The White Parade
IV. 3AM
IV. 3AM:
(“Once again, I can’t stress how…terribly sorry we are about the mishap this afternoon.”
“N-no…no, it’s fine. Honest. I won’t sue unless I develop a habit for the stuff.”
They chuckle nervously. “Regardless… That was a careless move on our part. It could have been worse than a sedative.”
“Is he always that difficult?”
“You mean…is he always that hysterical?”
She nods. “He’s never been…that way before. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Yes, well… Normally we wait until you leave. When you left we just assumed--”
“That I was gone for the day.”
“Y-yes.”
“My camera was there. All my stuff…”
“We…didn’t see your things; he must have put them somewhere for safekeeping.”
“Maybe…”
“Try to understand; he’s been with us for almost a year; you’re the first visitor he’s ever had. Naturally, we’re all a little unaccustomed to the change.”
“I understand…”
“Something wrong?”
“No. Well…yes. Why do you do it?”
“Sedate him?”
“Yes.”
“He suffers from an unusual amount of insomnia. None of the tests run on him have him pegged for any particular disorder that might cause it, but…he possesses an ability to stay up for days and days on end without showing any effects. But just because he shows no effects--”
“Doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“Exactly. So we sedate him once a week, to allow his body to try and develop a proper circadian rhythm. We tried a nightly pill, but he refused to take it. He said it…it interfered with his work.”
“His work?”
“Yes. He’s quite brilliant actually. Quite talented.”
“How do you mean?”
They pause, looking at each other.
“You mean…he hasn’t shown you?”
“Sh…shown me what?”)
Pictures. Sketches. Paintings. Without offering too many details, they praised his artistic talents--talents I probably would have gone on without hearing about until…I don’t know. They said he used to be an art student--that he kept going even when he knew he was sick, refusing to quit--until one day he passed out and had to be rushed to the hospital for fatigue. He tried going back, tried to ignore the doctors, but…by then…
It’s late; the sun is well gone from the sky by the time I come around, but they let me go back to his room. It’s different, visiting at night. The shadows and lights are in different places. One of the lamps is on--left by a nurse, I guess--and the window shade is pulled down to block the sparkling view. I put in a call to my parents, to tell them I’m probably not coming home tonight--to tell them that I’m spending the evening in a hospital room, but that I’m not the one sick or injured or even in a bed. They freak, as good parents do, but they understand. They don’t put up too much fuss. They don’t ask too many questions. They just tell me to be careful.
The Patient’s fast asleep when I get there, lying on his back, tucked in with his arms over the blanket. They told me that after I passed out, he didn’t fight the needle; I happen to believe that’s all bullshit they came up with to save face. The lamplight plays on him in a way that scares me--in a way that makes him look dead. Immediately, I turn it off and open the window shade, thankful for the softer light of a city transitioning into night. City lights are less troublesome; city lights, at this hour, look like diamonds trapped in the light veil of city smog.
They lied about not strapping him to the bed after the Valium kicked in. Folding back the blankets just enough, I start on the straps around his ankles first, disgusted with the whole idea of restraining him. He isn’t a danger to himself; they said he hardly moves while he sleeps, and that in the morning he’s calm--if only his usual “pissed-at-the-world” self. He isn’t a danger to himself, except when they come after him, so why…?
Undoing the bonds around his wrists is harder than the ones around his ankles, but soon they loosen enough for me to slip his hands out and rest them over the straps. All the while, he doesn’t make a sound save for the soft, even cycle of his breathing. He doesn’t move…he doesn’t react at all. The Patient is not here; his mind is currently drifting freely, floating along the river Valium for as long as it takes to run its course. I wish he would wake up; I wish he would look at me and demand what the hell I’m doing here when I should have gone home ages ago. I wouldn’t feel so…so scared then.
Two months. They said he had two months at best.
(“I know he seems fairly healthy, but he’s given up hope on any available treatment. It’s only a matter of time before his body gives up on him entirely and he dies.”
“Jesus, Doc… Think you could have made that news a little easier to hear? Maybe a little…song and dance number or something?”)
And settling into this chair now--taking his cold, still hand in mine--I suddenly want very much to cry. I want to cry, but something doesn’t let me. Bitterness, I guess--but you can cry when you’re bitter. Two months…two months… He looks fine; why wouldn’t he last more than just two? He has to last more than two. He has to see the show…
The show. The show is in two months. My…show…
Did he ever get the chance to do a show? If he went to art school, I’m sure he did, but… Did he ever get to do his own? To do one where he was the main focus, where his work was the center of attention…
It’s hard for me to believe it. It’s hard for me to think that he was walking the path I am now--that he was chasing the same dreams I want for myself--until something suddenly came along to knock him into reality’s nearest burst of oncoming traffic. How do these things happen? Why do these things happen? The concept of fate and predestination can only explain so much before it starts to scare you with the fact that if you believe everything was meant to happen the way it happens then it means you have no control over yourself. None.
But then…if you believe we all make our own destinies… If you believe that we decide what happens to us…
My head hurts from thinking. The day has tired me out. I’m probably getting sick; my entire body feels warmer than it probably should, and I feel dizzy. That’s what I get for spending so much time in a hospital, I guess. Ironic, isn’t it? A place of such health and sanitation being the place where you could catch a disease… Sighing, I rest my head on the little space of mattress near his hand, closing eyes that feel as if they’ve been open for centuries. The coldness radiating from his skin is actually comforting for once, and the sound of his breathing is even…peaceful…hypnotic…
A soft chuckle makes me jerk my head up and wonder just where the hell I am for a few seconds.
“It’s past visiting hours, Scarf Girl. You should be at home.”
It takes a few seconds before his face registers in the dim light of the room. He’s smiling a little at me.
“There are no ‘visiting hours’ on this floor. You know that.”
“Yeah. I do.” He pauses a minute to continue staring at me. “You look like you’ve survived Hell.”
“Do I?”
The Patient untangles his hand from mine to put it to my forehead, looking stern…focused…kind of like a doctor. I wish he’d keep it there forever. His coldness just feels so good right now…
“You’re a little feverish…” He takes his hand away. “But I don’t think it’s anything serious. Really…you just look…more exhausted than me.”
