ride a bike? (He does.) Could I teach him to play baseball? (Yes, but not well.) Would he be happy? Could we?
We’d thought if our marriage could survive a disabled child, it could survive anything.
We were wrong. When it ended, it had nothing to do with Paul.
As I listened to my son chatter, some of the tension in my neck and shoulders seeped away. Thirty minutes after I flipped the phone closed and pulled onto the Interstate, I walked into our living room to find Jay draping silver strands on an artificial tree so tall the angel on top brushed the ceiling. His back was to me, and the droop of his shoulders said he was giving the tree such careful attention to take his mind off his problems.
I waved one arm in an arc that swept from the tree in one corner to the sterile hospital bed in the center of the room. One leather armchair had been pulled against the wall; the other squatted beside the bed. “Did you do all this yourself?”
He turned, a strand of icicle dangling from his fingers. “I put up the tree. The guys who delivered the bed helped with the rest.”
I didn’t ask about Eric, and Jay didn’t mention him. Instead, we made small talk over dinner, then bundled up and drove across town to bring home the scum-sucking bastard who had given Jay AIDS.
Fabulous Greg, who’d taken Dylan in for the short term but didn’t deal well with suffering, was tall and lean, with rugged, Marlboro Man features and narrow, bloodshot eyes. He met us halfway down the front sidewalk, a cigarette tucked between his fingers, Greta Garbo-style.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said. He ground the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and curled the butt into his palm. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to help him—”
“It’s okay,” Jay said. “We’ve got it.”
Greg gestured toward a pair of oversized suitcases. “His meds are in the front zipper pocket, along with an instruction sheet. You know, how many of what and when.”
I carried the suitcases out to the car and stowed them in the trunk. Then Greg led us down a Georgia O’Keeffe hallway and into a bedroom with starched white sheets and ivory walls accented by Andrew Wyeth prints in wooden frames.
I’d seen pictures of Dylan. Tanned. Bleached blond. Manufactured James Dean expression. The hollow-cheeked man who lifted his head from the pillow when we walked in bore little resemblance to those photographs.
Jay’s expression was neutral, but his eyes gave him away. I didn’t need words to know that he was seeing his own future in Dylan’s ravaged face.
“So, you’re Jay’s latest,” Dylan rasped. His voice was weak, but he still managed to make it sound smug. His thinning hair had reclaimed its natural shade of brown, and his smooth-shaven face was mottled with purple Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. One ear was crusted with scabs.
“He’s not my latest,” Jay said, before I could answer. “He’s just a friend. A straight friend, at that. So be nice.”
Dylan’s laugh dissolved into a long, racking cough that made his eyes water. When he’d recovered, he asked, “When have I not been nice?”
Jay shook his head, a pained expression on his face, as if the question had rendered him speechless. I could have said enough for both of us, but it wasn’t my question to answer.
Dylan met my gaze, and his smile faded. “No, really, Jay. Thanks for coming.”
Jay leaned down and placed a dry kiss on Dylan’s lips. He smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the Appalachian quilt pulled up to Dylan’s neck, then paused and picked up a painted plastic model of Bela Lugosi as Dracula from the table beside Dylan’s bed.
“You still have this,” he said. He turned to me and said, “I made this for him. Before we split up.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Dylan said. “I happen to like Dracula.”
Jay looked down at his shoes.
“Don’t be a dick,” I said to Dylan, and he stretched his mouth into something that resembled a grin.
“Don’t get
We’d thought if our marriage could survive a disabled child, it could survive anything.
We were wrong. When it ended, it had nothing to do with Paul.
As I listened to my son chatter, some of the tension in my neck and shoulders seeped away. Thirty minutes after I flipped the phone closed and pulled onto the Interstate, I walked into our living room to find Jay draping silver strands on an artificial tree so tall the angel on top brushed the ceiling. His back was to me, and the droop of his shoulders said he was giving the tree such careful attention to take his mind off his problems.
I waved one arm in an arc that swept from the tree in one corner to the sterile hospital bed in the center of the room. One leather armchair had been pulled against the wall; the other squatted beside the bed. “Did you do all this yourself?”
He turned, a strand of icicle dangling from his fingers. “I put up the tree. The guys who delivered the bed helped with the rest.”
I didn’t ask about Eric, and Jay didn’t mention him. Instead, we made small talk over dinner, then bundled up and drove across town to bring home the scum-sucking bastard who had given Jay AIDS.
Fabulous Greg, who’d taken Dylan in for the short term but didn’t deal well with suffering, was tall and lean, with rugged, Marlboro Man features and narrow, bloodshot eyes. He met us halfway down the front sidewalk, a cigarette tucked between his fingers, Greta Garbo-style.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said. He ground the cigarette out on the heel of his shoe and curled the butt into his palm. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to help him—”
“It’s okay,” Jay said. “We’ve got it.”
Greg gestured toward a pair of oversized suitcases. “His meds are in the front zipper pocket, along with an instruction sheet. You know, how many of what and when.”
I carried the suitcases out to the car and stowed them in the trunk. Then Greg led us down a Georgia O’Keeffe hallway and into a bedroom with starched white sheets and ivory walls accented by Andrew Wyeth prints in wooden frames.
I’d seen pictures of Dylan. Tanned. Bleached blond. Manufactured James Dean expression. The hollow-cheeked man who lifted his head from the pillow when we walked in bore little resemblance to those photographs.
Jay’s expression was neutral, but his eyes gave him away. I didn’t need words to know that he was seeing his own future in Dylan’s ravaged face.
“So, you’re Jay’s latest,” Dylan rasped. His voice was weak, but he still managed to make it sound smug. His thinning hair had reclaimed its natural shade of brown, and his smooth-shaven face was mottled with purple Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions. One ear was crusted with scabs.
“He’s not my latest,” Jay said, before I could answer. “He’s just a friend. A straight friend, at that. So be nice.”
Dylan’s laugh dissolved into a long, racking cough that made his eyes water. When he’d recovered, he asked, “When have I not been nice?”
Jay shook his head, a pained expression on his face, as if the question had rendered him speechless. I could have said enough for both of us, but it wasn’t my question to answer.
Dylan met my gaze, and his smile faded. “No, really, Jay. Thanks for coming.”
Jay leaned down and placed a dry kiss on Dylan’s lips. He smoothed an invisible wrinkle from the Appalachian quilt pulled up to Dylan’s neck, then paused and picked up a painted plastic model of Bela Lugosi as Dracula from the table beside Dylan’s bed.
“You still have this,” he said. He turned to me and said, “I made this for him. Before we split up.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Dylan said. “I happen to like Dracula.”
Jay looked down at his shoes.
“Don’t be a dick,” I said to Dylan, and he stretched his mouth into something that resembled a grin.
“Don’t get
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