“Ah, well, I believe I hear the man in question now causing a scene to come back. Perhaps you will discuss this with him.”
That was when I realized I was numb, much too hollow. Not only couldn’t I hear him fussing, I couldn’tfeelhim fussing. In reaction to this, the subtle drumming of my heart, some place deep and hidden, became stronger, almost frantic.
Why couldn't I feel him?
“Shh,” Uncle Tito said, his glasses reflecting the monitors that beeped and chirped behind us. “Steady. Steady.”
How could I be steady? I couldn’t feel my husband.
Perhaps Brando wasn't causing a scene? The room was mostly all glass, and people scattered to and fro constantly outside of it. My room was one of a few. Surely I’d be able to hear him? He wasn’t subtle, by any means. Still, the humming was...completely silent. I couldn’t attest to how the dead truly felt, but here on earth, without the humming that had become a constant companion, I felt dead without it. My heart might as well have been stolen from my chest.
Uncle Tito rose, cleared his throat quietly, and then placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. Had he been crying? His eyes glistened. He whispered a prayer in Italian and then told me he would see me soon.
In his place, Brando appeared, but he stood in the shadows, almost hesitant to approach the bed. He stood there for a while, watching me, eerily quiet. “Say something,” he whispered.
Narrowing my eyes, I tried to see him, but he was only a shape. And for no reason beyond the obvious, I felt he could’ve been one of those images underneath the water with me, bringing me above the surface, fighting against the comforting pull of below.
“Sit down.” I resisted the urge to point to the chair. I couldn’t find the energy, but I didn’t want him to see. “You look like you're about to fall over.”
He took a seat in the chair next to the bed, almost cautiously, as though a ghost had asked him to. Once he had, he snatched my hand from under the cover, pressure strong enough to almost break bone, putting it to his warm mouth.
A shock, a rush, a humming so loud that I thought I'd go deaf from it. His touch.
“Ah,” I released a breath. “There it is.” Suddenly I felt hot, scorching, almost giddy with the pleasure of it. His presence seemed to shock the life back into our connection, bringing it to its senses, and it rose up stronger than before. The first time, it hadn’t even branded me so deep. And I realized it had been there, but in the depths with my soul. “That's better,” I sighed, so relieved. “Don’t let my hand go,mio angelo.”
He shook his head, as though it was the last thing he would ever do.
I was one again, but still, there was pain, a void. Some part of me couldn’t return. Every part of me felt sore, sensitive, and when my brows narrowed, I felt the frown. His fingers smoothed the creases.
“Oh—” I lost my breath.
If I could’ve moved back to see him more clearly, I would have. The long strip of his hair glinted with red streaks. His face was stained with dried blood. Hands. Shirt. Pants. Some of it was ruddy and caked, others almost black, like frozen rivers underneath a starless sky.
The machine behind me sent out a shrill warning. Brando squeezed my hand, glanced at the entrance to the room and then me. A look I never wanted to see on his face ever again took over his expression. Uncle Tito came in, a nurse right after, and behind her, another woman, a doctor.
“Steady, niece,” Uncle Tito said, soothing, while the nurse and doctor fiddled behind and around me. “You need to remember to breathe,piccola colomba.”
I thought I was, I wanted to say, concentrating on my breathing, on Brando’s face. It was gaunt, haunted, and as hollow as I felt before the humming rose to the surface.
“Better?” Uncle Tito said, patting my shoulder.
“Better,” I breathed, the deep end rushing into the shallows.
Uncle Tito frowned at Brando, but Brando refused to look at anyone but me. “Nephew…” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should wash—”
“It’s all right, Uncle Tito,” I said, not ready to release him either. “Brando took my breath away.”
The nurse behind me laughed. So did the other doctor.
Uncle Tito shook his head. “Ah!” he growled, wiggling his bony finger at me. “None of that, do you hear?”
“I promise,” I said, smiling. I ducked my head under, meeting Brando’s eye, and I smiled even wider, removing my other hand from underneath the covers, showing him crossed fingers.
Brando returned the grin, but it was an imitation of the real thing. I ran a hand down his face. “We can’t have that,” I whispered. “I’m going to be all right.”
His breath came deeper, in short bursts, as he seemed to expend every ounce of self-control.
The sound of footsteps retreating met my ear, and we were alone again.