“I-I am…a little. Might just be the Valium still trying to wear off, y’know?”
The Patient doesn’t smile at this. He sits up, slowly, and then leans over to brush the hair out of my face. It’s strange, how changes in light seem to affect everything. He looks younger, gentler. His fingers brush gently against the skin of my cheek, over the curve of my ear…and suddenly they fall over where my hand still rests on the mattress.
“They tied me down, didn’t they?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me directly when he asks.
“Y-yeah. I couldn’t stand to see you like that, so I…” I sigh. “What time is it?”
“Late. I don’t really pay attention to the clock, but…”
The Patient points up to the clock half-hidden in the shadows of the wall.
“3AM.” I sigh again, frowning. “I got here around ten. I put my head down to just…rest my eyes…”
“Funny, the way time works, isn’t it? The way five hours can seem like five minutes…or the way a month can seem like…a few days…” He pauses, growing grave. His thumb brushes gently over my fingers. “I guess…they told you the truth.”
“A little bit.”
“They told you how long I had left?”
“T-two months…?”
He nods, sighing. “That’s what they say. But I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want them to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I…I don’t know. I guess I just… I honestly don’t know. You’re the first person to ever really…to ever really see me, y’know? To really--to really see me and not leave me alone. You have…no idea how much that means to me. You’ll never really know.”
“I can only begin to imagine…”
“And you still wouldn’t be anywhere near close.”
Silence settles over us, and in the near-darkness, the expression on his face is…strange. A genuine emotion empty of bitter anger or a rebellious desire to be alone. An emotion straight from the heart. It’s one I’ve never seen before, because it’s one he’s never shown before. He isn’t used to showing it, whatever he’s trying to quietly express… Revealing it in the past would have made him seem too vulnerable, too weak.
And then suddenly the expression retreats from his face; he’s sliding out of bed, standing on his feet…and nearly crashing into me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, not so much holding on as leaning against me as I stand up. “I’m always a little…unsteady on my feet after…”
“You should stay in bed. Sleep off the rest of the drugs or--”
“I’m fine,” The Patient mutters, pushing away from me in classic stubborn fashion. “I want to show you something.”
The lamp's sudden brightness blinds me, but in it his eyes have a mysterious glow--remnants of the expression he tried to show a few seconds ago, perhaps. The Patient looks less like a corpse in the light now, but something about seeing him in this light…. It’s almost as if it hides whatever he was trying to reveal. He moves around the room with unusual, quiet grace until he reaches a cabinet standing silently in a corner of the room, near the bathroom. I’ve never really paid attention to it before; I just thought it was full of medical things--things I prefer not paying attention to. But here he stops, reaching for one of the cabinet doors.
“Turn around,” he says softly. “Close-close your eyes.”
Normally, I’d protest; I’m not the best person when it comes to surprises. But something in his voice…something about the situation…I do what he says. The sound of him rummaging around behind me sounds muted. It’s as if night, or at least general darkness, naturally turns down the volume on the world. He sings softly under his breath, and it takes me a few minutes to place the song as “The Organ Grinder”.
“In borrowed clothes and fake jewels, we can bend all the rules…”
I guess bringing him that CD two weeks ago was a good idea. Even under his breath, he sounds like he has a good voice. Something glass falls and shatters to the floor, interrupting his rendition of the song as he lets out a quiet curse. And then…things are even quieter. His feet make no sound against the floor, and his return to bed makes a whisper sound loud.
“Okay.”
He sits there with a stack of maybe three or four books in front of him on the blankets. Sketchbooks, all of them--and all of them probably full to the bursting with drawings, designs…dreams…
“There’s more in there,” he says quietly, referring to the cabinet, “but these…”
Carefully, he picks up the topmost book--the white of his thin fingers standing out all the more against the dark crimson of the sturdy leather surface--and hands it to me. It’s something to treat carefully, with the kind of reverence only an artist can have in relation to the work of another artist. Minutes pass, just holding the book in my lap and staring at the cover. There’s nothing on it--no name or design--but what keeps me from opening it is the realization of what this book really is, what it really means. The weight of a thousand dreams come and gone fills the pages, with still a thousand more gracing each of the other books. It doesn’t matter what the actual page count is, or how many pieces fill those pages…
A thousand dreams. Of people he’s never met…of places he’s never visited or of things he’s never done…except maybe in his head. A thousand dreams of things he has done or of people he has known and things he has done. A thousand dreams he’ll never…
The classic pantheon of artistic subjects is present and accounted for. Angels, demons, vampires…heroes, villains…
I’m halfway through the first book, and I’m trying very hard to keep from ruining the sketches…from getting even the few blank pages that exist wet. They’re just…they’re so… Everything he’s done, every figure… Something about each piece tells a story. Each character drawn looks ready to come to life, to walk out of the page. He has a strong knack for the dark and the morbid, for the horrifying and the painful, and he pulls no punches with it. But somehow…somehow he does it right. He brings out a beauty in it that makes it hard to look away. And again, I find it hard to believe…
He tilts my face up to his, thin fingers catching tears. “I didn’t think they were that bad…”
It forces out a chuckle. “Are you kidding me? These are… They’re amazing.”
The Patient smiles. “You’re just being nice.”
“That’s what you think…” Closing the book, I hand it back to him, taking the second as gently as I did the first. “Why didn’t you show me these before?”
“I don’t know. Probably for the same reasons I never told you about…” He sighs. “…how long I had left.”
He moves the third book out of the way to pick up the fourth one--the thickest of them all, and crimson like the others. Cradled in his lap, he opens it up, angling the book so that I can’t see the pages.
“This is the newest one,” he says softly. “It’s…it’s kind of interesting, how things can affect what you do. I’d almost say it’s progress--except…I guess…I shouldn’t be too worried about making any more.”
I’m letting the comment pass, instead preferring to quietly admire (and quietly envy) the somber sketch of Death, here embodied as a handsome gentleman in Victorian clothes and holding a bouquet of black roses. His dark hair falls almost into his eyes; the expression on his face is…calm…inviting, even. All around his body, framing him like some odd aura, is Emily Dickinson’s “Because I Could Not Stop for Death”. Stapled to the corner is a small reference photo, where the roses are red and wrapped in newspaper instead of black.
