by V. L. Locey
Sal put his ginger ale bottle between his legs, rolled down his window, and cranked up some Kodaline. Life was about as good as it could possibly get, even if my hot dog tasted suspiciously like liverwurst.
We pulled into Sal’s complex about an hour before dawn. He looked haggard, but then again, he’d been driving for thirteen hours or something like that. I’d dozed on and off on the second half of the ride home, but had never really fallen into a good sleep. And my belly was just fine, which was the opposite of Sal’s, by the looks. He was still wincing with pain and rubbing at his stomach.
“Maybe some liquid antacid will help,” he groaned after pulling into a parking slot.
Opting to just go inside and crash, we left our bags in the trunk. I supervised as he knocked back half a bottle of white, chalky antacid. Within five minutes we were down to our underwear, in bed and out like lights. I woke up several times, just to check on Sal. He was asleep but fitful. I vowed to myself that if he wasn’t better by noon, he was calling his doctor. I fell asleep staring at the back of his head.
Roughly ninety minutes later, Sal trying to kick off the covers woke me up.
“I feel sick,” he moaned. He rolled onto his side, then vomited down the side of the bed.
I put a hand to his arm to ease him as he retched. He was burning up, so I flipped on the light. His skin looked a little yellow. I was up and out of bed like a flash.
“Ah, God,” he groaned, his arms cinched around his midsection.
Panic grabbed me around the chest. I lunged for my cell phone lying on the nightstand and called Heather. She picked up after about five rings.
“Hey August, how was your vaca—”
“Heather, Sal is really sick. What should I do?” The words flew out of me so fast they ran together. Sal threw up again. My chest felt like someone had tightened a metal band around it. “He’s super sick. Is this what the beginning of AIDS looks like?”
“August, you have to calm down. It’s probably just the flu or a nasty stomach bug. August?” I was staring at the mess on the carpeting while Sal died. “August?”
“I think it’s more than the flu. I think he should go to the ER. Will you be there?”
Something clicked in my head. I found my dirty pants on the floor. Who cared about the ketchup stain on the thigh? My boyfriend was dying. Sal cried out in pain. My fingers shook so badly I couldn’t tug up my fly. The phone pinned between my ear and shoulder slipped. Why was she hesitating?
“Heather, he’s fucking dying!”
“Yes, yes, I’ll be there. I was trying to remember Brooks’ work number so he could come home to watch Jack. Why don’t I call the ambulance? He sounds like he’s in real distress.”
I crawled over the bed and knelt behind Sal. He was covered in sweat and vomit, his legs curled up into his puffy stomach. I wanted to cry.
“August? Honey?”
“Yeah, call the ambulance. I’m going to help him somehow.”
I hung up without even saying goodbye or thanks. I ran to the front door and unlocked it, then raced back to Sal. I used the edge of the sheet, where it had been wound around my legs, and dabbed at his face, trying to clean him up a little. His face contorted in pain. I scooped him up and cradled him to my chest, his soaking wet head resting under my chin. That was how the paramedics found us ten minutes later. Sal had gotten sick again, but I hadn’t released my hold on his feverish body. It was tough to let the paramedics have him. I was terrified of letting go…
“He’s HIV positive,” I informed the short man and tall woman hustling into the bedroom. “What’s wrong with him? He’s in so much pain.”
“Thank you for relaying that information. Why don’t you let us attend to him?” the woman asked while snapping on some white medical gloves.
Sal was writhing in my arms, pretty much unable to speak now, his muscles trembling as waves of pain coursed through him.
“Sir, you need to let us attend to your friend.”
“He’s my boyfriend.” Somehow it felt important to say that.
She smiled and kneeled beside us on the bed. The tall man had already wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sal’s biceps. “We’ll take good care of your boyfriend, I promise.”
She seemed sincere enough, so I let her slide her hands between me and Sal. When he was no longer pressed against me I moved off the bed and into the corner by the closet. I smelled of vomit and abject fear. Lots of medical lingo was bouncing around the room. My shoulder blades remained pressed to the corner as they worked with Sal. All I gleaned from it all was that he was suffering severe upper abdominal pain, his temperature was high, and his blood pressure low. The paramedics sounded really concerned. That scared me even more. Within minutes they had Sal strapped onto a gurney.
