Angela Morrison - Sing Me to Sleep

I nod, starting to get there. “That’s why you flipped about him taking Sarah there.”

He touches the tubes that run into his nose. “I had to have oxygen on the plane—and all night and the mornings except when we performed.” He weakly lifts a hand and points to a black mound of Kevlar on top of the dresser. “I took my vest and inhalation mask. Three times a day, I inhaled antibiotics and this stuff that thins your mucous, and then I was in the vest for twenty minutes.”

“What does it do?”

“Moves the gunk in the smaller passages of my lungs into the bigger ones so I can huff it out.”

“Huff?”

“Like a cough without a cough.” He closes his eyes. “Before I got the vest, the guys used to put a piano bench on a flight of stairs and pound me. Blake’s almost as good at it as my mum.”

He’s losing me. “You sang, though. Your voice was totally pure.”

“I did extra treatments before performances. I spent the night in the hospital twice for IV antibiotics. Modern medicine is great.”

He wasn’t weak like this. I’m still confused. “How did you do that and keep up with the schedule?”

“I skipped out of most of the practices. I did performances and you.”

“But after, you were so active.”

“That might have been a mistake. I mean exercise is a good thing. My adrenaline cravings kept me strong and alive for years. I’d been so weak and sick, and suddenly I was alive again, relatively healthy again—and pumped full of you. You’re better than any drug, Beth.”

I shake my head.

“I went overboard after you left trying to keep up with Blake. Mountaintops aren’t a smart place to be if you have trouble breathing. I had to take my portable O2 tank with me when we went snowboarding. I got a few good runs in, sucked oxygen in between them. It was my last shot to live.”

He went overboard that last night with me, too. “We stayed out way too late. And then you had to go rescue Sarah.”

“That wasn’t so bad. I took a taxi. I took a lot of taxis in Lausanne. The only time I walked was with you. You just thought I was getting a cold.”

“You totally faked me out.”

“After I dropped Sarah off, I didn’t go back to the hotel room—went straight up to the hospital. The Swiss doctors were great.”

I remember him coughing as our bus rolled away the next morning.

“I crash-landed when I got home—right back to the hospital.”

“No cottage?”

“I lied, Beth.” His voice drops to almost nothing. “I lied a lot.” He closes his eyes, exhausted from all this talking. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.” There are tears behind his words. “Say hi to Scott.” He can’t stop the pain that takes over his face.

“I’m supposed to leave now?” I should be livid. Angry. Hurt. Scared. I look at his pale, sunken face, tinged blue and bruised, his lips more purple than pink, watch as he takes a labored breath and tries to control his emotions. He looks so young—especially with his hair slicked back like that. There’s nothing left of the confident singer, the intimidating composer, the sensitive boyfriend who wants to keep me a nice girl. He’s just a small boy, and all I want to do is take care of him. He’s not beautiful anymore; neither am I. But what I’m feeling inside is. I love him more than I ever did.

I lean over him again. “You’re going to be fine now. I’m here.”

His eyes flicker open. “I came to see you as soon as they let me out. Whenever I could escape”—his eyes take in the equipment around him—“this.”

“How did you expect to keep me in the dark if I joined the AYS?”

“I think there was a part of me that wanted you to find out. They let me out for practice when I’m up for it. I planned on getting better, not . . . ”

“I’m sorry. I would have been here, Derek. Every day.”

“I know.” He motions me close so I can hear him whisper. “The median life expectancy for CF patients is thirty-seven.”

I swallow. “That gives us loads of time. Remember? You told me they’re doing stuff with genetics.”

“Thirty-seven is the median age. That means half of us die a lot sooner.”

“Not you, though.”

He puts his hand up to my face. “I can only father a baby in a test tube.”

“You can’t—”

“No. That works. The sperm can’t get through my clogged tubes.”

“So we won’t have to worry much about me getting pregnant. You’re the perfect guy for a mutant like me.”

“Last spring after they saved me, I tested antibiotic resistant. I guess they used too much of that new stuff. That meant I had to go inactive on the transplant list until they can fix me.”

“So you’ll get better without them cutting you up?” I like the sound of that.

“Impossible.”

“What?” I’m not believing him. “You did last spring—”

“That helped me . . . for a while. Mum’s trying to get me reinstated on the active list. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

I lay my face on his pillow. “Yes—you are.” Derek dying? No way. It’s not real. I won’t let him. I kiss his salty face. “You are going to stay right here and do everything the doctors tell you to do.”

“Story of my life.” He shakes his head.

“You are never riding that motorcycle again. I’m going to sit beside you and make sure it happens.”

He opens one eye. “In that dress?”

I glance down. “Do I look like a fool?”

“You’re gorgeous. You don’t have to stay. I already have a mum.”

I stand up. “But you’ve been so stupid. Look at all the time we wasted.”

“I thought you had school and your choir?”

“If we only have until you’re thirty-seven—”

“Beth, stop—” He reaches out, and my cold hand meets his fevered one.

I bend over him and press my lips on his salty, dry mouth. “Your mom can’t do that.” I kiss him again. “You don’t want to see the scene I’ll pitch if somebody tries to make me leave.”

“You’ll stay for my sponge baths?”

“If they’ll let me help.”

“I’ll get the nurses to train you—right away.”

“You talk dirty when you’re helpless.”

“It’s all I can do.” He grins, but the pain and bitterness are back in his voice. He pushes a white button pinned to his bed where he can easily reach.

A nurse appears.

“Hey, Meg. This is Beth. You think you can find her some scrubs? She says she’s moving into my lair.”

The nurse, Meg, smiles at me. “I’ll be right back.”

I change in Derek’s bathroom. The pants are way short and surgical green doesn’t help my bright-red face much. I stare at my hideous reflection and promise myself Derek will never see me cry again. I wash my face and fix it best I can. Nothing close to beautiful.

I call our home phone. Good, Mom doesn’t answer. I manage to say, “Derek’s in the hospital in London. I met his mom. She’s letting me stay over. He’ll be fine,” all in a fairly normal voice. I turn off my cell—hospital rules.

I hang my gown in his closet next to his tux.

Meg looks up from where she’s working on Derek’s IV. “I’d like to see you two at the ball.”

“We sing,” Derek says.

“Together?”

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod. I hope we can do that again. Wherever and whenever he wants.

Meg leaves us alone.

“My mum came back while you were changing. She was relieved you didn’t strangle me.”

I sit down in the chair. It’s still where I left it close by his bed.

“I told her you wouldn’t leave.”

“What did she say?”

“Thank you. She’s going home to sleep in her own bed.”

My eyes dart around the room, expecting to find his mom hiding somewhere. “How can she leave you here alone like that? What if—?”