I find the constant, underlying chorus of beeping machines to be somewhat soothing. They’re like a pulse for the hospital. An audible reassurance that the building is alive. But maybe I feel that way because nothing in my room makes any consistent noise. That the sounds are somewhat removed from me creates a separation—I might be in another world tethered to this one by a single, repetitive note.
Brian and Milo stand beside Doctor Allende, asking her questions that seem so common sense but which I know I never would’ve thought to ask. So far, she’s been nothing but enthusiastic today, and this conversation is no exception. I like that she smiles with her whole face, especially her eyes.
When she sees me watching, she approaches the bed.
“We are going to keep you overnight,” she says, one hand holding a clipboard against her hip and the other gesturing with a pen.
“Is it because you think I might hurt myself?”
“Goodness, no!” she says. “Why? Are you feeling the urge to self-harm?”
I shake my head. “No. And I don’t think I ever really have.”
“Okay.” She nods and takes a note. “If you’re feeling at all like you—”
“Really, I’m not going to hurt myself,” I say. “It was a stupid question.”
“We want to monitor your response to the medication,” she says. “The effects can be vastly different for each patient at the start, but the first twenty-four hours will give us a good idea whether we’re on the right track.”
“Will the attacks stop?” I ask. It’s really the only part of this that matters to me.
“They should,” Doctor Allende says. Then she adopts a more serious demeanor, all traces of her smile gone in an instant. “I want you to know that I’m here to help you, Felix, but there’s something I need you to understand. There is no cure for Lacrimosus, only treatments. And those treatments will have to change over time as your condition evolves. If all goes well, we’ll see that your condition clears up and you’ll be better than ever soon. But there’s also the possibility that you might struggle with this for the rest of your life. You’ll go through periods where the medication works wonders, and sometimes the attacks might return.
“Whenever that happens, I ask that you remain open to treatment. That you’ll let me know so we can adjust to whatever works best for you and your mental state. Some people turn away from treatment when it’s a been a while since their last bad spell—or if they don’t think the treatment is working and they get discouraged. The idea of a battle without a definitive end can be daunting. But please remember that there are always people who want to help you.”
She looks from me to Brian and then to Milo, her smile returning. “It looks like you have some great family members to back you up already.”
Just then, a harried woman comes shuffling in from the hallway. All heads turn as Aunt Evora enters, her Louis Vuitton bag swinging from her shoulder. She looks utterly windswept and unkempt, her hair disheveled as if she’s just power walked through a fucking hurricane. Wiping her bangs out of her eyes, Evora looks around at everyone before settling on the woman beside me.
“You’re the doctor?” she asks.
“Yes, Mayra Allende.”
“Oh! My niece used to work with Yesenia Allende. Do you know her?”
I roll my eyes. When it comes to doctors and nurses, Aunt Evora’s first instinct is to establish a connection. She says they treat you better that way.
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe your cousin?”
Doctor Allende laughs. Luckily, she’s good-natured. “Not that I know of.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.” Evora whips out a handkerchief from her purse and starts blowing her nose. Everyone but the coma patients hears it. “I thought maybe you knew her. Sorry I’m so late, I didn’t get my messages until this morning. I thought I lost my phone.”
“That’s alright,” Doctor Allende says. “Are you Felix’s mother?”
“Auntie.” She stuffs the cloth away and straightens her blouse and jacket.
“Will your parents or other immediate family be joining us?” the doctor asks, turning to look at me.
“You can talk to me,” Aunt Evora says without missing a beat.
Doctor Allende continues to look me in the eye, but when I don’t add anything, she nods.
“Has anyone talked to you yet about the situation?” she asks Evora.
“Milo left me a message informing me of his diagnosis.” Hearing Aunt Evora say Milo’s name feels strange. Even stranger still is that she does so without any hint of negativity to her inflection. I look to Milo, but he’s busy watching the two women converse.
“Okay, well I just went over the information with Felix, Brian, and Milo. If you have any further questions, I should be back one more time this evening. Otherwise, Felix, you can send me an email through the patient portal. And if there’s anything urgent, the nurses in this wing are amazing.” Doctor Allende smiles one last time and nods farewell to all of us before leaving. When she’s gone, Evora immediately turns to me.
“Look at you,” she says, coming over to straighten the sheets. “You’re all covered in bruises.”
“Auntie, I’m fine,” I say, wishing she wouldn’t hover.
“He has stitches on his back,” Brian says, “so don’t make him move too much.”
“Honestly, I can barely feel a thing,” I say. “Mostly, they just itch if I think about them.”
“Are you thinking about them?”
“Well, now I am.” I resist the urge to rub my back against the mattress.
Aunt Evora tsks. “You probably haven’t eaten.” She pulls out a few plastic containers from her bag.
“Did you bring food into the hospital?” I ask. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“Why not?” she says, genuinely confused. “It can’t be worse than what they’re bringing you.”
