Patchwork Paradise

by Indra Vaughn

  Cleo and I had played naked together in the paddling pool when we were three, so she was pretty much considered my sister—and Samuel’s too. Imran had joined our little triumvirate when he began dating Cleo. Their affair had been the dirtiest gossip her nursing school had ever known. Imran had been a resident at the hospital where Cleo had started her first practical, and needless to say, the authorities were not pleased. They’d lasted, though, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he popped the question at our wedding. The thunder stealer.

  Thomas de Ridder had been the last addition to our group of friends. He had slipped in almost unnoticed three years ago. As head of IT at one of the hospitals where I’d had to install new software and familiarize everyone with it, he’d spent a lot of time with me. When I’d asked him to join us for a drink after a really late night, he’d agreed. He’d been quiet, and I’d wondered if I’d made a mistake not warning him about my having a boyfriend. But he’d agreed to join us again the next time, and after that he never left.

  I watched Sam and Thomas kiss each other on the cheek, then talk for a minute before Thomas grinned and lifted his hands. If you want to stand in line, be my guest. Or something like that. He scanned the crowd, spotted someone, looked in our direction, and winked before moving in for the kill.

  My fears about Thomas being homophobic had long since proven to be grossly unfounded. As he wove through the crowd, I had no clue who his target would be. The gorgeous brick of a guy who looked like he could be a professional triathlete? Or the short girl with a blonde bob and an impressive—even to me—pair of boobs? It didn’t matter who it was. Thomas wouldn’t be joining us again for the rest of the night. He was an unapologetic, self-proclaimed slut who would “settle down when I find the one, and how can I possibly find the one unless I try them all?”

  I shook my head and left him to it, watching as Samuel fought the crowd to the small table I’d been able to secure.

  He put everyone’s beers on the laminated wood. Thomas’s drink would most likely go untouched, so I appropriated it with a cheeky smile. Sam kissed the top of my head and straddled a chair. “You going to join Cleo soon?”

  “I need some liquid courage first,” I said and pushed the lime into one of my beers. Imran tapped the neck of his bottle to mine, and we drank. “Water, Sam?” I asked when I saw him sip his glass.

  He smiled at me and ran a hand through my hair, tugging it lightly. “Yeah. Don’t feel like drinking tonight, but you go on. I know you’ve been looking forward to the weekend.”

  “Not to mention all the mimosas I’ve had already.” I sniggered into my beer, and Imran laughed.

  “Good show?” he asked Samuel.

  “Not bad.” Samuel hooked his arms over the back of the chair, resting his chin on his wrist, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. His eyes twinkled with pride, and I squeezed his knee. He didn’t like to brag about anything, ever, but he’d done well and he knew it.

  “You were amazing,” I told him, and beside me Imran made a gagging noise.

  “You two put all the couples in the world to shame,” he said. “I’m disgusted.” He drank his beer, and Sam tugged my hair again. I threaded my fingers through his. Yeah, we were sappy, and I couldn’t care less.

  Out of nowhere Cleo dropped into Imran’s lap and snatched Samuel’s water, which she downed in one go.

  “Darlings,” she said and blew us kisses. “How did opening night go?”

  “It was perfect,” I told her.

  “So you hated every minute of it.”

  Sam laughed at my indignant “No!”

  “He did. You should’ve seen him, Cleo. Pressed against the wall like a frightened little flower.”

  I sniffed when they all laughed at me. “Well, those old ladies have very sharp nails. And that bald guy was either going to make me buy illegal art or force me to become a running boy for his Mafia diamond-trade operation.”

  “I think he just wanted to make you his bum boy,” Samuel said, and I felt my cheeks stain red while the others hollered at me in glee.

  “Come dance,” Cleo said, and she gripped my hand. She was sweating head to toe, her dark hair hanging in thick strands to her collarbones, and she still managed to look radiant. I fought her tugging long enough to kiss Sam, because I knew once I was on that dance floor with her, I wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. Our mouths brushed together, and for a moment the music seemed to dim, the noise around us fading into nothing. There was just me and him.

