The Other Side(72)

I know it’s probably impolite to ask, but he’s sharing and it feels rude not to participate in his story. “AIDS?”

He nods and a tear slips from the corner of his eye. Wrinkles form across his chin as sadness crumples it. “Henry got sick first. Watching someone you love suffer is the wickedest form of torture there is. It was horrible watching him wither away.” When he looks at me, his eyes are brimming with unshed tears and the pain in them is unbearable. His heartbreak is killing him far more than his body is.

I don’t know how to comfort when I can think clearly, and I most definitely cannot think clearly right now, but I do feel sad for him. I can’t imagine what he’s been through, what he’s going through. So I give him the truth. My truth. “He died knowing he was loved completely, and that was a gift. A gift that most people won’t get.” I won’t.

“Enough about me, Toby.” His breathing is shallow, even with the oxygen, and I want him to stop talking and not strain himself. “You look like I feel. What’s going on?”

For a second, I contemplate spilling it all, but I end up saying, “I’ve had a really shitty…” I pause when I almost say, life, but go with, “week,” instead because I don’t need to unload my dirty laundry on anyone, especially him.

His eyes are on me. Assessing me. I have to look away. “Yeah, me too,” he whispers.

I nod. His words hit me like a punch to the gut. Not that he meant them that way. He said it like he was commiserating. There was empathy in his voice, like what we’re going through is similar. Every minute this goes on drains me. The adrenaline spike that got me through the past hour or so has faded and I’m standing at the precipice of complete delirium.

“When did you last sleep?” he asks.

Without thinking, I answer honestly, “Two nights ago.”

“Why didn’t you sleep last night?” he probes.

“I had a lot on my mind.” When I say it my voice cracks. When I look him in the eye, I know that he heard it. I look away, ashamed. I want to leave; I’m going to lose it and I don’t want to cry in front of him.

“Like what?” he asks it gently like he already knows the answer.

I shake my head and I can’t stop. I keep shaking it while my lips pinch together and my face contorts in an effort to hold back the sobs.

“Holding it in gives it power, Toby. Talking about it takes that power away.”

The sob I let loose physically hurts. The single sob is followed by crying that has no sound. It’s crying so deep it’s bone-jarring, but by the time it reaches the surface, it’s mute. This emotion is immense, it’s an eruption deep inside me that can’t be fully expelled out into the light of day. I can’t focus. My eyes are blurry. My mind is blurry. My existence is blurry.

The hand on my shoulder is not.

It’s firm and grounding.

I didn’t hear the person behind me approach, but when they guide me to stand, I do.

And when they guide me to step into their arms, I do.

The hug feels unconditional.

And for a moment I let myself believe it’s my mom.

And that she’s proud of me.

And I cry some more.

The harder I cry, the harder I’m hugged.

“She didn’t show up,” I gasp on an intake of air.

“I know,” is his apologetic reply.

“How do you know?” I ask as I try to stifle another sob.

He pulls back just far enough that he can look me in the eye. “I never mailed the invitation, Toby.”

“You couldn’t find her?” I ask, suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

“No. I found her,” he says as he pushes the hair back from my eyes. “I didn’t give it to her because I was selfish. I wanted to be there instead.”

“What?” I ask because this doesn’t make any sense. And then anger starts to boil in the pit of my stomach. “That wasn’t your choice to make, Johnny.”

His eyes drop to the floor.

Mine follow his there.

We can’t look at each other.

When I try to pull away, he won’t let me. “Let me go,” I insist quietly.

His eyes are still on the floor, but he shakes his head. “I can’t do that.”

“Let me go,” I repeat. The anger swelling. The exhaustion unendurable.

He’s still shaking his head, but now it’s accompanied by tears sliding down his cheeks. “No,” he says softly.

“She was supposed to be there! Not you!” I shout.

Which brings in my favorite nurse. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to keep your voice down or leave,” she snaps.

Mr. Street’s quiet voice drifts in behind hers. It sounds distant. My body wants so badly to sleep. “Take him home, Johnny. He needs to sleep. Badly.”

Johnny is still holding my arm when he answers him. “I heard your message when Cliff and I got home from graduation, but your apartment was empty, so I figured you drove yourself to the hospital. How are you?”

“Pneumonia,” Mr. Street answers on a cough. “And Toby drove me.”

Johnny’s attention shifts back to me. “You don’t have a license.”

The effort it takes to shrug is too much and my eyes drift closed despite the anger still pulsing through me. “I don’t know how to drive either, but we made it.”