After Forever (12 page)

As was the case whenever I played here, there was a crowd around the door. The aged residents, doctors, nurses, family members. Some were crying.
 

“What was that?” Cade asked.

“It’s something I wrote. It’s called ‘Song for Ever.’”

“Is there more?”

“Yeah.” I breathed in, called to mind his song, which I’d titled “Cadence.” I played it through for him, seeing his face in the deep, tragic notes, the entire movement played on the lower strings. “That was your song.”

“Don’t stop playing, please?” He couldn’t look at me, couldn’t seem to lift his head.

“Excuse me?” This was from an old man in a wheelchair, liver spots on his scalp, a few wisps of hair, palsy-trembling hands, sharp, lucid eyes. “I was a cellist. My wife…she loved the fourth suite.” He obviously expected I’d know what he meant.

“Which part should I play?” I asked.

He responded without hesitation. “Sarabande. That was her favorite.”
 

I played the fourth suite Sarabande, and then, because once I start playing the suites I just can’t stop, I played the Bourée. I watched the old man as I played, and I watched his fingers follow along with mine, watched him sway, watched his face shift in the rapture of a musician.
 

 
Eventually I had to stop. When I stilled my bow, the old man beckoned to me. I leaned down to him, and he hugged me.
 

“Thank you, my dear. My Lily would have been in heaven if she could hear you play.” He let go, and wheeled himself away slowly.

I noticed one of the nurses eyeing him in surprise. “What is it?” I asked her.

“Well, it’s just that Ralph, he’s—his dementia is so bad he often doesn’t even know himself most days. He never talks about his wife. I didn’t even know he’d been a cellist, and he’s been here for ten years.” The nurse watched him go, shaking her head in amazement. “Wonders never cease. I’ve not seen him that lucid, that much himself in all the years he’s been here.”

“Music can do amazing things,” I said.
 

“That it can,” she agreed. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” I said to her. When I turned back to Cade, he was sitting up, wiping his face. “Are you okay?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “No. But then, I never am.” He stood up. “You want some time?”

I shook my head. “No. That was my time.”

I packed Apollo into his case, and we left together. We were tugging on hats, gloves, and scarves when one of the doctors emerged from an office, saw us, and held up a hand to stop us. I didn’t like the look on his face, and, judging from Cade’s expression, neither did he. I left my scarf unwound, tugged my gloves back off.

“Mr. Monroe, Ms. Eliot, I’m glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to speak to you both for some time.” He gestured at the office door he’d just left. “Do you have a moment?”

We followed him into his office, each of us taking one of the chairs opposite his desk.
 

“What is it, Dr. Murphy?” Cade asked, his voice weary.
 

Dr. Murphy hesitated, straightening already neat stacks of file folders. “Have you thought of Ever’s quality of life?”

Cade narrowed his eyes. “Quality of life?”

“Well, yes. Meaning, have you thought about her future, long-term? She’s only able to survive with a ventilator and feeding tubes. And sometimes, you have to ask yourself what kind of life that is for her.”

“What are you suggesting?” Cade’s voice was sharp as razors.

“Merely that you consider all the factors. Ever is not showing any sign of brain activity. It’s been a year, and there has been no sign of change. It’s true that with the ventilator and feeding tubes she can remain technically alive indefinitely, but…
should
she? She may not, and likely will never, emerge from her coma, Mr. Monroe. That is simply a sad but unavoidable truth. I’m only suggesting that maybe you consider other options. Organ donation, for example. There are waiting lists extending into months and years for healthy organs, and Ever could save many, many lives if you chose to donate her organs.”

“Don—donate her
organs
?” Cade asked. “Are you—are you
fucking
kidding me?”

The doctor frowned. “I apologize if that seems harsh, or uncaring. I assure you, I care very much about Ever’s welfare. I’ve been monitoring her condition since the day she arrived, and I only want what’s best for her…and for you. Ever is in what we call a persistent vegetative state, or a persistent non-responsive state. We have no way to bring her out of it, no way to know what long-term damage has been done to her brain. In the process of saving her life, the surgeons had to act quickly to stave off what would have been a fatal aneurysm. That, in turn, led to a stroke.”

“I know all this, Dr. Murphy. The surgeons told me all this a year ago.” Cade spoke carefully, his words clipped and far too calm.

