As night turned into early morning she rested her arms over a forgotten blue raft and told me about all the people she met riding the G-train when she'd sneak out of her house. She told me all the words Merriam Webster taught her, and how she used them against her father. She told me about a guy with scripture tattooed on his arms and chest and rings in his nose and how she first learned how to charm a man. She told me about the flowers he'd leave on the train platform each morning where he used to preach to passengers. She told me how she never kissed anyone before me.

She began to tell me her secrets.

And I was never more quiet.

After she crawled into my bed that night, I found my notebook open on my desk. Inside she had written: The sky is falling. The sky is falling.

And I fear you won't believe it until you're covered in stars.

It's was 4:30 am when loud music filtered through the house. I awoke with a start. Everly Anne was gone from my bed.

Groggily I crept out to the hallway, and found her sitting on the steps, staring through the banister rails. When I sat beside her, I watched my father sway with a bottle of scotch in hand, down in the living room below.

"Well," I sighed, putting my chin on her shoulder. "He's singing Italian Bocelli love songs. Andrew Trovatto is officially fuckin' tanked."

"You should go to him," she said quietly.

I closed my eyes and snuggled up to her. "No way. Drunken Bocelli is some of his finest work."

She laughed quietly. "It is a pretty song."

"You know what it says?" I asked, kissing her shirt.

"It's in Italian."

"Right now he's telling the woman he loves, "My sun you are here with me."

She leaned her head against mine. "Why is he calling her his son?"

"No," I smiled. "Like sunshine. That sun."

"Where are they?"

"It's debatable if she is even really with him. Some people think it's a sad song about losing someone you love. Some think it's just stupid a love song."

Everly put my arm over her shoulder. "Maybe they don't know about that evil word."

I kissed her through a chorus of devotion . . . and loss.

A Love Cure

Part Three

THE QUIET. THE LOUD.

When I was thirteen, I woke up on Christmas morning, and color might as well have vanished from the world.

The two things I remembered most about that morning were the quiet and the loud.

The loud: Ambulance sirens stuck in my ears. My feet were too heavy as I climbed down the stairs from my bedroom with hope it was all just a nightmare. The wailing from a grown man's bedroom.

The quiet: Our kitchen wasn't brimming cinnamon pancakes, hot cocoa, coffee. Our Christmas tree sat betrayed by the unopened presents beneath. Nothing rumbled any more. Nothing made a noteworthy sound that comforted and carried me into its arms.

The Monday following Fourth of July weekend, I stepped inside of room 221, to attend class, and found Christmas morning all over again.

Everyone was too loud. Where is the sick girl? What do you mean we have to do an extra exam? A surprise test right after holiday? Fucking bastard.

And the room was earth-shatteringly quiet. No Everly Anne with all her pseudo shyness. No chair of questions in the middle of the room. Timothy carried on as if she hadn't even existed. No explanation, just, just, just, fuckin' just, "this is my classroom. If you don't like it leave."

They were given clinic duty, extra rotations, and some lame fuckin' lab on rabbits with stomach cancer. I was called up to his desk and met with an alien-like cheerfulness.

"Mr. Trovatto!" He smiled. "How was your weekend? Hope you got plenty of rest."

"Thank you? Sir?"

"Very good." He handed over a slip of paper. "I have some excellent news for you today. Dr. Woodruff has one open slot in his class and I put in a good word to insure you have a seat. That's your admission to his class. He has a lab starting promptly in twenty-five minutes. Do not be late."

Woodruff.