Hannah rubbed her forehead. She was in the slide sorting room with the door closed. Her new Monday morning ritual.
‘Not helping,’ Hannah murmured.
‘I’m doing all I can.’
The sad thing … her mother was telling the truth.
‘His swollen lymph nodes?’
‘Come and go,’ Hannah answered.
Same with the night sweats. But the fatigue and the continued weight loss seemed to stick around. The more run down Heath became, the easier it would be for him to contract whatever disease was lurking around waiting to kill him.
Hannah bought every Mel Brooks movie pirated to VHS. Laughter was the best medicine, right? She bought him books and music and funny T-shirts, anything for a smile. But Heath didn’t laugh much any more. Not even at Mel.
Every night on the way home from work she stopped and bought Heath’s favorite meal from the restaurants he’d favored. Nothing tempted him. Neither knish nor falafel. Not a soo-yook or thit xa xiu. Not more than a bite of a burrito, a fajita or a tamale passed his lips. Soup received a sneer. Toast got her an eye roll. Crackers – plain, white, salted – were his staple.
How long could someone survive on crackers?
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d woken on the floor of his room after she’d gotten him a cold cloth, a puke bowl, a tissue, then been unable to leave him alone. And though she was almost as exhausted as he was, she didn’t mind. Because every minute near him was a minute she might not have the chance to steal again.
‘Heath would like to see you.’ He hadn’t said so, would never say so, but Hannah knew it hurt him that their parents had stayed away.
‘Of course. I’ll check my schedule. Talk to you soon.’ Her mother hung up.
‘Well, I’d hate for the call to end any differently this week than it has every other week.’ Hannah gently replaced the receiver in the cradle. Gently because what she really wanted to do was slam it hard enough to shatter, but it wasn’t her phone.
‘Your mother?’
Hannah let out an ‘eep!’ and spun.
Charley stood in the doorway. He must have just flown in from somewhere far away. His khakis were as rumpled as his hair.
‘Hey,’ she said.
He stepped closer and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘How is he?’
She was tempted to cover his hand with hers, but she didn’t. Charley and Hannah were friends. The instant she tried to make it anything else, she would lose him. Right now, she couldn’t afford to lose anything else.
‘Better,’ she said. ‘Today’s a good day.’
Heath had gone to work at You today. He’d been pretty excited about it. He’d missed two weeks with the leprosy lesions.
He’d bought a new hat for the occasion. Some kind of beanie-ish golf thing in red, which she hated, but he adored. Better than the endless array of baseball caps everyone seemed to be wearing nowadays.
‘Should we go to dinner and celebrate tonight?’ Charley asked.
‘That would be great.’
Sometimes, with Charley, Heath ate more than a bite or two.
Charley and Heath had become pals. If Heath had idolized the man before he’d met him, that was nothing compared to how he felt about Charley Blackwell after the night of the beating. Whenever Charley was in town the three of them did something together. Pals forever more.
Hannah sighed.
‘You OK?’ Charley had been on the way out to whatever meeting he’d been in for, but he paused.
‘Yes,’ she said, too brightly. ‘All good.’
Her throat hurt and she swallowed, which only made her cough because it was hard to swallow. That happened to her a lot lately.
A glass of water from the water cooler appeared in front of her and she accepted it gratefully, gulped it pathetically. At least it went down, though her throat still felt thick. She hoped she wasn’t getting sick. What if she was the one who infected Heath with the illness that killed him?
Her brain was constantly filled with what ifs and they were driving her crazy.
‘I’ll meet you at your apartment at six,’ Charley said. ‘Champagne. On me.’
That made her smile, if only at the thought of Heath’s joy. He loved champagne. She planned to make sure he had as much of it as he wanted for as long as he wanted it.
Hannah left work late because she’d gotten caught up in a story she was working on, something that hadn’t happened in a while, and had to hurry home to get ready for dinner.
