“You’re making me crazy.” I chew on his earlobe.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
“How much better are you?”
“I don’t think it would kill me.”
I start to get excited, kiss him long and slow, pressing my body hard against his.
“The trouble is,” he finally says, “this medication that’s saving my life—makes my extremities go numb.” He runs his hands over my shoulder. “I can’t feel this.”
I capture his hand and kiss his palm.
“That either. No sense violating you if I’m not even going to feel it.”
“But I’ll feel it.” I start to undress but he stops me.
“Save it for Scott, Beth.” There’s a resignation in his voice that frightens me. “I owe him that much for letting me have you all this time.”
“What are you talking about?” I cuddle up to his chest. He doesn’t know about my rupture with Scott.
“When I’m gone—” There’s anger, pain, and sorrow in those three words that neither of us can bear to admit.
“Stop that. You’ll be fine.”
“Beth, listen—”
“No. This is going to work. They’ll put you back on the active list.”
The whole transplant thing makes me angry. They let smokers on it. People who crapped up their lungs on purpose and not my Derek. It’s supposed to be too risky because they have to give him lots of immunosuppressants after the operation. A lot of patients get infections post-op. If you are resistant to all antibiotics, you die. But what’s the alternative? They could try. Why would his new lungs be resistant? I don’t get it at all.
“Listen.” I draw spirals on his chest. “I’ve got two lungs with five healthy, pink lobes.” At last being an absolute Amazon is a good thing. You have to be mega-tall to be considered as a living donor. “You can have one.”
He ignores me. Derek saw me reading those books his mom left. I’ve gone through them all three times. If I give Derek a lobe, then we’d just need an uncle or friendly giant to give him another one. They usually only do living lobar transplants on small women and children who have small ribcages for the smaller lungs, but wouldn’t little lungs be better for Derek than no lungs? “I’m going to get tested. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it to somebody else.”
“No one is cutting you up.”
That gets to me. I can’t talk anymore or I’ll break that promise about losing it in front of him. I don’t want him to know there’s a lump in my throat too big to swallow. His arms wrap around me, and I relax on his chest. He falls asleep holding me, comforting me. I think he does know.
I don’t want to move. He’ll wake up. I can’t sleep. What if I relax my grip, and he slips quietly away? I lie there, hour after hour, listening to him fight through each breath. Meg and another nurse come and go all night like I don’t exist. This is strange. What aren’t they telling me? They up his oxygen flow, put a new bag on his IV, plug his feeding tube in the slot in his stomach, punch up his morphine pump.
All this stuff that keeps him alive—it used to scare me.
Now I love that IV. I love the tube. I should be nervous they want to cut him open and take out his lungs, but the only thing in my heart is hurry, hurry, hurry. Make him active again. Ship him to Toronto. Let’s do this thing. Take part of me if it helps.
At four in the morning, he stops breathing.
I jam the call switch and start to shake him. “Derek. Come on. Please.”
The nurses rush in with a medical team right behind. Meg shoves me out of the way.
I stumble into the bathroom, sweating cold, and wretch over the toilet.
Meg appears behind me, hands me a damp washcloth. “How long was he out before you buzzed us?”
“Seconds. Is he—”
“Asking for you. You saved his life.”
“This time.”
She goes off to call his parents. His mom left strict instructions for updates.
I sit by his bed, holding his hand, while therapists work to clear his lungs—gently. They roll him onto his side and pound his back with cupped hands like his mom used to do every day, four times, morning, noon, afternoon, and night. Whatever clogged his throat is gone now, but he starts to cough up thick green phlegm and blood—chokes on the mess, gasps, manages to somehow breathe again. They give him an inhaled antibiotic treatment and more Ventolin, the thinning stuff.
Things calm down by the time he’s finished the treatment. Meg checks his monitors one more time. “Call me,” she orders and leaves the door open.
I take Derek’s hand again and look at him. It’s trembling. I look at his gray face and closed eyes. I realize these past two weeks have been filled with false reports. He faked it pretty good this afternoon. Kind of like how he faked me out ever since I met him. What did those nights that he stole away from the hospital to see me cost him? And this afternoon, what did those few minutes of exertion cost? Have I killed him?
His fingers move against my hand, and he opens his eyes. “You brought me back.”
I shake my head. “It was them.”
“No. It was you.” His eyes drift closed again.
I lean over him. “Derek. Derek. Come back.”
“I’ve been waiting . . . for you. Next time—” He opens his eyes and stares at me.
I shake my head, can’t stop denying what he’s saying. “Rest now. You’ll be fine.”
His eyes drop closed. “You need to let me go.”
I kiss his forehead and whisper, “I can’t.” I’m not ready. I’m so not ready.
“The place I’m going—I’ve been there a couple times now. There’s peace—love—a joyfulness I can’t explain. Let me stay. Next time . . . I’m ready to stay there.”
Take me home, take me home, take me home.
