I suggested that he get a coffee. “It’ll do you some good. When you come back, I’ll go for a walk.”
He nodded dumbly, a large child following instructions. I waited until he was out of the room. Then I leaned over my son.
“John, it’s Mom. Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can.”
No response.
“John, you’ve got to pull through. You need to get well if you want to go to Mexico. I’ll wear that bikini. I’ll even get drunk and make a fool of myself and give you story after story to tell your friends when you get back home. Just wake up. Wake up and I’ll do anything you want.”
“He’s been like that since this morning.”
I looked up to see a man standing at the foot of the bed. He was wearing a red jacket and a Blue Jays ball cap. For a second I thought it was Kyle, but no. I’d recognize Kyle. That pug nose was burned into my memory. This was someone different.
“I’m Marty,” he said. “The one who called.”
I straightened up. “Yes. Thank you.”
His hair was black and long enough to touch the collar of his jacket. There was a gold chain around his neck with a cross pendant shining out from the backdrop of his black T-shirt. He had a bump on his forehead the size of a Brazil nut. He smelled of cigarette smoke.
“He’s been in and out of consciousness since I brought him in. Fever’s broken at least. He has an infection in his mouth, too. Thrush. I’m assuming you know about the diarrhea?”
I blinked. “Diarrhea?”
“It’s been bad for about two weeks now. He hasn’t been able to hold anything in. It’s been hell. He’s been through so much.”
I crossed my arms. “Who are you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What is your relationship to John?”
He let out a short, awkward laugh and rocked back on his heels. “What do you think our relationship is?”
When I didn’t answer, his eyes met mine. “I take care of him.”
I saw a sharp ripple of ribs under his T-shirt. He had it, too, I thought. I was staring at the face of the disease itself.
“I appreciate you bringing my son to the hospital. But I’m his mother and I’m here now. John doesn’t need you. You’ll have to leave. My husband will be coming back any second and I don’t want you to be here. He’s going through enough.”
His eyes held mine. His politeness slipped to hard edge. “John wouldn’t want this.”
“It doesn’t matter what John wants.”
His mouth twisted into a strange grin. “He always refused to say anything to you. I told him he should. I said it was better having things out in the open. But John said he wasn’t raised that way.” He took a step backwards. “He said he didn’t have that kind of mother.”
John woke once, briefly. We watched his eyes open and I heard Charlie catch his breath.
“John,” Charlie said.
I got out of my chair. “It’s Mom. We’re here. You’re going to be okay.”
His eyes landed on mine, but only for a moment. His lids fluttered like butterfly wings and closed again. Had he seen me? Had he heard me?
“Is he in pain?” I asked the nurse when she came around to change the IV bag.
“He’s made sounds. Groans.”
She looked down at him. “I don’t believe so.”
“But how do you know?” I asked.
“I don’t,” she said. “Not for certain. But if he appears agitated, let us know.”
The doctor came by at one point to tell us that John was suffering from a form of pneumonia. He suspected there was fluid buildup in the lungs. Words I didn’t have a chance of articulating came out of his mouth. He told us John also had anal herpes.
“I’m sorry?” I asked.
“It’s not uncommon,” the doctor said. “But that’s the least of my concerns right now.”
John was scheduled for X-rays in the morning. They’d be able to see the extent of the infection in his lungs.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. “I was talking to him last week. How did he get from there to here?”
“The disease moves quickly. It’s difficult to get a handle on everything at this stage. There’s a lot we don’t know about
AIDS.”
My knees almost gave out. That word. It screamed in my head. I glanced at Charlie. His face flashed confusion.
The doctor looked at me. “I’m assuming you knew.”
I kept my eyes down and gave my head a slow shake. Charlie made a sucking sound, a gulp for air.
The doctor told us we should go home and get some sleep. They’d call if anything changed. We did as he suggested, even though both of us knew there would be no sleep that night. We drove in silence to John’s apartment, neither one of us wanting to speak of what we’d heard, what we’d seen, what it meant. We passed all-night convenience stores and restaurants with Sorry, We’re Closed signs in the windows and pornography shops with triple neon Xs casting pink shadows onto the sidewalks. No one was out, save for a few lost souls. We stopped at a red light and I watched a beggar extend his hand towards my window. What kind of mother did he have? I wondered.
