Carved in Her Bones

Tomas

It's a completely nauseating experience to hate someone simply because they have what you covet.

In another world, I believe Joey and I could be friends.

But in this world, I despise him on sight.

Tall. Brown eyes. Racially ambiguous. Strong. Masculine. He's everything I was unconsciously hoping he wouldn't be. I hate him for being conventionally attractive, for looking like someone who belongs effortlessly.

"Hiya there, mate," he says as Pia and I step into the room.

I glance at Pia, who is no doubt appreciating Rhian's very attractive boyfriend. I don't care that Pia might like him. I care that a girl I spoke to for less than a minute...who never even really met me..chose him.

"Tomas," I say, extending my hand, gripping his with more force than necessary.

"This is Pia."

Pia, ever the flirt, bats her lashes and practically squeals.

"I'm a hugger, sorry!" she chirps before pressing herself against Joey.

His whole front flushes against her. Joey looks thoroughly pleased with himself.

Pia finally disentangles herself and saunters over to my bed.

I spot a cello resting beside his bed. Of course. An attractive musician.

I groan inwardly.

Because of course she would go for a guy who plays the cello

A woman walks in, older but bearing a striking resemblance to Rhian ,same delicate features, but deeper brown skin. Without a word, she pulls out a handful of books and hands them to Joey.

Must be the girlfriend's mom.

"Rhian and Dad not back yet?" Joey asks, flipping through the books without much interest.

"No," the woman replies.

Then she turns to us, her expression polite but unreadable.

"Mum, this is Tomas. And Pia."

I nod, still thrown off by the way Mum rolled so easily off his tongue. Were they married.Why was he calling a woman who looked exactly like his girlfriend mum. Because I shouldn't care but I was hoping they weren't married

Rhian never comes back.

It's been two days, and I haven't seen her. Maybe she comes when I'm in radio therapy. That's what good girlfriends do, right? Visit their dying boyfriend in the hospital?

Pia visits, and she isn't even that great of a girlfriend. So why isn't Rhian here?

Mum—ever since my diagnosis—has found ways to spend more time with me in the last four months than she did in the first six years of my life. And tonight is no exception.

She's promised a night of great music, food, and good company. Which, when translated into non-wealthy terms, means some overpriced orchestra concert—probably Bach or Mozart or whatever music people like my mother consider real music.

I wish she had invited Pia. Pia dilutes my mother's love with her jokes and vanity. But no—tonight is a mother-son evening.

At precisely 7 p.m., a tux is delivered to my room, tailored to fit my disintegrating frame. Mum has called and texted me four times today, reminding me to shower, put on cologne, not to be late. I do it all, of course.

Tonight, a piano concerto awaits me at the National Concert Hall. I'm sure my mother paid an outrageous amount for front-row seats. She was classically trained and tried to force that on me. I was never any good, though. I took to the cello instead—but I abandoned it the moment I discovered women and sex.

Nurse Lucille, now both mine and Joey's private night nurse, escorts me to the car.

Strangely, I'm not tired tonight. I don't want to give myself false hope that the chemo is working, so I chalk it up to some weird cosmic event.

When we arrive, Mum is already waiting, poised in a fitted white Armani pantsuit. Makeup flawless, hair swept into an elegant updo—almost like the woman I grew up with. She kisses both my cheeks, Spanish style, and we walk in silence to our seats.

I pick up the playbill, skimming through it absentmindedly—until something catches my eye.

Tchaikovsky: Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-Flat minor| Thandaza R. Howells ,Jean-Marc Gautier & the Trinity Festival Orchestra.

Tchaikovsky. Fuck.

I've had nightmares about this concerto since I was fourteen,when my boys' school chose it for a fundraiser. That was the month I gave up piano. Not only was it a beast to master, but my mother had volunteered to teach it. My own personal hell.

The curtains rise. The orchestra is already seated.

And then she walks in.

Rhian.

She's wearing a dress that could have been made for her. Deep forest green, fitted, accentuating her small frame. Her hair is pulled back in a bun, neat and effortless. She looks unreal.

She sits at the piano.

And then she plays.

For thirty-seven minutes, I do not take my eyes off her.

She's lost in it. Existing in the heart of the music. Her face serene, utterly beautiful. She doesn't smile, doesn't perform for the audience—she just plays. And though I can't see her hands clearly, I imagine them dancing over the keys, floating.

She is talented.

In the way I never was.

When the drama of the concerto rises, it feels like she is part of it—like the music isn't coming from the piano but from her.

The performance ends. A standing ovation.

She bows slightly and exits with the conductor and the first-line players.

I have no words.

It feels unfair that she gets to be beautiful and supremely talented. I bet she's nice too.

I realize I'm still standing, still clapping long after she's gone.

Mum has tears in her eyes. Music always moves her.

And tonight, it moved me too.

We head to the banquet hall for dinner.

Do the orchestra dine with us?

I hope they do.