DYLAN KNEW he had hit rock bottom when he found himself watching a football game on the television in the hospital’s waiting room.
Well, technically, his eyes were simply facing the screen where the game played out. Considering the late hour, it must have been a repeat of a game played earlier on some sports channel, but he didn’t know. Actually, he knew shockingly little about anything right now. He was even watching the game without really watching it. The announcers were simply a background drone, and he had no idea who either team were supposed to be, or who was ahead, or what the point of any of this was. Of course, that could be said of just about any sport in general. Sports had never been Dylan’s thing. He’d been a sickly child who spent most of his time indoors doodling, hence his exciting career in the art world. He had extremely vague memories of his father watching football, which might be why he never liked it.
Dylan knew he was tired, as he had that weird, slightly otherworldly feeling you got when you were sleep-deprived and had been up way too long, as though all of life was an illusion that was just starting to peel away at the corners and if he could just stay up for another twenty hours or so, he’d see reality as it really was. Of course, that would just mean he was full-blown crazy, but sometimes that seemed like a better alternative than being sane.
Except no, it wasn’t. Dylan may have sometimes fantasized about it in his darkest hours, but his brother Tom was genuinely mentally ill, and Dylan knew how tormented and bleak his situation was. So seriously, he would never choose insanity. But real life could be so exhausting sometimes.
Dylan was currently alone in the room, although this wasn’t the waiting room to the ER downstairs, which he knew was crowded. This was the waiting room set aside by the ICU, all for family members of patients who were in dire straits. Roan was currently not in dire straits, as he’d come out of his surgery okay, but he hadn’t woken up yet, either. No one was sure when he would.
Dylan knew Roan would be fine. He was always okay, right? Eventually. Except he knew a day would come when he wouldn’t be okay. This wasn’t Ro’s first operation for tumors, and the way it was going, it wouldn’t be his last. This didn’t even bring his aneurysms into it. Oh, how Dylan sometimes longed for a normal husband. But wouldn’t that be dull? It reminded him of that curse: “May you live in interesting times.” He had a very interesting husband. But he couldn’t quite imagine life without him, in spite of all the torment and trouble.
“Hey, kiddo,” Doctor Rosenberg said, joining him in the waiting room. The elderly doctor was wearing a dark navy pantsuit with a black blouse and looked like someone’s grandmother in a strangely professional outfit, with an oversized, rumpled trench coat on top of it all. Her hospital ID hung around her neck on a blue lanyard. She didn’t technically work at this hospital, but she had admitting privileges, and, as the world’s foremost expert on the cat virus, she liked to refer to herself as an “eight-hundred-pound gorilla”—meaning, she could go wherever she wanted to go, and people generally let her. “You look all in. Maybe you ought to go home and get some rest.”
“And have Ro not have anyone here when he wakes up? I don’t think so.”
Rosenberg sighed as she patted his shoulder. “Do you realize the amount of anesthesia needed to put him down? He may be out until the next ice age.”
He glanced up at her. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”
“In theory.” She grimaced as though she’d tasted something bad, or at least realized what she’d just said. “Listen, why don’t we go across the street and get some coffee? It’s a fast food joint, but it’s open all night.”
Would that coffee be any improvement over the stuff they served here? Probably not, but changing the scenery wasn’t a terrible idea. “I guess I could.”
“That’s the spirit. I’ll buy you a burger.”
“I’m a vegetarian.”
“I’ll buy you a veggie burger, then. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
That made him smile faintly. Ro liked to say she was the foul-mouthed, crotchety grandmother he’d never had, and it was hard to argue with that assessment. Dylan’s grandmother—or at least the one he’d known—had been very nurturing and very sweet, and rarely cursed. When she did, it was usually in Spanish, as she hoped the grandkids weren’t fluent in it—of course they were, but they let her think they weren’t for as long as possible. Doctor Rosenberg seemed to be another creature entirely, yet he knew she was doing her best to be nice to him. He probably would have found her unbearably intimidating if it wasn’t for Roan. That said, he knew Roan must have found her a little intimidating too, or he’d never have followed a single order from her—okay, he usually didn’t. But the fact that he did, once in a blue moon, counted for something.
When Dylan left the hospital, the cold night air was like a shock to his system. Their breath came out in clouds before them, and the chill of the air seemed to burn his throat. It wasn’t snowing, but it smelled like it was close. Which reminded him, he had to ask Roan sometime if he could smell snow better than normal humans. Although that seemed like a stupid question, because he knew from past experience that Roan could smell storms hours before they showed up. And one sunny day, when Roan insisted it was going to rain despite there being almost no clouds in the sky, a sudden squall opened up, so it was sunny and rainy at the same time. That was just one of many of Roan’s deeply weird talents.
The fast food joint was mostly empty and reeked of charred meat and grease, but it was warm, and right now that’s what Dylan cared about most. After confirming they didn’t use animal fats, he just ordered some french fries and a soda while Rosenberg ordered the “gallon sized” coffee. They sat at a window seat, even though the view was nothing but a parking lot, the street, and the huge lighted behemoth of the hospital beyond.