He wants to go, but I can’t leave him. “Take me with you then.”
He frowns. “Not allowed.”
“Have you told your mom?”
“Will you?”
I bow my head over his hand. Pain throbs in my chest. I can’t do this. I can’t let him go. I only know how to hang on. I wish I knew something about praying—had the strength of that slave girl in my solo singing down by the river Jordan.
Oh, the glory of that bright day
When I cross the river Jordan.
She knew something I don’t. “Give me that,” I whisper. “Please.”
The weight on my heart doesn’t lift, but a calm, soothing sensation flows from Derek’s hand into mine. Comfort emanates through me. “How are you doing that?”
“I’m not.”
“Maybe it’s deliverance.”
“Sing it for me, Beth.”
“My solo?”
“It’s in the drawer.” He closes his eyes. “Sing me to sleep.”
I pull open the nightstand drawer. There’s a sheaf of wordless music on the top. “Beth’s Song.” “I don’t have any words.”
He doesn’t answer.
I wish I could find phrases to match his music that could tell him how much I love him, but all I can do is hum the melody, add “oohs” and “aahs.” His parents arrive while I’m singing. I start to leave—Derek’s mom doesn’t need me to tell her anything. She knows. She stops me, though. Keeps me there with them, singing to Derek.
I sing his song over and over again—aching for some kind of meaning to match this delicate melody so full of life and love. I’m afraid to stop singing. Afraid to let go of him.
A hint of dawn reaches the room. His eyes flutter open, his mouth eases into a smile. He looks like an angel already.
No one moves when his breathing stops.
“Good-bye, my Derek-boy.” His mom bends over and kisses his forehead.
I touch my lips to his one last time.
His father pats his head, awkward and manly. “You fought a good one, son.”
Derek’s machines sound off. Meg comes running. His mom caresses his hair off his forehead. “Let him re
st.”
Meg backs out of the room, tears streaming down her face.
I wish I could cry like that. It’s not fair. She’s just his nurse. Give me those tears to soften the desolation I feel as he goes. His mom is crying. So is his dad. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so cold? Where did the music go?
I look down at Derek. His hand in mine is no longer warm. Oh, dear God, it isn’t him anymore.
I let go of the hand and lay it gently under the sheets. I shiver, have to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. I am so cold, so, so, so cold.
Doctors and nurses grow around us like dandelions in the lawn. Meg guides us gently out of the room.
I stop and look back. “What are they doing to him?”
“Nothing.”
My mom is in the waiting room. I don’t know how she got here. She holds me and cries. I pat her back and try to remember how it felt to hold his hand.
chapter 32
WORSE
It’s dark. Even with my eyes staring wide open.
A bar of light falls across my face. I jam my eyes closed.
“Beth, honey, why don’t you try school today? I’ll drive you. It’ ll make you feel better.”
A stack of books on my desk. Notes from my teachers. They all look forward to my return—as soon as I’m better.
Sarah, Leah, and Meadow appear at the foot of my bed. How dare Mom let them in. There’s no music left inside me. “We miss you, Beth. Come sing with us. It’ ll make you feel better.”
Better? I don’t want to feel better. Even the damn minister at the confused blur that was Derek’s funeral so many days ago said Derek was better off now. No more suffering. Even Derek said it. Leaving me was better.
I am worse. Buried in worse. Cling to dusk and the four walls of my shadowy bedroom. I play his voice over and over and over. Hold him in my dreams, but he dissolves, and I’m left in the dark turning to stone.
No tears come to wash him away. I’m filled with cold, dead empty that started the night he died and grows and grows and grows.
A whisper comes to me when I wake in the night and stare out the window at the gloom of February snowstorms. Follow him, Beth. You’ ll feel so much better.
I bury that voice. Hear the evil in it. Derek would be so angry if I did that. I’m supposed to live. I want to live. But how can I without him? If he could see me now—crap—what if he can? He’ll hate me.
Mom again. Pale light. “I’m not sure she’ll talk to you.”
I roll over—shade my eyes against the brightness. She hands me the phone. It finds my ear. His mom again? No. A guy’s voice. Who is this guy?
“ . . . Would you be in it?”
“Is this Blake?”
“That’s right.”
“Can you say that again?”
“Amabile is holding a memorial CF benefit concert for Derek. You’re not the only one, Beth. We all miss him.”
“You want me to come?” Leave my safe darkness? The shadows? This solid pain that keeps reality at bay.
“We want you to sing.”
“For Derek?”
“Will you do it?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Thank you, Blake. Yes.”
With trembling hands, I pull down the heavy quilt blocking my window. Gray winter day flows through the cracks and crevices of my den. The first thing I see—lying half-buried under undone assignments from school—is Derek’s pale pink rose, dry, delicate—but real. As real as my love. As real as my loss.
