The tearsmith, p.53
The Tearsmith, page 53
He looked at me with an embarrassment that broke me even more.
‘I’m sorry, Nica.’
For the first time, I felt something much more painful than tears burning in my eyes: disillusionment.
I understood, like never before, how destructive it could be to cling on to hope.
Doctor Robertson put a hand on my shoulder before leaving. I knew that if I had the strength to look at him, I would see the pain he felt for tearing away yet another dream.
I spent my eighteenth birthday there, with my heart pounding against my ribs and that balloon hovering over his immobile body.
* * *
—
When I was a child, they said that it was the truth that brings colour to the world.
That is the compromise. Until you know the truth, you can never see reality in all its colours.
But some of those colours can destroy us.
Some truths have stories that we’re not ready to let go of.
I wasn’t ready to let go of mine.
But I had no more smiles to show Rigel. I had no more fairy tales to tell him.
I just had an empty heart, eroding me from the inside like a foreign object. There were times when I felt it slipping out of my chest and thudding to the ground under my blank gaze.
In times like those, I thought that if my heart really did fall out, I would kneel down to gather it up without batting an eyelid. All I could feel was pain.
As I stayed there with him that evening, not even the nurses came in to tell me to leave.
Maybe because they had seen my glassy eyes and hadn’t been able to tear me away. That bed that seemed to keep not only one, but two hearts beating.
It had been several days since my birthday, and still nothing had changed. He was still there. I was still there.
Maybe we would be there forever.
I had run out of stories, and every light I tried to give him had flickered out like a match behind his closed eyes.
There was nothing left.
My soul was just a deep emptiness, from which resurfaced words that I had carried all my life.
‘Once upon a time, in a distant, far-away place, there was a world where no one could cry.’
My voice was a shaking whisper.
‘Emotions didn’t burn, and feelings…didn’t exist. People’s souls were empty, stripped of all emotion. But hidden far from everyone lived a little man cloaked in shadows and boundless solitude. A lonely artisan, with strange, incredible powers and whose eyes, clear as glass, could produce crystal teardrops.
‘One day, a man turned up at his door. He saw the artisan’s tears and, spurred by a desire to feel a shred of emotion, asked if he could have some. Never, in all his life, had he wanted anything more than to be able to cry.
‘ “Why?” the artisan asked him, in a voice that sounded unlike a voice.
‘ “Because crying means feeling,” the man replied. “Because tears encapsulate love and the most heart-wrenching of farewells. They are the most intimate extension of the soul. More than joy or happiness, it is tears that make us truly human.”
‘The artisan asked if he was sure, but the man begged him. So he took two of his tears, and slipped them under his eyelids.
‘The man went away, but many more came after him.
‘Each one of them asked for the same thing, and one by one, the artisan fulfilled this desire. And so it came to be that they learnt to cry: with anger, desperation, pain and anguish.
‘Excruciating passions, disappointments and tears, tears, tears – the artisan corrupted a world of purity, tainting it with the deepest and darkest of emotions.
‘And humanity dispersed, to become what we are now.
‘That is why…every child must be good.
‘Because anger isn’t in a child’s nature, nor jealousy, nor spite.
‘Every child must be good, because tears and tantrums and lies are not in their nature.
‘And if you lie, he will know. If you lie, it means you’re his, and he sees everything, every emotion, every shiver of your soul. You cannot deceive him.
‘So be good, child. Be obedient.
‘So don’t be naughty, and above all, remember: you cannot lie to the Tearsmith.’
My words faded into silence. Now they were there, glistening in ink, it seemed as if they had been waiting for this ending all along.
‘That’s how he always was for me,’ I confessed. ‘He was always what they wanted us to believe. A frightening monster…But I was wrong.’
I looked up at him, my eyelids heavy with tears.
I had looked for our fairy tale for so long, without knowing it had been inside me from the very beginning.
‘Look, Rigel,’ I whispered eventually, destroyed. ‘Look how you make me cry. The truth is…You are my Tearsmith.’
I shook my head, utterly shattered.
‘I realised too late. Each one of us has a Tearsmith…A person who can make us cry, make us happy or destroy us with just a glance. A person who’s inside us…who’s so important they can make us despair with just a word, or thrill us with a smile. And you can’t lie to them…You can’t lie to this person, because the feelings that connect you to them are always stronger than any lie. You can’t tell someone you love that you hate them. That’s how it is…You can’t lie to the Tearsmith. It would be like lying to yourself.’
I was overcome with anguish, every inch of my being was suffering. I knew that if there was an ending to this story, it would always be with that dark-eyed boy I had seen many years ago on the threshold to The Grave.
‘I wanted to look you in the eyes when I told you,’ I sobbed, clutching his bedcovers. ‘I wanted you to see it in my eyes…but maybe it’s too late. Maybe our time is up…and this is my last chance…’
I lowered my forehead to his chest. And as the world faded around me, I confessed to him the words I had been saving for our ending.
