Moth for The Star
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M through R › Queer As Folk
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Category:
M through R › Queer As Folk
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
13
Views:
5,200
Reviews:
10
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own any of the characters/places/names from Queer as Folk, they belong to Cowlip, Showtime and their known associates. I do not make any money from this work.
611 - Wayward Mortal
Hello there! Here is Chapter 11, as promised, after that rather nasty cliffhanger I tortured left you with last time! However, it will be 10 days before I can post the next chapter, as I am going to the country for a little over a week and will not have Internet. Have no fear though, I WILL be writing, and chapter 12 will be ready to post when I return! So, I hope you enjoy, and this one is as usual mostly un-betaed, so feedback / criticisms / suggestions / requests VERY MUCH welcomed!! *Hugs* ^_^ XX
Enjoy! And feedback / criticisms / suggestions / requests VERY MUCH welcomed!! *Hugs* ^_^ XX
611 – Wayward Mortal. (Chapter 11)
* A few days later * December 2006
Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil
The shadows that float o’er Eternity’s vale;
Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love,
That will hail their blest advent to regions above.
-Shelley
Pittsburgh,
Allegheny General Hospital.
JUSTIN:
The chilly panes were touched with a thin caress of ice. Misting gently around the edges of the glass, it made them twinkle as the reluctant morning sun shone through them and gave them the appearance of the finest crystal. I stared out of the window at the naked tops of the trees, swaying frostily in the chill winter morning, gnarled fingers of branches twisting up, reaching for the distant spring. The sky was a cold heartless blue and the sound of choking motors struggling to start against the freezing metal in their engines drifted through the double glazing: varying sounds of vehicles, a dissonant dawn chorus of metallic coughing, and human swearing. I shivered slightly. I was fully dressed in a thick navy blue turtleneck jumper and jeans, and covered by my coat, but sitting still all night was taking its toll and I could feel my muscles cramping up. My hand rested gently atop Brian’s on the neutral blue coverlet. He was motionless in the hospital bed beside which my chair was placed, on his back, perfectly still and symmetrical as if laid out in a coffin.
Except he was alive. He had lost consciousness shortly after they had brought him in; a buxom nurse had confided in me when I stopped her, desperate for information, that it was lucky I had found him when I did. After they had admitted him and attached him to a drip and given him the fluids and sugar and sodium and all the other things he had lost, they ran tests, finding out pretty quickly that he had Osteomyelitis.
***
“He has WHAT?” I had said to the nurse, as I stood fretfully in the sterile corridor, hours after they had rushed Brian away. Shut out by the thick swinging doors beyond which they had taken him. She had folded her antiseptic hands calmly. She was my only link to him and what was going on behind those hateful unsympathetic barriers.
“It is a form of bone infection, in this case caused by the trauma to his femur.”
I had stared at her. “You mean the operation?”
“I’m afraid so, yes, Mr. Taylor. After the surgery to remove Mr. Kinney’s cancer the bone, as it was healing, became contaminated with ‘Mycobacterium tuberculosis’, that’s the TB virus. Tuberculous Osteomyelitis is a dangerous suppuration, but whilst the contamination began in the bone marrow itself, it easily spreads to the bloodstream, causing a chronic and life-threatening infection. This probably would have been the cause of your boyfriend’s nausea, fatigue and pain. Did he suffer from acute soreness or attacks of fever and lassitude at all?
I struggled to unclench my throat. “He had pain, but we thought it was just the wound healing, and he had been undergoing chemotherapy, so we assumed the nausea and fatigue were normal…”
“Oh they are, Mr. Taylor. They are. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. It really is unfortunate timing, to be sure.” … “Oh he is alright, don’t worry.” She continued, seeing my worried face. “He is stable now and we are treating him. I think he will get through this one.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile and patted my shoulder as I leant back against the wall for support. “However, we are going to have to keep him heavily sedated for a few days, to allow his body the best possible chance of fighting the infection. I will come and call you when we have transferred him to a room, if you don’t want to go home tonight.”
I nodded, my mouth paper-dry.
Later that evening, after Debbie and the others had come and gone in a squawking, bustling cacophony of worry and hugs and caring looks, I stood silently in Brian’s hushed room. Looking at his motionless figure, kept under the surface of consciousness by the concoction of drugs they were giving him through the brutal drip in his arm. Wanting to turn my head away and scream, punch something, hurt someone, break down and cry at the unfairness of it all. The gaping moon-like face of the clock outside in the corridor said it was late; visitors had clattered away hours ago, with their garish flowers and chatty optimism. But I had requested to stay, so I had been given a pillow and left alone as the hospital closed down for the night, soulless clinical hallways darkening with systematic clicks and the buzzing of electricity fizzling out. But the grey machine next to Brian’s bed beeped steadily, quietly, telling no-one in particular that his heart was still beating.
If one has never seen a friend anesthetized or sedated, one cannot really fathom what a profoundly disturbing experience it is. To watch someone you love slipping out of his or her body until only the shell is left. It is nothing like watching them slumber, because with sleep you know that you can always touch their shoulder, or kiss their mouth, or shake water on their face and they will wake up, smiling, or annoyed, or grouchy. No. This is different, and profoundly horrible, and causes a deep innate panic because of the wrongness of seeing someone’s mind, their personality, their consciousness unnaturally taken from them without their consent.
***
And so I sat, two stiff nights later, as the cold morning sun wrestled its way into the hospital room and I watched the frost fading from the windows, melting in protesting droplets and trickling crookedly out of sight. Brian’s hand was cool and slack under my own, and I traced the well-trimmed nails, the pale long fingers, the veined knuckles, before releasing it and easing myself up from the ghastly chair, wincing and shrugging off the blanket, folding it on the seat.
I came out into the corridor just as a nurse arrived to check up on Brian and renew his antibiotics and whatever the fuck else they were keeping him on. She smiled at me and took in my rumpled clothes, my scruffy appearance.
“Ain’t you gonna go home at all then?”
I glanced back at Brian, motionless behind the small window of the door. “Not until he wakes up.”
“Hmm.” She nodded as she arranged the papers on her clipboard and the tubes on her trolley. “He’s gonna be okay, y’know. The sedation is just a precautionary measure, to allow his body to heal without any further stress, understand?” She couldn’t have been much older than me.
I forced a smile. “Yeah, I understand.”
A couple of hours later Debbie turned up with bread and steaming soup in a flask which she made me eat, as if I were the sick one, and then she forced me to go home for a couple of hours to change my clothes and clean up. To be honest I needed it. Catching sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I noticed my eyes, red and worried, the dark circles round my sockets, my unwashed hair. There was an anxious flush in my cheeks and my mouth had worked itself into a tight line. Turning away from the mirror, I showered and changed into fresh clothes, shoving a toothbrush into my bag, unwilling to stick around. The loft was so quiet. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to get back to Brian, incase… incase what? I had simply given up holding myself together, making it on my own. Finally, I knew truly with all my heart and soul that Brian meant everything to me and I wanted, I suppose, somewhere deep and hidden inside, to make up for all the lost time, to somehow say with my actions that I had made my choice, that I would be there however old or young or beautiful or flawed Brian was, through thick and through thin. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health.