“This is you?”
“Where?” I point to the photo, and he smiles a little. “Oh yeah… That was almost before…before the diagnosis. It’s who I used to be.”
“Who you still are.”
The Patient shakes his head and settles back into staring at the sketchbook in his lap. My eyes drift over the poem surrounding his drawn self, reading lines I’ve read a thousand times, until they settle on three letters hidden near the cuff of his right pants leg. E…A…N. They had been on all of the other sketches and paintings, concealed in the crook of elbows or underneath the brim of hats, always written in all caps and always next to the last two digits of the year. E A N. His signature, no doubt. I say each letter to myself first, and then…for no real reason…I say it as a word, pronouncing it as though someone meant to spell “eat” but instead substituted “n” for “t”. The Patient laughs.
“What? What’s funny?”
“My name,” he says. “Everyone gets it wrong the first time they see it written, or they spell it wrong the first time they hear it. It’s my eternal burden, I guess.”
“Well…how do you say it?”
“Ean,” he says, pronouncing it like Ian. “It’s…it’s Manx.”
“Manx?”
He nods slowly. “A form of Gaelic--you know, Irish? My mom was—is--a professor of British literature. She must have thought it was…clever, I guess.”
“Ean…” This time, I pronounce it correctly. “That’s awesome. Unique.”
“I guess… Ean Wyatt Amherst.” He sighs. “They’ll probably spell it wrong on my grave, too.”
It’s another comment to let slide. His name takes a while to sink in, and as it does the general image of The Pa…of Ean changes. It’s like removing a mask at the end of the ball, and seeing that the beast you’ve been dancing with all night is really a prince. A prince dressed in pale blues and whites--the height of medical fashion.
“It’s been forever that I don’t think about them,” he says suddenly.
“Who?”
“My parents… They haven’t seen me since they put me here. My mom can’t handle seeing me sick and my dad…” He sighs again. “They call once a month… They don’t really say much. But it doesn’t matter. They’re probably just waiting for the…”
He lets out a breath, blinking rapidly. Wordlessly, Ean reaches for my hand again, interlacing his fingers between mine, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over my skin. He does that, I’ve noticed, when something bothers him or whenever he’s nervous. Despite his attempts to keep them back, tears slide from his eyes; he tries to recoil when I reach up to his face, startled as though jerked out of a thought, but he relaxes. He lets me catch the tears.
“Al…” A short sigh, and then he takes my other hand in his. “Allys, I…I don’t-I don’t… I don’t--”
“What?”
He looks at me, trying to catch my sight with his, trying to be firm. In the end, his eyes drop down to his lap…to the pages lying open and exposed in the lamplight. The two-page spread looks a lot like a character sketch; instead of one portrait, there’s a bunch of smaller ones. Different little scenes…a main figure in various poses and expressions… different costumes. There are two characters on this spread. One of them is a skinny, fair-haired, serious-looking boy dressed in hospital clothes. Most of his poses suggest a high guard, a strong resolve, but in a few he smiles, and in one he clings desperately to the second character--a girl who carries a camera in most of her sketches…and wears a scarf in just about all of them.
He wants to tell me I shouldn’t visit him anymore. He wants to tell me that he wants to be alone, that he’s thankful--grateful--I’ve kept visiting him this long, but that now… He doesn’t want me to see him fall to the disease. He doesn’t want me to remember him that way. But…I…
“I’m not going anywhere.” He looks up, wanting to protest. “You can say everything you want…I’ll still visit. Two months, three months…a year. I don’t care. I’m not…I’m not leaving you by yourself.”
“What about… What about your friend? She needs you, you know.”
“I still visit Claire. I haven’t forgotten her, if that’s what you’re worried about. But she’s got her family. She’s got other friends…”
Ean scoffs. “Thanks for that information…”
“You know what I mean.”
“They say she’s getting better. I…I heard the doctors talking about her in the hall… Said she might even go back into remission soon. Another month…” He bites his lower lip, suppressing a bitter chuckle that jolts his shoulders. “I’ll never have that.”
“You will. Doctors might be insensitive, but they’re highly competitive. They hate to lose.”
“Al, they’ve tried everything they could; nothing works. Nothing seems to take. No matter what happens…no matter how long it takes… I’ll be dead before the year is out. Everything I’ve done…everything I’ve worked for… These…all of these…”
He looks at the sketchbooks, at the one in his lap, with a touch of painful regret.
“I was getting ready for my first show, the day I passed out. My first…big show…and I wanted everything to be ready, to be--to be perfect. I already knew I was sick, but I… I decided it could wait. It had to wait. After the show was over, I’d go back to the doctors for the ‘what next’. But for now, it just had to wait. Sure, I felt worn out, but I thought it was just from trying to get ready for the show, y’know? I figured…I’d just put the finishing touches on the few pieces that needed them before I went back to my room, and that I’d be fine. I’d--I’d stay in my room all weekend and catch up on sleep. And then…”
Again with the rapid blinking. Again, his thumb moves gently back and forth…
“When I--when I came to…I was in the emergency room. I could barely move. I felt…heavy. I felt like shit, basically. And I still just felt…so-so tired. I felt like I just wanted to sleep for weeks. For years, maybe. But still…the only thing I was really worried about was my show. My…my fucking show. About the pieces that had to be ready… But…that’s when I knew. That’s when I really knew.”
“Knew what?”
As if I don’t know the answer to that question. He looks at me, the painful regret all the more magnified.
“That my life was over, basically. Everything I had ever worked for…the only thing I ever really lived for… It was done. No one was ever going to see the things I did…and nobody will probably ever see…these.”
And then Ean smiles a little bit--albeit with a hint of bitterness.
“Except you.”
He says it as though, somehow, that makes all the difference. And doesn’t it? In some way, if someone sees him—really sees him…doesn’t it make all the difference? If someone remembers who he is even after he dies…it’s enough, because…that’s all most people want in this world. To be remembered…to know that some part of them will continue in someone else’s memory, in someone else’s heart. That’s all anybody wants…
But maybe I can give him more than that.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
The receiver feels heavy and cold in my hand. Under the lamp, the phone’s molded plastic body shines in full cocoa-butter-hued glory. I’m so accustomed to cell phones that it feels like working with an antique.