I grabbed our wallets and my keys from the dresser, then raced out to hold the front door open. When they wheeled him past me at the door, I wasn’t sure he was even conscious. His silence was terrifying. Stubbing my toe on the doorjamb reminded me that I had no shoes on. I ran back inside, found a pair of sneakers by the bed, and shoved my feet into them. Heart hammering, I rushed outside, ignoring the neighbors gathering in the yard.
The ride to Cayuga General was quick miles-wise, but eternally slow time-wise. I wanted to hold Sal’s hand, but there was an IV line already in, so I just stroked his soaking wet hair from his brow and talked about baby moose and swimming in Lake Martens. He didn’t reply, just moaned lightly from time to time.
Once we pulled into the ER with sirens and flashing lights, I got lost in the shuffle, and that was fine. I didn’t want people attending to me. I wanted them all taking care of Sal. And they were. They rushed him inside, doctors in white coats and nurses in shades of lilac and peach all talking at once. Someone came up on my right and touched my arm. I glanced down to see Heather.
“He’s going to be okay.” She said it while looking directly into my eyes.
“You don’t know that.”
“I feel it.”
She patted my hand, wrapped her tiny fingers around mine, and led me, like a toddler, past rooms filled with sick people. Some were bloody, some just old, others were lying in beds moaning and groaning. And then we were outside Sal’s room.
“You and I can wait out here so we don’t get in the way.”
I gripped her little hand tightly. The doctor, a lean older man with no hair and big, round glasses, was barking out directions. He wanted blood and urine work done, followed by an ultrasound. Pain and anti-nausea medication were started via the IV. He also wanted to check glucose levels and T-cell counts.
“Can we get an infectious disease doctor on the phone? I’d like to get his opinion on HIV meds,” the doctor said. A chubby nurse left the room.
“Are they going to isolate him because he has HIV?” I asked the nurse holding my hand.
“No, we don’t isolate HIV-positive patients unless they have a condition that warrants it,” she replied. “It sounds to me like he’s having an acute pancreatitis attack. Lots of HIV-positive patients seem to have trouble with pancreatitis. I think I read they suspect it has something to do with the antiviral medica—”
“That’s bad, right? He looks bad. The doctor looks like he thinks it’s bad,” I blathered, the words coming so fast that they tangled up in a knot of gibberish.
Heather tugged me away from the open door. She got my back to the wall and took my other hand in hers. I had to look at the ceiling so I didn’t cry. When I looked at her, the tears threatened.
“Is he going to die?”
“Patients usually survive an acute attack unless they have a major infection go septic. What we’ll be keeping a close eye on is the chance of PCP, which is a form of pneumonia. It’s an opportunistic infection that HIV patients can get.” She was so patient, and I was so dumb and scared. I must have looked like a dope, because she went on trying not to talk over my ability to grasp. “Sal is in great shape, and his T-cell count is undoubtedly high. He should be fine. I k
now it’s super scary to see someone you love in such a bad state.”
“I’m so scared I can’t even think straight,” I confessed.
“I know, Augie. Would you like me to get you something to drink while we wait?”
I shook my head. The medical staff in Sal’s little cubicle were still hustling around.
“That’s cool. If you decide you want some coffee, or need to use the bathroom to tidy up, or even just want to sit down, let me know.”
“Okay.”
There we stood, her hands in mine, waiting. After a few minutes, Heather leaned on the wall next to me. I released her hands, then put my arm around her shoulder and pulled her in to my side. Time crawled by. Heather left me a couple times, once to get us some coffee and once to check on things with Sal. The pain medication was working and he was resting a little more comfortably, she informed me.
“I need to use the bathroom. Are you okay here alone? Do you want me to get one of the nurses to keep you company?” Her eyes were so blue and so caring.
“No, I’m okay. Go ahead. I’m going to look at him for a few minutes.”
