I rode back with Paige but I don’t really remember much of it. She was blaring Norah Jones on her car stereo and chain smoking, lighting a new one from the butt of another. All I can remember is the blurry shapes of things as the car went past. Paige was driving fast. This usually worried me, but I didn’t really care this time. All I could think about was how messy Fowler’s house had been, how much that must have bothered Paul. Paul liked everything just so. I mean, he organized his clothes by type and color. His socks all had to be lined up the same way in the sock drawer. His underwear was folded this way and was also sorted by color and maker. The filth, the clutter, must have driven him insane. But then again, it was also probably likely he’d been unconscious the whole time he’d been there, which was what, three, four days? That couldn’t be good. That head injury must have really done a number on him. I wondered why there had been so little blood—head injuries really bleed a lot. Fowler must have conked him in the kitchen, carried him down the stairs and to his car—missing the walk with his first step down and stepping into the flowerbed. Then, he probably just put him in the trunk, went back upstairs, beat off on the bed, stole the print and defaced the other.
And I had sat in that disgusting living room, in the gloom, with the cats and the smells and a fucking psychotic murdering fuck just a few feet away—and Paul, unconscious just down the hall, shackled naked to a bed and covered in his own filth. I started shaking, my stomach lurching. I rolled down the window and gulped in fresh air. We were just reaching the lake bridge.
Paige turned down the stereo. “You doing okay, babe?”
“No, not really.” The cool lake air felt great on my hot face, and the sweat forming at my hair line dried. My stomach settled down a bit.
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.” I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hear the words I would say out loud. I didn’t want anyone to hear them—at least not yet, I might be ready later, but not quite yet. It was odd. I was feeling so many different emotions all at the same time—I would switch from one to another before it could take over completely. I wanted to laugh with relief. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to get my mind to slow down.
And I wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything other than this horrible distortion of reality, this nightmarish thing my life had become in just a few hours, wake up from it and let it fade with the light of the next morning.
Nothing I could have done would have altered this.
Bullshit as it was, it was something. I had no control over the sequence of events. I didn’t know Paul made videos and therefore he was afraid to tell me he had a stalker. Had I known, maybe…
But then again, Paul felt like he couldn’t tell me about any of it. Why would he have felt I was capable of hearing it in a rational, calm manner and wouldn’t have been jealous? I proved his fears right, didn’t I? But then I could convince myself that my violent reaction was partly due to finding out after he’d been arrested for killing someone. I was in a vulnerable, emotionally raw state, and did not react the way I would have under ordinary circumstances.
“Well, I need to talk.” Paige said, throwing a cigarette out the window.
I reeled myself in from the discussion in my head and turned my head to look at her. She looked terrible. She’d been driving with her window cracked for her cigarette smoke to go out of, and her hair had been blown to shit. She’d been crying, and now her mascara hung in big clumps at the end of her lashes. I’d never really noticed she wore a bit of foundation before, but now I saw where the tears had run through it. Her face was paler than I’d ever seen her, and there were dark circles of worry under her eyes.
“So, I’m sorry, if you don’t need to talk—that’s fine, and if you don’t want to listen to me, just tune me out.” She went on without even looking over at me. Her eyes were focused on the road in front of her and weaving around cars. “I mean, he’s going to be fine, right, I mean, surgeons are miracle workers these days but he’ll make it, he isn’t going to die, right. I mean..”
I turned my head back to the window and watched as we reached the south shore. I could hear her voice going on, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying without looking at her. I didn’t want to look at her. It was fine, really. She loved Paul too and the way she had to deal with all of this was to talk—about nothing at all really— or to convince herself the worst wouldn’t happen. Maybe she was talking herself into it. I wished I could.
