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I awoke to the familiar sound of a heart monitor, beeping loudly beside me. I knew where I was, but not how I’d gotten there. I sat upright, and I realized almost immediately it was a mistake. The pain was indescribable, starting at my midsection and spreading to my fingertips. I gasped, finally noticing Francis seated in a chair next to my bed.
“Richard,” he exhaled, his demeanor was calm but I could easily read his eyes. He’d been crying, but for how long I didn’t know.
“Francis. What happened?” My voice was raspy, much lower than I intended to sound. I was reminded of Henry's deep voice, and my thoughts faltered momentarily.
“Don't you remember?” he looked worried now, the rest of his face catching up to his eyes. “You were shot, Richard.”
It all came back. The hotel room, Henry kissing Camilla goodbye, Charles seething with rage. The scene was so melodramatic, everyone yelling and begging Charles to put the gun down after he shot me. I could easily picture Henry, grabbing the gun from Charles and then placing it against his own head. With his face calm and content, he pulled the trigger. I wondered what he’d been thinking of, what his final thoughts were. Perhaps he thought of his beloved flowers and how he’d never gotten to see them bloom. They lay untouched, sublime in his empty yard, probably which would be sold in a few months or so.
I suddenly felt a pain so visceral I thought I might pass out. Oh, Henry, poor Henry! He had not deserved any of this. Francis must’ve noticed my expression, because he took my hand in my his, offering a firm squeeze of assurance.
“Of course I remember, who could forget something like that?” I offered with a weak smile. “I’m just a bit disoriented right now.” He smiled back, hardly trying to hide his emotions. I saw him tearing up, and I found myself containing a laugh.
“My god Francis, how did we end up here?”, I retorted.
He ignored my question, returning to his examination. “How are you feeling?” I couldn’t meet his gaze anymore, so I instead focused on his hands. He’d been biting his nails, which he usually kept pristine. I felt bad because I knew Francis had dealt with enough emotional drama already. I’d started driving him to therapy after our trip to the emergency room, back when he thought he’d been having a heart attack. It turned out anxiety could have a physical pain response. Who knew?
“I’m alive aren’t I, so I guess it doesn’t really matter how I’m feeling.” I regretted it as soon as I said it, watching Francis’ composure collapse in real-time.
“Richard this isn’t a joke,” he said feebly. I watched as his nervous eyes darted around the hospital room. His hypochondria told him that he’d contract tuberculosis if he got too close to the coughing old man in the hallway. It was heartbreaking.
“I know, I’m sorry.” I didn’t have it in me to keep up this facade. I was tired and in pain, and I knew Francis could see me like this without my self-image being bruised. I’d only broken down like this once before, in front of Henry last winter. I didn’t know if I could bear it again.
“You’ve been out for three days,” he muttered, switching the topic abruptly. Perhaps he knew I was in too much of a fragile state to be emotional.
His words hit me like a truck. It’d been three days since Henry’s death. Three whole rotations of the earth, and yet we were all still here.
“Where’s Camilla?” I asked after a brief pause.
“She’s been in contact with the police. She told them you tried to stop him, and that you’d gotten shot trying to save him. His mom has visited you every day since.”
I felt sick to my stomach. Henry’s mom thought I was a hero. “And Charles?”
“He’s in rehab. Camilla had him admitted last night. It’s a two-month program.”
“And you?” I asked finally.
Francis’ face flushed a dark red, much deeper than his fiery hair. “I’ve been here.” I turned away, smiling slightly to myself. I would never admit it to anyone, but I didn’t mind the attention Francis gave me. I knew he loved Charles, and he knew I loved Camilla, but in certain moments like this, our friendship sometimes went beyond platonic.
“Did they call my family?” I asked.
Francis looked slightly disturbed at this. “Erm, no. You didn’t have them listed as an emergency contact.” I suddenly remembered my emergency contact was Henry.
“Right.” I tried to break the uncomfortable silence.
“Do you want me to call them?” He offered nicely, but I quickly denied.
