I am sitting in an uncomfortable wooden dining chair. It doesn’t matter that I am at the hospice off of Clinton Road. It doesn’t matter that I am grieving. Mat is next to me, lying in a hospital bed sleeping. His breathing is despondent. Suck in, breathe out. His skin is a soft shade of canary yellow. Suck in, breathe out. His cat Sequil is lying in-between his legs; his mala beaded necklace that hung around his neck lies limp on his chest. His mother is skimming through pictures on her phone of Mathew. I wait for him to start singing, carry a tune on his lips like he always did, but I know that he cannot sing anymore. I start to sing one of his songs from his band Nameless Grace in my head instead. I’m saying goodbye to Sharon. I’m saying goodbye. I’m saying goodbye. A tear starts to form, but I hold it back. Mat’s mom has made it clear- no crying in front of Mat. So I get up and walk out into the seating area in the main hall. I sit down in one of the worn out blue couches. A brick sits on a counter nearby. It reads: “Name of Veteran Goes Here.”
*
“I don’t get it. What the hell is it supposed to stand for?”
I look up at Mat. We are sitting outside the Lions’ Lair. His half-chewed Cuban sandwich is mushing in his mouth, as he nods over to the green bronzed statue in the courtyard. I look over at it. A bunch of metal men stand in a circle. They are military men. They are holding up lady liberty. Each soldier’s gun dangles around their shoulder, the green glint fading from weather already.
“Where’d the hell that come from?”
Mat shrugs and takes the last bite of his sandwich.
I get up and walk towards it. The plaque at the base of the statue reads: “For those who serve.” Mat walks up and puts his hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch comes as a comfort.
“You know, Brookie, you’re my hero.”
I smile at him. “Too bad you’re hero’s a wuss.”
He laughs. “I won’t tell anyone.”
I let the thought of war slip from my mind as I turn around and ask Mat if he is ready to work on his lit paper. He smiles and nods. As we start walking to the Cannon Memorial Library, Mat begins singing a tune under his breath. The tune is unfamiliar, but I listen anyway, hoping that he’ll get to a part in the melody that I recognize.
*
Mat’s family is sitting around me and at times, I feel as though I am intruding. I look over at Joseph. I can’t help it. I stare. He is Mat’s identical twin. He catches me staring at him and I look away, but I can’t help it, I look at him again.
He smiles. ‟Hey.”
I am stirred from my staring. ‟What’s up?”
Joseph laughs a little then replies, ‟Chicken’s butt.”
I smile back at him and wait until he walks away before I start to cry. Mat’s twin is too much like him. I stand up and leave the building. Outside, my shaky hand is trying to light a cigarette. I haven’t smoked in a year. Hoping that it will calm my nerves and the tears, I pulled them out, but flick after flick of my thumb on the lighter isn’t producing a flame. Another lighter is in front of me – the end of it lit. It is Joseph.
I lean in and light the end of my cigarette, but as I do I hear Joseph say the words I didn’t want to hear: ‟He’ll be okay soon. He won’t feel any more pain.”
I know he is right, but I can’t help feeling as though this is some sick and twisted joke, a nightmare that I will wake from soon, but this is no nightmare, only a day that I have been dreading for over a year.
Joseph begins tapping his foot on the ground. The beat is slow and steady, a drummers cadence. And then I hear it, Mat’s tune. I look around, but he is not there. It is just me and Joseph standing outside the hospice. The tune is in my head.
*
It is Spring semester of my senior year at Saint Leo University. I am sitting next to Mat in Dr. Spoto’s American Gothic Lit class furiously trying to take notes fast enough to keep up with her lecture. Mat pulled the night shift at his hotel job and is in and out of consciousness next to me, barely able to stay up. In the past month, he’s complained to me that he hasn’t been feeling good, that his meds aren’t working and that sleeping has become harder and harder to do. The dark circles under his eyes are prominent. Several times, I had told him to go to the doctor, but he says he can’t afford it, that they’d tell him that he’s just over stressed and over worked. I know that he needs a new job and possibly a better doctor, but I say nothing else to him, knowing that it might make him upset. I look over at him. He looks exhausted. I can tell Spoto is getting perturbed. Several times she’s told Mat to wake up. This time I nudge him and he sits up. She gives him a look of disapproval and he nods at her. He begins to take notes, but it isn’t long until he is asleep again. As class presses on, I know I should wake him, but he needed rest. I knew how unwell he was feeling. I don’t nudge him again. Instead, I take notes, Spoto lectures, and Mat sleeps. The class is over now and still Mat is face down on the desk. I do not wake him. Spoto tells me to let Mat know sleeping in her class will not be tolerated. I nod and tell her I won’t let it happen again. She smiles, says ok, and walks out. I am the last to leave. I shut off the lights, walk up to the third floor of Saint Edward’s Hall, make copies of my lecture notes, and walk back down to the classroom where Mat still slept head down on the desk. I wake him up and hand him the notes. He asks what happened, but I just smile and say don’t let it happen again.
‟Thanks, Brookie.”
He gets up and we leave, but as we are walking out, he begins to sing the same tune as he always does. I shake my head. I still do not recognize the song.
*
Mat is lying in the bed next to me. I sit there looking at him. The bags under his eyes are deep. His grandmother sits next to me. I’ve watched for a week as people funnel in to his hospice room, sit and talk to him, and then give him a kiss on his forehead or a gentle touch on the arm before they say goodbye. I have not seen him awake or lucid since he got here, but I sit there all the same, watching his chest rise and fall in the hopes that it will gain strength and become more steady again. It does not, and soon, he is laboring to breathe. A nurse comes in, Judy. She rubs Mat’s arm. Calls out his name. I am standing at the foot of the bed, trying to make sure I am out of her way. She calls his name again and he opens his eyes. He looks right at me. It is the first sign of life I have seen for weeks. I hold back tears as Judy goes to work giving Mat meds and fluids. After she leaves, I sit back down in the chair next to his bed. I can tell that the pain meds are kicking in, but Judy has jostled him too much. He is in pain. I hold his hand, and though he cannot grip it back, I look at him and smile. His eyes are barely open, but they are looking at me.
‟Hi, Matty.”
He closes his eyes. The meds have kicked in. I sit a moment longer and then I realize what I must do. I begin to sing his tune. His grandmother looks at me funny and I stop, but from behind me I hear Mat’s mom telling me to keep going. I begin again. Then I see it, Mat is smiling, and I know he can hear me.
Two days later, Mat is gone, and I am in my office with the door shut sitting on the floor trying to meditate in the hopes it will take my mind off Mat’s death and maybe keep me from crying all night. I am in the middle of my Om chant when I hear it echoing through the walls. I open my eyes. It is still playing. I bolt up and rush out the door. The music is coming from the garage. I throw open the door. My husband is at the work bench tinkering away. The stereo is on. Mat’s tune is playing. I stand there listening to the song. The chorus comes on and it is then that I understand Mat is in a better place. I hear Lou Reed singing Mat’s tune…
Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side.
I say hey honey, take a walk on the wild side.
Through the tears, I try to sing the tune, and though I am not nearly as good as Mat, I keep singing anyway until the song is over.
