The inside of the house is tidy, with the exception of the kitchen. Auriel briefly considers trying to clean up the half-cooked meal he had abandoned in his rush to get to the hospital, but exhaustion wins out. He walks through the living room and down the hallway that houses three bedrooms. The furthest from him belongs to Hattie, who had convinced Olivier to join her in a cross-country road trip nearly two years ago; the trip had ended with them meeting Auriel and subsequently moving into his house. The room to Auriel’s right has been a designated guest room for almost the entire time Hattie and Olivier have lived in the house—once Olivier and Auriel started sharing a bed every night it didn’t make much sense to keep their stuff in two separate rooms.
Auriel pushes the master bedroom door open and inhales the unique scent that comprises his and Olivier’s shared space. He walks over to the oil infuser on his nightstand, and pours a few drops of rosemary essential oil into the shallow pool of water. Then he grabs Olivier’s lighter from where it’s leaning up against a small sachet of weed, and lights the tea light beneath the oil. The warm, buttery smell fills the room, and Auriel feels a tiny bit of the tension in his shoulders melt away.
He walks over to the bed, shucking his jeans and shrugging out of his t-shirt. The sheets are soft and cool; Auriel wants to sink into the bed and never emerge. Olivier had insisted that they purchase an excessively thick mattress pad, and Auriel hadn’t been willing to budge once his heart was set on a heavy down duvet, which had rendered their first IKEA trip considerably more expensive than either of their budgets could really manage, but the subsequent week of eating ramen for every meal had been worth it.
Olivier’s pillow smells like the hemp lotion he applies religiously each evening before bed, and Auriel shamelessly leans into it, tears springing into his eyes without warning. The sheer number of hours he has been awake culminating with the terror he feels whenever he thinks about the fact that Olivier has been unconscious for three days overwhelms him, and he falls asleep weeping into the pillow.
Hours later he goes from midway through a REM cycle to wide awake in a couple of seconds. His phone is ringing, the jaunty tone grating on Auriel as he tries to orient himself in time and space. There is a moment when he can’t remember where he is, how old he is, why his heart is slamming against his ribcage in response to a phone call. But then it all floods back in, and he’s scrambling out of bed, digging frantically through his pants pocket until he untangles his phone from the snarl of denim. Hattie’s face is grinning at him from the screen, and he answers the call with fumbling fingers.
“Hattie?”
In the moment before she answers, Auriel registers that it is dark outside. He has been out for a long time, ensconced in a deep dreamless sleep. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, and it is disconcerting. Hattie’s voice grounds him.
“Auriel, you need to get over here.”
Dread claws at Auriel’s insides, cold and sharp. He feels bile threatening to crawl up his throat. “Is he…?”
“He’s awake. You need to be here.” She’s hoarse, and Auriel wishes vehemently that she were here with him.
“Yeah, I’m on my way.” He is already opening the Lyft app, fumbling to enter the hospital’s address. “Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes, ok?”
“I will. Hurry, Auriel.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He throws on the first clothes his clumsy hands pull out of his dresser, and he realizes once he’s in the car that he’s wearing Olivier’s college hoodie, faded from too many times through the dryer. It is soft in the way that only well-loved clothes really can be, and Auriel pulls the long sleeves down until only the tips of his fingers are visible. He shudders as the driver drops him off at the main entrance to the hospital, but the moment he is inside the building his feet are whisking him through the maze of hallways until he’s outside of Olivier’s door. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t even think to knock, just barrels through the doorway, knocking his shoulder roughly on the doorframe.
And there’s Olivier, sitting up in his unshapely hospital gown and scowling as a nurse tries to convince him to sip water through a straw.
“I can damn well drink without a chaperone, thanks very much,” he snaps, forgoing the straw altogether and accidentally sloshing water down his front with the first gulp.
Auriel’s heart soars. Because here is Olivier, snarky and contrary and fiercely independent. He looks fine, as though he’s just woken up from a nap with messy bedhead and shadows under his eyes. This is not the shell of a man that Auriel feared might emerge from the brief coma, and his relief is palpable. His first instinct is to throw himself onto Olivier’s bed, to hold him tightly until Auriel’s own heart stops rabbiting wildly in his chest, and he starts toward Olivier positively thrumming with excitement.