She rose to her toes and pecked my cheek before she scurried down the corridor, her white shoes squeaking with each step. Holding my cup of coffee, which I had not wanted but Heather had insisted I have, I took a couple of steps and glanced into Sal’s room. A nurse was moving around his bed, checking his vitals or whatever it is they do. She looked up when I stepped into the doorway.
“He’s going to have an ultrasound. We’ll take good care of him. He’s one of our favorite orderlies.” Her smile was kind of reassuring. “The doctor will be back shortly—he had a stabbing victim to check on—but we have him stabilized at the moment.”
“Is it pancreatitis?” I asked, slipping inside. I needed to be closer to Sal, to touch him if I could.
“It looks that way, but we won’t know for sure until the test results all come back. Pull up a chair. I’m sure he’d like to feel your presence.”
“Thanks.”
So I sat down right beside Sal. He was out of it, which was good. The tight mask of agony he’d worn into the ER was gone. I sat. I sipped coffee I didn’t want. I listened to the beep-beep-beep of his heart and watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall. If I lost him I really didn’t know what I would do. Did people die from a malfunctioning pancreas? Would he? Would he get weak and catch something like a cold that would fuck up his immune system? What about that PCP thing? Would he die then? The hand holding my coffee started trembling violently. How had I fallen so deeply in love in such a short time? What would I do if I lost him?
“Augie?” Mario’s deep voice startled me out of the dark place I’d been falling into.
My eyes flew to the big man standing just outside the door. He looked at me, then at Sal, then back to me. He stood out like two sore thumbs with his stupid “It’s All About the Tartan” T-shirt, kilt, short red hair, and monstrously big shit-kickers.
“How’s he doing?”
Honestly, I don’t recall chucking the coffee into a trash can by the bed, or even getting up out of my chair, but I must have, because somehow I was hanging off Mario, my face pressed into his thick neck, bawling like a baby.
“I’m scared he’s going to die,” I whimpered.
Mario’s arms tightened around me. “None of that talk,” he said, his voice thick and gruff. “He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” He kissed the side of my head. I coughed and sniffled. “I am so sorry for being such an ass, son. I was terrified you’d get sick and I’d lose you. It made me fucking furious that you would take such chances with your health, and with a man you barely knew. I see now that you really do love him. Forgive me for being so stupid and ill-informed. You’d think a man who’s been moving around in the world for as long as I have would know more about HIV than I obviously do.”
No way words could move up out of my throat right then, so I just bobbed my head and tightened my hold on him.
“It’s okay,” I finally managed to cough up. “I didn’t know anything much about HIV until I met Sal, and then I read tons. Still don’t know enough. I swear, if he pulls through I will make it my goal to see HIV awareness is presented in every school, LGBT and community center in New York State.” I drew back and out of his arms.
He pressed a handkerchief into my hand. “Blow your nose.”
“I missed you a lot,” I said before I turned to blow and wipe the tears from my face.
Mario grabbed the nape of my neck and squeezed, hard.
“How did you find out about Sal being sick?”
“Heather called me.”
I looked back at him. He was pawing at his eyes. I didn’t say anything. One guy crying in the hall was enough. I caught a flash of golden hair in my peripheral vision. Heather, peeking around a rounded corner. She was so cute.
“Are you guys mad at me?” she asked, stepping out into the hall.
I looked at Mario. We both shook our heads.
She bounded down the hall to hug us both. “I’m going to ride up with Sal for his ultrasound. Why don’t you two go sit in his room? It might be some time yet before the doctor makes the call to admit him.”
“You think they will?” I offered Mario his hankie back, but he declined to take it, so I shoved it in the back pocket of my jeans.
“Yeah, I think they will—it looks pretty acute to me—but I’m not the doctor.”
An orderly and a gurney rounded the corner. Heather patted my arm. Soon Sal was riding to the third floor for his ultrasound. I couldn’t stop staring at the elevator doors that had just swallowed him up.
“Let’s go see about getting you cleaned up,” Mario said with a gentle tug on my arm. “You smell really bad, kid.”