“I forget…you have to dial…one before dialing an out-of-building number, right?”
Ean nods, looking a little less than baffled. “Y--yeah, I think so.”
“That’s right. Thanks.”
Eight.
Having to press one makes it eight digits standing between me and what feels like the best idea I’ve had in ages.
Eight. Seven-six-five…
“Al, what are you doing?”
“Hoping I can make his offer extend beyond its known limits.”
Four-three…
“What are you talking about?"
Two-one.
“If I’m lucky, you’ll see.”
Ring.
Ring.
Ri--
The greatest thing about being friends with artists and art aficionados…is that most of them are night owls.
“Mac! Mac…hey. It’s me; listen--”
“A-Allys?” Mac sounds groggy on the other end, like he just woke up.
“Yeah.”
“This had better be important… Do you have any idea what time it is?”
I guess even night owls have bed times.
“Yeah. I-I know it’s three in the morning, Mac, but listen…”
I prepare myself fully for the rant I’m about to receive by taking in a deep breath. Mac’s an artist of a different sort; he’s what those in his line of work would call a “tech expert” (and others out of his line of work a “computer nerd”), but the man absolutely works miracles with just about any type of technology in existence. He is, quite simply nothing short of brilliant, and his appreciation for art is what makes our friendship work so well.
He is, however, also a very organized sort of young man. But maybe the hour of the evening will make him less…
“We need to reschedule the show.”
…irritated.
“What? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No! No…nothing… Well…yes, actually, something did. Bu-but nothing serious. Then again…”
“Al, it’s three in the morning; you just woke me up to tell me you want to reschedule the show. I’m hoping that because it couldn’t wait until a reasonable hour that you have a good reason already prepared.”
Touché.
“I don’t want to headline on my own. It’s the first big show--my…first big show. But I feel like if I do this on my own, I’ll get… I feel like something bad will happen. I feel like something will go wrong.”
“Al, nothing is going to go wrong. We’ve been planning this for months! I’ve got everything under control. Don’t worry so much about the technical stuff; focus on the art.”
“That’s just it! That’s just it… I want to focus on someone else’s art. Not--not just my own.”
“You wanna plagiarize?”
“No! No…” Poor guy. He must still be half-asleep. “A…a friend of mine. I want to feature…s-some of his work.”
“Al…” Ean’s hand touches my wrist. His voice has the soft tone of a small child, curious.
“Who is it? Is it anybody I know?”
“N-no, I don’t think so. Unless…”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing… But he’s good, Mac—fucking amazing. Trust me on this. I was just staring at some of the work, and it…it really deserves the exposure. He really…” I glance over where he sits, looking at me with quiet shock. “He really deserves this, Mac.”
On the other end of the phone, I can hear the rustle of bed sheets and the squeaking of mattress springs. Mac’s hooked; he knows that when I say “amazing” I mean “amazing”. And when I say “fucking amazing”…
“What’s his name?”
“E-Ean. Ean… Starts with an ‘e’.”
“An ‘e’?”
“It’s Manx.”
“Manx… Got it. Does he have a last name?”
“Yeah--Amherst.”
“‘Amherst’?”
“Yeah. A-m--”
“--h-e-r-s-t.”
“Yeah.”
“How soon or how late are we rescheduling?”
“A month from now, at least, instead of two.”
“A month?”
“We’ll talk about it more, after you get some more sleep or something. Just…just tell me we’re a ‘go’ on this much, okay? It’ll mean a lot to me, Mac, if you can work this out.”
“Al, you are one of the strangest girls I’ve ever met, y’know that? Talented, but strange. But…” He sighs heavily. “We’re a ‘go’. I’ll handle all the technical stuff; just worry about the art.”
“Thanks, Mac. You won’t regret this, I swear.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ean says as I hang up. His head is tilted slightly to the side, eyes narrowed--as if he’s trying to see through me, to see into my head.
“What’s there to understand, really? If everything goes right, then a month from now--”
“A month from now…I’ll be too weak. A month from now, I--I’ll probably be finalizing some kind of will. Leaving all my things to you.”
“Hey…” I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to knock any of the books from the bed. “There are other treatments. Th-there’s gotta be something out there that works.”
He shakes his head. “If there is, I’m not interested. I’m tired of being a guinea pig. Needles, treatments, pills… I’m tired of it all. I’m just…I’m tired.”
I can understand being tired. Maybe not the way he does, and not the way Claire does, either--although I bet they’d understand each other perfectly… After a year of fighting and getting nowhere, of having everything important basically taken away, I’d be tired too. I’d find it easier to give everything up.
“Then…then at least let me give you this chance. Ean…”
I pick up the second book he showed me, flipping to the page with his rendition of Gentleman Death. Already, it’s my favorite. Already, I could see it being the centerpiece of an excellent show. Already…
“Look.” I hold it up to him. “You put so much effort into this; you worked so hard… I want them to see that. I want them to see you.”
“A freak on display…”
“You know what I mean! I want them to see you…the way I see you. The way you are with me. Perfect…y’know?”
“Perfect.” Ean looks up at me, smiling a little. “You’ve got your pictures. They’ll see…”
“They’ll see you, when you’re standing next to me at the gallery, trying to figure out how to respond to all the praise for your genius.”
The thought makes him chuckle. “Genius?”
“Mm-hmm.” Setting the sketchbook down. “Genius.”
Silence settles. Ean’s eyes drift down to the page, fixated first on the actual sketch…and then wandering to the photo in the corner--to the photo of himself, of the way he used to be…of the way he wants to be again.
“I’ve always wondered what this one would look like, painted.”
“I bet it’d look nice… Red background…paired with the black, white and grays…”
“And a month isn’t really… I used to do ten pages of comic in a week, when I went to school. A month…a month is more time than I need. I’d just need…”
“Hm?”
“Supplies. I’m not exactly in art school anymore. All of my things--most of them…I sold most of it. Kept what I thought I needed. But if I want this to be…perfect…I’ll need new supplies.”
Supplies? My specialty.
“I’ll handle the technical stuff. You just focus on the art.”
