Shelbourne & Mattingly: Part 4

Part 4: His Home

Welcome back to Rockland Springs, where even the shortest day holds a lifetime of memories. On December 21, 1992, Erie and Seth walk familiar streets that feel suddenly precious, each step measured like time itself. Some journeys are best taken together—through treatment rooms and childhood playgrounds, past swings that once promised flight and now whisper of what we’ve lost.

Part 4 of Shelbourne & Mattingly invites you deeper into their story, where courage wears many faces—in the quiet strength of counted breaths, in laughter that defies darkness, and in the way we choose to live in the middle part of our stories.

Pour yourself a cup of Earl Grey (or something stronger), and settle in as we learn what it means to love completely when complete breaks your heart...

December 21, 1992

HIS HOME

As we walked from the studio to the Mattingly house, the clouds broke, revealing strips of violet bleeding into amber, with edges of rose gold. Seth tilted his head back. “Now that,” he said, “would look pretentious as hell on canvas.”

“Only you could find fault with an innocent sunset.”

“It’s a gift.”

Seth’s hand caught a fence post for balance. I slowed my steps, matching his measured pace. “What do the doctors want you to do?”

“More tests. More chemo. Three times a month.”

These Louisville trips to Brown Cancer Center had become our thing. We had a routine—I’d drive us forty-five minutes north, hunting for the tackiest souvenir possible (our most recent trip had yielded a horrifying Abraham Lincoln snow globe). On good days, we’d stop for country ham sandwiches at a convenience store he swore made the best ones in the state.

Last week, while Seth waited for the first of what would be six hours of tests and treatments, he’d settled into his favorite corner spot—a vinyl recliner beside the window that framed Louisville’s winter sky.

“Hey Etta,” he’d called to his favorite nurse, “What’s today’s special?”

“Just your usual, Sunshine,” she’d said with a smile. “A cocktail of top-shelf poison with a twist of nausea meds.”

“You know me so well. That’s why you’re my favorite bartender.” Despite his attempts to be lighthearted, I could see the fear in his eyes. It never got easier.

Etta checked his vitals, her movements practiced. “Those eyelashes of yours better hang in there. It’d be a crime to lose them along with this mop.” She ruffled his hair gently.

“I promised Erie she’d get to shave my head when it starts looking tragic.”

“It looks tragic now,” I said. “I say we get this over with.”

“Jesus, Shelbourne.” He covered his head with his hands. “It’s cold outside.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Sleep with one eye open, Mattingly.”

“Etta, protect me.”

“Mr. Mattingly, that girl wouldn’t intentionally hurt you if her life depended on it.” She made a note in his chart.

“You’re absolutely right.” Seth leaned back in his chair. “But the operative word is ‘intentionally.’ Have I told you about this scar?” He pointed between his eyebrows.

Another nurse entered the room. “Time for your MRI, Mr. Mattingly.”

“Oh, joy.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Erie, I’m going to need your help with my gown. You know I struggle with tying those strings in the back.”

“You wish.”

Later, when they wheeled him back for his chemo, his hair was wild from the MRI table but his smile hadn’t dimmed. “Miss me?” His eyes found mine as he settled into the recliner, Etta starting his IV. He kept his charm turned up to eleven despite the high-octane chemicals dripping into his veins. The nurses adored him, of course. They’d linger by his chair, drawn in by his endless questions about their lives, the way he remembered every detail of their stories.

But as the afternoon wore on and the treatment room emptied, his voice grew softer, his gentle questions only for me. “You okay?” he’d ask between long blinks, his hand finding mine. Sometimes he’d ask me to read to him, his eyes closing as my voice mixed with the steady beep of machines. Other times he’d doze, and I’d count his breaths, memorizing his face like it was art I needed to preserve.

The drive home was always quiet, his head against the travel pillow, the sun setting behind the hills. Sometimes I’d hear him softly singing along to the mix CDs we’d created together.

That was last week. Now, as we walked past the playground on our way home from his studio, he broke our comfortable silence. “I know three times a month is a lot. Gabe volunteered to drive me to appointments if you have to work. Mom too.”

The words hit like a slap. After everything we’d shared in that treatment room, he was trying to give my spot away? “I can switch my schedule around.” My voice came out steady, practiced. These drives had become sacred–our private world of gas station sandwiches and terrible souvenirs, of shared breaths and quiet songs.

“Erie...” He started to speak, then coughed. “Just... don’t put your life on hold. I couldn’t stand that.”

A bourbon trail carriage clip-clopped alongside us. The driver touched his wide-brimmed hat. “Miss Shelbourne. Mr. Mattingly. Care for a ride?”

“We’re good, Jonesy. Just enjoying the walk.”

After the carriage passed, he added, his voice low, “Can’t take three steps without someone trying to rescue me.”

Yellow ginkgo leaves whipped around our ankles as we walked. I realized I had drifted to Seth’s right side, placing myself between him and the street without thinking. At the playground, children’s screams pierced the winter-sharp air. A girl in a puffy pink coat pumped her legs on the swing, going higher and higher.

A flicker of boyish playfulness crossed Seth’s face. “That swing reminds me of a time when I actually needed rescuing.”

“You mean when I dared you to jump from the highest point?”

“Ah yes, The Day Erie Shelbourne Tried to Murder Me.” His eyes sparkled. “Mom still does a novena every time she passes this playground.”

“You broke your arm, split your lip wide open. I had to hold your head back while you tried to convince me you were fine.”

“Worth it. For a few seconds, I was flying. Though the landing could have used some work.” He smiled. “You bought me my favorite pudding cups in the cafeteria for a week.”

“While your mom made me promise never to dare you to do anything again.”

“Yet somehow I ended up in the emergency room three more times that year.”

“I’m surprised Maggie lets me anywhere near you.”

Seth’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Mom thinks you hung the moon. She conveniently forgets how you’ve spent years exploiting my desperate need to impress you.”

Suddenly, Seth stumbled to a stop, his body wracked by a violent cough. The raw sound tore through the quiet street. My heart leapt into my throat as I watched him struggle for air, his face contorting with effort. Each rattling gasp seemed like it might be his last.

I hovered beside him, hands fluttering uselessly, paralyzed by fear and indecision. What if this was it? What if his ravaged lungs gave out here, on this ordinary sidewalk?

The coughing fit passed, leaving Seth bent double, hands braced on his knees. Each labored breath whistled in his chest. When he finally looked up at me, his eyes were watery, his face ashen.

“Erie,” he wheezed, the word barely more than a rasp. “It hurts.”

“I’m here.”

I crouched beside him, placed my hand on his forehead. No fever. He covered my hand with his own, holding it there.

“That feels good,” he whispered. His breath returned, and he stood, slowly. Even in the fading light, I could see how the moment had shaken him, his hand trembling as he wiped his mouth.

The sorrow that swept through me was blinding. That fearless boy who had launched himself from the swing with pure joy, screaming “Watch this, Erie!” now had to measure each breath like it might be his last. I was drowning—in memories, in fear, in the unfairness of it all.

“Don’t,” he said, knowing. “We both know how this ends. Let’s just... live in the middle part.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5: HIS HOME

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