Part 46 (1/2)
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 rest.”