Big Guy

by Robin Stevenson

“The old lady down the hall?” Aaliyah looks surprised.

  “Yeah. She’s all right. You should talk to her sometime. I think she gets lonely.”

  “Well, aren’t you just Mr. Sensitive,” Aaliyah says, wheeling herself into the bathroom.

  I follow her in. “Ready to go?”

  She nods and I start unbuttoning her shirt. “So,” I say, “what happened with your ex? Did you tell him you wanted to end it?”

  “I did.” She meets my eyes for a second. Then she drops her gaze.

  “Umm...how did you tell him? What did he say?” I picture Ethan sitting in front of his computer, reading my words.

  She shrugs, helping me slide the shirt off. “Just said I didn’t want to see him anymore and asked him to stop calling.”

  “You don’t seem...well, it’s none of my business, but you don’t look so good.”

  “You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

  I turn on the taps and hold my hand under the water, testing the temperature.

  Aaliyah stares at me. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

  “That’s hardly news,” I say.

  “Ha ha.” She studies my face. “Are you seeing anyone?”

  I ignore the question. I help her up and out of her pants.

  When she is sitting under the running water, she asks me again. “Well? Do you have a girlfriend?”

  I shake my head, but to my surprise I find myself telling her anyway. “I was seeing someone,” I say. “Online. You know. A long-distance thing.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “And?”

  “And nothing. We broke up. I...I actually just broke it off last night.”

  It sounds so strange, hearing myself say it out loud. Right this minute, I’d give anything to reach out into cyberspace and snatch back that e-mail. Just as well I can’t, I guess. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. E-mail is one thing, but I can’t imagine Ethan loving this body in person. And it’s not like I can lose eighty pounds in a few months.

  Aaliyah is watching me, water streaming down her back and shoulders. Her dark eyes are thoughtful. “Why did you end it?”

  I shrug and look away. “Just wasn’t working out.” I reach for the shampoo and start washing her hair.

  When I get home, Dad is waiting for me. In his hand is Ethan’s picture.

  “Uh, hi?” I say tentatively.

  He doesn’t waste any time. “Who is this? I found it on your pillow.”

  “What were you doing in my room? Snooping around?”

  He stares at me, jaw tight. “Just answer the question.”

  For the second time today, I find myself saying more than I intended to. “His name’s Ethan.”

  “And? What the hell is this...Ethan’s... picture doing on your pillow?”

  To tell the truth, I’m pretty taken aback. I know Dad snoops—that’s nothing new. He likes to control every little thing, which means he has to know every little thing. It was one of the things that made Mom crazy. He used to go through her purse and her date-book, stuff like that. But his reaction to this photograph? It makes me wonder if he’s been suspecting something for a while.

  I’m just staring at him, trying to decide what to say. His face is getting redder and redder, and a little muscle in his jaw is popping out, twitching around.

  “Dad?” I hesitate.

  I’ve never wanted to come out to my dad. I’d have told Mom, if she’d stuck around, but I know Dad will freak. But Ethan’s face is flickering in my mind, and I refuse to let my father go on bullying me. I refuse to lie about the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

  Even now that it’s over.

  “His name is Ethan,” I say again. “We were seeing each other. He was my boyfriend.”

  I’m bracing myself, not sure if he’s going to hit me or throw something or just start shouting. But he doesn’t say anything. He just looks away from me. He stares out the window, not saying a word.

  The clock is ticking loudly. My heart is racing and my shirt is soaked with sweat. It seems like ten minutes go by but maybe it’s only two.

  “Dad?”

  He slowly turns back to me and his face is stiff and cold. “I’m going out,” he says. “I want you and your stuff gone by the time I get back.”

  He rips the picture of Ethan in half and lets the two torn pieces fall to the floor.

  Chapter Ten

  I stuff some clothes into a backpack. I have no idea what to do but I’m not sticking around. For a second I look at the computer and imagine telling Ethan about what just happened. There’s a weird empty ache in my gut whenever I think about him.