“You really can go home until tomorrow,” Rosenberg told him, hands clasped around her giant cup of coffee. “I’ll call you when he comes around. It ain’t happening tonight, even with his constitution. Besides, it’s a holiday. Why are you wasting it here?”
That caught Dylan off guard, and he had to think for a moment. It wasn’t Christmas yet.
Rosenberg rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re so gentile. It’s Hanukkah, jackass.”
“Oh shit! I’m sorry. It’s not a holiday that crosses my radar a lot.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it, I’m just needling you. I’m not exactly observant. I had a ham sandwich a week ago. I do have a present for you, though.” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out what he at least recognized as a dreidel. He couldn’t help but smile as she spun it on the plastic table.
“You’re not observant, and yet you have that in your pocket.”
“I told you, it’s a present. So tell me, do Buddhists have holidays?”
“Yeah. And depending on what branch of Buddhism you follow, you may have more than some others. I’m not really big on them, though. My taste for holidays got ruined when I was a kid.” Just the reminder of what had happened, of his father killing his mother and then himself on Christmas, that weirdly muted pop that woke him from a dead sleep, made him flinch. Did she know the story? It wasn’t something he went around announcing—hell, he’d changed his surname to avoid the story anchoring him for the rest of his life—but he had no idea what Roan had told her. She was the closest thing to family he had.
Still, Dylan got his answer almost immediately. “That bad, huh? Should I ask, or would you rather leave it alone?”
Roan hadn’t told her. That was kind of him. “I’d rather leave it, if it’s all the same to you.”
She nodded curtly and watched the dreidel fall over onto the tabletop. “Do you guys celebrate any holidays at all? I know Roan’s an atheist.”
Suddenly it occurred to Dylan that she had known Roan for so many years, she probably had secrets about him. It felt like an opportunity, but he wasn’t sure if he should go for it. “Well, so many of our friends celebrate Christmas, we get presents for people, and… hey, wanna trade secrets? I’ll tell you one in exchange for another.”
“About Roan? Man, that’d piss him off if he ever found out.” She paused briefly to take a sip of her coffee. “Yeah, sure, let’s go for it. What you got?”
“He super enjoys buying presents for people, and he’s very fussy about picking out the right one.”
That made her bark with laughter, buying them the brief attention of the bored cashier. “Of course he is. That makes so much sense, and I’m not sure why.”
“So did he always believe in nothing? Was he ever not an atheist?”
She had to think about that one for a minute. “As far as I know, no. Even as a kid he didn’t believe in anything. But why would he, the way he grew up? I might believe in God solely to make it angry for all the shit it put me through if I were him. But at least he’s not one of those loud asshole atheists that seem to exist in some of the Internet’s dark corners.”
“Oh I know. Even Ro finds them obnoxious. Whether you believe or disbelieve, he’s not a fan of people shoving their views down your throat.”
She nodded. “Believe it or not, he was a quiet kid. Well, until the teen surliness came in, but he was quiet in a surly way then. Better than being loudly surly.”
Dylan had one of his french fries. It was okay, but he’d had better. Still, at least they were warm. “I knew he must have been quiet at some point, ’cause he’s so nerdy, but it’s hard to believe sometimes.”
She snickered. “I know. He has left his shrinking-violet phase far behind. But lions aren’t known for being shy, are they?”
“I’m pretty sure all big cats have an attitude problem. Why should Roan be any different?” Dylan shoved a fry in his mouth, suddenly sad and not completely sure why. Except this was another reminder that the lion was coming out in Roan more and more, and Roan didn’t even know how much it was happening.
Rosenberg put her hand on top of his, her skin dry and slightly rough. “It’s gonna be okay. He’s gonna be okay. I promise you. He’s too fucking annoying to die.”
That made Dylan smile. “He claims that all the time.”
“He would know. So go home, get some rest, and you’ll be back tomorrow before he wakes up. It’ll be a Hanukkah miracle.”
Dylan sighed and sagged back against the thin vinyl seat. He was really tired, and he couldn’t imagine how much anesthetic had been pumped into Roan’s veins to put him down. Probably enough to kill Dylan twice over. She was probably right. Actually, no, she was definitely right, as she usually was. “I have this guilt thing.”
“Oh, Buddhists get that too, huh? Tell it you deserve to rest in a good bed, probably more than other people. And if you show up tomorrow with a breakfast burrito, Roan will absolve you of all sins.”
He almost laughed. Roan would live on breakfast burritos if he could, and somehow it figured that she would know that. He looked her straight in the eyes—which were technically hidden behind the oval lenses of her glasses—and asked, “Would you go home?”
“After this, I am going home. Hell, I’d give you a lift if you needed it.”
He didn’t have Roan’s sense of smell, but Dylan knew she was being honest. He wondered if she could ever be anything else. “Okay, maybe it would be a good thing for me to spend the beginning of the holiday at home. I’ll bring Roan a present tomorrow.”
“That’s the secret of a good relationship. Lots of gifts.”
Dylan smiled at her, taking a sip of his cold, sticky, sweet soda. He wondered if he should tell Rosenberg to pass that on to Roan.
Nah. He probably already knew.