(“Once again, I can’t stress how…terribly sorry we are about the mishap this afternoon.”
“N-no…no, it’s fine. Honest. I won’t sue unless I develop a habit for the stuff.”
They chuckle nervously. “Regardless… That was a careless move on our part. It could have been worse than a sedative.”
“Is he always that difficult?”
“You mean…is he always that hysterical?”
She nods. “He’s never been…that way before. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Yes, well… Normally we wait until you leave. When you left we just assumed--”
“That I was gone for the day.”
“Y-yes.”
“My camera was there. All my stuff…”
“We…didn’t see your things; he must have put them somewhere for safekeeping.”
“Maybe…”
“Try to understand; he’s been with us for almost a year; you’re the first visitor he’s ever had. Naturally, we’re all a little unaccustomed to the change.”
“I understand…”
“Something wrong?”
“No. Well…yes. Why do you do it?”
“Sedate him?”
“Yes.”
“He suffers from an unusual amount of insomnia. None of the tests run on him have him pegged for any particular disorder that might cause it, but…he possesses an ability to stay up for days and days on end without showing any effects. But just because he shows no effects--”
“Doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“Exactly. So we sedate him once a week, to allow his body to try and develop a proper circadian rhythm. We tried a nightly pill, but he refused to take it. He said it…it interfered with his work.”
“His work?”
“Yes. He’s quite brilliant actually. Quite talented.”
“How do you mean?”
They pause, looking at each other.
“You mean…he hasn’t shown you?”
“Sh…shown me what?”)
Pictures. Sketches. Paintings. Without offering too many details, they praised his artistic talents--talents I probably would have gone on without hearing about until…I don’t know. They said he used to be an art student--that he kept going even when he knew he was sick, refusing to quit--until one day he passed out and had to be rushed to the hospital for fatigue. He tried going back, tried to ignore the doctors, but…by then…
It’s late; the sun is well gone from the sky by the time I come around, but they let me go back to his room. It’s different, visiting at night. The shadows and lights are in different places. One of the lamps is on--left by a nurse, I guess--and the window shade is pulled down to block the sparkling view. I put in a call to my parents, to tell them I’m probably not coming home tonight--to tell them that I’m spending the evening in a hospital room, but that I’m not the one sick or injured or even in a bed. They freak, as good parents do, but they understand. They don’t put up too much fuss. They don’t ask too many questions. They just tell me to be careful.
The Patient’s fast asleep when I get there, lying on his back, tucked in with his arms over the blanket. They told me that after I passed out, he didn’t fight the needle; I happen to believe that’s all bullshit they came up with to save face. The lamplight plays on him in a way that scares me--in a way that makes him look dead. Immediately, I turn it off and open the window shade, thankful for the softer light of a city transitioning into night. City lights are less troublesome; city lights, at this hour, look like diamonds trapped in the light veil of city smog.
They lied about not strapping him to the bed after the Valium kicked in. Folding back the blankets just enough, I start on the straps around his ankles first, disgusted with the whole idea of restraining him. He isn’t a danger to himself; they said he hardly moves while he sleeps, and that in the morning he’s calm--if only his usual “pissed-at-the-world” self. He isn’t a danger to himself, except when they come after him, so why…?
Undoing the bonds around his wrists is harder than the ones around his ankles, but soon they loosen enough for me to slip his hands out and rest them over the straps. All the while, he doesn’t make a sound save for the soft, even cycle of his breathing. He doesn’t move…he doesn’t react at all. The Patient is not here; his mind is currently drifting freely, floating along the river Valium for as long as it takes to run its course. I wish he would wake up; I wish he would look at me and demand what the hell I’m doing here when I should have gone home ages ago. I wouldn’t feel so…so scared then.
Two months. They said he had two months at best.
(“I know he seems fairly healthy, but he’s given up hope on any available treatment. It’s only a matter of time before his body gives up on him entirely and he dies.”
“Jesus, Doc… Think you could have made that news a little easier to hear? Maybe a little…song and dance number or something?”)
And settling into this chair now--taking his cold, still hand in mine--I suddenly want very much to cry. I want to cry, but something doesn’t let me. Bitterness, I guess--but you can cry when you’re bitter. Two months…two months… He looks fine; why wouldn’t he last more than just two? He has to last more than two. He has to see the show…
The show. The show is in two months. My…show…
Did he ever get the chance to do a show? If he went to art school, I’m sure he did, but… Did he ever get to do his own? To do one where he was the main focus, where his work was the center of attention…
It’s hard for me to believe it. It’s hard for me to think that he was walking the path I am now--that he was chasing the same dreams I want for myself--until something suddenly came along to knock him into reality’s nearest burst of oncoming traffic. How do these things happen? Why do these things happen? The concept of fate and predestination can only explain so much before it starts to scare you with the fact that if you believe everything was meant to happen the way it happens then it means you have no control over yourself. None.
But then…if you believe we all make our own destinies… If you believe that we decide what happens to us…
My head hurts from thinking. The day has tired me out. I’m probably getting sick; my entire body feels warmer than it probably should, and I feel dizzy. That’s what I get for spending so much time in a hospital, I guess. Ironic, isn’t it? A place of such health and sanitation being the place where you could catch a disease… Sighing, I rest my head on the little space of mattress near his hand, closing eyes that feel as if they’ve been open for centuries. The coldness radiating from his skin is actually comforting for once, and the sound of his breathing is even…peaceful…hypnotic…
A soft chuckle makes me jerk my head up and wonder just where the hell I am for a few seconds.
“It’s past visiting hours, Scarf Girl. You should be at home.”
It takes a few seconds before his face registers in the dim light of the room. He’s smiling a little at me.
“There are no ‘visiting hours’ on this floor. You know that.”
“Yeah. I do.” He pauses a minute to continue staring at me. “You look like you’ve survived Hell.”
“Do I?”
The Patient untangles his hand from mine to put it to my forehead, looking stern…focused…kind of like a doctor. I wish he’d keep it there forever. His coldness just feels so good right now…
“You’re a little feverish…” He takes his hand away. “But I don’t think it’s anything serious. Really…you just look…more exhausted than me.”
“I-I am…a little. Might just be the Valium still trying to wear off, y’know?”