“It’s my job to consider all avenues, Mr. Monroe, Ms. Eliot. And I think you should at least consider what would be best for everyone.”

I knew Cade well enough to know he was on the verge of throttling Dr. Murphy where he sat. “Thank you, Doctor. We’ll keep that in mind.” I touched Cade’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Dr. Murphy stood up with us, extended his hand to shake Cade’s. “Happy holidays to you both.”

Cade ignored the outstretched hand with obvious derision. “Yeah. Happy fucking holidays.”

Dr. Murphy dropped his hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but I pushed Cade out the door before he could say anything else. The timing of doctors was sometimes unfathomable.

“Are you going home?” I asked Cade, once we were outside.

“I don’t know,” he said. Cade stood outside his Jeep, watching the snow fall. He finally turned to look at me. “I can’t—I can’t go back there. Not today.”

“So come home with me. I’ve got some gin.”

He just nodded, and got into his car. I worried about him. He seemed absent, and I wasn’t sure he was okay to drive. I didn’t stop him, though. I got into my Passat and led the way, out into the evening darkness. The snow was a white veil obscuring all the world. As we drove, I watched him in my rearview mirror. He seemed okay, and then, nearly home, he swerved, slowed, and cut across onto the shoulder. Panic hit me, but he seemed in control, sliding to a stop in the inch-deep accumulation on the shoulder. I jumped out of my car and ran to the passenger side of his Jeep. He fumbled with the lock, and I got in.
 

The heat was blasting, the interior a sweltering sauna. The radio was off, and Cade was slumped against the steering wheel, hyperventilating. I turned the heat down, cracked my window, put my hand on his back.
 

“Breathe, Cade. Deep breaths. In and out. Deep breaths.”

“I can’t—I can’t. I thought I could do it, but I can’t. The car, it came out of nowhere. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it until it was too late. But…maybe if I hadn’t overcorrected, she’d…she’d be okay.” He’d never talked to me about the accident itself. “I keep seeing it happen. Over and over. The gray Hyundai stuck in the ditch. Spinning. Hitting the asphalt. We flew so far, and then we hit. Right on her side. I wish—I wish it had been mine. Should have been me. I couldn’t stop it. We rolled and rolled, and she wasn’t screaming. She should be screaming. Why isn’t she screaming? She shouldn’t be so quiet. There’s so much blood. I can see bone, god, her bones. Pieces of bone. Pieces of her…her fucking
head
. Floating in the blood. Why didn’t she just
die
? Why did they save her, just to leave her half-alive?”
 

“Cade, stop, stop.” I leaned forward, but he wouldn’t look at me. “Stop, Cade. Try to breathe. Try to calm down.”

“I CAN’T CALM DOWN!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth, eyes manic and wild, wet and red-rimmed. “She’s gone! But she’s not dead, and I can’t mourn and can’t forget her and can’t move on. I can’t bury her, but I can’t have her! I can’t do anything! I’m coming apart, Eden! I’m going crazy, don’t you understand that?” He pulled his hair, rocking back and forth.
 

I didn’t know what to do. He was rocking, rocking, crying, pulling violently at his hair.
 

“I couldn’t get to her. If I could just—just reach her. But I can’t. My arm is stuck. Something—something has my arm. She’s not crying. Not doing anything. Just lying there. Goddammit, Ever…Ever. No. Wake up. Wake up! WAKE UP!” He looked at me, not seeing me. “She won’t wake up. They’re taking her, but they won’t tell me if she’s dead. She’s not dead, is she? Just TELL ME!”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook him as hard as I could, desperate to stop him. “CADE! STOP!” I grabbed his face, his stubble-roughened cheeks. “Look at me, Cade.”

His eyes found mine. Hope welled. “Ever?”

Oh, that hurt. That hurt like a knife. “No. It’s me. It’s Eden.”

The fading of hope into haunted loss hurt even worse. “Eden?”

I didn’t let go of his face, my nose touching his, watching his tortured amber eyes. “Yeah, Cade. It’s me, it’s Eden. You’re okay. Right? You’re okay? Come on, Cade, talk to me. Snap out of it.”

He blinked. Seemed to crumple. I caught him, held his face against my breast and tangled my fingers in his hair as he sobbed with wrecked abandon. Cars whooshed by intermittently, rocking the Jeep, and Cade wept. His tears wet my shirt, and he clutched my shoulders with bruising strength, shuddering, wracked by the kind of sobs that come from absolute agony.
 