“Actually, lunch wasn’t too bad.”
She raises her eyebrows. “Oh, so you don’t want my food?”
“No! Auntie! I just don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“So don’t let them see.”
Despite it not being a mealtime, I decide it’s better to comply for all our sakes. She opens one of the food containers, then pulls a fork sealed in a sandwich bag out of her purse. Behind her, I catch Milo hiding his smile with his hand. This is his first glimpse into my larger world. When she tries to feed me, however, I draw the line.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“I can still use my arms,” I say.
“Okay, okay!” She sets the fork down and throws up her hands in surrender. Then waits for me to start eating. I take the first few bites in silence, aware that everyone in the room is watching me.
Thankfully, Aunt Evora is never silent for long. “I called Father Griffin on the way over here. He told me he wrote to the diocese about fixing the church,” she says.
“Does he still think I did it?” I ask.
“No, I don’t think so. He reasoned you couldn’t have gotten up there to cut the wires without a ladder. And Saint Anthony’s doesn’t own one. Since you didn’t have one with you either…” She lets the sentence hang with a shrug. “He doesn’t think the bishop will argue with him much. They’ve dealt with vandalism before.”
I nod pensively while I chew.
“A statue like that can’t be cheap to replace,” Brian says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or that wooden altar. Maybe we can set up a drive to raise the funds.”
“They’ll find replacements,” Aunt Evora responds, then clears her throat. “I told Lenae you’re here.”
I set the fork down, perhaps more forcibly than was necessary. Evora straightens up in surprise. My initial instinct is to apologize, but I quell the urge after sharing a pointed look with Milo. I don’t really want to say I’m sorry—because I’m not. And I need to exemplify that.
“Brian, Milo,” I say, turning to the two men standing against the wall. “Would it be alright if I spoke to my aunt alone?”
The both of them nod.
Brian wanders through the doorway, but before Milo leaves, he leans in to give me a kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t leave the sentence hanging,” he whispers. “Say all the words aloud.”
Aunt Evora eyes me warily while he leaves the room. I can tell she knows she did something wrong. It’s not guilt, per se, but discomfort at the very least. “You don’t need to do all that. Anything you need to say to me, I’m sure you could have said in front of them.”
“I’m gay, Auntie.”
She scoffs. “You’ve already said as much, Felix. I don’t know why you need to repeat these ideas—”
“Because it’s the truth. I. Am. Gay.”
The silence that follows is rife with tension. I can see her jaw clench as she stares down at the bed sheets.
Unfortunately, the guilt does get to me, and I soften, lowering my voice to a less aggressive volume. “Look. I appreciate all that you do for me. I appreciate that you bring me food and you’re always checking up on me and letting me know how my parents are. I appreciate that you stuck around. And I know that you’ve been lonely ever since Uncle Joseph died. It’s why I never tell you you’re unwelcome even if you call at a bad time.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Please, let me finish.” I pause, giving her the out if she wants to take it, but she doesn’t say anything more, so I go on. “I can’t keep doing this if you’re going to keep making comments though. I understand that the idea of me liking men is foreign to you—and maybe you disapprove, and you think it’s sinful. Whatever. I get that. But please, stop making comments about women being interested in me, or trying to set me up on dates. It just makes being around you unpleasant.
“I’m not asking you to befriend Milo or any other man who might enter my life, but if you can’t accept that, then at least let’s not bring it up. Otherwise…” I hesitate, not wanting to be harsh. I’m feeling bold at the moment though. “Otherwise, I don’t think I can be around you anymore.”
“I’m just saying, I don’t see why you have to act on it,” she says quietly, lips pursed.
All I can see in my mind is a cold night out on the streets of a suburb. Dores crying in the corner while my dad repeatedly shoved a bible in my face, rapping his knuckles against the cover over and over again. Inches away. All I feel is that fear that gripped me as I looked up and down the empty block, knowing the soft glow behind curtained windows was out of my reach. But then I think about the way I felt holding Milo’s hand for the first time, the way I feel any time he’s in the same room as me. That happiness. That effortless joy. “Being gay is not a choice for me,” I say. “But choosing to be happy is, and I don’t want to deny myself that anymore.”
Evora adjusts her coat, even if it hasn’t wrinkled.
“Not even to reunite the family?”
I don’t have the energy to be anything other than honest. “I’m not the one keeping them at a distance.”
At first, there’s no reaction. She stares into me with blank eyes. Then she nods—it begins in reluctance but transforms to defeat.
“Okay,” she says. “I won’t mention it anymore.”
Part of me wants to feel disappointed that we’re going to adopt a mode of silence rather than acceptance concerning my sexuality. But I remind myself that even one step forward is better than standing still. That she’s willing to do that much is a hopeful sign. And who knows, maybe it’s just the beginning of things to come. I’ll be chauffeuring her to a fucking pride parade any year now.
I’m desperate to hide my smirk.