Olivier, who has set aside the cup with a contemptuous glance at the nurse, raises an eyebrow at Auriel. “And you are…?”
“Fucking relieved to see you,” breathes Auriel.
Olivier’s brows furrow in confusion. “Sorry, do I know you?”
Time seems to freeze. A chill sweeps down Auriel’s arms and he has the distinct sensation of the world lurching around him. He slowly realizes that the nurse has a firm grip on his upper arm and is leading him over to a chair. He sucks in a deep breath, counting to five as he draws it in and then counting to ten as he blows it out. It takes a couple of repetitions before the world rights itself around him, by which time Olivier is looking seriously alarmed.
“I’m, uh, sorry. I just don’t…everything’s a little fuzzy,” says Olivier.
Auriel turns to the nurse. “What’s wrong with him?” he asks, firmly tamping down the panic that threatens to consume him again.
“There seems to be a certain degree of memory impairment,” she says. “An initial assessment indicates that he is suffering from isolated retrograde amnesia. We haven’t come across any other obvious deficits.”
“Isolated retrograde—what does that mean?” inquires Auriel. Olivier levels him with a flat stare.
“Apparently,” he tells Auriel, “I’m missing a solid chunk of memory. So can you help me out and introduce yourself?”
Auriel is saved from having to reply when Hattie walks through the door. “Sorry that took so long. I swear to god, I could not for the life of me find the bathroom. Oh man, Auriel, thank god.” She pulls him into a tight hug and then addresses Olivier. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”
Olivier looks somewhat aggrieved as he says, “it would be fucking stellar if you could fill me in on what’s going on here. Who is this guy?”
Hattie’s eyes dart between Olivier and Auriel, and it’s clear that she’s thinking fast. “You don’t recognize Auriel?”
The nurse clears her throat. “I think it might be best if we let you rest for a bit, Olivier. I’m just going to show these two to the waiting room.” Before anyone can protest, she is steering Auriel and Hattie out of the room and down the hallway. They end up in a small, empty sitting area that smells like disinfectant.
Hattie is the one who breaks the silence. “What’s wrong with him?” she asks. “I thought for sure when he saw Auriel he would recognize him.”
“He’s missing a good couple of years of memory. The last thing he remembers is working on his thesis; he thinks you guys are still in college,” says the nurse.
“I kind of figured that out, but I thought he just needed his memory jogged or whatever,” says Hattie.
Auriel turns to Hattie and asks, “why didn’t you warn me when you called?” His voice breaks and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“I didn’t know,” she says gently. “I called you as soon as he was conscious, and then he started asking me what happened and insisting that he had to let his advisor know he’d need an extension on his thesis proposal if he was gonna be stuck in the hospital.”
The nurse adds, “it can be hard, with head injuries, to tell what’s going on at first. A certain amount
of confusion is completely normal when someone wakes up from a coma.”
“He’s not confused,” argues Auriel, “he doesn’t know who I am. God, he looked right at me and there wasn’t even a hint of recognition.”
“Is this likely to be permanent?” asks Hattie.
“Hmm,” says the nurse thoughtfully. “There isn’t really a way for me to know that at this point. But it could really go either way. Some patients start to regain memories in the months that follow this kind of injury, and others don’t. You can talk with Dr. Hersch about it when he gets in tomorrow. He will want to discuss the situation with you anyhow. I’ve already left a message for him to call Mr. and Mrs. Sauveterre first thing in the morning, I assume you will want to be involved in that conversation.”
Auriel turns to Hattie urgently. “You called them, right? They know that he’s awake?”
She rolls her eyes. “No, I thought I’d just leave them in the dark about it. Obviously I called them, A.”
