn’t even there. Like he wasn’t watching his sister fight for her life.
Tubes and machines were all over Bonnie, drowning her dark hair and slim body. And all the time, I was buried further and further under colors and noises and shapes and feelings. Feelings I didn’t want.
I stood there, watching the girl that had brought back my heart fight to save hers. I stood there until I was led away. Mrs. Farraday steered me into a room. I blinked when the noises stopped and we were plunged into silence.
A doctor came into the room. I glanced up. Easton was beside me. But his eyes were vacant. His face pale.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion as the doctor started to speak. Only certain words made it through to my brain. Cardiac arrest . . . terminal . . . no more than a couple of weeks . . . no going home . . . top of the list . . . medical help . . . machines . . .
The doctor left the room. Bonnie’s mother fell into her husband’s chest. Crimson red filled my head as her cries filled the room. Mr. Farraday reached out for Easton. Easton was pulled into their arms, but he didn’t hold them back. He just stood there, eyes vacant, his body eerily still.
Bonnie was dying.
Bonnie was dying.
I staggered to the wall, and finally my feet gave out. I hit the floor and felt the shield of numbness drain out of me . . . only to lower my defenses so much that the emotions assaulted me, blanket-bombing me with images of Bonnie slumping in the boat, holding her arm, calling my name . . .
My head fell forward, and the tears I had held back came pouring out. I fucking fell apart on the floor until a pair of arms came around me. I knew it was Mrs. Farraday, but I couldn’t stop. She was her mother. Getting told her daughter would only have a couple of weeks . . . but I couldn’t help it.
Bonnie was it for me. The only one who understood me.
I loved her.
And I was going to lose her.
“She’s gonna be all right,” Mrs. Farraday kept whispering into my ear. But her words were navy blue.
Navy blue. Motherfucking navy blue.
She’s gonna be all right.
Navy blue.
*****
My feet were leaden as I walked into the room. The rhythmic beating of the life support machine was deafening. Mrs. Farraday’s hand squeezed my shoulder as she passed me, shutting the door and leaving us alone. The room stank of chemicals.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. My feet edged closer to the bed, and I almost fell down again when I saw Bonnie in the bed. Tubes and machines surrounded her, her eyes closed, depriving me of her light. A chair waited next to her, but I pushed it aside and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed. I took Bonnie’s hand in mine.
It was cold.
I pushed her hair from her face. I knew she liked it when I did that. “Hi, Farraday,” I said, my voice sounding like a scream in the quiet room. I squeezed her hand then leaned over her, careful of the tubes, and kissed her forehead. Her skin was ice cold. My eyes watered. Moving my mouth to her ear, I said, “You made me a promise, Farraday, and I’m not letting you get out of it.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I love you.” My voice cracked on the last word. “I love you, and I refuse to let you leave me here without you.” I swallowed. “Just fight, baby. I know your heart is tired. I know you’re tired too, but you have to keep fighting.” I paused, pulling myself together. “The doctor said you’re at the top of the list now. You’re going to get a heart.” Of course I knew that wasn’t guaranteed, but I had to say it. More for myself than for her.
I glanced down at Bonnie’s chest. A machine made it rise and fall. It was a perfect rhythm. I kissed Bonnie on the cheek then sat on the chair beside her. I kept tight hold of her hand. Even when I closed my eyes, I didn’t let go.
*****
“Son?” A hand on my shoulder woke me up. I blinked, dimmed lights shining above me. Confusion clouded my head, until those clouds dispersed. I found Bonnie on the bed, eyes closed and machines loud. Then I looked down at my fingers still linked through hers.
“It’s late, Cromwell.” Mr. Farraday nudged his head. “She’s in an induced coma, son. She won’t be waking up for a while yet. A few days at least. Her body needs time to get stronger.” I stared at her pretty face, pale and covered in tubes. I wanted to push them all away, but I knew they were keeping her here.
“Go home, son. Get some sleep. Something to eat. You’ve been here for hours.”
“I don’t . . .” I cleared my hoarse throat. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know you don’t. But there’s nothing we can do now. It’s all in God’s hands.” He waved his hand for me to follow. I stood and kissed Bonnie on the cheek.
“I love you,” I whispered into her ear. “I’ll be back soon.” I followed Mr. Farraday out into the hallway. “I’m coming back in the morning.” This time I wasn’t asking permission. They weren’t keeping me away.
Mr. Farraday nodded. “Cromwell, you kept my baby alive until the paramedics got there. I’m not making you go anywhere.”
“My dad was in the army. He taught me.” I didn’t know why I said that. It just came out.
I saw the sympathy in Mr. Farraday’s eyes. And I knew he knew about my dad. “Then he was a good man.” He squeezed my shoulder again. “Go. Sleep. And come back tomorrow.”
I turned and headed for the main doors. I wasn’t thinking, just letting my feet lead the way. As I stepped into the cool night, I saw someone on a bench in a small garden across the road. As soon as I saw the blond hair, I knew who i
t was.
I dropped beside Easton on the bench. He didn’t say anything as we stared at the statue of an angel in the center of the garden. It was minutes before he rasped, “She has a couple of weeks, Crom. That’s it.”
My stomach tightened, so much that it made me feel sick. “She’ll be good,” I said. But I didn’t even convince myself. “She’s at the top of the list now. She’ll get a heart.” Easton was silent. I turned to him. “How are you?”
Easton laughed without humor. “Still here.”
“She needs you,” I said, worried by his words. “When she wakes, when they bring her around from the coma, she’ll need you.”
Easton nodded. “Yeah. I know.” He got to his feet. “I’m going back in.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I watched Easton walk back into the hospital. I stayed staring at the angel. Tonight ran though my head at a million miles an hour. Then one part kept coming back. Who has synesthesia? I pulled out my phone and typed the question into my browser. My stomach fell when what Bonnie said was mostly true. I told myself I must be one of the exceptions, but a little voice started whispering in the back of my brain.
You don’t look anything like your dad . . . Your mum has blond hair. You have black hair . . . You’re tall. Your mum and dad are short . . .
My heart fired like a canon in my chest. Adrenaline rushed through me, and thoughts and memories bombarded my mind. My feet moved to the taxi rank, and I grabbed a cab back to the lake. I went to my truck, not even looking at the lake, where Bonnie had collapsed in front of me. Instead I drove. I drove and drove until my body was exhausted. But my mind wouldn’t shut off. Bonnie was dying. She needed a heart. Easton was falling apart, and yet . . . that question . . . that bloody question still stuck in my head.
I slammed my truck to a stop outside my dorm and looked in the rearview mirror.
My eyes were my mum’s. My lips were my mum’s.