Sensing Light (28 page)

XII

A
S
H
ERB GOT OUT
of his car, he saw Cecilia's silhouette pass across an upstairs window. He noticed her car wasn't in the driveway or on the street. He went inside and paused in the front hall. The only noise was the whoosh of sheets dropping down the laundry chute to the basement.

“Where's Martin?” he called out.

“Piano lesson. He took my car.”

No one has to pick him up, thought Herb.

“Cecilia, if we got a car for Martin, neither of us would have to be a chauffeur again.”

They hadn't discussed this since Martin got his driver's license. Cecilia had been opposed in principle then to any teenager having his own car. But now, when one of their cars was available, Martin always drove himself places and reliably returned it. Perhaps she was ready to revisit the idea.

“Cecilia?” he shouted.

Hearing no reply, Herb went upstairs. Their bedroom and bathroom were empty. In Martin's room, he found Cecilia kneeling on the floor, motionless except for her twitching hands which held a dog-eared, glossy magazine. The color had drained from her face.

“Oh, my God! Herb!” she wailed, showing him the crumpled magazine.

It had no titles or text, just photos. Nude men flexing their muscles and coupling in various positions. Close-ups of penises thrust into mouths and anuses.

Disoriented, Herb knelt next to her. It had never occurred to him that Martin might be gay. He wanted to reassure Cecilia but couldn't think of anything to say—anything that didn't include a terrifying acronym.

She looked at him, imploring wordlessly.

“I'll…I'll talk to him,” he stammered.

Cecilia and Martin ate a late dinner in silence. Herb sat with them, reading the newspaper. The lack of conversation didn't seem to bother Martin. Cecilia pushed food around her plate, then said she had to call her sister and left the table.

“Martin,” Herb said, “we need to talk.”

“Why?”

“I'm not angry. We just need to talk. OK?”

Martin grudgingly followed his father into the living room. Herb sat on a love seat. Martin remained standing.

“Please, Martin, sit down. This will take more than a minute.”

Martin sat on the edge of a stuffed chair.

“We need to have a matter-of-fact discussion about sex.”

Martin rolled his eyes and whined, “Again? Dad, we've been through that before.”

Herb was at a loss for how to begin.

“And I've had it in school up to here,” said Martin, sticking a finger into his throat.

As Herb pondered over what to say next, Martin rose and backed away. Reluctantly, Herb pulled the magazine out of his jacket pocket.

“We need to talk about this.”

Martin flushed. He stared at the carpet.

“You searched my room?”

“No! Mom found it by accident while she was changing your bed.”

Martin refused to make eye contact. Herb saw shame and defiance battling across his son's face.

“Martin,” Herb said, his voice cracking. “Mom and I love you. We want to protect you. It's totally fine with us if you're gay or bisexual. You know we have friends who are gay, who we respect a lot. We're scared because if you're not careful, if you got infected with the AIDS virus…so many young men have died already. Magazines are not the issue. We want to be sure you know how to be safe, that you'll be careful.”

Martin looked up and saw Herb shaking.

“Jesus, Dad! Get a grip!”

“I will if you'll talk to me.”

“This is humiliating. We do
not
need to have this conversation. I know about AIDS and the blood test. I'm not an idiot!”

Full of regret, Herb put a hand to his forehead.

“Look, Dad, I am being careful. All right? We're not going into details. End of discussion.”

Martin stomped out of the room.

Herb didn't fall asleep until four in the morning. At seven, he was in the kitchen, half-heartedly trying to make a double cappuccino with the espresso machine Cecilia had bought him for his birthday. He couldn't stay focused long enough to follow the instructions and kept having to start over. Martin padded in barefoot. Ignoring Herb, he went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of orange juice. He stood at the sink, facing away from his father, pouring juice into a glass. Herb set down the metal pieces he hadn't been able to fit together.

“Martin, can we finish talking?”

“Dad, let it go. You need to trust me.”

Herb was in check. A stalemate might be the best he could salvage.

“I want to trust you. And I meant what I said yesterday. This doesn't change how I feel about you, not by an iota.”

“If that's really true, promise not to bring this up again. OK?”