The Patient doesn’t smile at this. He sits up, slowly, and then leans over to brush the hair out of my face. It’s strange, how changes in light seem to affect everything. He looks younger, gentler. His fingers brush gently against the skin of my cheek, over the curve of my ear…and suddenly they fall over where my hand still rests on the mattress.
“They tied me down, didn’t they?” he asks. He doesn’t look at me directly when he asks.
“Y-yeah. I couldn’t stand to see you like that, so I…” I sigh. “What time is it?”
“Late. I don’t really pay attention to the clock, but…”
The Patient points up to the clock half-hidden in the shadows of the wall.
“3AM.” I sigh again, frowning. “I got here around ten. I put my head down to just…rest my eyes…”
“Funny, the way time works, isn’t it? The way five hours can seem like five minutes…or the way a month can seem like…a few days…” He pauses, growing grave. His thumb brushes gently over my fingers. “I guess…they told you the truth.”
“A little bit.”
“They told you how long I had left?”
“T-two months…?”
He nods, sighing. “That’s what they say. But I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t want them to tell you.”
“Why not?”
“I…I don’t know. I guess I just… I honestly don’t know. You’re the first person to ever really…to ever really see me, y’know? To really--to really see me and not leave me alone. You have…no idea how much that means to me. You’ll never really know.”
“I can only begin to imagine…”
“And you still wouldn’t be anywhere near close.”
Silence settles over us, and in the near-darkness, the expression on his face is…strange. A genuine emotion empty of bitter anger or a rebellious desire to be alone. An emotion straight from the heart. It’s one I’ve never seen before, because it’s one he’s never shown before. He isn’t used to showing it, whatever he’s trying to quietly express… Revealing it in the past would have made him seem too vulnerable, too weak.
And then suddenly the expression retreats from his face; he’s sliding out of bed, standing on his feet…and nearly crashing into me.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, not so much holding on as leaning against me as I stand up. “I’m always a little…unsteady on my feet after…”
“You should stay in bed. Sleep off the rest of the drugs or--”
“I’m fine,” The Patient mutters, pushing away from me in classic stubborn fashion. “I want to show you something.”
The lamp's sudden brightness blinds me, but in it his eyes have a mysterious glow--remnants of the expression he tried to show a few seconds ago, perhaps. The Patient looks less like a corpse in the light now, but something about seeing him in this light…. It’s almost as if it hides whatever he was trying to reveal. He moves around the room with unusual, quiet grace until he reaches a cabinet standing silently in a corner of the room, near the bathroom. I’ve never really paid attention to it before; I just thought it was full of medical things--things I prefer not paying attention to. But here he stops, reaching for one of the cabinet doors.
“Turn around,” he says softly. “Close-close your eyes.”
Normally, I’d protest; I’m not the best person when it comes to surprises. But something in his voice…something about the situation…I do what he says. The sound of him rummaging around behind me sounds muted. It’s as if night, or at least general darkness, naturally turns down the volume on the world. He sings softly under his breath, and it takes me a few minutes to place the song as “The Organ Grinder”.
“In borrowed clothes and fake jewels, we can bend all the rules…”
I guess bringing him that CD two weeks ago was a good idea. Even under his breath, he sounds like he has a good voice. Something glass falls and shatters to the floor, interrupting his rendition of the song as he lets out a quiet curse. And then…things are even quieter. His feet make no sound against the floor, and his return to bed makes a whisper sound loud.
“Okay.”
He sits there with a stack of maybe three or four books in front of him on the blankets. Sketchbooks, all of them--and all of them probably full to the bursting with drawings, designs…dreams…
“There’s more in there,” he says quietly, referring to the cabinet, “but these…”
Carefully, he picks up the topmost book--the white of his thin fingers standing out all the more against the dark crimson of the sturdy leather surface--and hands it to me. It’s something to treat carefully, with the kind of reverence only an artist can have in relation to the work of another artist. Minutes pass, just holding the book in my lap and staring at the cover. There’s nothing on it--no name or design--but what keeps me from opening it is the realization of what this book really is, what it really means. The weight of a thousand dreams come and gone fills the pages, with still a thousand more gracing each of the other books. It doesn’t matter what the actual page count is, or how many pieces fill those pages…
A thousand dreams. Of people he’s never met…of places he’s never visited or of things he’s never done…except maybe in his head. A thousand dreams of things he has done or of people he has known and things he has done. A thousand dreams he’ll never…
The classic pantheon of artistic subjects is present and accounted for. Angels, demons, vampires…heroes, villains…
I’m halfway through the first book, and I’m trying very hard to keep from ruining the sketches…from getting even the few blank pages that exist wet. They’re just…they’re so… Everything he’s done, every figure… Something about each piece tells a story. Each character drawn looks ready to come to life, to walk out of the page. He has a strong knack for the dark and the morbid, for the horrifying and the painful, and he pulls no punches with it. But somehow…somehow he does it right. He brings out a beauty in it that makes it hard to look away. And again, I find it hard to believe…
He tilts my face up to his, thin fingers catching tears. “I didn’t think they were that bad…”
It forces out a chuckle. “Are you kidding me? These are… They’re amazing.”
The Patient smiles. “You’re just being nice.”
“That’s what you think…” Closing the book, I hand it back to him, taking the second as gently as I did the first. “Why didn’t you show me these before?”
“I don’t know. Probably for the same reasons I never told you about…” He sighs. “…how long I had left.”
He moves the third book out of the way to pick up the fourth one--the thickest of them all, and crimson like the others. Cradled in his lap, he opens it up, angling the book so that I can’t see the pages.
“This is the newest one,” he says softly. “It’s…it’s kind of interesting, how things can affect what you do. I’d almost say it’s progress--except…I guess…I shouldn’t be too worried about making any more.”
I’m letting the comment pass, instead preferring to quietly admire (and quietly envy) the somber sketch of Death, here embodied as a handsome gentleman in Victorian clothes and holding a bouquet of black roses. His dark hair falls almost into his eyes; the expression on his face is…calm…inviting, even. All around his body, framing him like some odd aura, is Emily Dickinson’s “Because I Could Not Stop for Death”. Stapled to the corner is a small reference photo, where the roses are red and wrapped in newspaper instead of black.
