“DID I WAKE YOU?”
“No, no,” Donna says, her voice trailing off as I follow her into the kitchen. She’s wearing her navy blue hospital scrubs and slippers, scratching against the hardwood floors. “Maybe.”
“I’m sorry.”
She pulls out a stool at the counter for me to sit.
“It’s okay, Cyrus,” she says. “Do you want the grand tour?”
“We were here last week.”
Dad and I stopped by on our way home from the hospital.
“Right, right,” Donna says, back around the counter into the kitchen, reaching for the fridge. “Your aunt’s coming off on an overnight so I’m kind of out of it right now.”
“I could go—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, setting water in front of each of us. Her hair is uneven, the left side matted like she was sleeping on that side. “How’s your cheek? When are the stitches out?”
She steps around the counter to examine my face.
“They said Monday.”
“Good, good.” Her breath is ripe with stale coffee and a hint of sweet, like donuts. “Looks like they’re healing well.”
I biked the eleven miles from our house to her new apartment and in spite of the autumn, it’s still super hot. I open up the bottle and swallow half in a single gulp.
“What’s going on, kid? You haven’t biked to see me since—” Her voice trails off again as she takes a seat at the counter beside me, on tall black stools with stiff backings. “It’s been a while.”
I used to bike to her apartment all the time, to get out of the house after Mom died. She’d let me play video games on this old PlayStation one of her ex-boyfriends left behind, and she never pressed with questions on how I was doing—not well, obviously—and she didn’t offer vague generalities about how things would get better with time, like Dad tried. I stopped coming so much after I met Jeff.
“I need your advice,” I say. “And you can’t tell my dad.”
“Okay, okay. Is this ‘I should get some wine’ advice or—” She stands up from the stool. I laugh. “I’m getting the wine.”
The kitchen table behind me is stacked with boxes from her move and the adjacent living room has half-opened packages and folded cardboard strewn about the space. We offered to assist when Dad and I stopped by but the pain in my cheek increased the longer we stayed, so we didn’t do much.
“What you got, kid?” Donna says, returning from the kitchen with a Drink Wine or Die tumbler. “Lay it on me.”
“Jeff’s leaving.”
“Where to?”
“Some religious school up near Harrisburg,” I say. “And he’s rooming on campus so he can’t leave or access the Internet or phone. It’s like a prison almost.”
“Sounds lovely,” she says. “The Catholics?”
“No. It’s his stepfather’s medieval evangelical church.”
“I see. That’s a tough one.”
Donna doesn’t mess with church, which is pretty rare for an adult in Dallastown, and maybe it’s her influence that turned me away from God and his very existence, at least since Mom died. Dad said he used to believe when he was a teen but the Catholic Church was riddled with so much hypocrisy over its treatment of gays and women, of science and reason, he couldn’t support its teachings any longer. Mom wasn’t religious either so they never imposed any of that on me but she used to talk to me about her vision of an afterlife, something that would happen when you died, to your soul or your energy, but I never knew what she meant. Sometimes I forget the way she sounded, the exact accent, sophisticated but with a touch of South Jersey. Or the way she paused before she spoke, like she was formulating her response with particular care. I talked to her last night about Jeff leaving. I don’t know what to do.
“And why is he being sent away?” Donna says.
“His stepfather lost his mind when we got back late from the concert.”
“Right, right.” Donna takes a lengthy sip of the wine. “You know he called that night but I think I was asleep. I’m so sorry, Cyrus.”
She crosses her legs on the stool, set low for the countertop, my neck just over the surface.
“Is there anything I can do?” she says.
“Well, you can’t tell anyone this,” I say.
“You know we have an ironclad agreement.”
“I was under that impression but then Angela found out about Cody.”
“Oh—” She uncrosses her legs and laughs. “I mean, that’s just because I was excited for you. I had to tell someone. I didn’t tell your dad, so I did not officially violate the terms of our agreement.”
“I guess.”
When I was thirteen, Donna printed out and signed a sheet that guaranteed any secrets I told her would not be revealed to my father. It’s hidden in my room inside the box of cards I made Mom for her birthdays.