She’d called Heath earlier to inform him of their plans and ask him to indulge in his second favorite pastime, dressing her to go out, his favorite pastime being the dressing of himself. She hoped he’d gotten home early enough so that her outfit was laid out and he was already wearing his.
‘Hannah!’ Charley caught the door to the apartment building before it swung closed behind her. ‘Perfect timing.’
‘Are you early?’ She could not be that late.
‘Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t have anywhere else to be so I thought I’d be here.’
He’d changed from his earlier pair of khakis into tan slacks, lost the black Charley Blackwell World Tour T-shirt that his wife had made every year listing all the places he’d been. Charley thought the shirt was funny; Hannah thought it was a very clever dig.
In the place of the T-shirt he wore an open-collared pale blue button down. Over his shoulder he’d slung a sport coat a shade darker than his slacks. His hair was wet and curled madly in the humidity.
He still smelled like a life she’d never have full of sun and wind, full of beauty and opportunity.
Hannah drew her key for the apartment but the door was ajar. She stood there frowning at it like an idiot.
Charley muscled in front of her and went in first.
Though the sun still shone outside, the apartment was dark behind the drawn blinds.
‘Heath?’ Charley called.
Something moved on the couch.
Hannah reached in and flicked on the lights.
Her brother sat poker straight. He’d been staring ahead, but now he blinked and glanced at her and Charley as if he didn’t know them.
Had another friend been diagnosed? Had another acquaintance died?
Or worse. Had the doctor called?
Hannah hurried forward and set her hand on his forehead. Clammy.
He pushed her away. ‘I’m fine.’
She could tell by his voice he was anything but.
On the coffee table sat several empty soda cans, an empty Snickers wrapper and an empty box of Milk Duds.
‘You trying to OD on sugar?’ she asked.
Though she should be happy he’d eaten something, anything, what he’d eaten was ‘not-Heath’ and it scared her. What else would he do that he’d never done?
Die.
‘There are worse ways to go,’ he said, and then he started laughing.
Not a good kind of laughter.
Charley inched past her so he could sit next to her brother on the couch. He put his arm around Heath. At least her brother stopped laughing.
‘What happened, bud?’
One last burble of laughter escaped, which sounded almost like a sob, and Hannah realized both of her hands had curled into fists. But whom should she punch?
‘Three people quit at You today.’
‘OK,’ Charley said reasonably. ‘That happens, though usually not all at once.’
‘It does when they quit because they don’t want to use the same bathroom as the AIDS guy.’
Hannah muttered a curse.
Charley sent her a warning glance.
She backed up, out of their space, though not out of the room. She tried to uncurl her fingers but she couldn’t.
‘It’s difficult when people are ignorant.’
‘Difficult?’ Heath laughed again, but this time he sounded amused. ‘OK. Sure.’
‘Did you explain that they can’t get AIDS from a toilet seat?’
‘I s
houldn’t have to.’
‘You’re right, you shouldn’t. But I’ve discovered in my long, long life that much of it has been spent doing things I shouldn’t have to.’
‘They’re gone. I’m not gonna waste another minute on them.’
‘Good for you.’ Hannah managed to uncurl her fingers. Almost.
Heath leaned forward so he could see her. ‘Hey,’ he said as if he hadn’t known she was there.
Seeing the two of them on the couch, sitting so close, with Charley’s arm around Heath as if it were the most natural thing in the world made Hannah’s eyes burn. This was how it should have been between Heath and their father.
‘What did Aunt Carol say when they quit?’
‘Well, they didn’t quit at first. At first they tried to get her to fire me.’
Obviously they didn’t know Aunt Carol.
‘She told them not to let the door hit them on the way out. Then she announced to the entire staff that anyone who felt the same could vacate and the next time someone asked her to choose between them and her family, she might not be so nice.’
‘I love Aunt Carol.’
‘Me too.’ Heath laid his head on Charley’s shoulder.