Luckily, I don’t think Aunt Evora sees. She’s rummaging in her purse for something.
“You should finish eating,” she says. “Where did I put my lip balm? Boys! You can come back in now!”
~
By the time only ten minutes of visiting hours remain, it’s just me and Milo in my room. I’m completely exhausted—having not slept last night and given everything that’s happened the past few days—but I can’t bring myself to let Milo leave. To his credit, he’s not putting up a fight either. It may be down to the nurses to kick him out.
He sits in the only chair in the room, leaning over the side of my bed, his hands resting on mine. I’m thankful that he’s here for many reasons, but the most prominent is that I’d have probably gone mad already with boredom from being here alone. For Chrissakes, they won’t even let me turn up the TV loud enough to hear anything. So he keeps me busy with stories about his past and the mundaneness of his work (he’s taken today and tomorrow off), and we do a few crosswords on his phone. By the end, he’s just humming to me and I’m listening in silence, wondering if my exhaustion will turn into sleep or if that’ll prove impossible for the umpteenth evening in a row.
Abruptly, he stops midway through a classic Britney Spears number, maybe the only song of hers I know.
“I…want to apologize,” Milo says, folding his arms on my mattress and resting his head on top.
“What the hell could you possibly be apologizing for?” I ask, bewildered.
He chooses his words carefully. “I feel like I should’ve recognized you were going through something and pushed a little less. I wanted a full-blown relationship from the start, and I think it’s pretty obvious now you weren’t ready for that.”
I don’t know how to respond, completely floored that he’s attempting to siphon any blame for what’s happened.
He says, “I just wanted to be around you so much. I thought I could help.”
“It’s my raw sexual magnetism, isn’t it?” I say, eyebrow cocked.
He smiles—all I might ever need emotionally—and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s about the sum of it.”
“I’m hard to resist, but you’re going to have to try and control yourself.”
“Someone’s feeling better.”
I make a face at him and he laughs, adjusting so that he’s in a more comfortable position. I’d offered for him to hop up on the bed with me, but he refused, saying it wasn’t large enough for both of us. I accused him of being a Jack Dawson, which made him throw his head back with laughter.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, figuring that my defenses have been so lowered all day that there’s no reason to raise them now. We’re in a confessional state of mind.
He nods.
“Why do you like me?” I ask. “I feel like I’ve made the last couple weeks a hellhole for you?”
He smiles sheepishly, and the word “love” crosses my mind.
“Well,” he says, “I won’t say it’s your optimism.”
“Hey!” I slap his arm. “I’m being fucking vulnerable right now, you cunt bag.”
Milo giggles. “Okay—okay, sorry.” His expression goes serious. “I like you because you are so concerned with how comfortable and happy everyone around you is. Whether you realize it or not, you want to make sure everyone feels heard, and I think that’s really admirable.
“You are also one of the funniest people I’ve ever met, although I think your brand of self-effacing humor may need a little tweaking given the recent revelations.” He glances up at the IV stationed beside my bed with raised eyebrows, and I deliver another slap to his arm. Milo’s tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “It also doesn’t hurt that you are very, very cute.”
“Okay, now I know you’re full of shit.”
Milo sits back, shaking his head.
“Look,” I say, deciding to fight my instinct to avoid serious topics for once. “I’ve wanted to be with you since the moment I laid eyes on you. If anything, I’m grateful that you’ve been persistent, because otherwise I would’ve let you slip away. I think you’ve started to realize that about me now—and if you haven’t, perhaps you’re not as observant as I’ve given you credit for—”
He sticks his tongue out, but I couldn’t resist taking one teasing shot at least.
“The therapist they had me talk to earlier said I have a lot of learned behaviors that are going to need undoing. So maybe…keep pushing, but maybe don’t push very hard?” I grimace, knowing that I’ve put him in an impossibly uncertain situation. “I really like you, and I’d like to not fuck that up.”
“Can you tell me when I’m pushing too hard?” he asks. A reasonable request.
“No. That’s giving me far too much credit.”
Milo shakes his head again. “Then how about a safe word?” he asks. “Or maybe a phrase? Something indirect to tip me off?”
“How about ‘Let’s go for a hike,’” I suggest.
At this he laughs, sitting up to throw his head back. “Alright. I think I can remember that.”
When he lays his head back down beside me, I run my fingers through his hair and simply appreciate his welcome presence. I’m still not sure what I did to deserve him, or what he sees in me, but I’m happy to have him around. And I believe that to some degree—though the magnitude can be argued—I might deserve some of that happiness. I make a promise to myself that I will find ways to show him how I feel. Romantic, intimate, and frivolous ways. Large, emotional gestures that require thought and planning, as well as simple things that any normal person might do on a daily basis with their significant other. Maybe things won’t always feel as sunny as they do in this moment—I’m sure I’ll have my ups and downs. But I want to try sticking around during those moments instead of leaving.
Staying has gotten me farther than running away ever did.