CHAPTER 18
Bruno
Six days it’s been. Six days. Six days of blindly moving through life. Presenting people with empty smiles and automatic chit chat. Ghosting through the machinations of this family circus with my heart ripped out of my fucking chest.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why. Or maybe I do know. Maybe this sick feeling clawing at me from the inside is the knowledge that I caused all of this. Why the fuck did I blurt out all that shit to Bradford? Why the goddamn fucking fucking fucking hell did I tell him I loved him? I’ve right royally screwed the whole thing up. Maybe I deserve it.
Every day I torture myself reading back over the text messages I’ve sent. The way they start out so hopeful, so excited. They way they morph into concern when I don’t hear back from him. The way that concern turns into confusion. Then abject worry. Then sickening realisation. I’m now at the begging and pleading stage. I can’t believe it’s gone this far.
Why, Bradford? Why? You were so loving. You were so present. You gave me so fucking much. When Bradford looked at me, it was like he saw the whole world. And he was mine , before he ripped it out from underneath me. I’m not angry, I’m desolate. I’m bleeding. And I’m sitting here in this provincial cathedral barely able to compose myself.
I’m not even thinking about the funeral. My actions are rehearsed. I’m on autopilot. My body is numb, except for the mortal wounds that have desecrated my fucking heart.
The church choir stands up and begins to sing. The voices ring out, reverberating around the intricate structure of the cavernous building. It would barely register with me, except the music sounds eerily familiar. Glancing down at the funeral program, my eyes lock on the title. Ave Dulcissima Maria by Carlo Gesualdo.
Bradford. Our very first night together.
Some other force is in control of my body. A huge breath sucks itself into my chest, followed by a loud gasp barrelling from my throat. My fa?ade has finally cracked. I urgently need to get the fuck out of here.
Shooting to my feet, I push my burly bulk past the raven-like form of my mother, who’s sitting proud and tall in her best mourning garb. The cathedral’s pews are a cruel squeeze. I'm losing precious seconds trying to extricate myself from their polished wooden jaws. Finally, I’m no longer able to contain the sobs tearing though my body. Out they gush; the precarious dam of my dignity bursting wide, laying my grief and devastation bare for all and sundry to gawk at. I don’t care nearly as much as I should; my heart has been ripped to shreds and right now I don’t even know if I’ll survive this fucking agony.
After clumsily barging past at least four people, I finally manage to break free. Behind me, I hear my mother announce haughtily to everyone around her: "La morte di suo padre lo ha veramente distrutto."
Yes, Mum. My father’s death may well have destroyed me, but it’s not why I’m falling apart right now.
As soon as I reach the rental car, I lock myself inside it and pull out my phone. The Calabrese summer heat is fierce and I’m in a metal capsule wearing a black suit, but I don’t give a flying fuck. My sweat mixes with my tears as I punch in Bradford’s number for the very last time. “Hi… it’s me again.” I can’t even curb my sobs. “I’m sorry, Bradford. I should never have said those things. Please don’t cut me off, I’m begging you. I can’t stand this. I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just call me. Please. Oh, fuck…” I gasp again and a colossal tirade of wails explodes out of my chest. I can no longer talk. Crushing my thumb against the red button, I realise it's all over. It’s all too late.
***
Late that night, my phone rings. I shoot upright, groping over on the bedside table for it. My heart falls yet again as I see it’s not from Bradford. It’s a silent number.
“Hello?”
“Bru, darl, it’s Gina.” She sounds officious, dripping with professional concern. “This guy you were seeing? Bradford?”
“Yes?” My heart starts to thump. Panic is rising up to throat level.
“I’ve just come back from the conference in Canberra. I see he’s been here in my ward for nearly a week.”
“What? What the fuck? ” I shake my head vigorously, trying to pull myself together as fast as I can.
“Domestic assault. TBI. LOC. ICH. PTA.”
Domestic fucking assault? My mind swims with the abbreviations. Neuro was never my strong suit. Traumatic brain injury. Loss of consciousness. Intracranial haemorrhage. Post-traumatic amnesia. “How long was he out for?”
Gina takes a breath and sighs. “Well, I guess you’re staff here and you’d have access to his records, anyway.” She reads in a rushed manner, gleaning what she can from the notes. “‘Consciousness returned the following night after emergency neurosurgery upon admission. Broken ribs… bruising… laceration to left eye socket… a tear to the left corneal graft.’ They’ve had ophtho assess it and he’s been referred to the eye hospital next week. But Bru…”
“Yeah?”
“They've told me he’s still out of it. No recognition of family or personal history. Confused as fuck, darl. Let me look—” She pauses. “Yeah. Here it is. Occupational therapy have been working with him daily. Typical presentation. Agitated. Highly anxious. Prone to bouts of disinhibition and inappropriate behaviour. Psych have seen him and there’s some talk of moving him down to them, under neuro. But he still needs to be here a bit longer.”
Somehow, I manage to thank Regina while my head is already working on my escape. Should I drive to Rome? I don’t know. Could I even get a connecting flight from here? Fuck. I’ll work it out. I just need to get home now.