***
Lindsey and Melanie’s House.
DEBBIE:
Debbie was plumped on the sofa, a mound of colors and annoyed anxiousness. She watched as Lind and Mel pottered about getting the tea, they had absolutely refused to let her help, and wondered what the fuck God was playing at. Maybe there was a purpose to all of it. Maybe there was an order in the chaos… and it was chaos, because she never would have thought that Brian Kinney, the indestructible Brian Kinney, would get cancer, of all things. And so young. Debbie was still trying to believe that the beautiful, independent, unapologetic man she used to love and dislike and chide and who used to frustrate the hell out of her sometimes, was now shackled by an awful, murderous disease. It was like seeing a free, proud, wild animal broken torn and beaten in the ring; it wasn’t fair, it went against everything she had known. She didn’t even want to imagine what his scars looked like, the poor shit. Debbie sighed, maybe there was a destined reason, but from where she was sitting right now, God was a cruel sadistic fuck.
An excited squeal pulled Debbie away from her thoughts; a now 3-year-old Jenny Rebecca was sitting in the middle of the floor, playing with a plastic ken doll who had just had his arm pulled off. Debbie tsked and watched as her grandchild stared at the injured toy in surprise before holding it up.
“Buddy is hurt!’ She called out, running over to sit beside her Grandma, her little legs in their pink tights sticking straight out over the edge of the sofa. Deb smiled, calling out to the adults in the kitchen:
“You better watch out, JR is going to be a real heart-breaker! She has already started wrecking men!”
Then she smoothed the child’s dark hair, and reassured her with pats on the back and cooing motherly words. “It’s all right, there there now honeybun, its gonna be fine, we’ll fix him, you’ll see…” She had so missed having young kid, seeing their little innocent faces so open and earnest and …accepting, made her heart swell and the maternal itch start in her fingers and toes all over again. My, how she loved being a grandma. She wanted to pick them up and smother them with kisses and dote upon them and make sure no harm befell them. Ever. But she knew it didn’t work like that; there was only so long parents are allowed to protect before they are gently pushed away by nature, and independence and growing up.
Suddenly, Debbie felt a small paw on her knee she glanced up at Gus, who was standing, quietly, looking old for his 6-and-a-half years. His green eyes were troubled and huge in his small face, and his hand resting on her knee was warm, bless his little heart. But Gus spoke before she had a chance to coo or cuddle him.
“Aunty Deb, is Dad gonna be okay?”
Debbie’s heart immediately jumped into her throat, as she gazed at the quiet sage little boy in front of her, with his mop of brown hair and his pale clear skin and his small delicate eyebrows and his earnest expression. What could she tell him?
“Oh honey. Oh sweetheart. I don’t know. …But don’t you worry, your Dad is in real good hands, he’s with people who are gonna help him, he’s out of danger.”
For the moment, she thought, as she pulled Gus in and enveloped the scared little boy in a squashy cocooning hug, smoothing his silky cheek and kissing his floppy hair, blinking the tears from her eyes and sighing against the love that washed in waves through her. The poor little mite knew what was going on, bless his soul. He knew his Daddy was ill and was probably very confused and afraid. It is terrifying for a child have a parent, pillars of strength to their young eyes, fall, come crashing down and reveal they are not as stalwart and all-powerful as the child trusted they were. Gus’s eyes were deep and soulful as he nodded sadly and turned away. Debbie had to hand it to the kid, he wasn’t fussing or whining, just calmly unsettled, considerate little cherub. She wished she could re-assure him, reassure herself, but she couldn’t. All she could do, unnaturally for her, was sit and wait …and hope.
When Mel and Linds came into the room with the tray of tea, Debbie was fondly watching JR, who, with pursed lips and wet little tongue sticking out the side of her cherry mouth, was holding the severed arm of Buddy doll to his side and clumsily attempting to wrap him in a floral handkerchief. The little girl was rocking gently, stroking the figurine, smoothing imaginary hair away from his shiny brow and Debbie suddenly picked up the soft words she was chanting to her toy:
“You are not gonna hurt, coz I’m your Mommy. I’m your Mommy and I’m going to look after you because you are sick. I’m love you so you get better…”
As Debbie placed a hand on her chest in emotion, JR looked up with a bright smile.
“Am I a good Mommy, Grandma? Look! I am going to love him because he is hurt!”
Debbie’s words of praise caught in her throat, the onslaught of connections suddenly piling into her wigless head in tumbling revelations. Rising quickly, she caressed the cheery infant’s chin before grabbing her bag, her eyes blurring. She knew what she had to do. Melanie bewilderedly asked something about not staying and Debbie excused herself hurriedly, kisses all round, wrapping up in her huge fluffy coat, inspired determination setting her mouth and making everything a whole lot easier. Deb was like a steam train, sometimes it took a while to build up speed, but once she was going she was unhindered and energetically focused. No more decisions to be made, no doubts scratching at the edges of her mind, no ifs or buts. So she bade a loving goodbye to the children and their surprised parents, and hustled out into the sharp shock of the cold, eyes screwed against the wind, head slightly apprehensive but heart as clear as diamond. She knew whom she had to see.
***
Allegheny General Hospital.
JUSTIN:
“The good news…” said the neat male doctor who had come to fill me in “…is that Mr. Kinney has responded well to the chemotherapy. There are no signs of his cancer re-occurring in the area. Of course he will have to come in for regular screenings and check-ups, but for now we do not need to do anything further. So, we shall continue to concentrate on eradicating the Osteomyelitis, but I think we can safely bring him round this afternoon, considering his strength is growing and any risk of further complications to the area has been repudiated.”
I could kiss him.
And a couple of hours later I paced the small space between the bottom of Brian’s bed and the wall, biting my nails, waiting for the drugs they had given him to reverse the sedative to take effect. A nurse stood patiently in the corner, like a strange modified Greek statue, in a stiff white overall with so many contraptions hanging off it she looked like a kink master. A faint sound was uttered from the machine beside Brian’s bed and she moved over to start checking switches and writing down things on her clipboard. After a minute I saw Brian’s eyelashes flutter, and felt a rush of relief and happiness. I came over to stand beside her, watching his pale face for signs of life. The nurse was engrossed on fulfilling her purpose:
“Can you hear me, Mr. Kinney? You are in hospital. Please blink twice for me if you can hear me.”
I saw the narrow slits of Brian’s beautiful eyes squint against the light, but slowly and surely he blinked twice. The nurse contentedly murmured something I couldn’t hear and smiled at me, stepping aside to let me closer to Brian before bustling out of the room. I suddenly felt nervous. Why the fuck was I nervous? I felt like I was meeting him for the first time again, like I had to make a good impression… But then he looked at me, eyes growing accustomed to the brightness, and I forgot everything else, and felt my face split into a grin.
