by Chase Connor
“I hate Québec.” That was all I could think to say.
“I hate Québec for you, too.”
Together, we stood there, tears sliding down my face silently as we stared at each other, the chilly autumn air whistling through the square. Peter watched me for several moments, obviously unsure of what to do next, because what does one stranger do for another stranger who is crying? We had enjoyed our evening of food, jokes, flirtation, and holding each other on my bed. I had shared more with Peter than I had shared with anyone in longer than I could remember, but there was still much more to share before he truly understood anything about me. Throughout the evening, most of the secrets shared were mine, so I knew even less about Peter.
“But I would hate any city that has done to me what this city has done,” I said. “It is not Québec that I truly hate.”
“I know.”
“I feel foolish and selfish.” I reached up to scrub away my tear with the back of my coat sleeve. My new coat. “This is not Québec’s fault, what I have been made to endure, and many people endure much worse. But I am twenty years old. And I am alone. I have never been alone, but since we arrived in this city, I have become more and more alone each year. Now…I have no one. This hurts. But…I am alive. I am standing in the center of the universe, asking it to be kind to me, or at least stop being so unkind, and I am the only person in my family it has been kind to, Peter. Does that mean I am a horrible person?”
Peter looked down.
“Who am I to demand more than what has already been given to me?” I asked, desperately. “Who am I to spend such a wonderful evening with such a wonderful person…and still want more?”
“You’re just a person, Enzo.” Peter looked up and shrugged. “We all want more. But what you want is not selfish. Wanting your family back and to not be alone is never selfish.”
“It feels selfish.” I sniffled and let out a deep breath. “I say my prayers every day, and I ask God why he has taken the people I love from me…but I have never asked why their lives were taken from them. I am awful.”
“Now.” Peter jabbed a finger at me. “That is selfish.”
“What?”
“Everyone has the right to question God—to ruminate on why the universe is rarely fair,” Peter explained. “The very essence of being human is to ask why, how, when, where, and how come. But debasing yourself for it is selfish. Putting yourself down, slowly beating yourself down into the ground over something so human, is selfish.”
“How?”
“You’re trying to deny yourself the right to grieve, Enzo.” Peter shook his head, a soft smile coming to his face. “Sorrow has its right to be felt. Grief is a process. By denying yourself that process, and denying the humanity that the universe gave you, is selfish. You are being selfish with yourself.”
“I suppose.”
“I know so.” Peter crossed his arms over his chest as he gave me a stern look. “You’re denying yourself part of your journey through life and the human experience. Stop asking why things are the way they are and start asking how you will turn your life into what you want it to be. And, in the meantime, grieve the loss of your family. They deserve at least that much. Don’t pray to know why, pray about how much you loved the time you had with them. What they meant to you. And pray that they know that wherever they are now. That would be the unselfish way to handle it. And stop doing it only in church, Enzo. Think about them as you do the things you used to do together. The things they loved. Think about them when you consider how happy they would be to see you thriving and moving towards something better. Think about them when you see their favorite colors or foods. Think about them when you show kindness to others that they are not here to receive from you themselves. Pray all day long that they know how happy you are. Let your prayers be your hopes and dreams, and your thanks—not your sorrow.”
A sob erupted from my throat, and my chin fell to my chest.
“I just miss them so much.” I managed to choke out.
“I know.” Peter stepped into my body and wrapped mine up in his. “I think it might be the thing I like about you most. And it’s no wonder you feel so raw about it now because when have you had a chance to otherwise? You were too busy being the healthy one.”
Sobbing, I wrapped my arms around Peter, stooping slightly to bury my face in his neck, not worrying if he felt my hot tears against his flesh that would surely run rivulets down his neck, under his collar, and to flesh further down that I would love to caress with my eyes.
“I know this is crazy,” Peter whispered into my ear, his lips brushing against the surface of that flesh. “Two strangers spending this evening together, professing their desires for a future together after knowing each other for mere hours. But what has the universe done to show us that this is wrong?”
“Nothing.” My body shook against his as I cried.
“Exactly.” He sighed. “Maybe someone has been listening to your prayers, and they hope that you were listening back, Enzo.”
For several moments, I allowed myself to be held by Peter and to hold him back, but my tears finally abated, and my sobs tapered off. I felt like such an idiot.
“Are you saying that you are the answer to my prayers?” I chuckled wetly against his neck.
“Maybe.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I mean…it could be worse, ya’ know.”
With a sigh, I pulled back, reluctantly letting Peter go as his arms slowly slid away from me.
“You are a nice answer.” I finally said.
“Ya’ know what? I’ll take it.”
I laughed at that. I liked Peter’s self-deprecation and ability to know when to not be too serious. The way that he was able to navigate conversations and my moods made me wonder if he was the perfect man—or just perfect for me. Peter was a handsome American stranger, someone who had no reason to be kind to me. However, from the moment we met, he had shown nothing but compassion, empathy, and patience for me. Certainly, it had only been hours since we had met, and almost anyone can be good for such a short amount of time, but I was not an easy person to deal with after so many years of bad luck making my moods irregular and erratic. The well of patience he possessed had to be fathoms deep, bottomless, even. If he was showing me so much kindness, I could only imagine how he treated people he knew well. That drew me to him even more.
