Shelbourne & Mattingly: Part 8

Part 8: The Morning 1

Part 8 of Shelbourne & Mattingly captures the exquisite fragility of new love shadowed by mortality, as morning light reveals both possibility and limitation. Erie awakens beside Seth, counting breaths and planning Chicago adventures with the fierce determination of someone who refuses to accept the unacceptable. Meanwhile, amber medication bottles arranged "like a flight of bourbon" stand sentinel over their borrowed time.

Find yourself a quiet corner of Old Traynor Tavern and bear witness as Seth's trademark gallows humor finally cracks under the weight of everyone's desperate preservation efforts—because sometimes the hardest truth isn't dying, but watching those you love try to amber-preserve you into someone you can no longer be...

PART 8: THE MORNING 1

December 22, 1992

My back was nestled into Seth’s chest. His arm hung over my shoulder, fingers limp, alizarin crimson still under his nails from yesterday’s painting. I touched his hand, afraid. For one terrible heartbeat, there was no response. Then his fingers twitched against mine, and I exhaled.

I turned to face him. His eyes were still closed, so I watched his chest rise and fall, counting breaths until I made myself stop. His eyelashes caught the morning light, and the scar between his brows—evidence of my “touch the ceiling” dare—looked softer in sleep.

The flames of the gas fireplace flickered across the Eastlake console. Four amber medication bottles were arranged like a flight of bourbon—deepest amber for pain, honey-gold for nausea, pale straw for sleep, and one nearly clear, its purpose a mystery. A master distiller’s secret recipe.

I pulled Seth’s Cubs sweatshirt closer around me, remembering the day I’d brought it back from my freshman year. Every day that I’d lived in Chicago, I’d seen things through double vision—the actual city, and the city I wanted to show Seth. One of the greatest art cities in the world, and he’d never seen it. I imagined now how he would love the light in the Art Institute galleries, stand for hours studying brushstrokes.

But he couldn’t stand for hours.

“Hey. Wake up. We need to plan a trip to Chicago.”

His eyes opened slowly. “Mmm. The world’s most ambitious morning-after plan. Can’t we start with breakfast?”

“Nice try.” But my words caught in my throat. “There’s so much I want you to see at The Art Institute. Chagall, Kandinsky, Monet. It’s the largest collection of Monet’s paintings outside of Paris. Aunt Leo always called you Kentucky’s Monet.”

“Of course.” His sleepy smile turned wry. “Did you know that at Monet’s funeral, his best friend announced, ‘No black for Monet!’ and replaced the black cloth draped over his coffin with a flowered one?”

“No black for Mattingly!” I exclaimed.

“That’s the spirit. I’m counting on you, Shelbourne.”

“Focus, weirdo. Back to our trip.”

“Isn’t Chicago dangerously cold in the winter?”

“You can wear layers. I’ll give you your sweatshirt back.”

“Keep it.” He touched the worn fabric at my hip. “Everything looks better on you anyway.” His eyes met mine across the pillow. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“This.” He gestured between us. “You. Me. The fact that you’ve been secretly plotting my corruption since swim diapers.”

“Someone had to be the bad influence.” I touched his bare chest, drawing my fingers from the hollow in his throat, past the chemo port, down to his belly. He made a soft, contented sound.

“Though I’m just as guilty.” He caught my hand and pressed it to his heart with pure theater. And there was that warmth in my heart I’d felt since we were kids, back when he could make even a scraped knee into high drama. “And someday, when they discover my secret archive of Erie Shelbourne sketches, the art world will finally understand the true depths of my lifelong obsession.”

“And here I thought you were just perfecting your landscapes.”

“Right? I was a master thespian.” His smile turned playful. “And now I’ve given up my acting career.” His hand slid under my sweatshirt.

I thought: this. This is how I want to remember him.

Then he went still, placing his fingers to his temple. “Damn it.”

“Are you okay?”

“As okay as I can be.” He pulled a red Dinosaur World t-shirt over his head—one of our chemo road trip finds, a day he’d made me laugh until I cried—and tugged on his flannel pants. “Don’t go anywhere. I just need to check the secret passage to Narnia.” I watched as he walked to the bathroom, each step careful like crossing ice. I heard water running in the sink for a long time, then the shower. When he came back out, he was pale but smiling, clean-shaven and in fresh clothes—a navy fisherman’s sweater (Maggie’s latest addition to his winter wardrobe), black sweatpants mostly free of paint, and those white high-tops with the blue swoosh.