“Hey.”
He couldn’t turn his head much yet, the drugs were still wearing off, but his mouth twitched into a weak smile of what looked like relief. “Hey.”
It was almost a whisper, but so familiar and wonderful to hear. As I stood there, motionless beside the bed, his eyes swept groggily over my face, taking in the circles under my eyes and when he next spoke, his voice was quiet and rough from lack of use.
“You don’t have to be here.”
My face was serious, and I looked straight at him. “No, I don’t.”
He seemed to understand my meaning, my quiet defiance and reassurance, and his eyes half closed as his head relaxed into the pillow. I tentatively put out my hand and slipped it into his.
“You scared me so fucking much.”
His eyes darted to the ceiling as he recalled what had happened, and his lips drew in, in that adorable and so well-known gesture of his. When he looked back at me, it was with a mixture of apology and tiredness, which quickly turned into faint mischievous amusement:
“So, have I lost the other ball?”
I had to laugh, and the humor lightened the atmosphere as I lovingly shook my head. Then I couldn’t help myself; I bent down to kiss him, wanting to clutch him and grasp him to me, crush his mouth against mine, hold him so tight I would never have to let him go. My lips ever so lightly brushed his, and I felt them opening slightly to let me in and kiss me back, somewhat chapped but pliable and familiar and Brian. His hand come up and found the back of my head; I was surprised at the tenderness of his touch, caressing the shorter hairs above my neck. Everything would be okay. We were okay. Oh please may it be okay. I kissed the corner of his mouth, his rough cheek, down his cheekbone and into his hair, and then we just held each other, surrounded by memories like so many swirling ghosts around us. I felt his warm breath on my skin as he chuckled weakly, his face tucked into the hollow between my shoulder and my neck, my hands holding his upper arms, muscles protesting from holding myself over the bed.
Eventually I pulled back, and Brian’s eyes watched me, bottomless and fatigued, trying to communicate something unfathomable, and then when I smiled at him and stood back from the bed, they closed. I gently brushed the soft hair from his brow, thinking as I did so of all the times I had done the same thing, how well I knew that forehead, with it’s smooth skin and slight traces of creases from when he raised his eyebrows. After so many years of drawing him, watching him, making love to him, I knew his body better than my own. We had learned every inch of each other. No wonder when I went to New York and had tried to forget him, I felt like I had left a part of me behind. Wasn’t there some Persian philosopher once, Rumi, I think it was, who said, "Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along." God knows if that was true… But Jean Toomer also said: "We never know we are beings till we love. And then it is we know the powers and potentialities of human existence." And I agreed with that. Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I looked down at Brian whose breathing had become slow and even. The nurse swept back in and told me that he needed to sleep, that rest would give him the best chance of recovery, so I stood up, stretching and deciding to go and get some food from the canteen. Turning at the door, the flame of relief dancing in my heart, and seeing Brian’s chest steadily rising and falling, his hair dark on the pillow; the words of the poet Philip Larkin came into my head with striking poignancy: "What will survive of us is love."
***
Pittsburgh
JOAN:
Joan Kinney closed her front door with a slow brittle click, her hand trembling slightly and pressed restrainedly to her side. Cautiously drawing back the lace curtain from the glass, she watched as the bright jacket of that Novotny lady disappeared down her manicured garden path and into the street. She swallowed. That it had to come to this, again. That Debbie had to come and break the news that her own son was in hospital fighting for his life, was despicable. She felt a rush of anger at Brian’s stubbornness, his indifference, his coldness towards her, when all she had ever tried to do was be a good mother. Of course she had known that his cancer had returned, even if he had not told her himself. Pittsburgh was a relatively small town after all. And she had tried to visit him, but it had turned into another argument and she had left. It was his own fault anyway; not looking after himself, probably subjecting his body to all kinds of drink and drugs and… goodness knows what else. Joan’s heart clenched into a fist. Was she really obliged to try and care for her son when every effort she had ever made had been rebuked, spurned, kicked in her face?
Catching sight of herself in the wall mirror in the hall, Joan readjusted her tense line of a mouth and turned to go through into the kitchen. She opened the cupboard, to the right of the stove, and got out a glass. Then she picked up the friendly bottle of blood-red sherry, holding both as she sat down at the table and kept her back very straight. She needed a drink. Her son had cancer, and no matter how much she despised what he did, she couldn’t prevent the tendrils of heart-wrenching sorrow and terror from creeping into her chest. But as she poured the deep thick crimson liquid out of the lips of the decanter, she felt chills running up her spine. Brian had been vomiting blood, they said. The glass crashed to the floor as Joan shrank back, a cry of disgust rising in her throat, wringing her hands.
She felt something break inside her, and wondered what it was. And then she found tears welling up in her eyes. Scalding, terrified, unfamiliar tears, aching from lack of use, pulling open her emotions against her will like a tidal wave through floodgates. Her boy. Her little boy who had such pretty eyes as he was growing up. Who had always been so quiet. Who had almost invited her to ignore him, with his quietness. Why had he pushed her away, oh why? Joan stood in the middle of her kitchen staring at the drops of red on the austere white linoleum floor. Then she decided to take Debbie’s unspoken hint, to go and see him, go and visit her son in hospital like the good Christian mother she was. As she gathered her gloves and slipped an unsympathetic scarf around her neck, the thoughts kept playing over and over in her head. She had made it clear to Brian that he disgusted her, engaging in vile acts of lewdness with another man was forbidden in the Bible, and yet he still refused to do the normal thing, still went against the grain. Stupid, willful son of hers. Why anyone would continue to do something so unquestionably sickening was a mystery to her, but now the possibility that she might lose him cut strange and cold through her disappointment in him. No, she was going to the hospital.
With that, Joan swept her eyes over the empty house, the upturned glass lying on the ground leaking sherry, she would clean up later, took her bag from its perch on the hat stand, and walked out through the door, shutting it with a slow brittle click behind her.
***
Allegheny General Hospital
When she arrived at the foreboding glass doors of the reception, Joan almost turned around and went home. Brian wouldn’t want to see her. He never wanted to see her. But then she realized she wasn’t going for him, she was going for herself, to… to what? Joan didn’t know why, but she knew she wanted to fulfill some ancient social convention; as a mother she was obliged to at least go and see her offspring. That’s what she wanted to think, because it blocked out the nagging maternal feeling in her gut. An excuse of propriety was as good an excuse as any. Once inside, she went to the reception, from where she was directed to the ward, and room, Brian was in.
Walking down the corridors, the afternoon light filtering in through half-closed blinds and the smell of sickness making her blanch and turn her face away, Joan wondered whether she had made a mistake; but then she turned a corner and saw Debbie standing in conversation with a doctor, with her son Michael nearby. Joan stood, momentarily nervous, looking at the entrance to Brian’s room. As she watched, a young man came out, smiled at Debbie who absently rubbed his back, and exchanged a few words with the white-coated physician. Joan’s eyes followed him. That was a face she had seen before: the short blonde hair, the intelligent blue eyes, the blossoming smile, it was all nigglingly familiar. And then she saw him nod and head in her direction, his head was down in thought, and she suddenly remembered with a jolt of disappointment and shock where she had seen him. As he raised his head and suddenly saw her, Joan’s mouth was once again in a thin line. The young man stopped in front of her, slightly surprised, his expression wary.
