“Oh my god,” is all I can say, pointing to the TV, not really believing what I’m seeing. “It’s… oh my god. It’s you.”
He spins around, facing the TV, and freezes as he his own face staring back at him.
I look from him, to the screen and back again, slack jawed. I can’t believe it.
“Oh my god. That’s you!”
“Shit.” He says and grabs the remote from me.
“No!” I snatch it back, and focus back on the screen. He’s… fuck. The Rock Chamber Boys have won a Grammy! Maybe more than one.
And he’s… he’s one of them.
And he’s… fucking amazing.
I watch as the camera zooms in on his fingers, moving up and down the neck of the cello like he’s tapping out Morse code, calling for help. His head bent over the neck of his cello, sweat dripping from his fringe and catching on the spotlights, his bow thrusting back and forth, drawing magic from his instrument.
I can’t turn away, not until the song is over. And then I wish I could hear it again.
There’s a loud drum beat as the next song starts up, and he slowly reaches out and takes the remote from me and turns the TV off, avoiding my eyes.
“Jez. You’re…. you’re…” I don’t have a word for it.
“What?” He says, his face tight, his hand pushing his fringe away from his face, his mouth in a hard, set line.
“Your playing is… it’s exquisite, Jez.” I suddenly feel embarrassed about all the times he’s heard me play the ukulele. That silly little play instrument, and me playing it like I’m some serious musician, and here he is, one of the best cello players in the world. Fuck. Why didn’t he say anything? “Jez! You said,.. you said you didn’t play. Or… that you don’t play any more…” I try to remember his exact words that night.
He just looks at me, his eyes giving away what the rest of his face is trying to hide.
Oh my god. It all makes sense to me now. Why he hadn’t said anything, why his recovery has been so hard on him.
Because of who and what he was.
Oh god, Jez. There’s a crack in my chest, and I know it’s my heart, breaking for him.
I hold my hand out to him. “Take my hand, Jez.”
He frowns, not sure what I want.
“Take my hand.” I say again, and he fights for a moment, but then his shoulders fall and he complies.
I pull him gently toward the tub, gesturing for him to get in, to join me.
“I’m not-…” he gestures to his clothes. But I don’t care about that.
I tug on his hand, saying nothing, and he hesitates for just one more second before he steps over the rim of the tub and sinks down onto his knees into the water.
The water splashes over the sides but I couldn’t care less.
I push myself up onto my knees so we’re face to face, waist deep in disintegrating bubbles and warm water and jet spray blowing against our legs.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. I raise my hands and hold his face between them, staring into his eyes. The pain in them means so much more to me now. I used to think it was just that he was a brooder, with the pain, the scars from his childhood of losing his parents. But now I know, it’s from losing himself.
How can someone play like that, like what I just heard, have it taken away from them, and ever be whole?
My Jez, my sweet, unique, talented, godly, Jez.
I say nothing, but what my eyes express to his. I want him to know, need him to know, that I understand now. That he doesn’t need to say a word. I move my hands away from his face and take his hands in mine, cradling them like they’re the most precious things I’ll ever hold.
I open up his left hand, running my fingers over the scars and press a kiss to his palm.
I lift my eyes back to his, and they’re stark with vulnerability. And I know, what I say in this moment, is of vital importance to him.
I make sure he’s looking into my eyes, when I finally speak.
“You are going to be okay.”
And something breaks in him.
His face crumples, his eyes well up and his mouth quivers. I watch it as if in slow motion. The complete and utter devastation of a man. I can barely hold back my own tears for him. But it’s not about me. It’s never been more about him.
I sink down into the tub and pull him with me, his body drops, his head falling onto my shoulder as he starts to shake.
And I hold him. Body and clothes and healing bones and broken soul as he sobs.
“It’s okay, I’m here. You let it out. I’m here.”
No wonder. No wonder it’s been so hard for him. To be given that gift, direct from the hand of God… and then, not know if you can ever do it again.
I think back to all those times I watched him flinch as he tried to just hold a ball.
All those times he couldn’t hold a pen and needed to ask someone else to write me a note.
When he couldn’t reach for a tissue.
How each time it must’ve reminded him of what he may have lost. And how much physical pain he’s been through.
Yet, he ignored it to carry me. To bed. Twice.
“You are going to okay,” I repeat. For myself this time, to comfort myself for the anguish I imagine he’s going through.
“What if I’m not… there’s so much wrong with me…” he sobs into my shoulder, and the catch in his voice tears at my heart like a rake dipped in acid.
“Hey, I’m not saying your hands will ever fully heal, I can’t. But there isn’t anything wrong with you. Not you. And I know, that YOU, my mystery, sexy, gorgeous, beautiful man. You are going to be okay. I promise you.”
“You promise?” And I have to bite my tongue to stop from crying at the helplessness in his voice.
“Listen to me. Look at me.” He lifts his head, and I can barely make out his pupils through my own blurry vision. “I promise you. Do you hear me, do you see how much I mean it?
He nods, “No one’s been able to promise me before.”
“I’m not just anyone.”
“No, you’re not.” His lips quivers again and I push his head back down onto my chest, so that my heartbeat can steady his breaths.
I feel my own tears fall hot and full down my face as I ache for him. Holding him tighter, hoping the water transfers his pain to me.
Give me it all. I’ll take it all, I whisper to any power greater than me that can make it so.
I don’t know how long we lay there. This broken man and I. Just that when it’s finally quiet, I’m not the same person I was before. And I don’t think he is either.
He lifts his head, his eyes red, his hair wet, the clothes clinging to every inch of his body.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Shhh, what on earth are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry, I’m… I’m not him.”