Patchwork Paradise(6)

No, I thought. No, I will never be okay again. “I’ll be fine.”

She nodded, touched my shoulder gently, and left me to it.

I took one step and then stood nailed to the floor as the door quietly fell shut behind me. It felt like I should stand there forever, like this moment should never move along.

What lay ahead of me anyway? Nothing at all. I tried to imagine, for a second, what life would be like without Sammy in it. My brain recoiled and slapped that thought away like it was an angry wasp. I stood there until my toes cramped.

I caught sight of Samuel’s hands, and my gaze snagged there. I wasn’t ready to look at his face.

His hands lay on top of the sheet, by his sides. They were pale and a little bit dirty. I stepped into the bathroom to my right and grabbed a few paper towels. I wet them under the tap and slowly walked over. His hand was still warm. Maybe not as warm as it should’ve been, but warm enough to pretend.

“I’ll clean you up,” I said. “I know how much you hate dirt under your fingernails. Unless it’s paint. You never seem to mind paint. Although . . .” I lifted my head and smiled as I stared out of the window. The sky was turning gray in the distance. I didn’t want there to be a new day, or a new dawn. It reminded me of every morning lying ahead of me when I’d wake up without . . .

I pushed that thought away too. “You could only bear the paint on your hands as long as you were actually painting. As soon as you were done, you’d scrub and scrub until it was gone.”

When I’d cleaned the dirt from one hand, I stood to get fresh paper towels and sat down on his other side.

“You never told me what you’ve been working on lately. I’m sorry to say I’m going to have to take a peek now.” I cleaned his fingers and his palm. “You always used to let me see all your paintings, no matter what stage they were in. So I could only come to one conclusion, you know. It’s a wedding present, isn’t it?”

Oh God.

I dropped his hand. I dropped the towels. Automatically, like a reflex, I raised my head and looked at his face.

“Sammy?” I asked in a very small voice. My hand trembled when I lifted it to swipe his hair aside. The gel had all come out, and it looked so soft. My favorite time of day was when he’d exit his evening shower and I could run my hands freely through his locks.

An ugly hiccup of a sob tore itself free from my mouth. I covered it to make sure no other noise escaped. His eyes were closed. His lips were pale. I dropped my hands. “Sammy?”

Nothing. Of course, nothing. Because Samuel Mathieu was gone. He’d been gone for goodness knew how long, while I’d been sitting in the waiting room, trying to change the course of time.

It was my fault. If we’d left earlier, if I hadn’t insisted on going out, if we’d stayed at the gallery and gone home from there . . .

My fault.

I shook all over when I rose to my feet. Tears leaked out of my eyes and fell onto his cheeks as I leaned over him. I tried to wipe them away, but it was no use; they kept on falling. The pain was immeasurable, a giant beast in my chest, and I thought it wouldn’t ever stop roaring. I gave up, pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, and carefully lay down beside him, where I cried and cried until someone came to take me away.



I couldn’t remember anything between that moment and the funeral. Most likely I slept a lot on my mom’s couch. She lived in a small apartment on Linkeroever, on the other side of the Schelde. After my dad died when I was eighteen, and as I got ready to move on to college life, she’d downsized and never looked back.

The weather was undecided on the day of the funeral. A few raindrops fell when we entered the Holy Ghost Church, and as I sat through the service, I kept listening for a downpour on the roof but heard nothing. I don’t remember what the priest said. Afterward, a lot of people offered me condolences, one or two ignored me completely—I couldn’t have cared less even though my mom was outraged—and then I was in our home, with people eating and laughing and reminiscing.

I hadn’t been here since Sam died. It didn’t feel like my house without him in it, and part of me wondered if I’d have to give it up now. Did he have a will? I didn’t know. I hadn’t even been able to answer the question if he’d wanted to be cremated or not. His mother had thought so, and so did I, even though the idea of it had made me cry for hours. Imagining that beautiful man wasting away in a coffin six feet under had been ten times worse, so cremation it was.

“Ollie?”

I blinked. Somehow I’d made my way to our bedroom. From here the noise downstairs was a dim murmur. I couldn’t begrudge them their laughter, but it cut my soul.

Cleo stared at me, and her bottom lip began to tremble.

“Hey,” I said. When I looked down, I noticed I was holding one of Sam’s soft cashmere sweaters. I brought it to my nose and inhaled. His scent hit me like a sucker punch. “I can’t do this,” I whispered. I looked at Cleo and held the sweater out. “How do I do this? Help me, Cleo.”

Her face cracked and she ran at me, hugging me hard and crushing the sweater between us. I wanted to shove her away and fold it, but she wouldn’t let me.

“We’re here,” she whispered. “Oh, Oliver, we’re here for you. I’m so sorry. I’m so f*cking sorry. If I hadn’t insisted you come out that night . . .”