For the past few days Olivier’s parents have been conference calling with Auriel, Hattie, and Dr. Hersch to discuss his care. Their financial situation is such that they haven’t been able to fly across the country to be with Olivier. Auriel knows that this is absolutely killing them, and he has been texting them constantly with updates. They’ve trusted him to take care of their son; he feels profoundly ashamed that it took him so long to think of them after Hattie’s phone call.
“What do I need to do now? Tonight?” Auriel asks the nurse.
She looks him right in the eye and says, “you need to rest. I think it’s best if Hattie stays with him tonight, since he remembers her.”
Auriel shakes his head. “I need to be with him.”
“Think of it from his point of view,” she says gently. “He doesn’t know who you are right now. It’s best that we don’t overwhelm him tonight. I’m going to go check on him. Can you be here at 8 o’clock to meet with Dr. Hersch?” Auriel nods and she squeezes his shoulder tightly before saying, “you’re going to be ok,” and heading back down the hall.
Auriel glances at Hattie, who looks as though she’s trying to find the right words as she formulates a question. In the end, she doesn’t manage to soften the blow much. “Is it maybe best if we don’t tell him about your relationship?” she asks Auriel.
A wave of dread washes over him. The thought of Olivier, awake and coherent but utterly in the dark about Auriel’s role in his life is profoundly disturbing. “You mean, like, ever?”
Hattie shakes her head. “I mean, just until he starts remembering.”
“He’s not necessarily going to start remembering,” Auriel murmurs.
“I just think it might be a lot for him to process right now. You remember what he was like when you first met him.” She smiles fondly, and Auriel doesn’t need to tell her how vividly he does remember. Olivier had been standing with one foot firmly in the closet, stubbornly determined that he could be happy and fulfilled with furtive flings, playing the pronoun game at family dinners, and bringing Hattie as his date to any occasion that called for a display of heteronormativity. It had taken quite a bit of time and a whole lot of patience to coax him out of his shell, but once Olivier embraced his queerness, his desire for a long-term intimate relationship with a man, he had positively glowed with it. He often told Auriel that he had accidentally stumbled across his authentic life without ever realizing that he hadn’t been living it. The thought of Olivier having to start that process all over again makes something in Auriel’s chest ache.
He sits up straight and looks Hattie right in the eyes. “I don’t know if I can do this,” he says.
She reaches out and grabs his hand, lacing their fingers together. “I know, it’s horrible.”
“I’m serious,” he warns her. “I have no idea how to be around him without showing him how I feel. He’ll figure it out in like a second.”
“He’s sharp,” she agrees. “But it’s not like he’s expecting to be in a relationship. He’ll probably just think you guys are really close friends.”
“Friends who share a bed?” Auriel adds, shooting Hattie an incredulous look.
She bites her lip. “Yeah, that definitely throws a wrench in things.”
An hour later Auriel is standing in the guest room of his home. His clothes are carefully folded in the bureau and hanging in the walk-in closet. He has brought several houseplants and his oil diffuser across the hall, as well as the more incriminating pictures that had been pinned on the bulletin board in the master bedroom. The unfamiliar nightstand contains his sketchbook and journals. The room doesn’t have a strong smell, just the mild scent of the all-purpose cleaner that Auriel uses throughout the house. He turns off the overhead light and climbs into bed, struggling to find a comfortable position on the stiff mattress. With a sigh he pulls the hood of Olivier’s hoodie over his head, and settles in for the night.
2
Olivier
Olivier spends a day and a half in the hospital after he wakes up. He is being closely monitored by doctors and nurses, and they submit him to a barrage of tests. They determine that his brain is functioning normally for the most part, although the past two years have been cleanly excised from his memory.
He talks to his parents over the phone and asks Hattie a million questions about current events and reads pamphlets on Traumatic Brain Injuries cover to cover. By the second afternoon, he is bored and antsy. That’s when Hattie comes into his room with a latte in each hand and an unfamiliar woman trailing behind her.
“One of those had better be for me,” he says in lieu of a greeting.
Hattie rolls her eyes and thrusts the larger to-go cup at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she says. “Otherwise I would never put up with that attitude of yours.”