I rescue it, cradle it in my palms, and lift it to my lips. That faint scent, sweet but dead, finds its way through my senses. I glance around at the mess, searching for a safe place. It doesn’t exist in this chaos. I step on a roll of tape. Use it to secure the rose to the piece of wall I see if I lie curled on my side in bed. I try it, lie there, staring at Derek’s rose.
Something brings me to my feet, stumbling through the mess again and searching through the bag I haven’t touched since Mom brought me home from the hospital, darkened my window, and tucked me in bed.
I find white papers, carefully folded over. I press them to my heart and run back to my bed. My nightstand drawer yields a pencil. I pick up my choir binder off the floor. I sit cross-legged on my tangled blankets and lay the binder on my knee, unfold the music, smooth it out with a caress.
“Beth’s Song.”
I pencil in “for Derek” under the printed words.
My eyes close as his melody winds through my soul. Words come slowly at first and then in a torrent. I weigh them, choosing, discarding, searching again, fitting the puzzle pieces together, clothing my bare words in the richness of his music.
My room fills with light as the thick gray clouds outside shift enough for the sun to break through.
chapter 33
FOR DEREK
The concert starts with the Amabile boys singing “Sing Me to Heaven.” People talk about Derek. Somebody gives a lecture on supporting assumed-consent legislation and keeping an organ-donor card in your wallet. The AYS sing. And chamber. Their young boys’ concert choir steals everyone’s heart with the soaring height of their pure voices. Even the youngest Amabiles take a turn. I listen from the sidelines, standing in my crimson choir gown so I won’t crush it.
My name is announced, and my feet carry me onstage. I’ve practiced. I can do this tonight for him. The piano plays a tinkling introduction. A violin comes in. I gaze into the sea of people who loved him long before my solo magically brought him into my life.
My eyes close and I begin to sing.
Don’t steal away your love.
Don’t steal away your touch.
Without your smile I’ ll never find
The star you shine.
I take a deep breath and shake my head, open my eyes to the blur in front of me.
Don’t leave me empty here.
Don’t leave me without hope.
Don’t say it’s for the best, love,
When I’m lying here alone.
Please stay, ’cause I can’t make it on my own.
I draw a deep breath as I move into the chorus. I’m not on that stage. There’s nobody out there. It’s just Derek and me.
Who will be the boy who heals my heart?
Who will be the boy who feeds my art?
Where will I find a friend?
Who will be the boy who rescues me?
Who will be the boy who makes me sing?
You made me live, made me who I am.
If you’re leaving, take me with you,
Here’s my hand.
My voice falters. I take a deep breath and sense a touch in my palm. His hand, his strength, his peace flow into me again like the night he died.
You spoke of peace and rest,
A joy that filled your breast,
And then you closed your precious eyes.
God set you free.
As I sing, Derek fills me up and promises he’ll never leave me.
So I will carry on,
Forever sing your song.
If I have to live without you now,
I’ ll love the best I can,
But whisper when you’re near me, and I’m home.
I move into the chorus repeat, and the audience comes into focus. They’re with me, tears streak their faces, and I realize they are searching, too. Searching for beauty. Searching for love. Searching for life. I found all that when Derek took my hand, smiled, and said, “You sing me to sleep.” I know what beautiful is now, because of him. I know what love is because of him. I know I can be strong. Please, God, help me to be strong.
The key shifts through the bridge, and somehow my voice rises full of strength that isn’t mine.
Together, love, we’ ll find somebody who—
Will help us keep on breathing without you—
The note stretches out. I hold onto it as long as I can. The sea of strangers blurs and one face emerges.
Scott’s here, his face full of pain, witnessing how much I loved Derek. M
y eyes find his and my chorus changes.
Will you be the boy who heals my heart?
Will you be the boy who feeds my art?
Please, will you be my friend?
Will you be the boy who rescues me?
Will you be the boy who makes me sing?
Will you make me true to who I am?
If you’re leaving, take me with you,
Here’s my hand.
If you’re leaving, take me with you,
Here’s my hand.
I finish the song. The applause is reverent. Everyone is still crying. I move through the crowd to Scott. The people stopping me and hugging me were Derek’s real world. The people he let in. The ones who really knew him. His old girlfriend from the AYS. Meg and his doctors. Blake. The Amabile directors. All the guys. This giant wonderful family he grew up with.
I’m a fantasy. A myth. A digital recording—deleted with ease. I’m something else. Somewhere else. I don’t belong here.
But I am here. I would have cared for him and loved him for the rest of my life. I held his hand while he went beyond. The pain I feel is every bit as real as that pretty petite girl I unwittingly stole him from. I loved him. I still love him. I’m clogged with the ache of it. I can’t bear to look back.
When I look forward, there’s Scott, and he catches my arm, supporting me like I’ll faint.
I lean on him. “How’d you get here?”
“Your mom.”
I see her now—standing in the back. “Will you ride home with me? I’m not sure I can drive.”
He nods. “You bet.” He takes the keys and guides me out of there.
All the way home, I sit slumped in my seat with my head down.