“Hello, Mrs. Kinney.”
Joan looked up at him, trying unsuccessfully to marry the image of this sophisticated individual with the despicable acts in which she knew he had engaged with her son. “Hello.”
“I ..uh.. don’t know If you remember me, Mrs. Kinney, I’m Justin, Justin Taylor…”
“I know who you are. I saw you in the apartment. That was along time ago, wasn’t it? I would have thought you had moved on. Isn’t that what you... people do?”
The man’s eyes registered shock, then hurt, then mature restraint in a series of quick successions, and Joan had a sudden feeling what she had said had not been very nice, but she did not take it back, because she was unaccustomed to taking anything back. But she forced herself to meet his eyes, which grew thoughtful as he struggled for what to say.
“Brian’s through there, Mrs. Kinney. He was asleep when I left, the doctors only just stopped the sedative today. Excuse me.”
And with that, he slipped past her. Joan turned to watch his back as he pushed open the twin doors, joining up with Debbie and heading towards the canteen. He looked so normal. He was a handsome man, and his eyes… Joan shivered as she thought of the sad wisdom in those eyes, and again considered about her comment. She had never had a civilized conversation with a … she was so unused to saying the word… homosexual before, apart from her son of course, although she could hardly call their rare tense exchanges civilized. It was rather a shock to her to see this lover of Brian’s was so… human.
Shaking off the thought, Joan went to the edge of her son’s door and looked in. He was asleep as that Justin had predicted, and he looked… so ill. Joan wanted to look away, because she knew she was in danger of succumbing to the intense frustration that boiled inside her. Why couldn’t have been a good little boy? She fought the urge however, and moved to the base of Brian’s bed, looking down at his pale arm resting on the coverlet. Was this the boy she raised? Suddenly, with an impulsive shrinking sensation, Joan turned and walked out, her courage failing her. Hurrying past the numerous visitors and nurses and wards and cold glass doors out to the main entrance, where she sat down on a visitor’s bench. It was cool and spacious in the lobby and the vague non-committal chatter around her was strangely comforting. Joan wished she had something to drink, but her throat was so tight she felt she would choke. She pursed her lips and remembered the last time she had seen Brian asleep like that…
Screaming. Taunting. Crash. Harsh goading cries followed by dull thudding. She was crying, pulling a skinny arm with a strength spurred on by adrenaline. Yanking Brian’s small scared frame round the other side of the door, hearing Jack’s dull curses through the wood, unfocused in his intoxication. Turning to the shaking little boy next to her. She could feel his heart beating frantically, pounding against his small chest and she walked upstairs, told him to follow. Found the medicine cabinet, switched on the bathroom light. Saw the small boy covered in blood. Gash to his lip, cut on his forehead, scrape on his bruised arm. His eyes followed her silently, purplish rings of swelling growing already. Normally she was quicker than this. Most of the time she could get him into bed before anything happened. Claire was a good girl. She was already asleep. But Brian, Brian was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Restless little boy. Too intelligent for his 6 years. Too quiet for a hurt child. She cleaned his cuts, chiding him for being in the living room this late, and sent him to bed with a quick embrace. She had to get back downstairs and see what Jack had smashed. But later she slipped into his quiet room, watching his still form in the blurry darkness, ignoring the guilt in her chest. Making out the dark shadow of his hair on the pillow, the slight smudges where his cuts had bled under their plasters, the clean trails where his tears had found their way down his cheeks. Then she turned and went to bed.
The ticking of the clock cut through Joan’s thoughts. Glancing up at it she saw she had been sitting on the hard plastic bench a long time. Pulling her scarf closed around her throat, Joan moved away and out the door. Brian wouldn’t appreciate her being here. When had he ever appreciated her presence? But as she passed the reception she heard her name called out, and, looking up, found Debbie coming towards her. Just what she needed. Some lunatic new-age woman with silver gray hair covered in colored grips and a ghastly floral top, who thought she knew Brian better than his own mother. But she waited resignedly as Debbie put a hand on her arm, making her flinch a little at the contact, and spoke quietly in a rich motherly voice.
“He doesn’t hate you, you know.”
Joan felt herself flush. “I know, thank you Debbie. It has just… never been easy between us. I don’t want…”
“Bullshit.” Mrs. Novoty’s eyes were slightly amused as she watched Joan’s shocked expression. Then she became serious. “Joan. A mother has a bond with her children. And even if that has been messed up, even if there are years of arguments and resentment under the bridge, there’s always a chance to start again. It’s a family’s god-given right.”
Joan stared at her, overpowered by the other lady’s strong musky perfume which wafted around them and seemed to burrow up her nose and into her eyes. Debbie watched her for a moment before smiling. “Go and see your son, Mrs. Kinney, ...Joan. Don’t throw away something you will live to regret.”
With that she stepped back, and Joan felt a slight freedom come into her heart. Strange and immoderate as that Novotny lady may be, she did say some thought-provoking things. Glancing at the gathering dark outside, Joan managed a weak smile at Debbie, and then she slowly headed back towards Brian’s room as if pulled by a string. Not quite believing that that madwoman had managed to get her to go back, she re-traced her steps through he emptying corridors. She would probably embarrass herself by being repudiated by Brian, by becoming angry at his fickle disregard for god or society’s laws…
She reached the room before she knew it, and shrank back in the hall, peering through the small glass window in the door. The sight that met her eyes both physically jolted her heart and sent a spasm of pain through her arms.
Brian was asleep, lying much the same as she had left him, his face bloodless and his body thin under the blankets, but his hand was resting idly in the short hair of the young man she had seen earlier, Justin, his name was. The blonde was also asleep, in a chair beside her son’s bed, his head resting on his arms on the covers. The whole image struck her as so … loving. It took her breath away for a moment. The quiet affection and warmth which emanated from the bed shot into the depths of her soul and for the first time she looked, really looked, finding her disgust slipping away despite itself and the tears welling in her eyes. Never had she thought a gay relationship could be like this. She watched as Justin’s back rose and fell with his slumbering breaths, Brian’s hand tenderly in his hair, his body close as possible to his partner’s in the bed.
Joan heard a sigh beside her, and found Debbie standing there, gold sparkly bag clutched in her hand. “It’s touching to see, ain’t it?” She said, her eyes fixed on the scene in the hospital room.
Joan nodded, her mouth quivering, and Debbie continued in a hushed voice.
“Justin has hardly left his side, y’know. Been here every night, even when he was unconscious. But then again, he always was a determined little fucker. ...oh excuse my language Joan. I can call you Joan can’t I?”