I held my breath when we unlocked the door to John’s apartment. Charlie and I both stood in the hallway for a moment, uncertain if we should go inside. I found the light switch and we set our bags down. The air smelled like soap. There was a bowl filled with watery milk in the sink. A newspaper lay scattered across the kitchen table. A pair of peaches sat on the counter.
“Charlie,” I said, “we passed a twenty-four-hour drugstore on the way here. Could you go and get me some Aspirin? I have a bad headache. I’m sorry I didn’t ask before.”
“John probably has some.”
“Not the kind I need. Please.”
As soon as the door closed behind him, I hurried around the apartment. I found nothing in the kitchen or living room. The bedroom door was ajar. For a brief moment, I was afraid I’d turn on the light and find Marty. But there was nothing, aside from John’s unmade bed and the plaid comforter we’d given him that past Christmas. On the dresser was a photo frame. I picked it up. Marty squinted back at me. There were trees in the background. Where had this been taken? How long had they known one another? I felt as disturbed as when I’d discovered those muscle magazines. I shoved the picture beneath some sweaters in John’s bottom dresser drawer. I changed the bedsheets. Inside his night table, I found a half-empty tube of Vaseline. I wasn’t sure what it was for, but I buried it in the kitchen garbage. Then I stood in the centre of the living room, Marty’s words swirling above me like an angry starling.
He said he didn’t have that kind of mother
.
I was still sobbing when Charlie returned with the Aspirin. He stepped over and wrapped his arms around me. We said nothing to one another. In the distance, the subways rattled towards their destinations.
I could not sleep. I tossed and turned in that bed, certain the sheets would spit me out at any moment. I was not welcome in this space. Marty continued to squint at me from his hiding place in John’s dresser. Shortly before three, I surrendered to the fact that there would be no black pockets of forgetfulness that night. I walked out into the hallway, my bare feet on the cool tiles, and went into the living room. I tried to watch television, but found nothing except for infomercials and ads for telephone dating lines with scantily clad women. I couldn’t focus on anything. At that moment, my son lay in the hospital while I sat on his sofa. It didn’t make sense. If anything, Charlie or I should’ve been the sick one. John should’ve been the one worrying about one of
us
. I called the hospital, and after being subjected to fifteen minutes of elevator music, was told that John was still sleeping. There had been no change.
“You’re sure he’s not in pain?” I asked.
“If he was in pain, he wouldn’t be sleeping,” the voice said. She sounded middle-aged. Strangers were taking care of my son.
I stepped out onto the balcony, eager for the cool air to soak through my nightgown, my skin, my bones. There were no subways at this hour. Only the occasional flash of headlights passing on the road beyond the tracks. I made a promise that as soon as John got well again, I’d sit him down and apologize for everything: my nagging, my doubts, my reluctance, my fears. I’d accept him as he was, not as who I wanted him to be. He could even bring the occasional friend home, no questions asked. (Although we’d have to keep quiet about it.) I’d pave the way for new beginnings. Above all, we’d become friends again, just like we’d been in the early days.
The next morning, while Charlie sat on the sofa and stared vacantly out the living room window, I searched the fridge, looking for something to make for breakfast. The contents were a mystery to me: clotted cream, anchovy paste, chutney. I ended up poaching a couple of eggs and toasted some rye bread I found in the freezer. I watched Charlie push a piece of egg white around his plate with a corner of toast.
“What was he like when you were here?” he asked in a voice that seemed caught in his throat.
“Sick,” I said. “But nothing like this. He had a bit of a fever. His energy was down and he’d lost some weight. But if I believed for one second he’d turn as ill as this, I wouldn’t have left.”
He looked up at me. “He should have come home, Joyce.”
“Yes. He should’ve.”
The telephone rang as I was clearing off the table, startling me so much that I dropped a juice glass. It was the hospital. John’s blood pressure had dropped. They suggested we get there as soon as possible. Charlie went downstairs to bring the car around. I tried to wipe up the orange juice from the floor, thinking that John wouldn’t want to come home to a messy house.