“This is you?”
“Where?” I point to the photo, and he smiles a little. “Oh yeah… That was almost before…before the diagnosis. It’s who I used to be.”
“Who you still are.”
The Patient shakes his head and settles back into staring at the sketchbook in his lap. My eyes drift over the poem surrounding his drawn self, reading lines I’ve read a thousand times, until they settle on three letters hidden near the cuff of his right pants leg. E…A…N. They had been on all of the other sketches and paintings, concealed in the crook of elbows or underneath the brim of hats, always written in all caps and always next to the last two digits of the year. E A N. His signature, no doubt. I say each letter to myself first, and then…for no real reason…I say it as a word, pronouncing it as though someone meant to spell “eat” but instead substituted “n” for “t”. The Patient laughs.
“What? What’s funny?”
“My name,” he says. “Everyone gets it wrong the first time they see it written, or they spell it wrong the first time they hear it. It’s my eternal burden, I guess.”
“Well…how do you say it?”
“Ean,” he says, pronouncing it like Ian. “It’s…it’s Manx.”
“Manx?”
He nods slowly. “A form of Gaelic--you know, Irish? My mom was—is--a professor of British literature. She must have thought it was…clever, I guess.”
“Ean…” This time, I pronounce it correctly. “That’s awesome. Unique.”
“I guess… Ean Wyatt Amherst.” He sighs. “They’ll probably spell it wrong on my grave, too.”
It’s another comment to let slide. His name takes a while to sink in, and as it does the general image of The Pa…of Ean changes. It’s like removing a mask at the end of the ball, and seeing that the beast you’ve been dancing with all night is really a prince. A prince dressed in pale blues and whites--the height of medical fashion.
“It’s been forever that I don’t think about them,” he says suddenly.
“Who?”
“My parents… They haven’t seen me since they put me here. My mom can’t handle seeing me sick and my dad…” He sighs again. “They call once a month… They don’t really say much. But it doesn’t matter. They’re probably just waiting for the…”
He lets out a breath, blinking rapidly. Wordlessly, Ean reaches for my hand again, interlacing his fingers between mine, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over my skin. He does that, I’ve noticed, when something bothers him or whenever he’s nervous. Despite his attempts to keep them back, tears slide from his eyes; he tries to recoil when I reach up to his face, startled as though jerked out of a thought, but he relaxes. He lets me catch the tears.
“Al…” A short sigh, and then he takes my other hand in his. “Allys, I…I don’t-I don’t… I don’t--”
“What?”
He looks at me, trying to catch my sight with his, trying to be firm. In the end, his eyes drop down to his lap…to the pages lying open and exposed in the lamplight. The two-page spread looks a lot like a character sketch; instead of one portrait, there’s a bunch of smaller ones. Different little scenes…a main figure in various poses and expressions… different costumes. There are two characters on this spread. One of them is a skinny, fair-haired, serious-looking boy dressed in hospital clothes. Most of his poses suggest a high guard, a strong resolve, but in a few he smiles, and in one he clings desperately to the second character--a girl who carries a camera in most of her sketches…and wears a scarf in just about all of them.
He wants to tell me I shouldn’t visit him anymore. He wants to tell me that he wants to be alone, that he’s thankful--grateful--I’ve kept visiting him this long, but that now… He doesn’t want me to see him fall to the disease. He doesn’t want me to remember him that way. But…I…
“I’m not going anywhere.” He looks up, wanting to protest. “You can say everything you want…I’ll still visit. Two months, three months…a year. I don’t care. I’m not…I’m not leaving you by yourself.”
“What about… What about your friend? She needs you, you know.”
“I still visit Claire. I haven’t forgotten her, if that’s what you’re worried about. But she’s got her family. She’s got other friends…”
Ean scoffs. “Thanks for that information…”
“You know what I mean.”
“They say she’s getting better. I…I heard the doctors talking about her in the hall… Said she might even go back into remission soon. Another month…” He bites his lower lip, suppressing a bitter chuckle that jolts his shoulders. “I’ll never have that.”
“You will. Doctors might be insensitive, but they’re highly competitive. They hate to lose.”
“Al, they’ve tried everything they could; nothing works. Nothing seems to take. No matter what happens…no matter how long it takes… I’ll be dead before the year is out. Everything I’ve done…everything I’ve worked for… These…all of these…”
He looks at the sketchbooks, at the one in his lap, with a touch of painful regret.
“I was getting ready for my first show, the day I passed out. My first…big show…and I wanted everything to be ready, to be--to be perfect. I already knew I was sick, but I… I decided it could wait. It had to wait. After the show was over, I’d go back to the doctors for the ‘what next’. But for now, it just had to wait. Sure, I felt worn out, but I thought it was just from trying to get ready for the show, y’know? I figured…I’d just put the finishing touches on the few pieces that needed them before I went back to my room, and that I’d be fine. I’d--I’d stay in my room all weekend and catch up on sleep. And then…”
Again with the rapid blinking. Again, his thumb moves gently back and forth…
“When I--when I came to…I was in the emergency room. I could barely move. I felt…heavy. I felt like shit, basically. And I still just felt…so-so tired. I felt like I just wanted to sleep for weeks. For years, maybe. But still…the only thing I was really worried about was my show. My…my fucking show. About the pieces that had to be ready… But…that’s when I knew. That’s when I really knew.”
“Knew what?”
As if I don’t know the answer to that question. He looks at me, the painful regret all the more magnified.
“That my life was over, basically. Everything I had ever worked for…the only thing I ever really lived for… It was done. No one was ever going to see the things I did…and nobody will probably ever see…these.”
And then Ean smiles a little bit--albeit with a hint of bitterness.
“Except you.”
He says it as though, somehow, that makes all the difference. And doesn’t it? In some way, if someone sees him—really sees him…doesn’t it make all the difference? If someone remembers who he is even after he dies…it’s enough, because…that’s all most people want in this world. To be remembered…to know that some part of them will continue in someone else’s memory, in someone else’s heart. That’s all anybody wants…
But maybe I can give him more than that.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
The receiver feels heavy and cold in my hand. Under the lamp, the phone’s molded plastic body shines in full cocoa-butter-hued glory. I’m so accustomed to cell phones that it feels like working with an antique.