  “God, Ollie,” he whispered, and then he let me go. The noise returned with a bang, the music heaving in the sweltering heat. I lifted my free hand, gave in to Cleo’s tugging, and whooped. She laughed and swung her arms around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thomas making out with the buxom blonde, and after that my world dissolved into the hot rhythm of Latin music and Cleo’s lithe body against mine.

  Around three in the morning, the music slowed a little and Imran came to steal Cleo away. Right behind him was Samuel, and we slipped into a slow dance as if we’d rehearsed it. He didn’t say much and neither did I, but I felt the moment deeply, like a comforting weight in the center of my soul, grounding me to earth. I closed my eyes and smiled as I laid my head on his shoulder.

  “Can we go soon?” he asked me when the song ended. “It’s been a long day, and I’m tired.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Of course. Let me just go grab a glass of water. I’m parched.”

  “Sure. I’ll be waiting in the courtyard. I need some air. Thomas said we can take his car.” He held out a bunch of keys, and I was relieved we wouldn’t have to walk home.

  The place was still busy but not packed anymore, and I got my water pretty quickly. Cleo and Imran were snuggled up in the corner, so I just gave them a little wave. When I saw Thomas standing all by himself, I went to go say hi.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Where’s your girl?”

  “Her name’s Liesbeth. And she’s in the bathroom,” he said. A strand of his long brown hair had gotten stuck between his lips. He’d pulled it back in a bun, but a lot of it had come undone and clung to his neck in sweaty peaks. I plucked the hair out of his mouth.

  “So you won’t need our couch?” Thomas lived outside of Antwerp in a small village by the Schelde. He always talked about moving to the city so he wouldn’t have to deal with traffic on the E17 anymore. So far he hadn’t made real plans yet.

  His gaze trailed to the bathroom, and I followed it, seeing the girl emerge. She waved, and we both waved back. He smirked at me. “Doubtful, but I’ll call if I do.”

  “I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” We hugged quickly, and he rubbed my back.

  “Take care,” he said.

  I nodded and walked away.

  Samuel was waiting for me by the big wooden door that led to the street. “Ready to go?” he asked as he held up his arm. I walked underneath it and snuggled close.

  “Yes. Did you have a good time?”

  He smiled down at me. “I had a great time. You know I love watching you have fun.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want you to sit through these evenings because you have to.”

  “No, I had a good time talking to Imran. His hospital stories are always incredible.”

  Thomas had left his car by the docks. We crossed the Ernest Van Dijckkaai, a wide road that hugged the water. The night smelled of the sea air the river brought with it. A cool wind had picked up and made me shiver, and Samuel hugged me tighter.

  Little light covered the parking lots, and we fell quiet as we hurried along. Samuel held Thomas’s key out, and in the distance a car beeped once as its indicators flashed.

  We walked toward it, and a chill ran down my spine. Every single hair on the back of my neck rose. Either my eyes were playing tricks or the world was turning darker. The foreboding hung so thick I could taste it. “Sam,” I whispered.

  “I know.” He grabbed my hand, squeezed it, then tugged me forward. We half ran toward the car. I’d never f
igure out why, but I understood something terrible was about to happen. My heart tried to claw its way out of my throat.

  “Sam,” I said again, and a dark figure stepped out from behind a van. “Oh no.”

  “Your wallet,” the man said. His eyes were wide and his gaze kept darting from me to Sam to the street behind us. It was hard to see his face, but every now and again the dim light caught the sweat on his forehead or the brown of his rotting teeth. “Both of you. Car keys, phones, watches. All of it.”

  “Oh God.” I began to tremble, and Samuel took a careful step away from me. The mugger’s frantic eyes followed him, which must have been Sam’s intention, but I didn’t like it one bit.

  “Do what he says,” he told me calmly. “It’ll be okay.”

  I nodded and tried to keep a hold of myself as I undid the watch on my wrist. It had been a gift from my dad, but in that moment it could’ve been a gift from the king and I wouldn’t have cared.

  By the time I managed to take my phone and wallet out of my pockets, I was trembling so hard I fumbled and dropped them. Then it all happened at once.