But Joan was looking at gentle companionship in front of her and wishing some heterosexual relationships would have this level of unmistakable loyalty. What angered and shocked her the most was that she was not feeling repulsed by seeing two men in love. It just felt so …right, and Joan was very scared by what she was feeling, what she was realizing, what she was questioning. It made her furious. It made her want to weep. It made her stay and gaze at Brian and Justin’s quiet forms for a long moment before she took her leave of Debbie and quietly left the hospital.
~ END ~
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Enjoy! And feedback / criticisms / suggestions / requests VERY MUCH welcomed!! *Hugs* ^_^ XX
611 – Wayward Mortal. (Chapter 11)
* A few days later * December 2006
Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil
The shadows that float o’er Eternity’s vale;
Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love,
That will hail their blest advent to regions above.
-Shelley
Pittsburgh,
Allegheny General Hospital.
JUSTIN:
The chilly panes were touched with a thin caress of ice. Misting gently around the edges of the glass, it made them twinkle as the reluctant morning sun shone through them and gave them the appearance of the finest crystal. I stared out of the window at the naked tops of the trees, swaying frostily in the chill winter morning, gnarled fingers of branches twisting up, reaching for the distant spring. The sky was a cold heartless blue and the sound of choking motors struggling to start against the freezing metal in their engines drifted through the double glazing: varying sounds of vehicles, a dissonant dawn chorus of metallic coughing, and human swearing. I shivered slightly. I was fully dressed in a thick navy blue turtleneck jumper and jeans, and covered by my coat, but sitting still all night was taking its toll and I could feel my muscles cramping up. My hand rested gently atop Brian’s on the neutral blue coverlet. He was motionless in the hospital bed beside which my chair was placed, on his back, perfectly still and symmetrical as if laid out in a coffin.
Except he was alive. He had lost consciousness shortly after they had brought him in; a buxom nurse had confided in me when I stopped her, desperate for information, that it was lucky I had found him when I did. After they had admitted him and attached him to a drip and given him the fluids and sugar and sodium and all the other things he had lost, they ran tests, finding out pretty quickly that he had Osteomyelitis.
***
“He has WHAT?” I had said to the nurse, as I stood fretfully in the sterile corridor, hours after they had rushed Brian away. Shut out by the thick swinging doors beyond which they had taken him. She had folded her antiseptic hands calmly. She was my only link to him and what was going on behind those hateful unsympathetic barriers.
“It is a form of bone infection, in this case caused by the trauma to his femur.”
I had stared at her. “You mean the operation?”
“I’m afraid so, yes, Mr. Taylor. After the surgery to remove Mr. Kinney’s cancer the bone, as it was healing, became contaminated with ‘Mycobacterium tuberculosis’, that’s the TB virus. Tuberculous Osteomyelitis is a dangerous suppuration, but whilst the contamination began in the bone marrow itself, it easily spreads to the bloodstream, causing a chronic and life-threatening infection. This probably would have been the cause of your boyfriend’s nausea, fatigue and pain. Did he suffer from acute soreness or attacks of fever and lassitude at all?
I struggled to unclench my throat. “He had pain, but we thought it was just the wound healing, and he had been undergoing chemotherapy, so we assumed the nausea and fatigue were normal…”
“Oh they are, Mr. Taylor. They are. It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. It really is unfortunate timing, to be sure.” … “Oh he is alright, don’t worry.” She continued, seeing my worried face. “He is stable now and we are treating him. I think he will get through this one.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile and patted my shoulder as I leant back against the wall for support. “However, we are going to have to keep him heavily sedated for a few days, to allow his body the best possible chance of fighting the infection. I will come and call you when we have transferred him to a room, if you don’t want to go home tonight.”
I nodded, my mouth paper-dry.
Later that evening, after Debbie and the others had come and gone in a squawking, bustling cacophony of worry and hugs and caring looks, I stood silently in Brian’s hushed room. Looking at his motionless figure, kept under the surface of consciousness by the concoction of drugs they were giving him through the brutal drip in his arm. Wanting to turn my head away and scream, punch something, hurt someone, break down and cry at the unfairness of it all. The gaping moon-like face of the clock outside in the corridor said it was late; visitors had clattered away hours ago, with their garish flowers and chatty optimism. But I had requested to stay, so I had been given a pillow and left alone as the hospital closed down for the night, soulless clinical hallways darkening with systematic clicks and the buzzing of electricity fizzling out. But the grey machine next to Brian’s bed beeped steadily, quietly, telling no-one in particular that his heart was still beating.
If one has never seen a friend anesthetized or sedated, one cannot really fathom what a profoundly disturbing experience it is. To watch someone you love slipping out of his or her body until only the shell is left. It is nothing like watching them slumber, because with sleep you know that you can always touch their shoulder, or kiss their mouth, or shake water on their face and they will wake up, smiling, or annoyed, or grouchy. No. This is different, and profoundly horrible, and causes a deep innate panic because of the wrongness of seeing someone’s mind, their personality, their consciousness unnaturally taken from them without their consent.
***
And so I sat, two stiff nights later, as the cold morning sun wrestled its way into the hospital room and I watched the frost fading from the windows, melting in protesting droplets and trickling crookedly out of sight. Brian’s hand was cool and slack under my own, and I traced the well-trimmed nails, the pale long fingers, the veined knuckles, before releasing it and easing myself up from the ghastly chair, wincing and shrugging off the blanket, folding it on the seat.
I came out into the corridor just as a nurse arrived to check up on Brian and renew his antibiotics and whatever the fuck else they were keeping him on. She smiled at me and took in my rumpled clothes, my scruffy appearance.
“Ain’t you gonna go home at all then?”
I glanced back at Brian, motionless behind the small window of the door. “Not until he wakes up.”
“Hmm.” She nodded as she arranged the papers on her clipboard and the tubes on her trolley. “He’s gonna be okay, y’know. The sedation is just a precautionary measure, to allow his body to heal without any further stress, understand?” She couldn’t have been much older than me.
I forced a smile. “Yeah, I understand.”
A couple of hours later Debbie turned up with bread and steaming soup in a flask which she made me eat, as if I were the sick one, and then she forced me to go home for a couple of hours to change my clothes and clean up. To be honest I needed it. Catching sight of myself in the bathroom mirror, I noticed my eyes, red and worried, the dark circles round my sockets, my unwashed hair. There was an anxious flush in my cheeks and my mouth had worked itself into a tight line. Turning away from the mirror, I showered and changed into fresh clothes, shoving a toothbrush into my bag, unwilling to stick around. The loft was so quiet. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted to get back to Brian, incase… incase what? I had simply given up holding myself together, making it on my own. Finally, I knew truly with all my heart and soul that Brian meant everything to me and I wanted, I suppose, somewhere deep and hidden inside, to make up for all the lost time, to somehow say with my actions that I had made my choice, that I would be there however old or young or beautiful or flawed Brian was, through thick and through thin. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health.
***
Lindsey and Melanie’s House.
