Authors: Chris Scully
look I can’t decipher. “I am truly sorry.” Strangely, I wonder if he’s apologizing to me or to Joe. But
Joe is unforgiving. After a minute of awkward silence, Hank Wheeler nods in acceptance and turns to
go. “Merry Christmas,” he says in parting.
“When
is
Christmas?” I ask, wondering if I had the foresight to do my shopping early.
“Two more days,” answers Joe with an edge still to his voice. “There’s no snow yet, though.
They’re calling for a green one.”
We take the elevator down to the lobby in silence, and Joe wheels me to the exit, past the
Information Desk and its cluster of festive Poinsettia plants. It’s a sunny day, but cold. When the
doors whoosh open, a blast of icy air hits me in the face, and Joe pulls the fake-fur trimmed hood up
over my head. Fortunately, he’s parked at the curb so we don’t have far to go.
It’s an awkward dance, getting me out of the wheelchair and into the car. Joe tries to be gentle,
but with his arm around my waist, he accidentally brushes my ribs, and I yelp in pain. He apologizes
about a hundred times before I finally grit my teeth and curse. “Shut up, already,” I tell him. “It’s
fine.” Once I’m in the passenger seat, Joe fastens the seatbelt around my waist, making sure it passes
under my arm and doesn’t press against my bruised chest. He gently closes the door.
The sun is so bright I have to keep my eyes shut. Even so, tears are trickling out and running
down my cheeks. Joe’s big hand squeezes my shoulder. “Doing okay?” I feel him lean over me, then a
pair of sunglasses slide onto my nose. The blinding light dims and I can safely open my eyes a bit. I’m
so grateful I want to cry.
Again
. I must have the best boyfriend in the world.
Joe turns on the heat full blast, and the car quickly warms enough for him to remove his gloves.
“Were you there?” I ask after we’ve driven a while. I’m watching Joe’s hands on the steering wheel
as he drives and notice his knuckles turn white as he grips tighter. “You had blood on you. I assumed
it was mine.”
For the longest time Joe doesn’t respond. When he does, his voice wavers a little, but he keeps
his eyes on the road. “It happened just outside our apartment. I saw you get hit, but I was too far away
to do anything.”
His anguish tears at my heart. Until now, I’ve only been focussed on myself and given no
consideration to how this must be for him. I move my hand to his thigh and give a gentle squeeze of
reassurance. Joe turns his head in surprise, and I briefly wonder if I’ve done something wrong. But I
don’t remove my hand. It feels nice to just be connected.
Something’s been nagging at me for a while now so I decide to bring it up. “You’re the only one
who came to see me in the hospital. Don’t I have any friends or family?”
“My folks really wanted to see you, but I told them to wait until you’re feeling better. Trust me,
that bunch of crazy Italians is the last thing you need right now.” The corners of his mouth turn up in
amusement.
“What about my parents?”
There is a short silence, and I can guess what he’s about to say is not good. “Your mother died
about the time we started high school… from breast cancer. You were never that close to your dad,
but he pretty much disowned you when we started living together. I think he moved back East a few
years ago.”
“Oh.” Not much else to say really. I have no one but Joe. I think I fall asleep after that because
the next thing I know, we’re in an underground parking garage and Joe is urging me to wake up. Our
dance happens all over again, only this time in reverse and without the cursing. By the time we shuffle
into a rattly old elevator that smells like curry, I am exhausted and have to lean against him for
support. Although we are almost the same height, Joe is much heavier set, with a thick chest and
broad shoulders. His solidness is reassuring.
We step out on the tenth floor and slowly walk to the end of the hall. The short distance seems to
take an eternity to cover. When he unlocks the door and swings it open, I take a tentative step inside
and stop, hoping that something will seem familiar, but it doesn’t. All I see is a small, generic
apartment that could belong to anyone. I stand there helpless, propped against the wall as Joe
removes my coat and boots. Directly in front of me is a narrow kitchen that’s seen better days, to the
left is the living room, and to the right, a hallway—leading to the bedroom and bathroom I’m guessing
as Joe steers me in that direction.
