Page 88 of The Beginning and End of Everything
"I have to go. I'm already late." I snatch up my coat and rush to the door. "Love you."
When I turn around, he's leaning against the kitchen counter with Mort scooped up in his arms. I don't believe there can be a cuter sight than Brandon O'Kieffe clutching a tiny, bald kitten in his arms. "Love you, possum.”
By the timeI get to the clinic, I'm half an hour late, and I cringe when I walk through the doors. Doris is bent over, shoving patient charts into the filing cabinet.
"Sorry I'm late. I overslept." I throw my purse under the counter, drop my lunch by the mini-fridge, and I check the schedule. "I'll go get Mr. Brighton," I call out on my way to the waiting room.
But the only person out here is Mr. Williams. He smiles at me over his newspaper, and I smile back before shutting the door and heading back to the nurse's station.
I plop into the seat beside Doris. "Did you already take Mr. Brighton back?
"Mr. Brighton passed away last night.” She stands and wraps her arms around me in a comforting embrace. "They just called."
A familiar sadness settles over me. "What? What happened, he was just…" He was just fine.
"He took his own life, dear."
I clutch at my tightening chest.
"It's a terrible thing when your own mind is your worst enemy. He's at peace now. At peace..."
The rest of the day is a blur. Patients come in and out, and all I can think about is Mr. Brighton and how he waved when I told him I would see him later. Did he know then?
After my shift, I sit on the tube, deep in thought, and by the time I get home, anxiety is crawling across my skin because what if.Whatif?
The apartment is quiet with no trace of Brandon or Mort when I drop my keys onto the kitchen counter.
"Hello?" My voice echoes around the empty apartment.
Nothing. I walk to the bedroom door and push it open to find Brandon and the cat both in the bed. One of Brandon’s muscular arms is thrown over his face. The other is cradling the Mort against his side.
"Brandon?"
"Hmm?"
I sit on the edge of the mattress and rub his arm. "You feeling okay, babe?"
"Yeah." Mort struggles to free himself from beneath the weight of Brandon's arm, then walks over his stomach, purring like a little engine.
I place my hand against Brandon’s forehead, but he's not warm. "Want to go get Chinese? I know how you love your crispy seaweed." I smile.
He moves his arm and drags his hand down his face, then rolls onto his side, turning his back to me. "No, I'm good."
The Brandon I left this morning and this Brandon are so vastly different. Mort bites my finger because I'm not petting him, so I swipe my hand over his head a few times before placing him on the floor. I do the only thing I know to do when Brandon is like this—lie down next to him, wrap my arms around his broad frame, and hold him.
"I love you," I whisper.
He remains silent, but reaches for me, placing my palm against his chest.
His heart beats steady under my hand, but there’s a sadness radiating from him, and it tears me in two because there is nothing I can do to take this away.
We are never more alone than we are when we’re trapped in our own minds. And Brandon—the place he's trapped, it's a place I could never begin to understand. He's not angry, he's drowning in sorrow, and I don't know which emotion is harder to witness. So, I just hold him, and he clings to my arm, not allowing me to let go.
We lie in silence, and eventually, his breaths grow shallow from sleep. I’ve almost lulled off when he violently tosses, throwing his arm. His head thrashes from side to side, and his face twists into a grimace.
I want to wake him, but I'm afraid to. "Brandon," I whisper.
His arm flies out to the side, swiping the lamp and the glass of water to the floor. Mort hisses, his bell tinkling as he runs from the room.