I wished it was Monday morning. I could see it all so clearly in my head. Sunday night we’d rented a couple of tearjerker women’s movies—Paul and I were both suckers for a good old heroine-suffers-bravely-to-die-at-the-end movie—and had gone to bed after Susan Sarandon finally accepted Julia Roberts as her replacement in “Stepmom.” We argued awhile about whether or not the movie fit the genre; Paul’s theory was that since Susan’s character didn’t die until after the credits rolled, it didn’t, mine was it was still about fatal illness. We finally compromised by moving it into Fatal Disease of the Week movie. When we’d gone to bed, Paul was in the mood and I hadn’t been. I was tired. I’d been doing my quarterly report for Castle Oil, one of my bigger security clients, and had been staring at my computer screen for three days. So, instead, Paul went back into the living room to watch a sex video and pleasure himself. I was asleep before he made it to bed that night. The next morning, though, I woke up with him right up to my back, with one of his legs and arms thrown over mine. I could feel his breath on my neck. I woke up before the alarm, but rather then getting up I just laid there, thinking how nice it felt—
It might have been the last time.
Everything came over me at once. Paul could die; Paul could die; he might be dying now. I might not ever get to talk to him again, I might not get to tell him anything, My God, the last night we spent together I didn’t want to have sex. Oh my God please let me have that chance back, please give me another moment to hold him, to kiss him, to tell him how much I love him—
My lungs felt like they were going to explode so I stuck my head back out the window and opened my mouth. Centifugal force pushed air down into my windpipe until I finally coughed it back out and began to breath, deeply and slowly, making that horrible gulping sound every time I inhaled.
“Are you okay?” Paige’s hands were shaking on the steering wheel.
“Now, now I am.” I took a couple of deep breaths and put my hands on the dashboard to keep them from shaking. “I’m melting down, Paige. I’m trying to hold it together, but I don’t know if I can.”
“When your mind starts going fast, it’s time to slow down and take deep breaths to fight off.” She tossed her pack at me. “Can you light this for me? I can’t drive, hold it together and light a cigarette at the same time anymore.” She laughed. “I guess I’m getting older. I used to be able to do this quite easily.”
There was pain in her voice, pain from a distant place she’d locked away in her head.
She wiped a tear away with a trembling hand, and then took the cigarette from me. After a long inhale, she blew the smoke out the window through the side of her mouth. “Yeah. I always thought I’d gotten used to it. But I haven’t.”
“Paige…”
She slowed as we descended the off-ramp at St. Charles. “You better?”
“Yeah. For now.” I felt calm. But I could sense the hysteria, trying to get enough momentum to force its way out again, Paul was going to be fine. He was young and strong and God knows, he was healthy. All that eating right and exercise had to have been for something, right?
We parked in the hospital garage and walked over to the main hospital. We held hands. Paige’s was hot and dry, and I kept squeezing it. I could tell she was still trembling a little. The nurse at the front desk sent us up to a waiting room on one of the upper floors. The antiseptic smell, the harsh lighting, the people talking in whispers, the colored directional lines painted on the floor. Fee and Ian were already there, drinking coffee that looked like it could peel paint out of Styrofoam cups.
“They haven’t told us anything but he’s in surgery now.” Fee said after hugging us both. We all sat down on the uncomfortable furniture. Her face was resolute. “But I know he’ll be fine. He’s strong, that one is.”
Her accent was comforting somehow.
“We’ve called the other kids.” Ian said. “They’ll be here in the morning. They wanted us to give you their prayers.”
“How—how nice.” I didn’t know what else to say. I probably should have just said nothing.
Fee gave me a faint smile. “You’re part of the family, Chanse.”
This time I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just somehow got to my feet and walked out of the room and down into the bathroom. I stood in front of the sink, and sobbed. I went down into the dark place of pain and sorrow I always avoided and gave vent to everything. What if Paul dies? What if I never get the chance to tell him how much I love him? What will I do? How will I face life without him? Why was this happening to him? Why not to me?
And then, it was gone as quickly as it had come. Deep breaths, slow and easy. I threw cold water in my face, and rubbed it dry a paper towel that felt like sandpaper. I took one final, deep breath, and walked back into the waiting room.
I don’t know how long we sat there. Time was of no relevance. Paige kept getting up and buying sodas and chips out of the vending machine. She’d taken her shoes off and curled up in a chair, paging through three year old issues of Good Housekeeping. Fee had a book of crossword puzzles in her purse; and she and Ian sat together and figured out the answers. I watched the television but not comprehending any of the programs, and not hearing the sound, or laughing at the jokes. Nothing was felt or thought about except the passing of time. I was afraid to ask anyone what time it was; because I was afraid I would start asking every five minutes and get on everyone’s nerves.