“Your bedroom is the second door.”
I stumble in confusion. “We don’t sleep together?”
Joe looks at me, his expression difficult to read. “We’re not lovers, Adam.”
“But at the hospital they said you were my boyfriend.”
A blush creeps over Joe’s cheeks. “I just said that so they would let me stay.”
“Oh.” Why does that make me feel so disappointed? “So… we’re not gay?”
Another hesitation. “I am. You’re not.”
“Oh.” Again, that doesn’t feel exactly right. It’s like an itch in my brain that I can’t scratch. I
struggle to remember, but there is nothing but more of that black void.
I follow Joe into the bedroom he says is mine. The beige walls are bare and bleak, broken by a
single small window hung with yellowing miniblinds. Beneath the window is a rumpled double bed.
Over a desk in the corner, two wall-mounted shelves hold an assortment of photos and books. Picking
up a framed photo of two boys in soccer uniforms, their arms around each other mugging for the
camera, I’m not surprised to recognize myself and a much younger, scrawnier Joe. We couldn’t have
been more than thirteen at the time.
“We’ve been together a long time,” I observe.
“I guess it’s been nearly eighteen years. Best buds since elementary school. Do you want to lie
down? They said you would probably sleep a lot.”
“Yeah.”
Joe pulls back the sheets and I carefully climb in, fully clothed in the sweats he had brought me.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. When he returns a few minutes later, he is carrying something wrapped
in a bright yellow towel.
“What’s that?”
Joe reveals a bag of frozen vegetables. “We’re supposed to ice your ribs every few hours.”
“With frozen peas?”
“We’ve got carrots if you prefer.”
A snort of laughter escapes me, only to end in a grunt of pain as I clutch my ribs in agony. “Oh
fuck, don’t make me laugh.”
“No worries, I’m not really a funny guy. You’re the comedian.” Joe rearranges the pillows,
propping me up a bit so I’m comfortable, or at least as comfortable as I can be right now, and then
lays the makeshift icepack across my chest. The cold makes me hiss in reaction. “Sorry,” he says in
sympathy.
I notice how tired he looks. “You need to sleep, too.”
“I’ll sleep when you’re better.”
“That could be a while.”
A small smile passes his lips. “I’ll take my chances.” Joe hovers by the bed, like he’s not sure
what to do now. He’s in no hurry to leave, which works out great because I’m not ready to be alone.
“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” I ask.
“If you want.” The mattress dips as Joe slides next to me on top of the covers, close but not
touching.
“Tell me something?”
“What?”
“Anything. I just hate this emptiness. Tell me how we met.”
Joe laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard the sound, and I like it. “You rescued me on the
playground in fifth grade. I was being tortured by my sister and her gang of friends.”
“Really? You don’t look like you need rescuing.”
“Are you kidding? I was a runt until I hit puberty. All my sisters picked on me. Cecilia—she’s
the oldest—used to push me off the climbing bars just so she could make me cry, and then play mother
and comfort me. Tell me that’s not messed up. Hmmm, it explains a lot actually.”
He’s teasing—the warmth in his tone tells me that—and I have to smile at the image his story
conjures up. I wish I could remember it. I fall asleep listening to the sound of Joe’s deep voice, but
my rest is fitful; I keep waking up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding and a memory hovering just
out of reach only to have it vaporize as soon as I open my eyes. But each time Joe is there, rubbing my
back, easing my pain with another ice pack or stroking my hair until I relax enough to fall back asleep.
I don’t know what I’d do without him.