  So don’t think about him, I tell myself. Think about what to do.

  I cram a few cd’s into my backpack. I can’t possibly pack up all my stuff now. I’ll have to get boxes and come back. Where would I put it all, anyway? My car? I don’t even know where I’m going.

  One thing I do know is that I don’t want to be here when Dad gets back. Right now I don’t care if I never see him again. Don’t get me wrong—if he decides to apologize, I’ll listen. I can’t see it happening though. Dad has never said he’s sorry for any of the things he’s done. I don’t think he knows how. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and head out.

  On the living room floor, something catches my eye. The torn pieces of Ethan’s picture, just lying there where Dad dropped them. I hesitate, and then I pick them up. I should just drop them in the garbage, but I can’t quite do it. Instead, my hand slides the ripped-up picture into my pocket.

  For a moment I wonder if I should try to find Mom somehow. I have this kind of romantic image of myself hitchhiking down to California. But I wouldn’t know where to start. How many religious cults are there in California? Probably hundreds. And it’s not like they’d be listed in the phone book.

  Besides, Mom walked out. So screw that idea.

  I pick up the phone and call Gabi. “Can I crash at your place? Dad...well, I guess he’s kicked me out.”

  “Bastard,” Gabi says. “What happened?”

  “I told him about Ethan.”

  “No way.”

  “Way.”

  Gabi whistles softly. “You’re a crazy man, Derek. What’d you do that for?”

  I’m quiet for a minute. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on it. Besides, I already broke up with Ethan anyway.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. I’ll fill you in later, okay?”

  Gabi is still talking when I put the phone down.

  Gabi’s parents are great. They don’t ask any questions. They just say that the spare room is mine for as long as I need it. You can tell they mean it and that they’re not just being polite. Her house has always been like that, ever since we were little kids: kind of open and welcoming, with lots of people in and out, cooking and listening to music and arguing about books and ideas.

  They’re even cool with Gabi being a dyke. Lots of their friends are gay. They probably have no idea how much difference that has made to me, just seeing that not everyone is like my own family. That there are other ways to be in the world. That there are choices.

  Gabi’s new girlfriend, the one from Java Joe’s, shows up right after I get there. It’s kind of a relief, to be honest. If I was alone with Gabi, I know she’d have a thousand questions, and really, all I want to do is go to bed.

  In the spare room, I put the torn halves of Ethan’s picture on the dresser, carefully lined up. Then I lie on the bed, thinking about him. I wonder if he’s e-mailed me. I wonder what he said. I hope...I don’t know. That he’s not too hurt. That he doesn’t hate me for doing this.

  Ethan. Mom. Dad. It’s all too freaking much. I imagine my life stretching out ahead of me, a long, endless empty ache. I rummage through my stuff, looking for something to eat, and find a bag of chocolate chip cookies I took from home. I’m just about to rip it open when I remember old Mrs. Buckley, hiding bits of food in her room. And I think about Dad and hi
s drinking, and Mom and her religious cult. All these ways people get through the days. I stare at the bag for a minute. Then I toss it into the garbage and crawl back into bed. Hot tears sneak out of my eyes and run silently into my hair.

  “Quit feeling sorry for yourself,” I whisper. But I can’t. I can’t.

  The next day, I head off to work as usual.

  Francine pounces on me the minute I walk through the front door.

  “Derek, can you come into my office, please?”

  My heart quickens. My first thought is that she’s going to fire me, but I haven’t really done anything wrong that I can think of. I sit down and Francine takes her seat behind the big desk. Her face is tight and hard to read. I find myself thinking of Aaliyah. Has something happened to her? Another aneurysm? Can that happen?

  But it’s something else entirely.

  Chapter Eleven

  Francine taps her long fingernails on the desk. They’re painted a pale shade of purple and look like Halloween. “Aaliyah’s asked for you again,” she says.