“No, no, that’s alright. I’ll be ok without them.”
“Are you sure? I can stay if you’d like. Truthfully I have nothing to do now that Julien is gone.”
Right. Julien. I’d almost forgotten that he’d left us when we needed him most, that he’d left Henry in his most vulnerable state. “That would be nice actually. I have nowhere to go either.”
Francis’ eyes lit up, and for a split second I saw him as the man he was one short year ago; bright. “Let’s go to the country, we can live in my grandfather’s house there. Study all the Greek we want.”
I wanted nothing more than to get out of Vermont as quickly as I could, forget about it all, and move on with my life. Yet Francis looked so happy, and I had no money and nowhere to go. I doubted if I could leave though, most certainly never for good. I remembered Henry, how happy he was getting up at 5 am every morning, sitting on Francis’ porch and sipping his coffee, reading the biggest book he could find. He’d always wanted a peaceful life, and for the last time in my life, I found myself following his directions blindly. “Yes, I’d think I’d like that.”
We sat in comfortable silence. I thought back to my favorite book, “The Great Gatsby.” It all made sense, how the similarities all clicked into place. Henry, Gatsby, extravagantly rich and generous, hopelessly in love with Camilla, Daisy, too late to reciprocate. Charles was Tom, protective of Camilla and pointlessly feuding with Henry. Francis was Jordan, who I quickly befriended and briefly romanced. Lastly, I was Nick, an outsider at first but easily roped into the mess, starstruck by Gatsby and his enchanting life. It was almost comical, and I still think about it to this day. Oh, and lastly Bunny was Myrtle, the ruiner of our story. I could see it clear as day. These were the thoughts that got me through my time at Hampden Hospital.
Soon I was out of the hospital, passing by Hampden college in Henry’s car, which surprisingly he’d left to me in his will. We made our way through the small town, warm for the first time in my whole year being there. I smiled at Francis, and he smiled at me, almost running us off the road. I looked back one last time at the Hampden, it’s dark wood and shut windows stuck out like a sore thumb against the greenery around it.
“It’s ok, Richard. It’s over now,” Francis said with a sigh of contentment. “We don’t have to worry anymore.”
“Never again,” I replied, finally breaking my gaze from the school.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at Francis’ country home. We made our way to the front door, passing the long overgrown grass littered with bright yellow weeds. The housekeeper had quit after Charles had stolen his truck, which wasn’t much of a surprise. We went inside and I was overwhelmed by the house just as I’d been the first time I’d walked through. Light beamed up from the skylights, illuminating a grand library just past the living room. I figured I’d spend most of my summer healing there, extending my studies without Julian.
“Francis, what are we going to do?” I asked later that evening as we’d eaten dinner. Francis was an excellent chef, but tonight we stuck to spaghetti.
“What do you mean?”, he asked.
“Well, we’re out of school, and we’ve got nothing to do for an entire summer.”
“I’m not going back to school,” Francis said plainly.
“I don’t know if I will either.” Although I spoke these words aloud, my mind was logical and I knew I’d probably finish college here. Hampden is my home, and no matter what happened it was all I had now. Well, besides the generosity of Francis. After that winter of suffering, and all the events that unfolded, I doubted if I could ever leave. It was as if some invisible string had attached me to the school. Julian would say it was the Moirae, that nobody should be allowed to play god and take the life of another. Then Henry might argue that I wasn’t guilty at all, that I hadn’t participated in the actual murder process, so I was innocent. Henry’s voice still resided in my subconscious, and it pained me to hear his deep, tired voice. I hoped he was resting now, that after all of this he’d been able to find peace. I could never figure out why I felt so deeply sorry for Henry, who was a murderer, no matter how you tried to sugar coat it. I wish I could’ve been there for him more than anything. Poor old sport, left floating dead in a pool of his own despair. Bunny used to call me old man, even though he was the oldest of us all. I decided I’d spend my first day at Francis’ re-reading Gatsby, projecting my personal traumas onto the oblivious characters.