  “Oh God,” I said again, bending to pick them up.

  The guy yelled, “Stay where you are!” and Samuel stepped between us.

  I heard the guy swear, ripping something from Samuel’s hands. Samuel turned around, his eyes wide.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “Yeah, we can get new wallets.” I tried to laugh, but my eyes were wet and my voice was hoarse. I looked up to see the man running away. “He’s gone. Should I call the police?”

  “I think you need to call an ambulance,” Samuel whispered. He was clutching at me, dragging me down with him. I didn’t understand.

  “Sam? Sammy? Oh my God. Oh my God.” I tried to ease him down slowly, but he was so heavy we both fell. The gravel bit painfully into my knee, and his head lolled to the side.

  “Sam!” I grabbed his face and righted it. He looked at me and mouthed something, but all that came out were bubbles of blood. “No. No no no, Samuel, oh please, God, no.” He was clutching his abdomen and I pried his fingers away. A thick pool of blood darkened his shirt. I made a hoarse noise. Pressing my hands over what must be a stab wound, I looked up and saw a couple walking. “Help me!” I yelled. I fumbled around for either of our phones, but my vision was cloudy with panic and tears, and I couldn’t find them. “Somebody help me!”

  When I looked back down at Samuel, his eyes had filmed over.

  I screamed as his blood seeped under my fingernails. And because grief is, intrinsically, a selfish emotion, all I felt was my own heart bleeding.

  I sat in the hospital, unaware of anything but the loud buzzing noise between my ears and the glaringly bright lights. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. Someone in a police uniform was kneeling in front of me. His mouth was moving, but I heard nothing. Eventually he shook his head and stood. I watched him go toward a nurse. They talked. He pointed at me. She looked over and nodded. Her mouth pinched together in what could’ve been sympathy. I averted my eyes. I didn’t want to see anyone’s pity. That meant acknowledging something was wrong.

  Someone rubbed my arm. I looked down at the hand. Wrinkled fingers stroked the fabric of my coat. I knew the fat golden ring on the index finger, but my brain didn’t work. I looked up. It was Sam’s mom. I quickly looked away again. Cleo sat on my other side, sobbing so hard I suddenly understood why the chair I sat in seemed to be moving jerkily. I looked away from her too.

  Something cold pressed to my cheek. I startled.

  “You have blood on your face.”

  They were the first words to penetrate the fog in my mind since Samuel told me to call an ambulance.

  “What?”

  Where the cop had been, Thomas crouched. His eyes were swollen and red, his cheeks tearstained. There was such enormous pain in his gaze, my heart flinched.

  “There’s blood on your face,” he said again. “Here, let me . . .”

  He pressed the wet paper towels to my temple. I watched them come away dark with brown flecks. Sam’s blood.

  I lurched out of the chair and barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up into the sink. I didn’t look at myself. I couldn’t look at anything, because everything would bring me closer to acknowledging the truth. I rinsed my mouth and walked out.

  “Ollie? The police have to ask you some questions, darling.”

  Oh no. I shook my head, not looking at Sam’s mother either. “I want to see him,” I whispered. “Can I see him?”

  A nurse stepped into my line of sight. “Yes. You can come with me.”

  “Do you want anyone to go with you?” Cleo asked.

  I glanced at Sam’s mom, but she was staring into space. I shook my head.

  I should’ve felt something, surely. But there was nothing at all as I kept my eyes on the nurse’s white shoes and followed her down the stark hallway. Her soles squeaked with every step. I had no idea where we were going.

  She opened a door leading to a small, single-bed hospital room. “Will you be okay?” she asked me.

  I looked around the sterile space, the huge window in it, the crisp, clean floor, the table with its retractable leaf, the handrails, and finally the unmoving shape in the lonely bed. He was in a bed. Did that mean he’d still been alive when the ambulance brought him in? I wished I could remember if anyone had said something, but my mind was completely blank. I couldn’t even recall the ambulance ride.

  No, I thought. No, I will never be okay again. “I’ll be fine.”

  She nodded, touched my shoulder gently, and left me to it.

