Bed
That night I shut myself in my room and didn’t go anywhere all weekend. Mum kept asking if everything was all right. I told her I was feeling crook. Chris rang. Elizabeth rang. Mark didn’t ring. Zach didn’t ring. I wanted to be left alone in complete blackness, in a void where I didn’t have to think, where I didn’t have to remember, where there were no more images. I lay in bed in fear of the slide show starting again. But it didn’t. Eventually, under the doona, in the blackness, things became blank again.
I convinced Mum I was too sick to go to rehearsals. I could tell she was concerned but she didn’t say much. I knew Brother Pat would be expecting me, but I couldn’t front this time. Mum rang him and said I was in bed.
I wrapped the doona firmly around me and tried to sleep. I was vaguely aware of different voices outside my door, but each time I would roll over and eventually fall back to sleep.
Sunday night I got up, had a shower and made it to the lounge just to try to decrease the Patricia Armstrong stress. She’d been trying to get me to eat all weekend. Sunday’s attempt was some sort of soup for beating the winter blues. It was healthy and full of vegetables and I couldn’t touch it. But I didn’t tell her that. So I sat and watched the telly and pretended to eat.
One good thing was I didn’t have to worry about school. Mum already had that covered.
Well, if you’ve been sleeping all weekend and can’t eat, you can’t go to school tomorrow. Musical or no musical! I’ll ring Helen and let her know that you’ll definitely be off tomorrow. If you’re not any better by the end of the day, we’ll make a doctor’s appointment for Tuesday.
I left the doctor’s surgery with a certificate that declared I had a virus and was off for the rest of the week. It was one small victory because it meant, to Mum and the rest of the world, that I was legitimately sick.
I didn’t know what I was. All I knew was that the world felt a hell of a lot better when I was asleep.
On Thursday afternoon I heard something being slid under my door. I pulled on the doona even tighter and turned to the wall. I made up scenarios in my head about what the note contained: Elizabeth telling me how much she missed me. Zach saying he didn’t hate my guts. Mark telling me he understood why I’d acted like a dickhead again. And for a flicker of a second it was Dad, saying I hadn’t disappointed him, that he was back and everything would return to normal. It was only because I couldn’t deal with any more scenarios that I pushed myself out of bed and picked up the envelope. I found myself staring at my name written in swirly, old-fashioned writing.
Dear Will,
I am very sorry to hear you are ill. Your mother tells me you have a heavy flu.
I wished to write and tell you how much support you have offered me over the past weeks throughout the musical. Even though I may not have openly acknowledged the reasons why you were initially involved in the musical, I of course knew. However, I always believe in giving people a clean slate, and I must say over the past weeks you have filled yours admirably.
Your work with the younger boys has been marvelous. You have demonstrated kindness, good humor and great patience in your dealings with them. You have guided them masterfully and diligently, making sure they offer the best of themselves as young musicians.
Your own skill as a musician is also worthy of note, not only on the guitar but also in conducting the band. You are in fact more talented musically than you realize. This is something I urge you to continue with.
I doubt you are aware of just how much you have achieved in such a short amount of time. Your leadership capabilities are very strong and obvious, Will. People respond very warmly to you because you are open and friendly. Your dealings with young Zachariah Cohen in particular have shown compassion and brotherly care.
I am aware that the musical was not the place where Will Armstrong ever thought he would find himself, but you have certainly lived up to the expectations of those people who spoke so highly of you. Congratulations, Will. I’m not the only person to have noticed this but I did think I should take the time to let you know and perhaps assist your recovery.
We will all be very disappointed if we don’t see you tomorrow; however, if your illness prevents this from happening, please know you have all of our blessings.
Yours sincerely,
Brother Patrick Murphy
I sat there for a good ten minutes on the side of my bed looking at the letter. At times it blurred. I was an emotional cripple, that much was pretty obvious. Who would have thought? I’d always assumed I had Brother Pat fooled into thinking I was in the musical for the love of it. I knew what this meant. As much as I would have loved to have pulled the doona over my head I knew I couldn’t ignore it. The slides started again but this time it was a different show: Brother Pat, the geeks, Elizabeth, Andrews, the chorus girls, the Freak and Mark. The last two slides kept repeating.
The old bugger had worked his mysterious ways again and I bet he bloody knew it too.