I Fell in Love with Hope(27)

Sony’s jaw quivers with her lips. A smile forged like a shield spreads across her face, if only to convince her she isn’t trying not to cry. Her eyes shut to the question. Then it comes from her, like a confession. A sin. An irony.

“My mom died.”

Neo doesn’t move. He simply looks up at her, his hands on her knees.

Blue and red touch Sony’s face, the ambulance that brought her here tonight still fresh in her mind. She tries to laugh, a dry sound, the kind I never want to hear. It’s an insult to her true laughter.

“She wasn’t sick,” she says, like the greatest tragedy of her life is a sick joke of its own. “She just died in her sleep.”

Sony is a gladiator. She was born to conquer mountains and race the gods. She even raced death and won, crossing the finish line, her body broken, but her soul still childish and alive. Shame cowers in fear of her and defeat never knew her name till now.

I think of Sony’s mother that day, sleeping in her daughter’s room. She wasn’t sick, never was, but she never looked twice at Neo and me either. She never let discomfort through her hands as she brought us gifts and treats. She always asked about our days rather than our health. Her warmth, like her daughter’s, knew no bounds. Sony’s mother was one of those people who would give anything just to see her child happy. Not in her expectations, not in a vicarious future, but wearing her own joy, climbing her own mountains. It’s a rarer thing to find in parents than you may think. Having to lose her and not knowing why brings Sony to the edge.

Reasons are illusions. Their absence is common. If only it weren’t their presence that keeps people sane.

Sony starts to cry, holding her chest as if her lung could fall from her ribs. Neo takes her by the shoulders. He holds her upright.

“Is someone coming for you?” he asks.

“No,” Sony shakes her head. “It was just her and I.” The last words come out in whimpers. Tears spill from her eyes. Neo wraps his arms around her, hand in her hair, the other gripping the shirt at her back.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” she says, sinking into him as she once did with her mother. I kiss her temple as she sobs with her whole body. I hold her from the side, my arms overlapping Neo’s.

“I wish I had wings,” she cries.

“It’s okay, Sony,” Neo whispers, caressing red strands of fire lost in rain. He holds her tight, taking my hand in the process. “We’re not gonna let you fall.”

Sony learns something that day.

She learns that death isn’t playful.

Death is sudden.

It has no taste for irony or reason.

It doesn’t wait for another tick of the metronome.

It doesn’t wait for goodbyes.

Death is a taker, plain, direct, no tricks up its sleeve. And it will give you nothing in return but a last endless kiss for those you leave behind.

—

Sony’s mother had a lot of money. Like a child, Sony puts no value to it. Lawyers meet with her about inheritance, wills, and many other things Sony doesn’t want to talk about while planning to spread her mother’s ashes.

Sony’s estranged family tries to contact her, but she never calls them back. Money’s gravity is stronger than tragedy’s. Sony knows that.

Eric sets up a ventilator in his apartment’s second bedroom. He’s known Sony’s mother for a long time and therefore, Sony. She stays with him for some time. When she spreads her mother’s ashes in the sea, he goes with her.

Sony finds joy again. She doesn’t seek it out. It lays waiting in unfinished puzzles and adventures she’s yet to have.

Children filled the space her mother left behind. Eric takes her to the oncology wing, where her dramatic readings of bedtime stories and notorious games of hide and seek are great successes.

She finds peace in letting Neo steal her hoodies and stealing forbidden fruits. She and I carry the story box to the gardens and play the sky’s games when Neo’s parents visit him.

Sony’s lung, sadly, doesn’t live well on its own. The hospital keeps a steady hold on her, only relinquishing when that single organ missing its other half finds the strength.

Years later, when our lives fall into steady rhythms, no metronomes to be found, Sony’s fire learns to burn on its own. I give her a piece of paper, a mock puzzle piece, telling her to chase the half that’s been stolen.





For Sony,

I’ll steal you a pair of wings.





quid pro quo




Our escape plan is simple. It’s a heist, like all our missions. Only this time, we are the objects of thievery. Remember that our diseases own us. We are theirs. What they give us in return is the ability to be stolen. Now that we’ve practiced stealing those tangible and intangible desires, it’s time we slip through the iron bars.

There are multiple steps to think of. A five-point star isn’t exactly inconspicuous walking out of a hospital. The plan is top secret. Need to know basis. The first step is getting Neo to walk again.

He stands, his weight uneasy, imbalanced. His doctor said he had to practice. Practicing having to stand is a bit dehumanizing. I think though, that Neo is less bothered by the vulnerability than he is by my hands holding him upright.

“Why are you so cold?” he grumbles, his fingers curled like claws around my arms.