‘I love you, Rigel,’ I whispered, my heart in pieces. ‘I love you like loving freedom from a dark cellar. Like loving a caress, after years of bruises and punches…I love you more than I’ve ever loved any colour in all my life…and I love you…as I can love only you, you who hurts me and heals me more than anything else, you who are light and dark, the universe and the stars. I love you as I can love only you, you’re my Tearsmith…’
My body was wracked with sobs and I clutched on to the pages of our story with everything I had.
With every desperate shred of me.
With every tear, and every breath.
With all my Band-Aids, and my soul that would never be able to feel again.
And for a moment…I swore I could feel his heart beat harder. I wished I could take it in my hands and hold it to me, to take care of it forever. But all I could do was look up at his face, like I had done every single day.
All I could do was muster the courage to look at him again.
And this time…
This time, when my heart fell out my chest…I heard the thud. But I didn’t bend down to pick it up.
No. I stayed still.
Because my eyes.
My eyes were looking straight into his eyes.
Tired, weary eyes…
Black eyes.
The emotion that overcame me was so visceral and incredulous that for a moment I ceased to exist. I was too terrified to hope.
My vision drowning in tears, I stared at that thin gap between his eyelids. I was unable to move. I felt like if I dared to breathe, that moment would shatter like glass.
‘…Rigel…’
But his eyes…
His eyes were still there.
They didn’t disappear, like in dreams.
They didn’t evaporate, like an illusion.
They stayed right in front of me, fragile and true, exhausted wolf eyes that reflected my own image back at me.
‘Rigel…’ I shivered violently, too destroyed to believe it.
But I wasn’t imagining it. Rigel was looking at me.
This wasn’t a dream.
Rigel had opened his eyes.
My forehead furrowed, his name erupted on my lips. I eventually let myself go and that consuming void burst free from me in an earthquake of pain and anguish.
My body was overcome by such an intense joy that my breaths became shuddery gasps. My head collapsed on his chest, drained of energy. His eyes were the most beautiful miracle ever.
More beloved than any sky.
More desired than any fairy tale.
It is true that there is a fairy tale for everyone. It is true, but mine was not a tale of sparkling worlds or golden flourishes. No…Mine had spiky rose gardens and eyelids opening on starry galaxies.
It had constellations of shivers, and thorns of regret, and I clutched at them desperately, hugging each of them one by one, every last spine.
I put a hand on Rigel’s cheek, sobbing, and he continued staring at me as if, despite his state of deep confusion, my face was stirring a deep and boundless feeling in him.
And I…I didn’t take my eyes off his.
Not even for a moment. Not even as I stretched my hand out and pushed the button to call the nurses…Nor when they ran in, and incredulous voices burst out.
Not even when the whole ward was suddenly plunged into commotion.
I stayed with him the whole time, chained to his gaze, body and soul.
I stayed with him, just as I had every night in my dreams, every day of every week.
I stayed with him, never leaving, until…
Until the very end.
* * *
—
It was a little while before Rigel could speak.
I had always assumed that when people woke up from a coma, they were immediately lucid, or at least in control of their body. I discovered that this was not the case.
The doctor told me that it would take a few hours before he would regain complete control over his movements, and that after more than two weeks in a coma, most patients fell into a vegetative state. He was happy that after so many complications Rigel had at least been spared that.
He also explained that after waking up, some people could be agitated and aggressive because they didn’t recognise where they were. Because of this, he urged me to speak calmly when I went back to him.
Before he left me alone with him again, Doctor Robertson placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a smile so full of hope I felt my chest swelling.
When he left, I tucked my hair behind my ear, turning towards the boy lying in the bed. Seeing him so peaceful gave my heart an immense sense of relief.
I ran my fingertips over his face, tracing his features, and beneath my touch, Rigel opened his eyes.
He slowly blinked, still too weak to move, and his eyes focused on the outline of my face.
‘Hi…’ I whispered, softer than ever before. The line on the monitor that pulsed in time with his heartbeat showed two palpitations in quick succession.
Hearing his heart so present, my throat tightened with tears of uncontainable joy. He recognised me and his eyes anchored in mine like binary stars.
I tenderly brushed several strands of hair off his face, convincing myself I wasn’t dreaming.
‘You’ve come back,’ I breathed. ‘You came back to me.’
Rigel looked deep into my eyes, and even though his body was visibly worn out, I thought he had never looked so wonderful.
‘…Like in your stories,’ he blurted out hoarsely. I trembled with a burning love when I heard the sound of his voice again. Tears brimmed in my eyes like old friends. I let myself be overcome with weeping, too shocked to struggle against it.
‘You…heard me?’
‘Every single day.’
I smiled through my tears, feeling them stream down my cheeks. Everything I had told him, whispered, confessed – he had heard it all.
He knew that I’d never let him go. Not for any reason in the world.
‘I waited for you a long time,’ I exhaled, my fingers interlocking tightly with his.