“Jeff’s running away.” I feel the sweat dripping off my forehead onto my legs. “He said he’s not going to that school and he wants me to help him. He asked for money to get him a motel room and said he’d pay me back—” I think that’s what he said. “And I have the money—my savings from the summer. I just don’t want him to leave.”
“All right, all right, I need to step back a second,” she says, climbing off the stool and stepping back. The slippers clack on the flooring. “First of all, as an adult-type person who is an official of the state since all registered nurses have to be registered with the state, I can unequivocally say it’s a bad idea for him to run away. Like horrible. You have any idea how many kids end up in the hospital after running away and living on the streets?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a lot,” she says. “I would wholeheartedly recommend he not do that. And you should not give him any money to help him do that.”
“But if he has money for a motel won’t that make him safer?”
“I don’t think so, Cyrus. Do not give him money.” She reaches out for my hand and lifts my chin to make sure I’m listening. “I know religious school sounds horrific, and believe me, if I were Jeff at that age and my parents wanted to send me to some kind of Jesus camp—which they did, by the way—your grandparents thought your father and I were going to Hell or whatever bullshit they made up in their heads to justify their rage, but either way it’s not as bad as running away. He’ll survive school. Tear up some shit if he needs to. And maybe he won’t have to go for too long before his parents come to their senses.”
“But what if they brainwash him and he comes back different?” I say, swiveling the stool left then right, the blasting central air cooling me off a bit. “If he runs away, at least he can call me, right? And maybe I can go visit.”
“How?” Donna says, spreading her hands and lifting them sideways. “You’re six months from your license. If he runs away, you’ll never see him again. I can guarantee you that. Even if he survives.”
“Jesus,” I say. “Morbid enough?”
“I’m sorry, Cyrus.” Her lips form a lopsided frown that matches her hair. “I don’t mean to be so rough but you need to talk some sense into him. You need to convince him not to run away. I’m telling you, some of the cases we get—kids younger than you, strung out on drugs and malnourished, or beaten and bruised—and that’s not even mentioning the ones who get kidnapped and sold into sex slavery.”
“Donna—”
“It happens,” she says. “It happens all the time. You need to convince him.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I say.
“Well, don’t give him any money. That might convince him.”
I’ve saved almost $2500 from the summer at the guidance office, which is supposed to form the bulk of a down payment for a car next spring but I would give him all of it, if it would help him. I’d do anything.
“Maybe you could talk to his mother?” I say.
“I don’t know her,” Donna says. “I barely know Jeff. I’m not sure I can intervene.”
“But they beat him.”
“They beat him?”
“His stepfather does,” I say. “They got into a huge fight the other day and he beat him up. He’s got bruises all over his body.”
“Shit.” Donna steps back around her stool to get to the wine bottle. “That’s serious, Cyrus. More serious.”
She picks up her glass, pouring more in.
I didn’t plan to tell her about the beating—or the fight, as I’m sure the stepfuck would describe it—because I know Jeff wouldn’t want anyone else to know, but Donna wants him to go to that Jesus school which makes no sense at all.
“Well the protocol at the hospital is if any child comes in with bruises we need to tell the nurse manager or the hospital administrator and they’ll do the questioning,” she says, back around the counter again, setting down the drink. “And if they deem it appropriate, they’ll notify the police, who take it from there. It’s a pretty formal process and if you think he’s being abused, I can call someone and have them start the process.”
I shake my head. No way Jeff would want that. She pulls out a folder from the drawer beneath the counter and starts to leaf through it. Her hospital’s name is on the front.
“When does he leave?”
“Tomorrow.”
“We’d have to act fast,” Donna says, pulling out a sheet of paper. “It doesn’t always happen fast.”
I don’t think Jeff would want it but what if the cops did come to the house and take the stepfuck away—they’d have to see the bruises all over his stomach, they’d have to believe him. And that way he wouldn’t have to leave and we could be in the band again in his garage every day.
“Can I ask you a question, Cyrus?”