DEBBIE:
Debbie was plumped on the sofa, a mound of colors and annoyed anxiousness. She watched as Lind and Mel pottered about getting the tea, they had absolutely refused to let her help, and wondered what the fuck God was playing at. Maybe there was a purpose to all of it. Maybe there was an order in the chaos… and it was chaos, because she never would have thought that Brian Kinney, the indestructible Brian Kinney, would get cancer, of all things. And so young. Debbie was still trying to believe that the beautiful, independent, unapologetic man she used to love and dislike and chide and who used to frustrate the hell out of her sometimes, was now shackled by an awful, murderous disease. It was like seeing a free, proud, wild animal broken torn and beaten in the ring; it wasn’t fair, it went against everything she had known. She didn’t even want to imagine what his scars looked like, the poor shit. Debbie sighed, maybe there was a destined reason, but from where she was sitting right now, God was a cruel sadistic fuck.
An excited squeal pulled Debbie away from her thoughts; a now 3-year-old Jenny Rebecca was sitting in the middle of the floor, playing with a plastic ken doll who had just had his arm pulled off. Debbie tsked and watched as her grandchild stared at the injured toy in surprise before holding it up.
“Buddy is hurt!’ She called out, running over to sit beside her Grandma, her little legs in their pink tights sticking straight out over the edge of the sofa. Deb smiled, calling out to the adults in the kitchen:
“You better watch out, JR is going to be a real heart-breaker! She has already started wrecking men!”
Then she smoothed the child’s dark hair, and reassured her with pats on the back and cooing motherly words. “It’s all right, there there now honeybun, its gonna be fine, we’ll fix him, you’ll see…” She had so missed having young kid, seeing their little innocent faces so open and earnest and …accepting, made her heart swell and the maternal itch start in her fingers and toes all over again. My, how she loved being a grandma. She wanted to pick them up and smother them with kisses and dote upon them and make sure no harm befell them. Ever. But she knew it didn’t work like that; there was only so long parents are allowed to protect before they are gently pushed away by nature, and independence and growing up.
Suddenly, Debbie felt a small paw on her knee she glanced up at Gus, who was standing, quietly, looking old for his 6-and-a-half years. His green eyes were troubled and huge in his small face, and his hand resting on her knee was warm, bless his little heart. But Gus spoke before she had a chance to coo or cuddle him.
“Aunty Deb, is Dad gonna be okay?”
Debbie’s heart immediately jumped into her throat, as she gazed at the quiet sage little boy in front of her, with his mop of brown hair and his pale clear skin and his small delicate eyebrows and his earnest expression. What could she tell him?
“Oh honey. Oh sweetheart. I don’t know. …But don’t you worry, your Dad is in real good hands, he’s with people who are gonna help him, he’s out of danger.”
For the moment, she thought, as she pulled Gus in and enveloped the scared little boy in a squashy cocooning hug, smoothing his silky cheek and kissing his floppy hair, blinking the tears from her eyes and sighing against the love that washed in waves through her. The poor little mite knew what was going on, bless his soul. He knew his Daddy was ill and was probably very confused and afraid. It is terrifying for a child have a parent, pillars of strength to their young eyes, fall, come crashing down and reveal they are not as stalwart and all-powerful as the child trusted they were. Gus’s eyes were deep and soulful as he nodded sadly and turned away. Debbie had to hand it to the kid, he wasn’t fussing or whining, just calmly unsettled, considerate little cherub. She wished she could re-assure him, reassure herself, but she couldn’t. All she could do, unnaturally for her, was sit and wait …and hope.
When Mel and Linds came into the room with the tray of tea, Debbie was fondly watching JR, who, with pursed lips and wet little tongue sticking out the side of her cherry mouth, was holding the severed arm of Buddy doll to his side and clumsily attempting to wrap him in a floral handkerchief. The little girl was rocking gently, stroking the figurine, smoothing imaginary hair away from his shiny brow and Debbie suddenly picked up the soft words she was chanting to her toy:
“You are not gonna hurt, coz I’m your Mommy. I’m your Mommy and I’m going to look after you because you are sick. I’m love you so you get better…”
As Debbie placed a hand on her chest in emotion, JR looked up with a bright smile.
“Am I a good Mommy, Grandma? Look! I am going to love him because he is hurt!”
Debbie’s words of praise caught in her throat, the onslaught of connections suddenly piling into her wigless head in tumbling revelations. Rising quickly, she caressed the cheery infant’s chin before grabbing her bag, her eyes blurring. She knew what she had to do. Melanie bewilderedly asked something about not staying and Debbie excused herself hurriedly, kisses all round, wrapping up in her huge fluffy coat, inspired determination setting her mouth and making everything a whole lot easier. Deb was like a steam train, sometimes it took a while to build up speed, but once she was going she was unhindered and energetically focused. No more decisions to be made, no doubts scratching at the edges of her mind, no ifs or buts. So she bade a loving goodbye to the children and their surprised parents, and hustled out into the sharp shock of the cold, eyes screwed against the wind, head slightly apprehensive but heart as clear as diamond. She knew whom she had to see.
***
Allegheny General Hospital.
JUSTIN:
“The good news…” said the neat male doctor who had come to fill me in “…is that Mr. Kinney has responded well to the chemotherapy. There are no signs of his cancer re-occurring in the area. Of course he will have to come in for regular screenings and check-ups, but for now we do not need to do anything further. So, we shall continue to concentrate on eradicating the Osteomyelitis, but I think we can safely bring him round this afternoon, considering his strength is growing and any risk of further complications to the area has been repudiated.”
I could kiss him.
And a couple of hours later I paced the small space between the bottom of Brian’s bed and the wall, biting my nails, waiting for the drugs they had given him to reverse the sedative to take effect. A nurse stood patiently in the corner, like a strange modified Greek statue, in a stiff white overall with so many contraptions hanging off it she looked like a kink master. A faint sound was uttered from the machine beside Brian’s bed and she moved over to start checking switches and writing down things on her clipboard. After a minute I saw Brian’s eyelashes flutter, and felt a rush of relief and happiness. I came over to stand beside her, watching his pale face for signs of life. The nurse was engrossed on fulfilling her purpose:
“Can you hear me, Mr. Kinney? You are in hospital. Please blink twice for me if you can hear me.”
I saw the narrow slits of Brian’s beautiful eyes squint against the light, but slowly and surely he blinked twice. The nurse contentedly murmured something I couldn’t hear and smiled at me, stepping aside to let me closer to Brian before bustling out of the room. I suddenly felt nervous. Why the fuck was I nervous? I felt like I was meeting him for the first time again, like I had to make a good impression… But then he looked at me, eyes growing accustomed to the brightness, and I forgot everything else, and felt my face split into a grin.
“Hey.”
He couldn’t turn his head much yet, the drugs were still wearing off, but his mouth twitched into a weak smile of what looked like relief. “Hey.”
It was almost a whisper, but so familiar and wonderful to hear. As I stood there, motionless beside the bed, his eyes swept groggily over my face, taking in the circles under my eyes and when he next spoke, his voice was quiet and rough from lack of use.