Olivier is busy inhaling the steam rising from his latte, but he smiles at her and says, “I love you with my whole heart, Hattie Davis.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I brought you entertainment.” She gestures at the other woman, who smiles and reaches out a hand to shake Olivier’s.
“I’m Stella,” she tells him.
“Olivier,” he responds, and takes a big gulp of his coffee.
She laughs. “Yeah, I know. I make that drink for you like six times a week.”
“You’re my barista! Wow, well done. Excellent foam consistency. Please tell me you have all the dirt on my mysterious west coast life.”
Stella and Hattie exchange an inscrutable look, and Olivier narrows his eyes. Stella turns her attention back to him and says, “I mean, a couple of weeks ago you and I drank two bottles of Moscato and you made me watch four Molly Ringwald movies.”
“Yikes, you’re a trooper.”
Stella shrugs. “The wine helped.” Olivier likes her more and more with every word she speaks. “How’s the head?”
He considers. There is a dull, persistent ache in his right temple, but a hefty dose of ibuprofen is keeping it at bay for the most part. He’s slightly disgruntled that they haven’t give him a morphine drip, but that has less to do with any pain he’s feeling than the fact that he enjoys getting high. He settles on, “still here.”
“Well, that’s something,” says Stella.
Olivier doesn’t mention the numbness that flutters intermittently through the fingers of his left hand. He doesn’t tell her that he can hear a low-pitched ringing in the background for hours at a time. He’s not particularly interested in admitting to a virtual stranger that he’s scared and confused by the fact that he has been seemingly plucked out of one period of his life and tossed into another without a bridge of knowledge to help him understand how he got here. So he changes the subject.
“How do we know each other?”
“Auriel introduced us,” says Stella. “He and I used to work together at the coffee shop before he got his job at the nursery.”
Olivier’s interest is instantly piqued. Auriel has been in and out of the hospital room for the past couple of days, although he
has been careful to knock ever since his first dramatic entrance. Olivier is fascinated by him, intrigued by his expressive brown eyes and gorgeous olive skin, by the way that he looks away shyly every time Olivier catches him staring. The man is goddamn beautiful—everything from his bone structure to his posture takes Olivier’s breath away. And that stubble…
“Nursery? Does he work with babies?” asks Olivier.
Hattie and Stella burst out laughing. “Oh shit,” gasps Hattie, “can you even imagine? No, he works with plants.”
Olivier is willing be patient as long as he can get some intel. “With plants?” he prompts.
It’s Stella who answers. “He studied botany in college and then interned on a bunch of farms afterward. Now he works for this really swanky local nursery that grows everything from exotic flowers to teas. You name it, he can make it grow.”
“Greenest damn thumb I’ve ever seen,” Hattie agrees. “You should see the garden in our back yard. It’s mad impressive.”
And if that isn’t the perfect segue, Olivier doesn’t know what is. “How did we end up living with him?” he asks.
Hattie sits down on the end of Olivier’s bed and pushes out a chair for Stella with her foot. “During our last semester of school I got into my Master’s program out here. I wanted to get settled in early, and you were still job searching so I asked if you wanted to do a post-graduation, cross-country road trip with me.”
“Please tell me I said yes.”
She grins. “Obviously. So we did the whole road trip thing…you know, hitting up bizarre roadside attractions, camping in national parks, eating at questionable diners.”
“No food poisoning, I hope,” Stella interjects.
“No, thank the lord. We stayed in a hostel for about a week when we got out here, and we both kind of fell in love with the city. So you started looking for jobs out here, and I spent a lot of time combing through housing ads. We met up with a few people who seemed cool, but housing goes so fast out here that we didn’t end up getting any offers. Living in a hostel was starting to get expensive and you weren’t sure if you should commit to a job until you knew for sure you would be able to stay out here. Then we were at this massive bookstore one day because I needed to pick up a new copy of Le Deuxième Sexe to prep for school, and you asked Auriel to grab a book off a high shelf for you. Somehow you struck up a conversation and he started complaining about how his roommates were moving across town, so he needed to find a couple of people to move in as soon as possible.”
Fragile Ground Page 2