“I forget…you have to dial…one before dialing an out-of-building number, right?”
Ean nods, looking a little less than baffled. “Y--yeah, I think so.”
“That’s right. Thanks.”
Eight.
Having to press one makes it eight digits standing between me and what feels like the best idea I’ve had in ages.
Eight. Seven-six-five…
“Al, what are you doing?”
“Hoping I can make his offer extend beyond its known limits.”
Four-three…
“What are you talking about?"
Two-one.
“If I’m lucky, you’ll see.”
Ring.
Ring.
Ri--
The greatest thing about being friends with artists and art aficionados…is that most of them are night owls.
“Mac! Mac…hey. It’s me; listen--”
“A-Allys?” Mac sounds groggy on the other end, like he just woke up.
“Yeah.”
“This had better be important… Do you have any idea what time it is?”
I guess even night owls have bed times.
“Yeah. I-I know it’s three in the morning, Mac, but listen…”
I prepare myself fully for the rant I’m about to receive by taking in a deep breath. Mac’s an artist of a different sort; he’s what those in his line of work would call a “tech expert” (and others out of his line of work a “computer nerd”), but the man absolutely works miracles with just about any type of technology in existence. He is, quite simply nothing short of brilliant, and his appreciation for art is what makes our friendship work so well.
He is, however, also a very organized sort of young man. But maybe the hour of the evening will make him less…
“We need to reschedule the show.”
…irritated.
“What? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No! No…nothing… Well…yes, actually, something did. Bu-but nothing serious. Then again…”
“Al, it’s three in the morning; you just woke me up to tell me you want to reschedule the show. I’m hoping that because it couldn’t wait until a reasonable hour that you have a good reason already prepared.”
Touché.
“I don’t want to headline on my own. It’s the first big show--my…first big show. But I feel like if I do this on my own, I’ll get… I feel like something bad will happen. I feel like something will go wrong.”
“Al, nothing is going to go wrong. We’ve been planning this for months! I’ve got everything under control. Don’t worry so much about the technical stuff; focus on the art.”
“That’s just it! That’s just it… I want to focus on someone else’s art. Not--not just my own.”
“You wanna plagiarize?”
“No! No…” Poor guy. He must still be half-asleep. “A…a friend of mine. I want to feature…s-some of his work.”
“Al…” Ean’s hand touches my wrist. His voice has the soft tone of a small child, curious.
“Who is it? Is it anybody I know?”
“N-no, I don’t think so. Unless…”
“What?”
“Nothing, nothing… But he’s good, Mac—fucking amazing. Trust me on this. I was just staring at some of the work, and it…it really deserves the exposure. He really…” I glance over where he sits, looking at me with quiet shock. “He really deserves this, Mac.”
On the other end of the phone, I can hear the rustle of bed sheets and the squeaking of mattress springs. Mac’s hooked; he knows that when I say “amazing” I mean “amazing”. And when I say “fucking amazing”…
“What’s his name?”
“E-Ean. Ean… Starts with an ‘e’.”
“An ‘e’?”
“It’s Manx.”
“Manx… Got it. Does he have a last name?”
“Yeah--Amherst.”
“‘Amherst’?”
“Yeah. A-m--”
“--h-e-r-s-t.”
“Yeah.”
“How soon or how late are we rescheduling?”
“A month from now, at least, instead of two.”
“A month?”
“We’ll talk about it more, after you get some more sleep or something. Just…just tell me we’re a ‘go’ on this much, okay? It’ll mean a lot to me, Mac, if you can work this out.”
“Al, you are one of the strangest girls I’ve ever met, y’know that? Talented, but strange. But…” He sighs heavily. “We’re a ‘go’. I’ll handle all the technical stuff; just worry about the art.”
“Thanks, Mac. You won’t regret this, I swear.”
“I don’t understand you,” Ean says as I hang up. His head is tilted slightly to the side, eyes narrowed--as if he’s trying to see through me, to see into my head.
“What’s there to understand, really? If everything goes right, then a month from now--”
“A month from now…I’ll be too weak. A month from now, I--I’ll probably be finalizing some kind of will. Leaving all my things to you.”
“Hey…” I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to knock any of the books from the bed. “There are other treatments. Th-there’s gotta be something out there that works.”
He shakes his head. “If there is, I’m not interested. I’m tired of being a guinea pig. Needles, treatments, pills… I’m tired of it all. I’m just…I’m tired.”
I can understand being tired. Maybe not the way he does, and not the way Claire does, either--although I bet they’d understand each other perfectly… After a year of fighting and getting nowhere, of having everything important basically taken away, I’d be tired too. I’d find it easier to give everything up.
“Then…then at least let me give you this chance. Ean…”
I pick up the second book he showed me, flipping to the page with his rendition of Gentleman Death. Already, it’s my favorite. Already, I could see it being the centerpiece of an excellent show. Already…
“Look.” I hold it up to him. “You put so much effort into this; you worked so hard… I want them to see that. I want them to see you.”
“A freak on display…”
“You know what I mean! I want them to see you…the way I see you. The way you are with me. Perfect…y’know?”
“Perfect.” Ean looks up at me, smiling a little. “You’ve got your pictures. They’ll see…”
“They’ll see you, when you’re standing next to me at the gallery, trying to figure out how to respond to all the praise for your genius.”
The thought makes him chuckle. “Genius?”
“Mm-hmm.” Setting the sketchbook down. “Genius.”
Silence settles. Ean’s eyes drift down to the page, fixated first on the actual sketch…and then wandering to the photo in the corner--to the photo of himself, of the way he used to be…of the way he wants to be again.
“I’ve always wondered what this one would look like, painted.”
“I bet it’d look nice… Red background…paired with the black, white and grays…”
“And a month isn’t really… I used to do ten pages of comic in a week, when I went to school. A month…a month is more time than I need. I’d just need…”
“Hm?”
“Supplies. I’m not exactly in art school anymore. All of my things--most of them…I sold most of it. Kept what I thought I needed. But if I want this to be…perfect…I’ll need new supplies.”
Supplies? My specialty.
“I’ll handle the technical stuff. You just focus on the art.”