“I need to call his parents,” I said as we walked down the corridor.
The floors were so clean I could see my reflection on the tiles. Mario plucked my cell from my hand. I looked up from the floor.
“Why don’t you let me make those calls? You just wash up so that when Sal gets back, you look and smell a little better. I have some clothes in my car, clean stuff for the gym—let me jog down and bring them in for you.”
“Yeah, okay, thanks. Mrs. Castenada made me put her cell number into my phone before we left her house. It’s under Mrs. Castenada.”
Mario gave me a cockeyed smile. “I would have figured that out. Go wash up. I’ll make some calls as I get you some clothes.” He clapped me on the back, then disappeared though a throng of nurses walking past, my cell pressed to his ear.
Ducking inside the men’s room, I crept up to the mirrors. What looked back at me was horrifying. Mario had been right. I couldn’t let Sal see me covered with dried tears, snot, and vomit. Yanking my dirty shirt off, I began scrubbing with handfuls of foamy soap. I washed my face, neck, chest, and under my arms. Rinsing was messy. My pants were soaked and soap bubbles lingered in the hair under my arms. Staring at my wet-headed reflection, I realized no amount of soap would get rid of the fear in my eyes. Only knowing that the man I loved was going to be okay would do that.
The door opened and Mario stepped inside. I took the pile of clothes from him, murmured a weak “thanks”, then stepped into a stall.
“Vic and Dan will be here in a few days,” he informed me as I peeled off my jeans. “They’re up in Winnipeg to help Mrs. Arou after she had some elective back surgery. Dan said they’d fly back home, but Vic insists one flight was enough for a few years, so they’re going to have to rent a car and drive back.”
“Okay,” I replied. Our voices bounced lightly around the big, empty room. I held up what appeared to be twenty yards of white, purple, and green material. “Hey, did you give me a kilt?”
“It’ll be okay, just get dressed.”
Great. I wasn’t keen on wearing a skirt around all day, but it had to be better than wet, puked-on jeans, right? After I had the plain black T-shirt on, I pulled the kilt around my waist and opened the door of the stall.
&nbs
p; “Look at that fine braw laddie!” Mario boomed, a wide smile on his rugged face.
“What?”
“It means you’re a dandy-looking boy. Come here and let me teach you how to wear the colors of Clan McGarrity.” He reached for the wad of tartan around my waist.
While he tugged and arranged the kilt, I stared at the silver hairs slowly creeping into the red on his chin. A few moments later, I was snapped up and ready to go.
“This feels weird.” I flapped the hem of the kilt a few times.
“Ah, you’ll get used to it. Next time, skip the briefs and let your stones dangle free like a true Scotsman,” he said, rolling his R’s thickly, then patted me on the arm.
“Hope there is no next time,” I muttered under my breath.
I gathered up my dirty clothes and went back to Sal’s little ER room to wait. And we waited. And waited. And waited even more.
“How long can one ultrasound take?”
“It’s only been about thirty minutes. Calm yourself, Augie. You look like you’re trying to pass a kidney stone,” Mario said softly, his bare knee bumping mine. “Why don’t you watch this movie instead of the clock on your phone?”
I exhaled, laid my phone on my lap, and stared blankly at some dumb movie Mario was watching on the little TV in the corner. It was some hokey old western. The music was tinny and the acting bad. So bad that I nodded off before I made it to the first commercial break.
“Hey, we’re back.”
I jerked awake when Heather softly shook me. My eyes flew open and settled on Sal. His dark eyes met mine.
“He’s awake but groggy. We’ll be admitting him shortly, so as soon as they have a bed ready, we’ll be moving him upstairs.”
Sal held up a hand, the one with the IV, and mumbled something. I hurried to his side and took his hand. He was still really warm.
“I fucked up you moving in.” His speech was slow and slurred, but hearing his voice almost made me cry again.
“I got all summer. You just get better. I’ll be right here beside you. Twenty-four and seven, right?” I pressed a kiss to the tips of his fingers. He attempted a smile but fell back asleep before he could flash those pretty white teeth of his.