Hannah thought she might cry.
‘Heath?’ Charley whispered.
‘Mmm?’ Heath sounded half asleep.
Maybe they should let him rest instead of going out to celebrate. What, exactly, were they celebrating? She could no longer recall.
‘I should record this,’ Charley said.
‘Record?’ For an instant Hannah thought Charley meant record their conversations with a tape recorder, and she couldn’t figure out why, unless it was for some legality later.
After.
Then she saw Charley absently turning the focus, this way and that, on the lens of the camera in his lap, something he often did when thinking. Again she hadn’t noticed he had a camera, probably because he always, always did.
‘You want to record what?’ she asked.
‘This. Him. All of it.’
‘You want to photograph …’ She couldn’t say it.
Slowly Heath straightened. ‘He wants to photograph me dying.’
‘No,’ Hannah said.
Was she saying no to the photographing or the dying?
Yes.
Heath stood and began to pace. ‘People need to see. They need to know.’
‘How it looks to die?’ Hannah snapped.
‘There’s dying,’ Heath said. ‘And there’s dying from AIDS. They aren’t the same thing.’
‘You’re the same kind of dead.’ Hannah couldn’t believe she was having this conversation when she hadn’t been able to say the word dead since his diagnosis.
Had she thought that by not saying it she’d prevent it from happening? She was as stupid as the people who’d just quit You.
‘Things are going to get worse before they get better,’ Heath said.
A metaphor for dying if ever there was one.
‘There have been articles written and speeches given but not enough is being done to stop this,’ Charley said. ‘Words are easy for someone to read or hear and forget about later. But a picture – a lot of pictures – those stay with people.’
Hannah knew he was right; she still didn’t like it.
‘Heath, you didn’t want to go to work with a mouth lesion because you didn’t want anyone to see you like that and now you’re going to let Charley photograph …’ Her voice broke.
‘Everything,’ Heath finished. ‘All of it. It’s the only way.’ He smiled the smile she’d been mourning for months now. ‘I think this calls for champagne.’
Frankie
‘Mazel tov, he’s no longer your problem, Frankie. You should be thrilled.’
Irene had called at Oh-God thirty that morning. Translation six thirty, which she was happy to point out was seven thirty where it counted.
Sometimes Irene’s why would anyone choose not to live in Manhattan theme was more annoying than others. Oh-God thirty was one of them.
‘I am thrilled.’ Frankie struggled to make coffee, her hands not working very well since she hadn’t had coffee. She needed to buy a Keurig.
‘Then sound thrilled, nudnik.’ Silence came over the line, followed by, ‘You need me to come out there?’
‘No!’ Frankie fumbled the glass carafe and nearly broke it against the side of the sink. She was not up to in-person Irene right now.
Frankie managed to get the coffee pot loaded and push the brew button. She nearly started applauding.
‘I have work.’ Nothing that couldn’t wait, but she wasn’t telling Irene that.
‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’
‘No Yiddish? You feel OK?’
‘It’s not me I’m worried about. I thought you were over him a long time ago.’
‘I thought I was too.’
Sounds of movement came from Irene’s side of the line – swooshing sheets, thumping covers. Was she still in bed?
‘You’re not over him? I was just baiting you.’
Frankie retrieved her favorite cup – a golden yellow Pottery Barn special that held at least twelve ounces – and poured the half-inch of sludge from the carafe into it. ‘He thinks he’s My Charley.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘He doesn’t remember her; he only remembers me. Us. The way it was when …’
‘The way it was when you had no idea he was boffing a child?’
Hannah wasn’t a child any more. From what Frankie could tell, she wasn’t even Hannah any more. And if Frankie said that to Irene, there’d be no stopping her friend from hopping on the next plane.
‘It’s just—’ Frankie began, and someone rattled the front door.
She knew very well who that someone was even before Charley shouted, ‘Fancy, I forgot my key.’