  I nod, relieved. “Okay.”

  She shakes her head, lips thin and tight. “Derek, if there’s something going on, I need you to tell me. Right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you know what I mean.”

  I don’t have a clue, so I just sit there staring at her. Has she found out that I lied on my resume or something?

  She sighs. “I’m not stupid, Derek. All these months of insisting on no male caregivers, and now she’s requesting you every day?”

  The pieces finally click into place. I almost laugh. “You mean...you think Aaliyah and I...No. No. Nothing like that.”

  She just sits there. Flint-eyed. Unbelieving.

  “She’s not my type,” I say stupidly.

  Francine sighs again. “Well, I can’t force you to admit anything, but I’m assigning Paula to Aaliyah for the time being.”

  Aaliyah hates Paula. I don’t say anything but I feel like the room just got ten degrees hotter.

  “Mrs. Buckley, then?” I ask. My voice sounds flat.

  Francine shakes her head. “She was admitted to hospital last night. Chest infection. Not good at her age.” She shrugs. “Well, there’s plenty of names on the wait list.

  ”

  I help a couple of older men get dressed. Then I clean up an empty apartment. I don’t know who lived here, don’t know whether they moved out or died. There are some photos taped to the wall and I leave them in a neat pile on the counter, thinking about Mrs. Buckley.

  On my lunch break, I sneak upstairs to see Aaliyah. I know this is stupid, but I don’t want her to think it’s my choice not to see her anymore.

  “So what’s up?” I ask her.

  She looks at me. “You look like crap, Derek. No offence.”

  I laugh but it sounds flat and hollow even to my own ears. “None taken.”

  “So where were you this morning? I got stuck with Paula the day-care lady.”

  There’s a long silence and I force myself to meet her eyes. “Aaliyah, Francine said you asked for me and I didn’t know if she was going to tell you...”

  “Tell me what?”

  “She’s taken me off the schedule for you, for a while anyway.” I shrug an apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to think it was my choice.”

  Aaliyah closes her eyes for a second. “My fault,” she says.

  “Huh?”

  “I should’ve gone on saying I didn’t want male caregivers.”

  I feel my cheeks getting warm, but I figure she should have all the information. “She thinks we’re, you know...involved.”

  She just snorts. “She doesn’t really think that. You’re just a kid.”

  “I’m not,” I protest.

  Aaliyah looks at me, eyes dark. “Francine just loves her power. This is the kind of thing she does. This is why it’s better never to let anyone know what you want. Better to pretend you don’t care.”

  “Maybe if you told her? You know, that there’s nothing going on with us?” For some reason, I really want Aaliyah to do this. Not just so I can keep seeing her, though I want that too.

  It’s because I want her to stand up for herself. To see that she has choices. “Won’t make a difference. Better to pretend you don’t care,” she says again. A muscle in her jaw twitches.

  I shake my head helplessly. I feel like this is my fault somehow. “I’m sorry.”

  She laughs, sort of. A flat, totally unfunny laugh. “You’re not so good at that, are you? Pretending not to care?”

  I shrug, embarrassed. “I’d better get out of here. If Francine catches me, she’ll really think something is going on.”

  Aaliyah grabs my sleeve. “Hang on. What’s wrong with you, anyway?” Her eyes lock on mine and don’t let go. “You’re not just upset about Francine, are you?”

  I shake my head.

  “You miss your girlfriend?”

  For a second I can’t think what she’s talking about.

  “Your online relationship?” she prompts. “You said you ended it.”

  “Oh. It wasn’t a girlfriend, it was a guy.” I don’t really care what she thinks right now. “I’m gay.”

  I watch her face carefully. She looks mildly surprised but not shocked. Not upset. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

  “S’okay.”

  “So. Is that what’s wrong? You miss him?”

  I shake my head. Then I change my mind and nod. “I miss him like crazy.”