I’d just gotten back from getting rid of about a gallon of Dr. Pepper when the doctor came in and asked for Fee and Ian. I walked over and put my arm around Paige.
“He survived the surgery.” The doctor was saying. “But the head injury was pretty severe. It drove bone fragments from his skull into his brain, and we had to remove those fragments.”
“But you were able to?” Ian asked. He was clutching Fee’s hand.
“Yes, we were able to get all of them out.” He took a deep breath. “But the bad news is there’s no brain activity.”
I sat down on the arm of a chair, hard.
“There wasn’t any when he was brought in.” He went on. “But those fragments—they had to come out. He would have died had we left them in.”
“But his brain is dead, isn’t that what you’re telling us?” Fee’s chin went up.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Is he breathing on his own?” Paige’s voice broke.
The doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not. But that could change, of course, once he recovers his strength from the surgery—“
“But people who are brain dead—“ Paige gulped, choking off a sob.
“What are the odds of his waking up?” Fee asked.
The doctor just shook his head. “We can just wait, and pray.”
“When can we see him?” This from Ian.
“In the morning, when he’s rested some.” He looked sad. “I’m sorry, folks, all I can tell you to do is pray.”
“We’ll do that.”
The door shut behind him. Fee sat down. “You kids might as well go home and get some sleep. There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Paige stood. “I can come back in the morning and bring breakfast.”
“That’d be nice.” Fee smiled at her. “Now, Chanse, you run along with her. You get some rest. Ian and I will be fine. It won’t be the first time we’ve stayed in a hospital overnight with one of our kids.”
“I—I wouldn’t feel right.”
“Go on, son.” Ian put a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll call you if there’s news.”
And we left. Paige took me back to where my rental car was parked in the Quarter. I had two tickets. Whatever. I threw them in the car and drove home. Once inside, I thought about rolling a joint, but decided against it. It might also heighten my anxiety rather than helping me relax. Instead. I just went to bed.
And somehow, I slept.
I woke in the morning and drove over to Touro around eleven. I’d forgotten to set the alarm, and I’d slept deep and long. Exhaustion from the overdose of adrenalin, maybe, I don’t know for sure. When I got there, the waiting room was full of Maxwells. Paul’s three brothers had all arrived. It was spooky how much they all looked like Paul. None of them were as handsome or as well built, but the resemblance was there in the frame, the body language and the way they all walked. His sister Siobhan was also there; and she looked like her mother must have at her age. I got hugged and kissed by all of them. Paige was there with several boxes of donuts. “Why don’t you go in and see him?” Fee said, sensing I was a bit overwhelmed. She took my by the hand and lead me back to the Intensive Care Unit and introduced me to the nurse as her other son, Chanse, so they could give me a badge to get me in. She led me to where Paul lay, inside a curtain, and then kissed me on the cheek and slipped away.
He looked better than he had chained to that bed, but he still—I swallowed. His skin was bluish white, and his stubble was growing in. The machines around the bed he was hooked up to wheezed and hummed and beeped. His eyes were closed, and weren’t moving beneath the lids.
I sat down on the chair next to the bed and reached up to take his dry, cold hand.
“Paul, it’s me Chanse. Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
I started talking. But I didn’t say anything of the things I thought I would. I started talking about things we’d done, like the time we went to the Aquarium and the IMAX theater, and how bad the IMAX movie had been. I remembered how much we liked the fish, and how zen-like a fish’s life must be. Afterwards, we got bottles of water and walked along the Moonwalk and along the top of the levee. Finally, we just stopped and leaned on a railing, to watch the barges go by, and the currents in the muddy water swirling and rushing. We didn’t talk because we didn’t need to. Just being together, knowing that the other was right there, was more than enough. Sometimes what I liked the most was the silent times, when we were both in bed at night reading books with our nightlights on, or just lying in bed on a Sunday morning, half-asleep with our bodies wrapped around each other. I talked about how much I liked making him pancakes in the morning, how much pleasure it gave me to make him so happy and how he made me happy just by being there. Sure, he got on my nerves from time to time, just like I got on his, but that was o. The other times made up for it.
