by J P Barnaby
SPENCER: Hey, you want me to take notes for you today?
Nothing.
With a sigh, he dropped the phone back into his pocket and took very good notes so he could copy them for Aaron. Maybe when he reached out to touch Aaron it reminded him of the quad. He never did apologize for that. Damn it. He didn’t want to do it over text message.
SPENCER: Are you around?
SPENCER: Want to talk later about the project? I had some ideas.
By the time class ended, he’d sent half a dozen texts to Aaron with no response. He fucking wished he could call Aaron, even if neither of them liked to talk, but of course he wouldn’t be able to hear. Instead, he was forced to just pack up his stuff and hope Aaron came back to class.
He found it wasn’t just the project he worried about.
“What did he do before he jerked away? Had he said anything?” Henry Thomas asked his son as they sat across from each other at D’Margio’s. They’d decided neither of them really wanted to cook. Spencer was still upset about Aaron’s outburst the day before, and Henry seemed more than happy to talk about it. It was an opportunity to talk to his dad, and he refused to pass it up.
“No., We. Were. Just. Talking. About. The. Project.. Then. He. Got. Quiet.. He. Looked. Sick.. I. Asked. Him. If. He. Was. Okay., And. He. Jerked. Back.. Wait…. I. Reached. Out. To. Touch.. He. Just…. He. Looked. Like. He. Needed. A. Friend.” Spencer took a drink of his water to quench his suddenly dry throat.
Henry picked up his glass of wine and took a small sip as he watched his son. “Maybe it had to do with being touched. A lot of victims of violent crime do not like to be touched, especially rape victims,” he added as an afterthought.
“Oh. God.. You. Do. Not. Think…,” Spencer started and set his glass down. Revulsion rolled through him as he thought about someone hurting Aaron like that. It had to be something else. Maybe he’d been hit by a car or his high school exploded. Grasping at straws, he tried to think of anything else that might cause the kind of fear he saw in Aaron’s eyes.
“I don’t think anything. I haven’t even met the guy.”
“Maybe. You. Should..”
“What?” Spencer’s father asked, his voice heavy with skepticism, but Spencer was already sitting up straighter in his seat.
Dad, this guy needs help. You are one of the best trauma psychologists in the country. Whatever has happened to him, maybe you can help. Spencer signed quickly, excitement making his movements more pronounced. It seemed so easy, so natural for his father to treat Aaron. Maybe it would help his father too.
Spencer, I am no longer a practicing psychologist. If his trauma is as severe as you describe, he is probably already in therapy, Henry reasoned as their food arrived at the table.
“Would you like Parmesan cheese, sir?” It was lucky Spencer caught the question to his father, because when the server turned to him, he was standing at Spencer’s shoulder in the crowded restaurant, and Spencer couldn’t get a good look at his face. The server asked his father if they needed anything else and then wandered away to help another table that had flagged him down.
No, but you still have your license. Can I just bring him over to do homework so you can meet him? Spencer knew his father. He wouldn’t turn Aaron away once he’d seen the pain in Aaron’s eyes. The alcoholism hadn’t affected his deep-seated need to help people.
What is his name?
“Aaron. Downing.,” Spencer said rather than spelling out the name. His father’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t comment for a long moment. He wondered if maybe his dad knew Aaron’s parents or something.
You can bring him over because I want to meet your friends, his father insisted, but Spencer could see the light in his eyes. A challenge.
HARSH, BRIGHT rays of light filtered through his half-open curtains and caused the incessant throbbing of his head to escalate into a full-blown pounding as Aaron finally started to wake. He moaned and rolled onto his back, a wave of nausea washing over him. Taking a few deep breaths, trying not to vomit, he brought one hand to his face, noticing as he did so it felt like lifting lead. Shielding his eyes against the bright light, he looked over at his bedside clock and was shocked to find it was nearly five in the evening.
As he shifted to his side and let his legs fall over the edge of the bed, it felt like someone had turned the gravity in his room way up. Everything was dull and heavy. He sat up slowly, feeling a rush of light-headedness as he stayed perched precariously on the side of the bed. Putting his head in his hands, he tried to fight the vertigo and nausea as he continued breathing deeply, staying as still as possible. He thought back, trying to remember what the hell happened. Had he drank last night? Aaron did drink sometimes, stealing whiskey or tequila from his parents’ liquor cabinet when things got too hard. They still kept his pills in their medicine cabinet, afraid Aaron would do something drastic, but they never said anything about the missing liquor.
A remnant of the dream he’d had the night before came back to him, as did the panic attack which had caused the need for the tranquilizers. Aaron stumbled and tripped as he nearly ran for the bathroom, getting the toilet lid up just as he vomited what little there was in his stomach. The screaming and the blood spattered across his memory caused him to continue to dry heave long after his stomach was empty.
His mother found him a few minutes later on the bathroom floor and stood by helplessly as he stumbled back into his bedroom, finally making it to his desk. Aaron practically fell into the well-padded chair and rested his forehead on the cool polished surface of the desk. His mother went downstairs, returning quickly with a small plate of dry toast and a can of 7Up.
