Like a Love Story(88)

It’s not time to say goodbye yet, though. First, we must go visit Stephen. “Should we take a cab downtown?” Mrs. Bowman asks.

“He’s in the hospital,” Jimmy says.

“I thought you said he was back home,” Mrs. Bowman says.

“He made me say it, Bonnie. He knew you wouldn’t go if you realized he was still in there.” Jimmy’s eyes are full of remorse. He hated lying. “It was important to him that we all took this trip. I promised him we would. And he wanted you there, Bonnie. He wanted you to experience it all.”

Mrs. Bowman nods. “Let’s go,” she says urgently.

We head to the hospital together, and when I see Stephen, it’s like my body splits into a million pieces. He looks like he has aged a decade in the last few days. He’s thinner, paler, the life almost drained from his eyes. The machines and tubes around him and inside him seem to be working overtime to keep him breathing, and those breaths, every single one of them sounds like it’s moving a mountain. He croaks out a “Hey” when he sees us. No one says anything. He looks over at Judy, me, and Reza and smiles. “You’re friends . . . again,” he says, his voice so weak that I wish one of those medical machines had a volume dial to bring his voice back up to its normal tone.

“Stephen,” Mrs. Bowman says, taking his hand in hers, “how could you tell Jimmy to lie to us?”

“Look at me,” Stephen says. “Are you really going to . . . pick this moment to give me . . . one of your lectures?” He struggles to finish the sentence.

Mrs. Bowman shakes her head. “No, of course not. I just want to be with you.”

“I want you . . . with me, too,” he says. “You and Judy . . . stay with me . . . until I go.”

“Oh, Uncle Stephen,” Judy says, rushing to his side. “I’ll sleep right here on the floor. I won’t leave the hospital if you want me here.”

“Not here,” Stephen says. “I want to go . . . home.” Everyone looks at each other, worried. “I don’t want to go . . . here.”

Mrs. Bowman looks at him and you can see her making a decision. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. I’ll go speak to the doctor. Jimmy, you’re his health care proxy. Will you come with me?”

“Are you sure?” Jimmy asks, and Stephen nods. There’s so much understanding between Stephen and Jimmy. I guess that’s why Jimmy’s the health care proxy, not Mrs. Bowman. Jimmy understands. He doesn’t need a dictionary or a translator when he hears words like cytomegalovirus or cryptococcal meningitis or mycobacterium avium-intracellulare or toxoplasmosis.

Mrs. Bowman and Jimmy walk into the hallway to find the doctor. Stephen looks from Judy to me to Reza and back again. “How was the . . . concert?” he asks.

“It was amazing,” Judy says. “She’s God, basically.”

“I am so grateful,” Reza says. “It was the most thoughtful gift I have ever received. I think it, I don’t know, changed my life. Is that silly?”

“It’s not,” Stephen says. And then, looking right at me, he says, “It’s the power of . . . art.”

“You were there,” I say. I inch closer to Stephen. “You were at the concert with us. And at the protest. I felt you. You were right by our sides.”

“I know,” Stephen says. “And you were . . . here with me, all three of you.”

Reza’s lips quiver in sadness. He doesn’t know Stephen the way we do, once even feared him, and yet he has been welcomed into his family.

“I took pictures of everything for you,” I say. “I even used color film for the first time to make sure you would see the color of those grenades.”

“Were they . . . beautiful?” Stephen asks.

“They were,” Judy says. “Like something out of a Technicolor musical. Vincente Minnelli couldn’t have dreamed up something more gorgeous.”

“No, but you will,” Stephen says. “All of you. Keep . . . creating . . . beauty.”

We all nod and catch each other’s gazes. I feel these words etching themselves into my body, like a soul tattoo. Keep creating beauty.

Mrs. Bowman and Jimmy return. “You’re going home, girl,” Jimmy says.

“And I’ve spoken to Ryan,” Mrs. Bowman says. “He’s shopping for microwave dinners as we speak. Judy and I are staying with you.”

Stephen just smiles, but then whispers, “Thank you.”

“I’ll go stock the fridge at his place,” Jimmy says. “Any requests?”

“Diarrhea diet,” Stephen says. “Rice . . . bananas . . . Gatorade.”

“I know it well.” Jimmy takes a deep breath. “This trip, it was special,” he says. “I feel so close to each of you. We did something, didn’t we?” Jimmy hugs us all and leaves.

“Why don’t we go pack our bags, Judy?” Mrs. Bowman suggests.

“Okay,” Judy says. “We’ll see you soon, Uncle Stephen.”

They give us hugs, and then they too are gone.

It’s just me and Reza and Stephen now. We sit on either side of him. His gaze goes from me to him, him to me. Finally, he speaks. “I’m so happy . . . I lived long enough . . . to see Art . . . in love.”