  I took one step and then stood nailed to the floor as the door quietly fell shut behind me. It felt like I should stand there forever, like this moment should never move along.

  What lay ahead of me anyway? Nothing at all. I tried to imagine, for a second, what life would be like without Sammy in it. My brain recoiled and slapped that thought away like it was an angry wasp. I stood there until my toes cramped.

  I caught sight of Samuel’s hands, and my gaze snagged there. I wasn’t ready to look at his face.

  His hands lay on top of the sheet, by his sides. They were pale and a little bit dirty. I stepped into the bathroom to my right and grabbed a few paper towels. I wet them under the tap and slowly walked over. His hand was still warm. Maybe not as warm as it should’ve been, but warm enough to pretend.

  “I’ll clean you up,” I said. “I know how much you hate dirt under your fingernails. Unless it’s paint. You never seem to mind paint. Although . . .” I lifted my head and smiled as I stared out of the window. The sky was turning gray in the distance. I didn’t want there to be a new day, or a new dawn. It reminded me of every morning lying ahead of me when I’d wake up without . . .

  I pushed that thought away too. “You could only bear the paint on your hands as long as you were actually painting. As soon as you were done, you’d scrub and scrub until it was gone.”

  When I’d cleaned the dirt from one hand, I stood to get fresh paper towels and sat down on his other side.

  “You never told me what you’ve been working on lately. I’m sorry to say I’m going to have to take a peek now.” I cleaned his fingers and his palm. “You always used to let me see all your paintings, no matter what stage they were in. So I could only come to one conclusion, you know. It’s a wedding present, isn’t it?”

  Oh God.

  I dropped his hand. I dropped the towels. Automatically, like a reflex, I raised my head and looked at his face.

  “Sammy?” I asked in a very small voice. My hand trembled when I lifted it to swipe his hair aside. The gel had all come out, and it looked so soft. My favorite time of day was when he’d exit his evening shower and I could run my hands freely through his locks.

  An ugly hiccup of a sob tore itself free from my mouth. I covered it to make sure no other noise escaped. His eyes were closed. His lips were pale. I dropped my hands. “Sammy?”

  Nothing. Of cours
e, nothing. Because Samuel Mathieu was gone. He’d been gone for goodness knew how long, while I’d been sitting in the waiting room, trying to change the course of time.

  It was my fault. If we’d left earlier, if I hadn’t insisted on going out, if we’d stayed at the gallery and gone home from there . . .

  My fault.

  I shook all over when I rose to my feet. Tears leaked out of my eyes and fell onto his cheeks as I leaned over him. I tried to wipe them away, but it was no use; they kept on falling. The pain was immeasurable, a giant beast in my chest, and I thought it wouldn’t ever stop roaring. I gave up, pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, and carefully lay down beside him, where I cried and cried until someone came to take me away.

  I couldn’t remember anything between that moment and the funeral. Most likely I slept a lot on my mom’s couch. She lived in a small apartment on Linkeroever, on the other side of the Schelde. After my dad died when I was eighteen, and as I got ready to move on to college life, she’d downsized and never looked back.

  The weather was undecided on the day of the funeral. A few raindrops fell when we entered the Holy Ghost Church, and as I sat through the service, I kept listening for a downpour on the roof but heard nothing. I don’t remember what the priest said. Afterward, a lot of people offered me condolences, one or two ignored me completely—I couldn’t have cared less even though my mom was outraged—and then I was in our home, with people eating and laughing and reminiscing.

  I hadn’t been here since Sam died. It didn’t feel like my house without him in it, and part of me wondered if I’d have to give it up now. Did he have a will? I didn’t know. I hadn’t even been able to answer the question if he’d wanted to be cremated or not. His mother had thought so, and so did I, even though the idea of it had made me cry for hours. Imagining that beautiful man wasting away in a coffin six feet under had been ten times worse, so cremation it was.

  “Ollie?”

  I blinked. Somehow I’d made my way to our bedroom. From here the noise downstairs was a dim murmur. I couldn’t begrudge them their laughter, but it cut my soul.