“Thanks, Mom,” Aaron said quietly as she placed the food on the desk. Usually, his mother didn’t like the boys to eat in their rooms. She was afraid she would find fuzzy dishes in a month or two, but she was obviously making an unspoken exception. As he took a bite of the toast, she went into the bathroom, and he heard the water running. He popped the top on the 7Up and took a long drink, trying to wash the acrid taste from his mouth. Aaron’s mother returned a moment later with a cold wet rag which he took gratefully, wiping his face and the back of his neck. The nausea had finally started to subside.
Aaron finished two of the slices of toast and promised his mother to come down in a little while for some fruit. As he took another drink of the soda, he leaned down to pick up his laptop case. Pulling out the laptop, he carried it and the soda back to his bed. Thankfully, the room had stopped spinning, allowing him to feel steadier on his feet. Propping his pillow against the headboard, he sat back and opened the laptop. Carefully setting his soda on the bedside table, he turned on the laptop and waited for it to boot. The process seemed arduous, his body and mind still sluggish from the aftereffects of the large dose of tranquilizer the night before. Turning his attention back to his laptop, he entered his password and let it finish loading.
Just as Aaron clicked to open his e-mail client, an IM window popped up. Since there was only one person on his chat list, there was little doubt who it was from.
SPENCER: Where the hell have you been?!?!
Aaron was taken aback. He missed one class; it didn’t really warrant that strong a response, did it?
AARON: I wasn’t feeling well. I kind of slept through class.
SPENCER: I’ve been texting you all night. You were so freaked out after class. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you okay, Aaron?
He sighed. Was he okay? No, he wasn’t okay, not by a long shot, but what should he tell Spencer? If they were going to work together on the project for the rest of the term, Aaron knew he had to tell Spencer something. He would probably have to do a lot of explaining for his behavior before the course was over.
AARON: I don’t know what you want to hear.
SPENCER: Look, man, we all have issues, some worse than others. I like you. I think we could be good friends. It sounds like maybe you could use one. I know I could. If you want to talk about it, ju
st tell me what you’re comfortable with for now. I’ll do the same. Deal?
There was a long pause during which neither of them typed anything. It seemed they both knew they were on the verge of crossing a line, one Aaron hadn’t been anywhere near since the attack. Though had he sat and analyzed it, without fear and doubt clouding his judgment, he would have seen he already considered Spencer a friend. No matter how hard he tried not to.
Nothing good ever came from calling Aaron Downing a friend, but with a heavy feeling in his chest, he typed his agreement.
SPENCER: Being deaf, I don’t make friends easily. Most people either think I’m mentally challenged or don’t want to put in the effort.
And there it was—Spencer was asking Aaron to let him in, to be his friend. Could he? Could he trust that Spencer wouldn’t just take what he shared and use it to gossip about the scarred freak? Instinctively, he knew he could trust Spencer. But really, what had his instincts ever gotten him? If he’d had good instincts, as soon as that van had pulled over by them, he’d have grabbed Juliette and run. The problem was, Aaron was so fucking tired of being alone. He decided to give Spencer the polite public version of what had happened to him, and hope it didn’t scare off his potential new friend.
AARON: During my sophomore year of high school, when I was 16, my best friend Juliette and I were walking home from debate practice.
Aaron took a deep breath. God he remembered that day so clearly. He and Juliette had been talking about going to their school’s spring dance together. There wasn’t anyone Juliette particularly wanted to go with, and besides, no one had asked her. Aaron didn’t want to come out to the whole school by showing up with a guy. So he’d decided to ask her if she wanted to go with him, as friends. He’d never talked to Juliette about being gay until that night. Deep down, he didn’t think she’d have a problem with it; he was just scared to admit it. On their way home, she’d just come right out and asked him, infusing the question with her usual sense of humor. The fact she knew him so well was just one of the things he loved most about her. She was his best friend, and she never judged him, she just listened.
God, he missed her so much.
AARON: It was just after 9. Practice had run late because Juliette and I were trying to get some of the other students involved. The school year had just started, and Juliette was working on getting the team together. She was the captain. As we were walking past an elementary school playground, a dirty white van pulled up to the curb. I thought it was some kind of delivery van and the driver was lost. Juliette and I slowed down when we got to the sidewalk. The side door opened, and two guys jumped out. One grabbed Juliette, and the other grabbed me. They took us to some kind of abandoned mechanic’s garage and tortured us. I have scars on my arms, my legs, my back, and my chest, in addition to the ones you see on my face and neck. When they were done, they killed Juliette. They tried to kill me, but they screwed up the job.
SPENCER: OMG Were they caught?
Aaron thought “Oh my God” just about covered it. He’d never told anyone but the police and his mother anything about that night. Even then, he didn’t get into details, and there were parts he refused to talk about. They understood, or at least they appeared to. It didn’t matter. The physical evidence they found at the scene and at the hospital told them what they wanted to know, what Aaron could not talk about. It didn’t stop the shrinks, though. He just told them all to go to hell.
AARON: No, they were never caught.
SPENCER: How did you get away?