“Get cleaned up, Shelbourne.” He tapped his watch. “Time to be merry citizens. Live TV waits for no one.”

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Seth took my hand as we walked toward the square.

“You forgot to wear gloves,” I said.

“Chemo brain.” He pointed to his head. “I’m lucky I remembered pants.”

“Speaking of…” I glanced at him. Heat bloomed under my skin—still not used to being allowed to look at him like this. “Did you notice your mom baked two batches of biscuits without once meeting our eyes?”

He grinned. “Clearly she knows my room has become a den of iniquity.”

“At least we made the bed.”

“How considerate of us. Though I doubt that’s helping her imagination much.”

I remembered something Seth hadn’t seen—Maggie catching my arm as I reached for my coat, whispering “I’ve never seen him so happy” with tears in her eyes. Then, softer: “Just… be careful with each other.”

“Thank god Riley and Macy weren’t at breakfast,” I said.

In a perfect imitation of Macy’s voice, he squealed: “Aunt Erie slept in Uncle Seth’s bed! And his hair looks even more like a paint brush!”

“Your hair looks perfect,” I said, but my voice caught.

He kicked a pine cone, launching it into the river flowing along the curb. I kept replaying that kick. Pine cone. Splash.

The historic square was filling with townsfolk, their breath visible in the cold. The Victorian lampposts wore evergreen wreaths, and mechanical reindeer frolicked near the massive Christmas tree in front of the visitor center. Shannon’s voice carried through her megaphone: “Shorter people in front! More enthusiasm!” Topher circulated through the crowd with reindeer antlers and Santa hats, his professional smile firmly in place as he directed people into camera-ready positions.

We walked toward a quieter part of the square, near Old Traynor Tavern and McHenry’s Drug Emporium. This was new territory—holding hands like a couple instead of our usual playful shoves. No one had ever seen us touch each other like this. Did I care what they’d think? Yes. But I wanted them to see us. Finally us, no more pretending we were just Erie and Seth, those mischievous but lovable Shelbourne and Mattingly kids.

Seth shivered. “Instead of Chicago, how about Florida?” he asked. “You know I’ve always wanted to swim with adorable manatees. They’re perfect company for a guy who’s about to make slow and easy his new lifestyle. Think about it. If I start sinking, my whiskered companions will just push me back to shore. It’s like nature’s own hospice care.”

I squeezed his hand, recognizing his trademark gallows humor for what it was. “Nice try, but no deal. You haven’t answered my first question yet.”

His face changed like a sudden thunderstorm. He stopped so abruptly that he bumped me and almost toppled. He righted himself, then faced me, dropping his hand.

“Holy fuck, Erie.” His voice shook. We’d drifted far enough from the gathering crowd that no one could hear us. “You haven’t even asked me the question yet, but that ring… that moment… it’s all I think about. Every fucking minute.” He paced the wet sidewalk, taking too many fast steps. “Picture this. I wake up with you in my arms this morning, my face in your hair, and it felt like living in an actual miracle. Like everything I ever wanted. A minute later I’m sick as fuck and you see it, and it hurts you. You see me becoming less. Every fucking time.” His hands trembled and I noticed with a twist in my gut that his forehead was damp with sweat despite the cold. “I know you, Erie. I can see everything in your face.”

He blinked hard, wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You had a plan. I ruined it. You’re supposed to be in Chicago. Living your life. Not watching me…” His voice cracked. “But not just that.” He looked back weakly toward our yellow and white houses. “Our families have to watch us play out this whole fucking fairy-tale sob story.”

I thought of Maggie hovering over his soup bowl, of the blue wool sweaters appearing in his closet, the cut roses in a crystal vase. And me, planning museum tours in Chicago when he could barely walk three blocks to his studio. All of us trying to preserve him in amber, like another bourbon family legend.

“I can’t.” His shoulders sagged, all the fight draining out of him.

“Can’t?” My voice broke.

“I can’t be the man you deserve and the son they need.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “I’m just the kid you’re all watching die.”

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 9: THE MORNING 2

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