We held hands, wolf and girl, and in our united palms I found all the light I had never stopped looking for.
‘Me too.’
34. Healing
There is a force that cannot be measured:
The courage of those who don’t stop hoping.
Rigel’s recovery took time.
It took several days before his sleep cycle completely stabilised, and several more for him to regain control over his body.
He recovered full lucidity, and despite the physical impediments that kept him pinned to the bed, it didn’t take long for the more intractable sides of his personality to re-emerge.
If there was one thing he had never been able to stand, it was being cared for and worried about, in any shape or form. Maybe, because of his illness, he had spurned this so much that he was now repulsed by the idea of anyone having any sort of concern for him. And so, while he struggled to get better, he wasn’t dealing very well with the prospect of being subject to the loving care and attention of complete strangers.
In particular, the nurses.
Over the last few weeks, they had all fallen for that alluring, angelic boy sleeping an unnatural sleep and fighting for his life. They had all tended to him carefully, changing his bandages and looking at him like a dream that was too fragile to last.
Now that he had opened his magnetic, disdainful wolf eyes, the air seemed to crackle with electric excitement.
As was easy to imagine, neither the doctors, nor the head nurse, nor Rigel appreciated this.
‘Miss Dover?’ I heard one afternoon. I was a step away from the door to his room, and turned around to find the head nurse coming towards me.
‘Oh, hello!’ I gripped the flowers and the book I had brought with me. ‘How are you?’
She was a large, matronly woman with a hefty bust and strong arms. She put her hands on her hips and looked at me with an expression that was far from friendly.
‘There have been some altercations…’
‘Oh, erm…again?’ I stammered, trying to lighten the conversation with a laugh, but she didn’t seem in the right mood, so I just gave a somewhat forced smile.
‘I imagine…yes, that there was some…disagreement…’ I tried. ‘But try to understand, this isn’t easy for him. He hasn’t got bad intentions…He’s a good boy. He barks but he doesn’t bite.’
Then I thought for a moment and corrected myself. ‘Well, he does actually bite, now and then…but that’s more in defence…’ I shook my head gently. ‘And you know…he finds this situation stressful.’
‘Stressful?’ she repeated, offended. ‘He gets all the care and attention he needs!’ she retorted. ‘And more!’
‘Exactly…’
‘What?’
‘I’m sure he does,’ I hurried to add. ‘It’s just that he, well…how can I put it…he’s a little wild, but…I assure you, he can be civil. You’d be amazed to know how polite he can be. He just needs to get used to it…’
She was still looking at me with a deeply furrowed brow so I pulled a marvellously fragrant lily out of the bunch of flowers and held it out to her with one of my sweetest smiles. She softened and took it with a murmur. I was satisfied.
‘Don’t worry. Trust me. I’m sure that he’ll be able to behave in a way more appropriate for…’
‘What are you doing?’
I whirled around. That alarmed voice had come from Rigel’s room.
Without thinking, I rushed inside. The nurse at his bedside was red and agitated.
I moved around her, and only then saw him.
Bathed in the sunlight illuminating the white curtains, there was a complex bandage around Rigel’s chest and the bedcovers were pulled down to his pelvis. His cheeks were shadowed, and he flashed his mesmerising, dark eyes at the nurse next to him.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked, when I saw that he was sitting up, leaning on his arm. He was gripping the bedcovers as if they were imprisoning him.
‘I told him he can’t get up,’ the nurse said. ‘But he won’t listen…’
‘It’s all fine.’ I smiled politely at the woman, putting a hand on his shoulder to guide him back down. I felt his muscles struggling not to rebel. ‘There’s no need for alarm…’
She slipped away, taking his lunch tray with her. I watched her disappear through the door, then turned back to him with a sweet smile.
‘Where did you think you were going?’
Rigel shot me a glare like a captive beast, but that was all.
I calmly arranged the flowers, as if I hadn’t just caught him disobeying the doctors again. ‘How are you today?’
‘Marvellous,’ he spat out bitingly. ‘They’ll put a sign outside my room soon, like in a zoo.’
He wasn’t in a very good mood. Having been caught trying to sneak off probably didn’t help.
‘You’ve got to be patient,’ I said gently, reviving the petals with my fingers. ‘You’re in capable hands, you know? And being nice, once in a while, wouldn’t hurt. Or at least not hostile. Could you try, at least?’
Rigel stared at me, his upper lip slightly curled, and I gave him an indulgent look.
‘They told me you were rude to a nurse. Is it true?’
‘She wanted to shove plastic tubes up my nose,’ he hissed, deeply indignant. ‘I politely told her she could put them up her –’
‘Oh, Nica, how lovely to see you again!’
Doctor Robertson came into the room, his shirt fluttering and a little card under his arm. He came up to us and with a delighted expression, said, ‘Hello Rigel, how was the soup?’
Rigel smiled politely.
‘It was pitiful.’