“Are you always such a kind person?” I asked the obvious question.
“No.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, though it is obviously nearly impossible to tell, I can be a real shit sometimes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Well, that’s another thing that’s just your problem.”
Laughing, I reached out and straightened his collar where my chin had crumpled it. Peter crooked his head to watch my thin fingers straighten the fabric of his shirt. As my hand pulled away, satisfied with the job done, his eyes landed on mine.
“What do you want most out of life, Enzo?”
I started to shrug but stopped myself.
“I just want to be happy.”
“Well, shit.” Peter cocked his head to the side. “That’s easy. Come with me.”
Peter held his hand out.
“What?”
“Are you going to keep asking questions, or are you going to take my hand and live, Enzo?”
“I guess…live.” I chuckled and grabbed his hand.
A First and Final Christmas
My mother had been gone for months, and life had not been too bad for Noe and me, though loneliness was often a problem for both of us. It’s an odd feeling, having someone, yet still feeling alone. Noe was lonely because he missed our parents, grandmother, and sister because he had loved them as deeply as I had, but also because the apartment was so silent. Noe’s special challenges as a person on the spectrum had forced him to adapt to the noise that is expected with a large family. Because of that, when the noise became less and less, then was just suddenly gone, it was almost as if he hadn’t just lost his family. He
had lost the character of noise that had been as much a part of our family as any of the people. People on the spectrum are not incapable of adapting to situations that are challenging for them, but it is a process. Reversing that process can be even more arduous. A person on the spectrum can find ways to adapt to challenges the world presents to the point that they often don’t realize they are dealing with them constantly. It just becomes a part of their routine like anything else. When those challenges are suddenly gone, it is, essentially, taking away part of their routine. The deathly silence of our apartment became a missing appendage to Noe. Combined with his grief over our dead relatives, it was almost too much for him to bear each day.
While life had not been bad, I also felt lonely. Because I had my own challenges, though I had no one to share them with anymore. Noe was comforting as a brother, but as a confidante, I could not share as much with him as I could my mother or grandmother. He did not need the extra stress of knowing that my job was barely keeping us fed with a roof over our heads. He did not need to know that getting him to school, working, taking care of our home, buying food, praying that there were no problems with him at school, and finding time to sleep with a challenging schedule was taking its toll on me. In the depth of my soul, I found myself wondering how I would deal with my challenges while also helping Noe deal with his challenges. I felt ill-equipped and knew that I was floundering.
Noe began having meltdowns at least once a day within a month after our mother’s death. Things were too quiet. Things were too loud. Things were neither quiet nor loud. He didn’t like the food we had. His blanket smelled funny. The kids at school were mean to him. The kids at school tried to be his friend. He didn’t want friends. He felt lonely. I didn’t spend enough time with him. I always hovered and invaded his space. He got enough sleep. He didn’t get enough sleep. His favorite shirt wasn’t clean. That was no longer his favorite shirt. The apartment was too cold. The apartment wasn’t cold enough. My heart broke for my brother, and my head ached from the challenges. I had never felt so helpless and useless in my entire life.
Considering the history of my family, and all of the challenges posed over the years, I knew without a doubt that I was failing as a brother and guardian. When I had a support system, helping Noe to navigate the world around him had been challenging, but it had been doable. Without my parents, grandmother, and even Ila, I felt adrift—though I had no idea if it was a sea of uncertainty, fear, or bitterness—or a combination of the three—that I was drifting upon. I never lost my patience with Noe or became cross with him. I never lashed out or raised my voice. But, in looking back, I often wondered if that would have been preferable to slowly collapsing in on myself, losing faith in my abilities as a caregiver incrementally over days, weeks, and months.
The first Christmas without any family, besides Noe and myself, was the day that I dreaded the most. As the winter months settled in and we had no money for any lavish gifts or even Réveillon, I wondered if Noe would finally have the meltdown to end all meltdowns. I had been able to purchase enough groceries to make us heaps of pasta with chicken and vegetables, and I had purchased a rather large store-bought chocolate cake. So, on Christmas Eve, Noe sat at the kitchen table since it was the only real furniture we had left besides our beds, and read one of his books about rocks while I cooked pasta. We performed our duties as brothers and guardian and guarded in near silence, save for the sounds of boiling water, sizzling pans, and the occasional clang of metal on metal.
When dinner was ready, I brought our food to the table, and presented it to my brother, we sat down as the little family we were, thankful that we had…something. For the first part of the meal, we sat in silence once more, both of us eating our food, trying to savor each bite since food was usually rationed out each day to get us through each week. Once half of his food was gone, Noe finally looked up, his eyes landing on my chin, getting my attention.