‘Déjà vu all over again,’ Frankie said.
‘Is he at the door?’
‘Yes.’
‘Her too?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t answer.’
Frankie had already considered that, except … ‘He needs to be on that plane to the Mayo Clinic, not wandering around my house or the neighborhood.’
‘Frankie, this is ridiculous. You need to—’
‘I’ll call you later.’ Frankie hung up while Irene was still talking and opened the door.
Charley walked in, stopping to give her a kiss on the way. She nearly kissed him back. Maybe she should go along to Rochester and have her own head examined.
‘Why are you here?’ Frankie demanded.
‘I live here.’
‘Stop.’ Frankie held up a hand. She was not doing this again. ‘You’re supposed to be at the hospital.’
‘Crazy showed up and tried to get me to go to the airport with her. While security was sorting things out, I caught a cab.’
‘Security? Why were they there?’
‘There might have been some shouting. A little name calling.’
Charley had never been much of a shouter. That was Frankie’s thing. But she couldn’t imagine Hannah shouting either.
Charley was dressed in fresh clothes instead of the ones he’d been wearing when she’d taken him to the hospital for the CT scan. Had that been only yesterday?
‘Where’d you get those?’ She waved her hand to indicate the khaki Dockers and mint-green golf shirt.
‘Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs brought them. I wasn’t going to shoot a gift horse. Though I was tempted.’
‘Look a gift horse,’ she corrected, and at his blank expression continued. ‘The saying is “look a gift horse in the mouth”.’
‘Why would I look in a horse’s mouth?’
‘Never mind.’
Had he screwed up the saying because of the brain mass? Maybe it was just his age. Frankie screwed things up all the time.
Did it matter? She wasn’t sure. There was a lot she wasn’t sure of any more.
‘Hannah
is taking you to see a specialist at the Mayo Clinic.’
‘Why would I fly anywhere with that nut? She’s still telling people she’s my wife.’
Why had she thought Charley would skip off merrily with someone he considered a stranger? Because she wanted him to.
The doorbell rang.
Charley grabbed her arm. ‘Don’t answer it.’
If only she’d taken that advice herself.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
‘Francesca! Open the damn door.’
‘It’s her,’ Charley whispered. ‘Psycho.’
The situation would be comical if it wasn’t so … not.
Frankie opened the door, dodging Charley’s continued attempts to stop her.
Just as Charley had a few minutes ago, Hannah waltzed right in. ‘We need to go now if we’re going to make that plane.’
She wore a fitted jacket and bellbottom pantsuit the color of honey. Her slingback heels matched, as did her purse. Her hair – a shade lighter than the suit, three shades lighter than it had been way back when – was smoothed into a chignon that rested against the collar of the jacket.
Even if Frankie hadn’t still been wearing her Tinker Bell pajama bottoms with her Walking Dead T-shirt, she’d have felt frumpy.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you, Batshit. You need a check-up from the neck up.’
Hannah glanced at Frankie. ‘A little help here?’
Well, the sooner she got them out of her house the sooner she could … do anything else but this.
‘Charley, Hannah’s taking you to see a specialist at the Mayo Clinic,’ Frankie repeated. ‘You remember Dr Halverson telling you they saw a mass in your brain?’
‘I was there, Fancy. Of course I remember.’
Frankie resisted the urge to roll her own eyes at his annoyed tone. The sum total of what he didn’t remember could fill a book, yet he was irritated at her for asking if he remembered something.
‘You need to see a specialist.’
‘If Frankie comes along, will you get on the plane?’ Hannah, at last, sounded a little frazzled. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it.
‘Not,’ Frankie said.
‘She can’t leave Lisa home alone.’ Charley peered up the stairs. ‘Where is she?’
Hannah’s glance at Frankie was wide-eyed.
‘Camp,’ Frankie said. If he didn’t stop asking about Lisa she just might lose it.
Just Once Page 13