AARON: They didn’t tie us up; they just took turns holding us down. Either they didn’t bring anything, or they just liked to watch us struggle. My cell phone was in my pocket. After they left and before I lost consciousness, I turned it on and dialed. My mom had been going out of her mind because no one could find us, and I hadn’t answered my phone, which was off while we were in practice. She got the cops and the cell phone company to trace our location through the GPS in my phone, and they found us. They said 15 minutes later and I would have lost too much blood….
The chat window stayed quiet for a long time, and Aaron wondered if he’d gone too far, told Spencer too much. The poor guy probably had his e-mail up in another window, e-mailing Dr. Mayer to beg for a new partner, and Aaron couldn’t blame him. He spent most of his life drugged into oblivion so he didn’t have to deal with himself. Why would someone not forced to deal with Aaron do it willingly? It took another two minutes for the next message to come through, and when it did, it wasn’t what Aaron had expected at all.
SPENCER: I once destroyed a high school band room.
AARON: What?? Why?
SPENCER: When I was in high school, my aunt Nelle and my father were having a conversation about the cause of my condition, and they didn’t realize I was reading their lips. Hearing people forget sometimes that I can understand what they’re saying even though I can’t hear them. I had a really hard time for a while after that. I wanted to play guitar, and when the band director said they weren’t “equipped to accommodate my special needs,” I lost it. My dad was understanding, considering the fact I’d caused about $5000 worth of damage he had to pay for….
AARON: Something caused you to be deaf?
It took a few minutes, which meant that Spencer too was trying to decide how much of his story to tell. Aaron couldn’t blame him; that’s exactly what Aaron had done when editing his own gruesome tale.
SPENCER: My mom was mugged and then died while giving birth to me about 3 months too early.
AARON: I’m sorry.
SPENCER: Me too. Not so much about the deafness, because I don’t really know what I’m missing since I was born deaf, but because I never got to meet my mom. I have pictures, and Aunt Nelle tells me stories about her, but I really wish I’d known her.
The chat window was quiet for a while as Aaron tried to take in what Spencer had told him, probably just like Spencer was trying to digest what Aaron had told him. Finally, a message popped up asking Aaron if he needed the notes from that day’s lecture he’d missed, and the awkward silence was over. Aaron and Spencer talked for a few more minutes about class and their projects, but after the emotionally draining, edited baring of their souls, it just didn’t seem like the time to get into their project.
Aaron set his chat client to away, tossed his laptop to the foot of the bed, and sat back against the headboard. As he relaxed, he noticed the faint smell of garlic and something tomato based. It took him a minute, but then he placed the robust smell of his mother’s homemade spaghetti sauce. Her spaghetti had always been his favorite, ever since he’d been a toddler and begged her to make him “bisketti.” For the first time in years, he felt a burning in his throat and a tightening in his chest. He didn’t cry, but he sat there, on the very edge of tears, for a long time, thinking about what it would be like for him to lose his mother. After everything he’d gone through over the last few years, that would have killed him; there was no doubt in his mind.
Spencer had never even known his mother, never felt her arms around him when he woke from a bad dream, never had her blow on his scraped knee, never even brought her dandelions from the yard, totally unaware they were weeds because she treated them like prized roses. Aaron got up off the bed, rubbing his face with his hands before grabbing the now empty plate his mother had brought up earlier. Carrying it down the stairs into the kitchen, he set it down on the large island in the middle of the room. He watched his mother’s back for a few minutes while she stirred the contents of a large pot on the stove. Then she used a wooden spoon to take a taste.
“Mom, can I have a taste?” Aaron asked quietly, and his mother turned to smile at him before dipping the spoon into the sauce. She held it aloft with one hand, her other hand underneath to prevent it from dripping onto her clean floor. Leaning forward, Aaron opened his mouth, allowing his mother to feed him from the old, worn wooden spoon.
“Man, that is really good,” Aaron said, and took pleasure in her beaming smile at t
he compliment from her usually stoic son.
“Thanks, it will be even better later.” She chuckled and tossed the spoon into the sink behind her.
“I love you, Mom,” Aaron admitted quietly. He was sure the sentiment had come from the pain in his chest at the thought of what it would mean to lose her. His mother froze at the sink for several seconds and then turned to face her son. Aaron saw her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I love you too, Aaron, so much.”
Eleven
SPENCER WATCHED the interpreter relaying the content of Dr. Mayer’s lecture without really seeing her. He registered that her hands were moving, caught a few of the signs, but mostly he sat and wondered how to ask Aaron to come to his house to work on their project. His father had asked about Aaron again over dinner the night before, verifying his last name and asking strangely detailed questions about Aaron’s behavior at school. He could tell his father was interested, but had no idea what would happen if he brought his friend home.
His heart raced as he drummed out a tuneless song on the desk in front of the lab computer’s keyboard. He concentrated hard on not tapping too hard so he didn’t disrupt class. Mr. McCluskey had taught him that hard lesson in his freshman year of high school by making him sit in detention, bored senseless, until he learned to stop fidgeting. It took many, many long hours to break him of the habit.