Herb couldn't think of a counterargument and conceded. He shut the steam valve, abandoned his cappuccino, and went upstairs. Cecilia was dressing for work. He slumped onto the bed and told her what Martin had said.

He began to apologize. Cecilia held a finger to his lips.

“My turn,” she said.

Herb followed her downstairs and stopped outside in the dining room to listen.

“Martin,” she said calmly, “I'm going to trust you to be safe.”

“Good, Mom.”

“Will you trust me enough to give me honest answers when I have questions? That's fair, isn't it?”

“No, Mom, that's not fair. I don't ask questions about your sex life, do I? What's fair is that you respect my privacy like I respect yours.”

Herb waited, but Cecilia had no reply. He trudged back upstairs. The mother's gambit, he thought, played perfectly and still a stalemate.

XIII

M
ORNING SUNLIGHT CREPT DOWN
the bedroom wall, crossed the floor, and reached Marco's face. The heat on his left cheek woke him. He turned his head away from the light and tried to roll over. Nothing happened. On his second attempt, Marco realized his right arm and leg were missing.

“Kevin!” he tried to scream, making a barely audible sound.

He clenched and unclenched his left fist, confirming some part of his body still existed. Terrified of what he might find, Marco inched his hand across his chest. Once it passed the mid-line, that hand disappeared too, only to reappear when he pulled it back in horror.

“Kevin!” he shrieked repeatedly, making muffled whimpers.

Half asleep on the living room couch, Kevin heard gurgling noises. He ran into the bedroom. Marco's eyes were open, his mouth twisted. He was mumbling incomprehensibly. Torn between the reprieve of having Marco back and the pain of seeing his anguish, Kevin wept.

Marco had never seen Kevin cry. This final proof of love soothed him. It made everything clear. Marco accepted the missing side of his body. He was ready to leave the rest of it now and closed his eyes.

At dusk, Kevin awoke from a dreamless nap. The window shades were outlined by a chrome yellow glow. It must be five o'clock already, he thought. He sat up and suddenly felt trapped in a spinning teacup carnival ride. Afraid of falling, he didn't move. Nausea rose and crested. Kevin forced himself not to vomit. As soon as the impulse to heave subsided, he looked around the room. The floor, walls, and ceiling were fixed in space, but the swirling sensation persisted. Baffled by why he would be having an attack of vertigo, he noticed the fingertips of his right hand were tingling—the same fingers that had just brushed against Marco when he sat up. Then he understood.

Closing his eyes tightly, Kevin touched Marco. Living flesh was warm, elastic, yielding to the least pressure. Marco's skin was cool and stiff. Another wave of nausea mounted. He rushed to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet.

After the coroner left, Kevin remembered something Gwen had told him when her mother died, how the death of a parent removes the last blindfold keeping us from seeing our own mortality. Kevin hadn't experienced that when his father died. He did now.

At his desk, he found a pen and a clean sheet of paper. He made a list—people to call, funeral arrangements, an obituary to write. He reached into a file drawer for three folders, back-burner projects he had hoped to initiate one day.

“No more waiting,” he said aloud.

Green Hills, 1988

I

G
WEN HADN'T SEEN
K
EVIN
for two months, not since he left to be a subject in a trial at NIH. Though he had sounded upbeat and energetic on the phone, confident the new medication was working, she needed to lay eyes on him to be convinced. Today would be her chance. He was flying back to San Francisco.

A year earlier, Kevin's T cells had dropped below 200. He started AZT, and his T cells rose. Despite the drug-induced anemia, which made exercise impossible, he could work. But the treatment's immune boosting effect was transient. Six months later, his T cells were below 200 again, putting him at risk for lethal complications of AIDS. He sank into bitterness then resignation as hollows formed in his temples and thighs. Simply getting dressed and driving to the hospital exhausted him. Gwen had to take over running the program. Kevin continued to come to the office, though he rarely did more than gaze across the bay at the Marin peninsula. Then a phone call had come from NIH. A newly synthesized medication with potent activity against HIV in cell culture had passed animal safety tests. It was ready to be tried in humans.

Gwen finished clinic early and drove to the airport. While waiting at the gate, she saw a middle-aged man looking in her direction. He cocked his head with an impish grin. Gwen assumed she was blocking his view of someone else and stepped aside. Then it registered. The gaunt, depressed face she had said goodbye to two months ago had filled out. He must have gained twenty pounds, she thought. Reading her mind, Kevin patted his new paunch to prove it.