“You don’t have to be here.”
My face was serious, and I looked straight at him. “No, I don’t.”
He seemed to understand my meaning, my quiet defiance and reassurance, and his eyes half closed as his head relaxed into the pillow. I tentatively put out my hand and slipped it into his.
“You scared me so fucking much.”
His eyes darted to the ceiling as he recalled what had happened, and his lips drew in, in that adorable and so well-known gesture of his. When he looked back at me, it was with a mixture of apology and tiredness, which quickly turned into faint mischievous amusement:
“So, have I lost the other ball?”
I had to laugh, and the humor lightened the atmosphere as I lovingly shook my head. Then I couldn’t help myself; I bent down to kiss him, wanting to clutch him and grasp him to me, crush his mouth against mine, hold him so tight I would never have to let him go. My lips ever so lightly brushed his, and I felt them opening slightly to let me in and kiss me back, somewhat chapped but pliable and familiar and Brian. His hand come up and found the back of my head; I was surprised at the tenderness of his touch, caressing the shorter hairs above my neck. Everything would be okay. We were okay. Oh please may it be okay. I kissed the corner of his mouth, his rough cheek, down his cheekbone and into his hair, and then we just held each other, surrounded by memories like so many swirling ghosts around us. I felt his warm breath on my skin as he chuckled weakly, his face tucked into the hollow between my shoulder and my neck, my hands holding his upper arms, muscles protesting from holding myself over the bed.
Eventually I pulled back, and Brian’s eyes watched me, bottomless and fatigued, trying to communicate something unfathomable, and then when I smiled at him and stood back from the bed, they closed. I gently brushed the soft hair from his brow, thinking as I did so of all the times I had done the same thing, how well I knew that forehead, with it’s smooth skin and slight traces of creases from when he raised his eyebrows. After so many years of drawing him, watching him, making love to him, I knew his body better than my own. We had learned every inch of each other. No wonder when I went to New York and had tried to forget him, I felt like I had left a part of me behind. Wasn’t there some Persian philosopher once, Rumi, I think it was, who said, "Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along." God knows if that was true… But Jean Toomer also said: "We never know we are beings till we love. And then it is we know the powers and potentialities of human existence." And I agreed with that. Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I looked down at Brian whose breathing had become slow and even. The nurse swept back in and told me that he needed to sleep, that rest would give him the best chance of recovery, so I stood up, stretching and deciding to go and get some food from the canteen. Turning at the door, the flame of relief dancing in my heart, and seeing Brian’s chest steadily rising and falling, his hair dark on the pillow; the words of the poet Philip Larkin came into my head with striking poignancy: "What will survive of us is love."
***
Pittsburgh
JOAN:
Joan Kinney closed her front door with a slow brittle click, her hand trembling slightly and pressed restrainedly to her side. Cautiously drawing back the lace curtain from the glass, she watched as the bright jacket of that Novotny lady disappeared down her manicured garden path and into the street. She swallowed. That it had to come to this, again. That Debbie had to come and break the news that her own son was in hospital fighting for his life, was despicable. She felt a rush of anger at Brian’s stubbornness, his indifference, his coldness towards her, when all she had ever tried to do was be a good mother. Of course she had known that his cancer had returned, even if he had not told her himself. Pittsburgh was a relatively small town after all. And she had tried to visit him, but it had turned into another argument and she had left. It was his own fault anyway; not looking after himself, probably subjecting his body to all kinds of drink and drugs and… goodness knows what else. Joan’s heart clenched into a fist. Was she really obliged to try and care for her son when every effort she had ever made had been rebuked, spurned, kicked in her face?
Catching sight of herself in the wall mirror in the hall, Joan readjusted her tense line of a mouth and turned to go through into the kitchen. She opened the cupboard, to the right of the stove, and got out a glass. Then she picked up the friendly bottle of blood-red sherry, holding both as she sat down at the table and kept her back very straight. She needed a drink. Her son had cancer, and no matter how much she despised what he did, she couldn’t prevent the tendrils of heart-wrenching sorrow and terror from creeping into her chest. But as she poured the deep thick crimson liquid out of the lips of the decanter, she felt chills running up her spine. Brian had been vomiting blood, they said. The glass crashed to the floor as Joan shrank back, a cry of disgust rising in her throat, wringing her hands.
She felt something break inside her, and wondered what it was. And then she found tears welling up in her eyes. Scalding, terrified, unfamiliar tears, aching from lack of use, pulling open her emotions against her will like a tidal wave through floodgates. Her boy. Her little boy who had such pretty eyes as he was growing up. Who had always been so quiet. Who had almost invited her to ignore him, with his quietness. Why had he pushed her away, oh why? Joan stood in the middle of her kitchen staring at the drops of red on the austere white linoleum floor. Then she decided to take Debbie’s unspoken hint, to go and see him, go and visit her son in hospital like the good Christian mother she was. As she gathered her gloves and slipped an unsympathetic scarf around her neck, the thoughts kept playing over and over in her head. She had made it clear to Brian that he disgusted her, engaging in vile acts of lewdness with another man was forbidden in the Bible, and yet he still refused to do the normal thing, still went against the grain. Stupid, willful son of hers. Why anyone would continue to do something so unquestionably sickening was a mystery to her, but now the possibility that she might lose him cut strange and cold through her disappointment in him. No, she was going to the hospital.
With that, Joan swept her eyes over the empty house, the upturned glass lying on the ground leaking sherry, she would clean up later, took her bag from its perch on the hat stand, and walked out through the door, shutting it with a slow brittle click behind her.
***
Allegheny General Hospital
When she arrived at the foreboding glass doors of the reception, Joan almost turned around and went home. Brian wouldn’t want to see her. He never wanted to see her. But then she realized she wasn’t going for him, she was going for herself, to… to what? Joan didn’t know why, but she knew she wanted to fulfill some ancient social convention; as a mother she was obliged to at least go and see her offspring. That’s what she wanted to think, because it blocked out the nagging maternal feeling in her gut. An excuse of propriety was as good an excuse as any. Once inside, she went to the reception, from where she was directed to the ward, and room, Brian was in.
Walking down the corridors, the afternoon light filtering in through half-closed blinds and the smell of sickness making her blanch and turn her face away, Joan wondered whether she had made a mistake; but then she turned a corner and saw Debbie standing in conversation with a doctor, with her son Michael nearby. Joan stood, momentarily nervous, looking at the entrance to Brian’s room. As she watched, a young man came out, smiled at Debbie who absently rubbed his back, and exchanged a few words with the white-coated physician. Joan’s eyes followed him. That was a face she had seen before: the short blonde hair, the intelligent blue eyes, the blossoming smile, it was all nigglingly familiar. And then she saw him nod and head in her direction, his head was down in thought, and she suddenly remembered with a jolt of disappointment and shock where she had seen him. As he raised his head and suddenly saw her, Joan’s mouth was once again in a thin line. The young man stopped in front of her, slightly surprised, his expression wary.
“Hello, Mrs. Kinney.”
