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"I killed my father, Alex."
After a gasp escapes me, I ask, "W-what do you mean?"
His eyes have left the photo, and he lets go of my hand and places his elbows on his knees as he leans forward. He starts speaking while staring into space. "As I grew older, I became sick and tired of the way they controlled my life. I still loved to play, but I detested how my relationship with my father had changed. The only thing we talked about in the Walker house was the piano, and I wanted a break from it all. The arguments between my parents and I increased. Then, one day, the director from the Boston Symphony Hall asked my father to arrange and write a brand-new classical part. They wanted me to perform it during a big, yearly music event. I told my mother I didn't want to do it, but she said straight away I had to. We argued back and forth until..."
I gaze up to see why he stopped talking, and I bite my lip when I perceive the haunted expression on his handsome face. When I touch his hand, he continues with a crack in his voice.
"My mom declared how she and my father believed I was responsible for his bike accident all those years ago. If I hadn't thrown a tantrum about wanting to go on a bike ride, the accident never would have happened. So, feeling responsible, I continued playing."
Nausea courses through me. How could a mother lay that guilt on her son?
"My father spent months arranging the part, and when the day came, I was a ball of nerves. As we waited in a backstage room, my father was excited and kept rambling what this night could mean for my career. I told them honestly that after this performance, I wanted a timeout from playing. We ended up in another heated discussion, and my mother broke it off when it was time for my father to give his speech."
A muscle in Cole's jaw twitches, and he brushes his hands over his face.
"The moment my father got on stage, I told my mother I was going to the restroom. She nodded, and I walked out. But instead of going to the toilet, I kept going until I breathed in the fresh night air."
Cole lowers his gaze, and he stares at his feet.
My chest aches. That must have been so hard for a seventeen-year-old boy.
"Where did you go?"
He shrugs.
"I sat on a bench in front of a small diner across the street, gazing at the symphony hall, imagining my parents' reaction when they would find out I wasn't performing."
I grin, thinking of the younger, stubborn Cole sitting there.
"But then the piercing sound of a siren traveling through the air got my attention. It grew stronger. The colors of the alarm lights lit up the evening sky, and the moment it stopped in front of the symphony hall, I jumped up and started walking. As I reached the ambulance, two paramedics stepped out and rushed inside, talking in medical terms. Uneasiness crept up inside me as I followed them through the crowded hallways. People were staring and mumbling, but I couldn't make out what they were saying."
The heaviness in my stomach increases as he continues.
"Suddenly, the director showed up, yelling at the paramedics to hurry as he guided them through the corridors. The moment we entered the stage of the concert hall, I froze." Cole grabs my hand and intwines our fingers. After staring at our joint hands for a moment, he continues.
"My father was lying on his back on the floor—face greyish—eyes closed. An unknown man was doing chest compressions on him. The man stopped as the two paramedics took over. As they ripped open his shirt and hooked him onto the AED machine, a shirt button rolled over the stage." His jaw clenches while his thumb draws circles over the back of my hand. "My mother screamed and cried as she watched how they did their job. His chest lifted with every shock they gave him, but he didn't respond. I stared at the monitor of the AED, praying for those well-known spikes—but nothing happened.”
Cole closes his eyes. "After the paramedics exchanged a look of understanding, one paramedic rose and walked over to my mother, while the other one kept continuing CPR and chest compressions. My mother's eyes never left my father as the man explained the situation to her. With tears streaming, she nodded. Right after, a soul-crunching scream escaped her lips when the paramedic stopped working on him. It echoed through the hall, and the sound still enters my dreams from time to time. The moment they turned off the AED, she collapsed next to him. She caressed his face and placed kisses on his forehead while a never-ending river of pain streamed down her face as she mumbled loving words to him.
"The director of the symphony hall walked over to me, put a hand on my shoulder, and told me how sorry he was. I simply looked at him and asked him, dumbfounded, what happened. He explained how my father told the audience about the piece he composed for me. When he called out for me to come on stage, and I didn't show up, people started whispering. Someone from backstage informed him about my disappearance. He apologized to the crowd and walked offstage. But before he reached the end, he collapsed."
Tears spill from my blurry eyes, and my chest is burning with sadness and grief for the seventeen-year-old Cole and this grown-up man sitting beside me.
"The last thing I told my father was that I wanted to quit. So, I'm holding myself to that. I don’t deserve to touch this ever again," he says, brushing his hands on the shiny black piano.
If a heart could break from compassion, mine would burst into a million pieces right now. Realizing how he's blaming himself for his father's death makes me want to scream. The guilt he's carrying is tremendous.
Suddenly, he stands up and stumbles out. But when he's midway through his bedroom he stops, and stares at the floor. I follow, and when in front of him, I take both his hands and intertwine our fingers.
"There is a tear in my heart, and I'm unable to fix it. It's like a part of me is missing. It died with him," he whispers.
His chin lifts, and the bitter smile on his lips kills me. "Do you know stress causes most heart attacks? If I hadn't been so selfish that night, he might still be alive today."
He doesn't show tears, but I bet he's been crying inside for years. I untangle my hands and take his face in my palms. And as I brush my thumbs over his cheeks, I whisper while opening my arms, "Come here."
He leans in, and when he wraps his tightly around me, a tear escapes my eyes, thinking of how this broken giant of a man has punished himself for something that isn't his fault.
Silently, I pray to the universe. Please, guide me to help heal this beautiful man.