Gwen embraced him. She gingerly touched his plump cheek.

“Go ahead,” Kevin laughed. “Pinch and ye shall believe.”

“DDI did this?”

“No,” he snorted. “It was high colonic enemas. Of course it was DDI. My T cells are 300 and rising.”

Pointing to his daypack, he crowed, “I've got a three month supply of pills and they'll send me refills as long as I send them back lab results.”

Gwen realized Kevin's weight gain wasn't the reason she had failed to recognize him. It was his merry exuberance. How long had it been since she had seen him this happy? Life for Kevin had been constant worry about others, beginning with her needle-stick, then crisis after crisis at work, then Marco. And just as he was moving beyond that grief, his own health had deteriorated. Seven years, she counted, since she had seen him being carefree. Slipping her arm inside Kevin's, Gwen steered him toward the baggage claim area. She resolved to stop discrediting her senses. This man truly was Kevin reborn.

“Did Katherine and your mother get to visit you?”

“They took the train down to Washington last week, and they're flying out here in August.”

“They OK?”

She still felt strange and was aware that all she had done so far was to interrogate him.

“They're fine. You know what's amazing? After a lifetime without affection, they're everything to me now.”

Gwen pretended to pout.

“After you, I mean. So how does Eva like Boston?”

“Eva's home! On spring break.”

“And?”

“She is such a pleasure to be with. Who would have guessed?”

“Not me. Remember when I told you to cut your losses, that she'd always hate you.”

Gwen punched him in the shoulder.

On their way to City Hospital, Kevin asked about Rick. She shifted the topic to work, updating him on their current space shortage and who was
fighting with whom. She wasn't complaining. Kevin saw no sign the responsibility was overburdening her. Yet his concerns weren't allayed. What about her visibility? Was that taking a toll? When Marco was sick, jealousy over the media attention he was receiving had been the least of their problems. But how did Rick feel seeing her picture in the newspaper and watching her on television? Was Rick secure enough to be proud of her, not resentful of all the evenings and weekends she was away or how distracted she must be when she was at home? Kevin wondered if anyone he knew could be that selfless.

Wine, cheese, and fifty people were waiting for him in a hospital conference room. Kevin didn't suspect the surprise party, even after walking through the empty corridor to his office and being pulled away by Gwen who said there was something on the wards she had to show him.

Kevin wasn't embarrassed when the crowd shouted his name. He knew how much better he looked than the last time they saw him. He enjoyed their applause.

After toasts to his return, Kevin made an announcement no one had anticipated. The grant he submitted six months earlier had been approved. Their program was going to be the recipient of a two million dollar award. The room hushed. Kevin explained that while NIH had a lock for now on testing the most promising new antiretroviral drugs, this funding would support Phase 1 trials of agents that were a longer shot for success. They clapped when he said more research staff would be hired. They hooted “Yes!” when told Ray Hernandez had committed to giving them additional space on the floor above the clinic.

As the party was ending, Kevin whispered to Herb, “Let's talk.”

Once they were alone, he wanted to hear about Martin.

“He seems OK, but I don't really know,” said Herb glumly. “He's always guarded with us. Cecilia and I botched this badly. He'll never trust us again.”

“Herb, that can't be true. He must realize by now that your only concern is his safety. This has got to be more about his need for privacy and having control of his own life than coming out.”

“I hope you're right. So, what was it like being a patient at NIH?”

“Those people are great. You must have loved working there.”

“I did. It was the most productive time of my life.”

“You think? You sure haven't been sitting on your hands here for the last twenty years.”

“Well, since the boy wonder came to City Hospital, his publication rate certainly has plummeted.”

“You're right,'” said Kevin, escalating the sarcasm, “You're worthless if you can't get at least six senior-authored papers a year in press.”

“Touché,” Herb said with a droll smile. “But the truth is you've already achieved far more than I have or ever will.”

It was awkward enough to have surpassed your mentor, let alone have him be the one to point it out to you. Yet there was pride in what Herb had said, and not a whiff of envy. Kevin hugged him. Herb didn't shrink back.