Page 169 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
I turn to Callie and stare at her until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I focus on her chest until I’m certain it’s moving, then I hover my trembling fingers centimeters from her lips. Each steady exhale from her mouth works to calm my heart rate as I chant over and over in my head.
She’s here. She’s safe. She’s alive. She’s here. She’s safe. She’s alive.
When my hands have stopped shaking and my heart is beating at a normal pace, I ease myself back under the comforter. I’m careful not to bump Callie’s arm as I snake my hand around her waist and rest my palm on her stomach so I can feel it rise and fall with her breathing. The incision site from her emergency surgery is right below my hand. If I slipped just a fraction of an inch lower, I’d be touching it, but I don’t. I don’t want to hurt her. I just need to know she’s real. Then, I can get some sleep.
It’s barely dawn when I realize I’m alone.
I sweep my hand over the bed finding the sheets cold, and fear seizes my lungs. I kick the blankets from my body and rush to the bathroom, but it’s empty. Trying not to panic, I make my way to the living room, but it’s empty, too. She’s not on the terrace. She’s not in the kitchen. I nearly jog down the hallway, then skid to a stop when I find her sitting at the piano.
Slowly, I release the breath I’d been holding, and I walk to her side. She doesn’t look at me. She just keeps her eyes on the piano keys with her casted left arm cradled in her lap and her right arm hanging lifeless at her side.
She looks so small right now. So lost.
My T-shirt hangs loosely off her body, and the laceration on her face stands out sharply against her pale skin. Her hair has grown a bit since it was first shaved, but it’s still buzzed short, and the pink wound is still clearly visible on her scalp. She blinks, and a single tear slips from her eyelashes. It rolls down her cheek and catches the long, healing wound there, following it to her chin.
“Firebird,” I whisper, and she flicks her eyes to me.
“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.” She lets out a sad laugh. “Usually when I can’t sleep, I...” She blinks again and shakes her head. “Anyway. Sorry. I forgot.”
I take a seat beside her on the piano bench. “You don’t have to apologize. You can come here anytime. It’s yours.”
She sniffles and nods. “Right. Mine.”
Callie lifts her right hand and hovers it over the keys. For a moment, I think she’ll try to play something, but then she drops her arm back to her side, and my heart aches. I can’t imagine how painful it would be if playing music was taken from me. It’s the one thing I’m good at. It’s the one thing that fills me with purpose. I wouldn’t know how to even begin moving forward without it.
This must be agonizing for her, and the longer she sits in silence, staring blankly at the piano keys, the more I can feel her grief. It’s a living being in this room. In this apartment. No matter how close I get, or how tightly I hold her, her grief is there, taking up space between us.She’s wrapped herself up in it. All I want to do is help, but I can’t figure out how to penetrate the grief.
I open my mouth to ask her what she needs—to once again ask her how I can make it better—but then I snap it shut. She won’t answer. She doesn’t know. And the last thing I should be doing is putting that burden on her, anyway.
Slowly, I wrap my arm around her waist, and my muscles relax when she leans her body into mine. I blow out a slow, relieved breath when she rests her head on my chest.
“I know I’m being ungrateful. I should just be happy to be alive. I know I should stop dwelling on this...”
“No, Callie. It’s okay to be sad about this. It’s okay to grieve. You’re not ungrateful. You’ve gone through something traumatic, and you need to be gentle with yourself.”
She falls silent again, and I wish I knew what was going through her head. I’m sure it’s a lot of conflict. I would give anything to help her sort through it.
“Let’s go back to bed. I’m fine.”
I don’t let my shoulders droop with defeat. I’d give anything to just have her talk to me about this.
“Are you sure?” I press a kiss to the top of her head, her short, soft hair tickling my lips.
“I’m sure. I’m just tired.”
“Okay,” I say, giving her once last kiss. “Let’s go back to bed.”
I lead us back to the bedroom in silence, and when we climb back into bed, she curls up beside me and lets me hold her. I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of her bodywash, then listen to her breathing until it’s deep and even.
She’s here and safe and alive. We’ll get through this.
Callie’s got an e-reader lying in her lap when I step out onto the terrace.
She gives me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s out of bed today, though. She’s reading. That’s a good sign.
In the five weeks since the accident, I feel like we’ve each lived tenlives, but hers have been the most turbulent. I still have frequent nightmares, but they vanish the moment I open my eyes. The minute I find Callie, I can breathe again. But for her? Her fears don’t disappear in the daytime hours. If anything, daylight is worse. At night, while asleep, she can dream. Awake, she has to contend with reality.
These days, when I’m lucky enough to see her smile, I find myself sneaking longer glances, taking mental pictures so I can frame it in my memory. So I can use the stored joy to uplift us both next time she’s awash in sun-drenched darkness. Grief has permeated the walls and seeped into the cracks. I’ve found myself searching for anyway to soothe it.