By the time we reached the hospital, the sounds coming from John were shallow, coarse, as though his lungs were filling up with sand. A nurse told me his breathing had become laboured around 6 a.m. and that it had gotten progressively worse.
“What are you going to do?” I pleaded.
“We’ve given him a shot of morphine,” she said. “That’s the best we can do at this stage.”
At this stage
. The floor gave way beneath me. My feet pedalled for traction.
She left. We settled quietly into the chairs on either side of the bed. Charlie placed his hand over John’s. How much of our lives are lived too late?
“You couldn’t ask for a nicer day,” Walter announces as I set my big serving spoon into the bowl containing Fern’s broccoli salad. “It’s just perfect. Is this what they call Indian summer?”
We’re sitting on the back deck balancing paper plates over our tightly closed legs. I found two TV tables. One went to Mrs. Pender, the other to Mr. Sparrow. I watch him bring a shaking fork towards his mouth, his meatball in peril of rolling away.
“That’s not until the fall,” Helen says. “Usually October. Before the first frost.”
“What is Indian summer, anyway?” Walter asks.
“A late blooming,” Fern says.
He laughs. “I could use some of that myself.”
I join in but my laughter is alien. My meatballs have turned out dry, even though everyone says they taste perfectly fine. I should’ve added more eggs, but I wasn’t paying attention. Helen’s potatoes have turned out perfectly, of course. Fern’s broccoli salad has too much mayonnaise for my liking. I pulled a hair from a floret and wiped it into my napkin. What a lacklustre memorial. Walter has to be disappointed in this turnout, these people, my dry meatballs. But he’s managed to keep it hidden. He’s been animated most of the time, telling stories about Miami. I’m sitting across from him, staring at the patch of skin revealed by his raised pant leg.
Why didn’t you get it?
I want to ask him.
How did you and Freddy escape the disease that claimed my son? What made your lives more important than his?
I feel an impulse of anger towards him, his teal shirt, his white leg. I want to tell him what he can do with his Indian summer. My head swirls from the wine. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a drink.
“That’s one thing Fred said he missed,” Walter says. “The seasons. I empathized to a point, but snowmen lose their appeal very quickly. Palm trees, on the other hand …”
“How long were you and Fred together?” Fern asks.
“That’s none of our business,” Helen says with a laugh.
“Thirty-three years,” Walter says. “We were soulmates.”
“Do I really need to listen to this?” Mrs. Pender asks.
“How did you meet?” Fern asks.
“My mother always wanted to go to Alaska so I took her on a cruise for her sixty-fifth birthday. Freddy was part of the entertainment on the ship. I stopped in my tracks the moment I saw him and was determined I’d get to know him before the cruise was over. Not so easy with Mother Darling attached to my hip. But thankfully, she tended to fall asleep after her post-dinner Drambuie. I snuck out one night and caught him performing in the ship’s bar. He was a marvellous entertainer. I’m talking singing, dancing, acting—the whole enchilada. That night, he sang ‘Moon River.’ To this day, I can’t listen to that song if it comes on the radio. There’s no comparison. Anyway, I bought him a drink after his show and we talked under the stars. The rest, as they say, is history. We wanted to go on an Alaskan cruise when we found out he was sick. But it wasn’t possible.”
I look away as Walter slides the tip of a tissue under his bug glasses.
“He was a lovely man. I miss him in so many small ways.”
“You’re lucky to have found love,” Fern says, surprising me.
“I was lucky to find Fred. Everything was underground in those days. So much secrecy and desperation.”
“Soulmates.” Mrs. Pender chuckles. “What a joke. The world is in sad shape and I can’t leave it soon enough.”
“I’m sure the world is devastated,” Walter says.
“I’m getting more meatballs,” Fern says, getting up from her chair with a grunt. “Does anyone want more?”
Mr. Sparrow raises his hand. “I could manage one or two.”
Suddenly I feel overwhelmed. I want everyone gone. I want this to be over. They’ve all overstayed their welcome. My leg begins to throb and I reach down to massage my clotted veins.
“My son led a life of depravity.” Mrs. Pender’s face is a snarl.
“You shouldn’t talk ill of the dead,” Walter says, his voice rising. “Especially when they were wronged so much in life.”