I KNOW Joe is gone before I even open my eyes. I’m so used to him being there that his absence is
almost tangible, and the room feels strangely cold and empty without him. The bare blinds are closed
tight over the window, leaving the room in a half-light that could be morning or evening. The red
numerals on the alarm clock beside the bed are blurry, but when my eyes finally focus I read 11:15
a.m. I’ve slept almost twenty-four hours—no wonder my bladder is urging me to get up.
Without help, getting out of bed is awkward and painful, and I end up half rolling, half flopping
to the edge of the mattress and push myself up into a sitting position. Even though my memory is gone,
I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt this level of pain before. There is not a part of my body that doesn’t
hurt. Just breathing is excruciating. Taking two pills from the bottle on the nightstand, I wash them
down with the glass of cool water thoughtfully left within reach.
Once the pounding in my head has quieted, I stand on shaky legs and, like an old man, shuffle out
into the hallway. After a stop in the bathroom—I don’t even turn the light on but stand there peeing in
the dark with the door half open and one hand braced on the vanity in case my legs give out—I risk
venturing further. It takes forever just to reach the entryway and, once there, I have to rest a minute,
leaning up against the wall, until I can catch my breath again. Muffled voices are coming from the
kitchen so I head in that direction.
“It’s my fault, Ma.” I recognize Joe’s voice and pause. His back is to me, but he sounds all gruff
and nasally, as though he is crying. “He almost died and it’s all my fault.” Through the kitchen
doorway I see a small, dark haired woman take him in her arms. She murmurs something I can’t make
out and Joe, my rock, who towers over her by a good foot, buries his face against her neck. They
haven’t noticed me yet, and I feel a bit guilty for watching what is obviously a private moment, but at
the same time, curiosity keeps me riveted to the spot. How could Joe possibly be to blame for my
accident?
The woman looks up and notices me standing there. “Adam?” Joe’s mother has a touch of grey in
her hair and kind brown eyes like her son. She holds out her arms as she comes toward me. “Adam,
caro mio
. Oh, my poor boy.” She wraps me in a hug strong enough to make me wince, but my eyes are
on Joe over the top of her head, wiping his face with the sleeve of his sweater. “I’ve made
minestrone. I know it’s your favorite.”
“That’s Mom’s Miracle Minestrone,” Joe explains with a watery smile. “You know how some
people swear by chicken soup to cure colds? With Mom it’s minestrone.”
Joe’s mom grips my chin between her fingers as if I were a child. “You are so thin. He’s too
thin,” she scolds Joe over her shoulder like it’s his fault.
Joe rolls his eyes. “Ma, he’s the same size he was when we came for dinner last weekend.”
“You will eat soup,” she orders me. “It will make you feel better.”
“He’ll have the soup later, Ma. Right now he’s going to have breakfast. I’m making pancakes.”
My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday in the
hospital. Joe snorts. “The stomach remembers at least. Come and sit down.” With a hand at my back,
he leads me to the small kitchen table and helps me get seated. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” At Joe’s stricken look, I immediately feel guilty. “Sorry, too soon to
joke I guess.”
“You think?”
Joe darts back and forth between the fridge, the stove, and the table. He obviously doesn’t want
to talk about the scene I just witnessed, so I let it rest and watch him work instead. He seems very
comfortable in the kitchen. In a few minutes, he places a plate of perfectly round chocolate pancakes
in front of me, and my mouth starts to water. A bottle of raspberry syrup gets plunked down next to it.
“You’ve made this before,” I comment, earning me a half smile from Joe. I’m absurdly pleased to
have erased the sadness from his eyes.
“You always ask for this when you’re sick. Personally I think it’s a gross combination.” He pulls
out a chair and sits down next to me. “Can you manage?”
“I’m not a baby. I think I can eat by myself,” I retort, but when I pick up the fork and knife, they
seem awfully heavy, and just holding them tightens the band of pain across my chest. Without a word
Joe takes them from my weak fingers and cuts the pancakes into manageable bite-sized pieces. He
pours on a liberal amount of syrup. Under any other circumstances I would have been embarrassed,