“I’m sorry that I miss Maman so much.” He had said.
Normally, one would respond with a speech about how a person should never be sorry for missing someone they love. But Noe wasn’t sorry for missing our mother. I knew that what he meant was that he was sorry that things were so hard for both of us now. He was sorry that our situation made it harder for him to adapt to our daily challenges. And he was sorry that I was so sad all day long.
“I’m sorry I miss Maman so much, too.” I had responded finally.
Noe knew that I meant that I was sorry that I wasn’t more successful in making both of our lives easier on us.
“Are we going to church after dinner?”
“I don’t think so.” I shook my head, looking down at my plate, suddenly no longer hungry.
“You don’t want to talk to God?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have nothing to say to him.”
“I think you should talk to God.”
“God doesn’t exist.” My voice was hollow.
Because I didn’t believe that. I had said it to spite God.
“I still think you should talk to him,” Noe said. “Talking to God makes you feel better.”
He coughed and pushed his fork into his food.
“I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Tell him that you miss Maman,” Noe suggested. “Tell him I miss Maman, too.”
“You don’t believe in God.”
“No.”
“Then why would you want me to tell someone you don’t think exists that you miss Maman?” I smiled slightly at Noe’s skewed logic.
“Because maybe Maman will hear it. Tell him that I miss Ila, Grandmother, and Father, too. In that order. Tell God that I miss them in that order, Enzo.”
I nodded.
“Okay.”
After dinner, I washed the dishes and put away the extra food. Then Noe and I each had a giant slice of the chocolate cake I had purchased at the store. Once we had washed our hands and faces and put on the nicest clothes we had, I zipped Noe up in his coat made of blue clouds, and we walked to church. We had to go slowly because it was not a good breathing day for Noe. Services had already begun, so we slipped into a pew towards the back, which was mostly unoccupied, and we went through the motions. Even Noe knelt when he was supposed to, stood when he was supposed to, did the prayers that he knew, crossed himself, and participated in our family’s religion. I knew that he did those things, not for God, or even our family members we both desperately missed, but for me.
Once services were over, and the other Good Catholics filed out of the church, prepared to go home to their Christmas trees and wrapped presents and pantries full of food, Noe and I stayed behind. When the church was empty, Noe stayed in the pew while I lowered myself to the kneeler and said my prayers. But they weren’t prayers. They were grievances. I told God how much I hated him for what he did to my family. And I told him that I didn’t care what he thought of that. At the end, I told God that even though I hated him, would he please tell Maman, Ila, Grandmother, and Father that Noe missed them and loved them.
Amen was my final word on the matter.
So, Noe got zipped back up in his coat, and I pulled my sweater tightly around myself, and we left the church to find an empty, bitterly cold street.
Noe coughed.
A Horrible, Awful, Happy Time
Peter had no reason to take me to a donut shop. Of course, donut shops are usually the first places of business that open in the early morning hours, so I knew that was the most logical explanation for him to choose such a place. However, something gnawing at the back of my mind made me wonder if maybe the universe wasn’t paying attention and guiding our night together. Maybe something had whispered into Peter’s ear that a donut shop would be the perfect place for me to find happiness. If he had taken me to the donut shop that Noe and I always went to, I would have known that it had been more than just a coincidence, but this shop was different. We couldn’t go inside to watch them make the donuts, but instead, had to stand outs
ide of a giant glass window to watch. They hadn’t opened the doors for business yet, so we had to stand outside, as though at an aquarium for human bakers.
When we had exited the taxi that Peter had gotten for us, I hadn’t dared to say a word when I saw where we had stopped. Speaking of Noe and donuts and the significance of the two would have been too much for me to handle. Crying two times in one night was already too much. A third time would have completely broken me, even if the tears for the donut shop would have been happy tears. Together, we approached the window, since we saw that the sign on the door indicated that they did not open for another fifteen minutes, and watched the bakers work. The bakers inside, a lovely bunch of men and women, waved to us, indicating that they would be open soon, then went back to work. My eyes danced as I watched the bakers forming donuts out of dough, slipping them into the hot oil, and pulling out fresh, warm, brown dough that would be rolled in sugars, covered in icing, or filled with jelly or cremes. Peter laid a hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze as I watched the bakers and their seemingly choreographed dance around the shop kitchen.
It’s an amazing thing, watching a group of employees at a business who seem to know each other as a family. They sense when someone is behind them, or that someone needs their help, they move and coordinate their efforts to be in sync with their counterparts without even looking. Although I couldn’t hear the workers through the window of the kitchen, I didn’t see them speaking much. So, I was amazed that even in their hurry to get the donuts ready for their first customers, they never bumped into each other or dropped anything. It was like a ballet that the bakers were performing, but with hot dough and cooking oil, and at a much faster pace. The fact that all of the shop’s employees were smiling while they performed their work made everything all the more magical and enticing.
“Donuts make everyone happy,” Peter said as he squeezed my shoulder.
“Donuts are the best.” I agreed.