Joan looked up at him, trying unsuccessfully to marry the image of this sophisticated individual with the despicable acts in which she knew he had engaged with her son. “Hello.”
“I ..uh.. don’t know If you remember me, Mrs. Kinney, I’m Justin, Justin Taylor…”
“I know who you are. I saw you in the apartment. That was along time ago, wasn’t it? I would have thought you had moved on. Isn’t that what you... people do?”
The man’s eyes registered shock, then hurt, then mature restraint in a series of quick successions, and Joan had a sudden feeling what she had said had not been very nice, but she did not take it back, because she was unaccustomed to taking anything back. But she forced herself to meet his eyes, which grew thoughtful as he struggled for what to say.
“Brian’s through there, Mrs. Kinney. He was asleep when I left, the doctors only just stopped the sedative today. Excuse me.”
And with that, he slipped past her. Joan turned to watch his back as he pushed open the twin doors, joining up with Debbie and heading towards the canteen. He looked so normal. He was a handsome man, and his eyes… Joan shivered as she thought of the sad wisdom in those eyes, and again considered about her comment. She had never had a civilized conversation with a … she was so unused to saying the word… homosexual before, apart from her son of course, although she could hardly call their rare tense exchanges civilized. It was rather a shock to her to see this lover of Brian’s was so… human.
Shaking off the thought, Joan went to the edge of her son’s door and looked in. He was asleep as that Justin had predicted, and he looked… so ill. Joan wanted to look away, because she knew she was in danger of succumbing to the intense frustration that boiled inside her. Why couldn’t have been a good little boy? She fought the urge however, and moved to the base of Brian’s bed, looking down at his pale arm resting on the coverlet. Was this the boy she raised? Suddenly, with an impulsive shrinking sensation, Joan turned and walked out, her courage failing her. Hurrying past the numerous visitors and nurses and wards and cold glass doors out to the main entrance, where she sat down on a visitor’s bench. It was cool and spacious in the lobby and the vague non-committal chatter around her was strangely comforting. Joan wished she had something to drink, but her throat was so tight she felt she would choke. She pursed her lips and remembered the last time she had seen Brian asleep like that…
Screaming. Taunting. Crash. Harsh goading cries followed by dull thudding. She was crying, pulling a skinny arm with a strength spurred on by adrenaline. Yanking Brian’s small scared frame round the other side of the door, hearing Jack’s dull curses through the wood, unfocused in his intoxication. Turning to the shaking little boy next to her. She could feel his heart beating frantically, pounding against his small chest and she walked upstairs, told him to follow. Found the medicine cabinet, switched on the bathroom light. Saw the small boy covered in blood. Gash to his lip, cut on his forehead, scrape on his bruised arm. His eyes followed her silently, purplish rings of swelling growing already. Normally she was quicker than this. Most of the time she could get him into bed before anything happened. Claire was a good girl. She was already asleep. But Brian, Brian was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Restless little boy. Too intelligent for his 6 years. Too quiet for a hurt child. She cleaned his cuts, chiding him for being in the living room this late, and sent him to bed with a quick embrace. She had to get back downstairs and see what Jack had smashed. But later she slipped into his quiet room, watching his still form in the blurry darkness, ignoring the guilt in her chest. Making out the dark shadow of his hair on the pillow, the slight smudges where his cuts had bled under their plasters, the clean trails where his tears had found their way down his cheeks. Then she turned and went to bed.
The ticking of the clock cut through Joan’s thoughts. Glancing up at it she saw she had been sitting on the hard plastic bench a long time. Pulling her scarf closed around her throat, Joan moved away and out the door. Brian wouldn’t appreciate her being here. When had he ever appreciated her presence? But as she passed the reception she heard her name called out, and, looking up, found Debbie coming towards her. Just what she needed. Some lunatic new-age woman with silver gray hair covered in colored grips and a ghastly floral top, who thought she knew Brian better than his own mother. But she waited resignedly as Debbie put a hand on her arm, making her flinch a little at the contact, and spoke quietly in a rich motherly voice.
“He doesn’t hate you, you know.”
Joan felt herself flush. “I know, thank you Debbie. It has just… never been easy between us. I don’t want…”
“Bullshit.” Mrs. Novoty’s eyes were slightly amused as she watched Joan’s shocked expression. Then she became serious. “Joan. A mother has a bond with her children. And even if that has been messed up, even if there are years of arguments and resentment under the bridge, there’s always a chance to start again. It’s a family’s god-given right.”
Joan stared at her, overpowered by the other lady’s strong musky perfume which wafted around them and seemed to burrow up her nose and into her eyes. Debbie watched her for a moment before smiling. “Go and see your son, Mrs. Kinney, ...Joan. Don’t throw away something you will live to regret.”
With that she stepped back, and Joan felt a slight freedom come into her heart. Strange and immoderate as that Novotny lady may be, she did say some thought-provoking things. Glancing at the gathering dark outside, Joan managed a weak smile at Debbie, and then she slowly headed back towards Brian’s room as if pulled by a string. Not quite believing that that madwoman had managed to get her to go back, she re-traced her steps through he emptying corridors. She would probably embarrass herself by being repudiated by Brian, by becoming angry at his fickle disregard for god or society’s laws…
She reached the room before she knew it, and shrank back in the hall, peering through the small glass window in the door. The sight that met her eyes both physically jolted her heart and sent a spasm of pain through her arms.
Brian was asleep, lying much the same as she had left him, his face bloodless and his body thin under the blankets, but his hand was resting idly in the short hair of the young man she had seen earlier, Justin, his name was. The blonde was also asleep, in a chair beside her son’s bed, his head resting on his arms on the covers. The whole image struck her as so … loving. It took her breath away for a moment. The quiet affection and warmth which emanated from the bed shot into the depths of her soul and for the first time she looked, really looked, finding her disgust slipping away despite itself and the tears welling in her eyes. Never had she thought a gay relationship could be like this. She watched as Justin’s back rose and fell with his slumbering breaths, Brian’s hand tenderly in his hair, his body close as possible to his partner’s in the bed.
Joan heard a sigh beside her, and found Debbie standing there, gold sparkly bag clutched in her hand. “It’s touching to see, ain’t it?” She said, her eyes fixed on the scene in the hospital room.
Joan nodded, her mouth quivering, and Debbie continued in a hushed voice.
“Justin has hardly left his side, y’know. Been here every night, even when he was unconscious. But then again, he always was a determined little fucker. ...oh excuse my language Joan. I can call you Joan can’t I?”
But Joan was looking at gentle companionship in front of her and wishing some heterosexual relationships would have this level of unmistakable loyalty. What angered and shocked her the most was that she was not feeling repulsed by seeing two men in love. It just felt so …right, and Joan was very scared by what she was feeling, what she was realizing, what she was questioning. It made her furious. It made her want to weep. It made her stay and gaze at Brian and Justin’s quiet forms for a long moment before she took her leave of Debbie and quietly left the hospital.
~ END ~
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