The Other Side(71)

He nods once and pulls his lips in, biting down with his teeth in an attempt to trap the emotion inside. Traitorously, it seeps from the corners of his eyes.

By the time I walk in through the ER double doors again, I don’t remember parking the car seconds ago, but I’m here. My life is now a dazed succession of moments in real time, one second leading to the next.

Mr. Street isn’t in the waiting room, but the man in scrubs who helped us is walking toward me. He’s talking, but I only hear the last bit. “…examined. Someone will be out to speak with you as soon as we have an update on his condition. Would you mind filling out these forms while you wait?”

I want to say, I don’t even really know the guy other than fixing his fridge; I can’t fill them out, but I take them and say, “Sure.” Sitting down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, I feel like a thief flipping open his tri-fold wallet and rifling through the contents: a two-dollar bill, a Colorado driver’s license, a health insurance card, a MasterCard, a well-worn piece of paper that looks to be a library card from Huntsville, Alabama, and a photo folded in half with writing on the back, I love you. Now, always, and forever. I don’t open it because it feels too private and slip it back into the wallet.

Filling out everything I can on the forms doesn’t take long because I don’t know much. When I hand it to the women at the check-in counter, I shrug. She nods when she sees most of the questions on the form are blank and smiles. “It’s okay, thanks for getting us started. I’ll take it from here.”

I nod and I don’t know if it’s gratitude or shame or an apology. Maybe it’s all three. And then I sit back in the same plastic chair to wait. I don’t know why I sat back down in this one when there are several empty, especially since it has a crack down the middle that flexes open and bites at my jeans and the flesh underneath. It’s pain that gives me something to focus on, maybe that’s why.

Minutes, a few or dozens I don’t know, pass before there’s someone standing in front of me. They’re saying, “Sir? Sir?” like they’ve said it several times with no response. When I finally look up, the irritation in her voice doesn’t lighten. “Can you follow me? I’ll escort you to Curtis Street’s room.”

I rise and follow her obediently even though I don’t like the tone she’s using. It sounds demeaning and critical. I shouldn’t be here. Family should be here. Friends should be here. I’m neither. We walk in silence. We ride the elevator in silence. We walk some more in silence. When she stops in front of a door, I assume it’s his room and walk in without a word, happy to be away from her.

He still looks ashen. A cannula is delivering oxygen in through his nostrils, and an IV is delivering meds and/or fluids in through his arm. “Do you need anything?” I ask, because I’m at a loss.

“My wallet,” he says and tries to smile, but when the corners of his mouth turn up it’s the melancholiest expression I’ve ever seen.

Pulling it from my back pocket, I hand it over belatedly. “I had to open it. To fill out the forms. Sorry,” I explain lamely.

He takes it weakly and rests it on his chest while he opens it like he doesn’t have the strength to hold it. Taking out the photo, he lets the wallet fall away next to him on the narrow bed. Unfolding it, he looks at the image inside and the defeated smile turns wistful as he lovingly strokes the paper once and then presses it face down against his chest. One palm resting atop the other over his heart. “Don’t be sorry, Toby. I’m the one who’s sorry. Thank you for staying.” He coughs and this time instead of being raspy, it’s watery and doesn’t relent for almost a minute. He’s doubled in half when the coughing fit ceases, the photo still clasped to his chest. It’s disturbing to watch.

I pick up his wallet that’s fallen to the floor and place it on the bedside table, and when he regains his faculties, I ask, “Should I get someone?” It’s painful to watch him struggle. I don’t know if I can handle this.

“No. They think it’s pneumonia,” he says like that explains everything. When I don’t comment, he continues, “AIDS isn’t what kills you, you know? It’s something else that your immune system can no longer fight that finishes you…” he trails off.

Which is cruel, isn’t it? It’s like a muscle-bound bully who beats the shit out of you until you can barely move and then lets a child step in and deliver the final blow to knock you out.

He flips the photo over again and stares at it and the loving smile returns.

I can see the photo now. It’s a younger version of Mr. Street with his arms around a man a few inches shorter than him and a few years older. They’re both laughing. Their eyes are closed and their mouths are open. Sometimes a photo captures emotion so palpable that it can still be felt every time you look at it. That’s this photo; it’s pure joy.

Mr. Street catches me looking and turns it toward me. “This is my Henry.”

The way he says it and the way he’s looking at the photo with such love and pain in his eyes, I know Henry isn’t with us anymore. “How long were you together?” I ask because he needs to talk. And I need to sit down.

“Total, almost eight years. We met in Huntsville, Alabama in 1978 at a mutual friend’s Fourth of July party. Henry was charismatic, handsome, and had the politest Southern drawl I’d ever heard, and manners to match. I was smitten immediately. We lived together until he took a job in Miami in ’83. I made the choice not to go with him and we broke up. I was crushed and knew the moment he walked out the door that I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. We reconciled a year later because we were miserable without each other and decided to start fresh in Denver. I lost him nine months ago. Not long before I moved into my current apartment.”