No response from him at all.
I walked back out to the waiting room. Every few hours I’d go back in and talk to him some more, but nothing. There was no response to anything.
The Maxwells made the waiting room not quite so intense and gruesome. I liked them all. They told stories about Paul, stories that made them laugh until they cried, stories that showed how much they loved him. And I loved them for loving him, and for sharing the stories with me.
And every night I’d go back home, and Fee and Ian would stay the night. They’d go back to their hotel room and sleep during the day when the rest of us were there. They’d always take the overnight shift, wouldn’t hear of anything else.
The fourth night I was leaving, when I thought, so this is what ‘family’ feels like.
Paige came as often as work would let her. She was the one who told us Chris Fowler had been found in his garage— after we left. He’d hung himself. I didn’t feel anything but pity for him when she told us. The poor lonely warped man had fallen in love with Paul. There’s such a fine line between love and obsession. Who knows how I would have reacted if Paul had ever stopped loving me—or had never wanted me in the first place.
I was less aware of the hysterics with each passing hour, each time I went in to sit with Paul, hold his hand and talk to him about silly things that didn’t matter, like movies and TV shows and the gym, the kinds of things we always used to talk about together. I wanted to say the other things, but still couldn’t. And when I thought about the situation, I just thought, Paul’s alive, he’s going to wake up and everything is going to go back the way it was.
Until the fifth day.
When I got to the hospital, the Maxwells were all there. Their faces were grim, and as I looked from one to the other, I feared the worst. “He’s dead.” I said.
“Sit down, honey, please.” Fee replied. “He isn’t dead.” And then she started to talk. They’d been talking to the doctors. It didn’t look good for him. The machines were keeping him alive. He’d often talked about it, how he didn’t want to be kept alive that way. Turn the machines off, let me die, and harvest my organs, he’d always said. So they’d decided.
“He never said that to me.” I heard myself saying in a thick voice.
“It’s what he would have wanted, you know that.” One of the brothers, I don’t know which, murmured.
And I knew they were right.
“When?”
Fee finally cracked. “I wanted to wait—until you saw him again.”
I nodded, and walked back to where Paul lay and I stepped inside the curtains.
“Hey, honey.” I reached down and touched his cheek. “They—they tell me—“ my voice broke. My eyes begin to fill. I cleared my throat. “They tell me they’re um, going to turn your machines off.” My nose began to run. “I know, I know they’re right. I know you would have wanted that. It’s just—they just, you know, told me so I wasn’t prepared for it, you know?” I wiped tears off my cheeks. “You deserved better than what I gave you, honey. You deserved someone you could tell things to—someone who loved you no matter what. I do, you know. I’m only sorry it’s taken me this long to understand it, you know? You made me so happy.” I reached down and kissed his cheek, and touched my forehead to his while I cried for a few minutes.
Nothing. No response.
I leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Paul.”
I walked out of the ICU. I walked down the hall and out to the parking garage. I got into my rental car and drove out. The sun was bright. My eyes watered as I headed home.
But I drove past the turn to go home, and kept heading downtown, to the Quarter. I parked and walked down to Bourbon Street and St. Ann where I stopped at the Attitude gate. The ‘for rent’ sign was gone. I stood there for a minute and looked inside. I saw the front door open and my beautiful, sweet Paul walk out again. My eyes teared, then he faded away again. I walked on down and around the corner.
Sly was behind the bar, like he always was. “Hey, Chanse.” He shook my hand. “Hey man—was really sorry to hear about your boyfriend.”
“Thanks.” New Orleans is really a small town.
Dominique came walking in from around the corner. She looked tired, haggard, like she hadn’t been sleeping well. She slid down onto a barstool next to mine. “I’m sorry, Chanse.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry about Ricky.”
“Yeah.” She motioned to Sly. “Get me a glass of Wild Turkey.” She looked at me. “Want one?”
I looked at my watch. Quarter till noon. Hell, it was five o’clock somewhere. I nodded.
Sly slid the glass down to me. We raised our glasses and clinked them together. “To love.” She said, her voice aching.
“To love.” My own voice broke, but I forced a terrible smile on my face.
And I knew, at some point, the whiskey would bring the numbness back.