I held him, stroked his head and his shoulders, his broad back.
 

He eventually sat up. “Sorry, god—sorry, I just—”

I put my hand over his mouth. “Don’t apologize. Never apologize. Not to me.”

“I—I—Eden, I can’t—I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to keep doing this. It’s a half-life. It’s the worst guilt I’ve ever felt, but sometimes, I—I wish she’d just died. Wish she’d just die. So I don’t have to keep this up, keep pretending to live. I tell myself, one day at a time, but I can’t…I can’t do it anymore.”

“Cade, please, no. Don’t talk like that. She’ll wake up. She will. Don’t give up.” I hunted his eyes with mine, saw the horror there, the despondency. “You’re not—you’re not considering suicide…are you?”

His hesitation was enough to make my stomach heave. “It’s not that I want to kill myself. I just don’t—I can’t keep living like this. I don’t want to
die
, I just don’t want to be alive anymore, not if this is all it’ll ever be.”

“You
can’t
, Cade. Please. Don’t talk like that.” I brushed his hair out of his eyes. It was too long, down past his cheekbones. “You have to keep hoping. You have to believe. She’ll wake up, Cade. She will.”

“SHE WON’T!” The words were a ragged cry. “She won’t. She won’t.”

“She has to.”

“What if she doesn’t?” He looked at me, desperate for answers, for hope I didn’t really feel.
 

I shrugged miserably. “She will. She will.”
 

He seemed to understand that I didn’t have anything else to offer, no more hope, no more reassurance. He stared out the window at the snow. “I hate snow.”

“Me, too.” A plow truck roared past, thrown snow blattering against the window, salt pelting the door. “We should go. It isn’t safe here.”

“Okay.” He wiped his face, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m good. I’m…good.”

“I can drive. I’ll bring you back to your Jeep later.”

“Nah. I’m okay. Promise.”

“Do you want me to follow you back to your place? Or are we still going to mine?”

He shrugged. “I can’t…I don’t want to be alone. And my place…there are too many memories. Especially tonight.”

“All right.” I leaned into him, wrapped him up in a hug. When we pulled apart, our faces hovered inches apart. I swallowed hard, forced myself to get out of the car. “We’re close. Just…drive safe, okay? I’ll see you in a minute.”

We made it to my dorm without issue. I was on full alert the whole way, watching him in my rearview, paranoid, but he stayed two car-lengths back and kept it between the lines. We parked, and the wind battered us, cut us with slicing shards of snow. Cade took my cello from me, and I let him, although it made me queasy to let anyone else touch it.
 

My roommate was from Virginia and she was back home for the holidays, so I had the place to myself. When Ever had moved from an apartment into the Cranbrook dorms, I had gone with her. Just to be closer to her. Being so far apart had felt impossible.
 

Cade gave me Apollo back and I took him with a sigh of relief, set him in his place in my room, then shucked my coat and boots. Cade was sitting on the couch, still in his coat, hat, and scarf. I sat beside him, pulled his hat off, smoothed his hair down. He swallowed, met my eyes.

“Is this okay? Me, being here?”

“Of course. I don’t really want to be alone either,” I confessed.

“I’m sorry I lost it—”
 

 
I shushed him, my hand on his mouth. “Don’t. I told you, don’t. Not with me.” My hand didn’t leave his mouth right away, and he stared at me, my hand on his mouth, his eyes wavering.

He let me take his coat, kicked his boots off. Bits of snow melted on the threadbare carpet. “Can you believe that guy?” He rubbed his face, then ran his hands through his hair. “‘I think you should let your wife die. And give her organs away. Oh, and merry Christmas.’”
 

I didn’t answer right away. “He was kind of an idiot for bringing that up today, of all days.”

Cade’s gaze went sharp with suspicion. “You don’t…
agree
with him, do you?”
 

“No! Of course not. I just…I think he had a point in saying that maybe we should at least…
think
about—”

“About what? Killing her off? Letting them harvest her organs?”

“No, Cade. Just…” I trailed off with a sigh. “God, that
is
what he was suggesting, wasn’t it? Just in doctor-speak.”

“I read some stories online. About coma patients. People have been in a coma for twenty years and come out of it, just all of a sudden, wake up perfectly aware. I can’t just let her go like that. Not when she could come back any day. Any moment, she could wake up.”