Donna sets down the sheet and leans forward, setting her elbows on the counter. Her eyes are bloodshot but focused on me.
“Are you and Jeff more than friends?”
I look away. Yes. Of course we are. But I don’t know what that is.
“I don’t know.”
“How do you not know?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Kid, I have been in more complicated relationships than years you have been on this earth so lay it on me,” she says. “Maybe I can help you figure it out.”
“We kissed,” I say. I needed to say it. To make it real. “Twice. But after the first time, he said it was a mistake. And then the second time we were in the backseat of Mindy’s car and we hit the dog. We haven’t talked about it since.”
“Oh, Cyrus.”
She moves from the kitchen around the counter to me, outstretched arms enveloping.
“Do you, um.” She backs off so she can see me. “Do you have feelings for him?”
I nod. Up and down so many times it hurts. My head still hurts.
“That’s good, Cyrus. That’s nice.” She backs up and leans on the stool next to me. “And Jeff’s a good guy. I mean, I’ve only met him a couple times but he’s always been polite. And maybe he’s not ready to admit that he’s gay. Honestly—” She looks into the living room, the pile of boxes on the carpeting. “Maybe that’s why his parents are sending him to that Jesus school—to ‘pray away the gay’ or some bullshit.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. Jeff didn’t mention that. But maybe his stepfather found something in his bedroom other than drugs and he didn’t want to tell me about it. I don’t know why he wouldn’t tell me about it.
“Well, either way, religious school is a shitty sentence, especially for gay kids, but he’ll be back, you know, sooner than you think.” She stands up and heads for the living room but keeps speaking. “And maybe being around all those Jesus freaks will convince him to come out to himself.”
“Or the opposite,” I say.
“Sure.” She reaches into one of the half-opened boxes on the living room sectional. “There is that. He could go the other way. Like get super into the Bible and start speaking in tongues.” She returns to the counter at the edge of the kitchen, a book in her hand. “But that doesn’t sound like Jeff.”
“No. That’s not him.”
“And that’s the point,” she says, handing me the book. “You have to convince him not to run away. Because I bet you that school won’t be as horrible as he thinks and in a couple months, he’ll be home for Thanksgiving break or Christmas break—I’m sure they go all out for Christmas there—so you’ll see each other again and you know what? He’ll miss you more than you’ll ever miss him because at least you’ll have your other friends at Dallastown High. And he’ll kiss you. He’ll run right up to you and kiss you again.” She sips at her second glass. “Believe me, your Aunt Donna has a sense about these things.”
Aunt Donna is already on her second massive tumbler of wine but I do trust her. I just don’t want to lose him.
“Listen, how about we make some popcorn, order Chinese food, and watch a movie to take your mind off of your stress for a bit. We’ll have a Donna and Cyrus night, okay?”
I nod. That does sound nice.
“And look—” She points to the book, a faded paperback called It Gets Better, with a rainbow flag spread across the front. “Your mother gave me this, years ago. One of her students in one of her classes, he’d read it when he was a teen and they were discussing gay marriage or homophobia in class—you know your mom was always trying to preach progressive values to whomever would listen in central P.A. But I guess this student gave it to her, in case she knew anyone who needed it and she gave it to me, afraid you might see it. Afraid you would think she was forcing it on you before you were ready to come out. I guess she knew. I guess she always knew.”
I leaf through the pages, still crisp despite the wear, sharp across my fingers.
“I forgot about it, honestly, because it was hidden among the stacks of nursing books on my shelves and I didn’t find it until I was packing last weekend.” She hesitates, watching me read. “I thought you might want it.”
The book appears to be a series of coming out stories and narratives. I could share it with Jeff. I close the cover and take a sniff. No trace of Mom’s scent.
“Thank you, Donna,” I say.
“Aww, Cyrus,” she says, wrapping her arms around me, this time from behind. I swallow up my tears. “It’ll get better, kid.”
“That’s not—” Her tangled hair drops around her face and touches my cheeks. She squeezes tighter.
“Thank you,” I say.
She spins around the counter into the kitchen and I set the book in my lap, keeping it close to me.
I don’t want to let go.