  Next thing I know, all this emotion is rushing up inside me, crazy waves of feeling that knock me down and suck me under. I can’t breathe properly and I’m about to start crying like a baby.

  I mutter something, anything, pull my arm away from her and duck into the bathroom.

  When I come back out, I’ve calmed myself down. “Sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “You know. Unloading all that on you.”

  She grins a little but her eyes are sad. “It’s okay. Makes a nice change, not just to be seen as someone who needs to be taken care of.”

  “That’s not how I see you,” I say. The words are automatic, but I realize I mean it. “I like talking to you. I do.” I watch her face carefully, hoping she won’t get all prickly again.

  She looks solemn but not at all mad. “So tell me why you dumped your boyfriend then.”

  I shake my head. “It’s really personal. Embarrassing.”

  Aaliyah snorts. “Please. Needing help to take a shower? That’s personal.”

  I can see the rain streaming down outside the window. I guess it must be setting that record by now. I watch the cars going in and out of the parking lot and listen to the clock ticking loudly in the apartment.

  Aaliyah just waits.

  “I really like this guy a lot,” I said. My voice sounds low and choky, and I clear my throat.

  “So why did you end it?” Aaliyah asks. Her eyebrows are pulled together in a puzzled frown.

  “He was going to visit,” I say slowly, watching her face. “The thing is, I haven’t always been like this. I haven’t always been fat. And, uh, I sent him an old picture.”

  Aaliyah’s frown clears and an expression I can’t read takes its place. “You mean you’re dumping him so he won’t find out you’re fat?”

  I squirm inwardly. She makes it sound so pathetic. “Yeah,” I say. “Basically.”

  “That is seriously the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” She wheels her chair a little closer to me and looks at me straight on.

  I can’t meet her eyes.

  “You guys have been talking online, right? I mean, you know each other from conversations. It’s not like he fell for you because of how you look.”

  I shake my head. “I guess not. I mean, no. We didn’t even exchange photos until we’d been talking for a few months.”

  “So don’t you think you should give the guy some credit?”

  “What do you mean?”

&n
bsp; “I mean, maybe he’s not totally shallow. Maybe he might care about more than whether your body is perfect or not. Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  Aaliyah is leaning toward me, her dark eyes intense.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t really need the humiliation of getting dumped in person.”

  She bangs her fist awkwardly on the arm of her chair. “Don’t be a coward.”

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I don’t think you get to call me a coward. Not after you just dumped your boyfriend for the same reason.”

  Her eyes are daggers. “It’s not the same,” she says, spitting the words out.

  “Your body’s not perfect. Neither is mine. So what’s the difference? If I’m a coward, so are you.”

  “You don’t understand anything,” she says.

  Impulsively, I put my hand on her arm. “Maybe I understand more than you think.”

  Aaliyah stares at me for a long minute, and I can see her dark eyes starting to shine with tears. She blinks them away and puts her hand over mine.

  “Maybe you do,” she says, so softly that I have to lean close to hear her. “Maybe we’re both cowards.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As I wipe clean the tables in the dining room, I can’t stop thinking about Aaliyah’s words. Am I a coward?

  Duh. Obviously. But if I think she should give her fiancé a chance—if I think he deserves a chance—then doesn’t Ethan deserve one too?

  It sounds good in theory. If this was happening to someone else—like Aaliyah, say—I know what my advice would be.

  But when I imagine actually meeting Ethan, all I can see is the disappointment on his face when he sees what I look like now. “You lied to me,” I imagine him saying. I realize that I’ve never even heard his voice. I watch my wet cloth making smeary circles on the table and feel kind of dizzy. Is it possible to be dizzy from missing someone? More likely it’s just that I’ve forgotten to eat all day.

  “Derek?”

  I look up. “Mrs. Buckley?”

  She’s back, leaning on her walker, wearing a blue tracksuit with a thick white housecoat over top and looking around the dining room like she owns it.