“How are you feeling?”
“Peachy keen,” he says, glazed eyes glued to the TV. A heavily made-up woman in a shimmering dress and high heels talks about Jesus.
Brian has changed since the hospital—and not just physically. A low-burning rage hovers under all his words, except he’s usually too tired to let loose. Sometimes the anger makes me feel better, like he’s still got fight in him. Other times I hear the truth under his sharp words and snappy tone, and I know it’s not anger but fear. His camera sits next to him, turned off. He’s too weak to hold it.
“Can I get you anything?”
He shakes his head. He can’t get around without a cane now—even then, if he walks further than about fifteen feet, he loses his breath, stumbles, and complains of the pain in his legs. The first time I saw him using the cane, I had to leave the room—I was shaking all over, trying to hold back my sobs. He lashes out because he cannot do the things he used to. Searing headaches make him weepy and fatigue drags him down. He constantly battles the unsettling, dizzying feeling that he might vomit at any moment. Diarrhea leaves him weak. My poor son. I don’t know how to make him better. There are good days—when he keeps down the little food that he eats, when he’s in better spirits—but they are rare.
“Did you eat breakfast?”
He doesn’t answer.
“He ate a couple bites of oatmeal. I put another pot of coffee on. It should be ready in a few minutes,” Lettie says. Lettie has received a few mean phone calls, but she doesn’t avoid picking up. She yells, “You ought to be ashamed,” and the caller always hangs up first.
She’s still in her housecoat, and without makeup, her face looks naked and scared and small. There is something else. It takes me a moment to realize. Her hair. She’s let her hair go. Strands of her natural gray web through the fading dye, which is now more of a dull brown. It’s the first time I’ve seen Lettie without black hair.
“You need another cup?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She hands me the mug, her hand shaking just slightly. She probably needs a cigarette. No more smoking in the house. We go out to the front porch or backyard, fill up ashtrays and coffee cans with our ashes, our sadness, our tears. Lettie still tries to live in her own world of pretend, believing Brian will get better, that he’ll defy all the odds. I remember my mother, always in the hospital, or tucked away in her room, a body of bones. Too much suffering. I am not ready to let my son go. It is not fair—he came back to us, and now God is taking him away.
“Mamaw and I placed bets on how many times Tammy Faye will break into tears,” Brian says, pointing at the TV.
“I’m winning,” Lettie says.
“I always underestimate her crying.” Brian looks at Lettie and they giggle. It’s silly, but I feel a pang of rejection, like years ago when I’d walk in on the two of them fervently discussing actors and TV shows, and they’d look up and smile in a way that excluded me. There was no way to come between them. And, now, no matter what I do for Brian, I can’t undo the truth: it was Lettie, not me, who found him and brought him back home.
While Lettie makes a trip to the grocery store, I take her place on the couch, keeping Brian company. He spends most of his time in the family room watching TV, and the living room serves as his bedroom because it’s too difficult for him to go up and down the stairs. His first day back from the hospital, Lettie ordered Travis and Gus to move a twin bed out of one of the bedrooms. Brian lay on the couch while they did the moving, sleeping or pretending to sleep. Since Brian’s been back, he and Travis have hardly spoken. Travis visited him in the hospital, but stayed in the waiting room most of the time, anxiously leafing through magazines. When he saw Brian, he was shocked by how frail he’d become, how sickly and strange. He stood stiffly, too far away from the bed, unable—or unwilling—to look his son in the eye.
Travis has only come over to Lettie’s a few times. He asks Brian how he’s feeling, and Brian says, “Fine,” and then Travis will talk to me or Lettie or Jess, whoever is in the room, chattering about work or the weather or anything other than what he still hasn’t faced. Travis doesn’t talk to me about it either. After the hospital stay, one of the only things he asked me was about the bill. How would we ever pay for it? I explained Brian had disability from social security and Medicaid. So the government’s paying, he said, shaking his head, and I wanted to slap him. Travis wants things to go back to the way they never were.
“Mom,” Brian says.
“What?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Is there something else you want to watch?” I ask.
“Whatever you want,” he mumbles.
I turn on MTV for him. A scantily-clad woman dances around a pole. Then the video switches to men with long hair and tight pants screaming into microphones, one of them pounding drums, another holding a red guitar above his head.
“Oh, I hate this band, they’re awful,” Brian says. “Turn it, please.”
I push buttons on the remote, and Brian tells me to stop on a nature show. Giraffes graze on tall trees, stretching out their long necks.
“Your mom, she had cancer, didn’t she?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Yes.”
“Painful death?”
My fingertips tingle. On TV the giraffes walk gracefully, as if they’re gliding, across a golden plain. “I don’t—yes, I think so.”
Brian closes his eyes, then opens them wide. “When it started, nobody knew what was happening,” he says. “We were all so scared.”
Perched on the edge of the couch, I don’t move or make a sound. It’s rare that no one else is around. When it is just the two of us, he’s usually sleeping. Or staring at me with large, furious, frightened eyes. My ears hum. I want to be a good audience. To listen.
“Guys were just getting so sick. And dying. Healthy guys. Friends.” He makes a small sound like he’s gasping, and it shakes me out of my stillness. I jump up from the couch, and lay my hand on his clammy forehead. “Lost too many. My friends. Shawn.”
“I’m sorry.” Then I say, “I wish I’d met him.” I don’t realize I mean the words until they leave my mouth. This man loved my son, he took care of him, he made him happy. Brian looks at me, and his sunken eyes seem huge.
“Mom. I’m scared.”
I crouch next to him. “It’s going to be okay.” When I put my arm around him, I feel his bones. He’s crying—a thin, weak weeping, his brittle body resting lightly against me. I clench my teeth and hold myself together. He shudders, his breath hot and ragged on my shoulder. “Don’t be scared, honey,” I say, holding back tears.
I stay there for a long time, even after he’s fallen asleep, even as my arm aches. On TV, a cheetah flies across the land, a blur of gold and black, its muscles rippling, powerful paws pounding into the dirt—a dream creature, all beauty and strength, nothing I’ll ever see in my lifetime unless it’s in a cage.
“Please,” I whisper. “Please.”
The noise of footsteps on the porch startles me. We don’t get many visitors. One day Betty Russell brought over a Bundt cake and told Brian, “Don’t you worry what anyone says, you just worry about getting better.” When Gus came over, he stood at the bed and cracked his knuckles, looking terrified. I tried to get him to stay longer, but he hemmed and hawed, diverting his eyes from Brian. He said he had to go, apologizing on his way out. I don’t know if he was telling Brian or me or himself that he was sorry. One day Liz and Paul brought a casserole and flowers but didn’t stay long, both teary. Kyle and Matthew haven’t showed up. They either don’t want to see him or they’re scared of facing Lettie. Wayne hasn’t visited, of course, and I don’t expect him to.
Brian told me he doesn’t want to see family anymore anyway. “Why not?” I asked, and he shot me a look. “I’m not a side show,” he said. I don’t press him. I can’t forget these last few months either, all the times they didn’t come over to the house or avoided us in public. I’m furious at all of them
.
It’s not like when my mother was sick, when women from the church came every day. Nobody was scared of catching it. Nobody blamed her.
As I go to answer the front door, it creaks open.
“Hello?” A man’s voice, falsetto, a bird’s trill.
Andrew, of course. I open the door. He can hardly see over the Sears shopping bags in his arms. “We were having a big sale, plus my discount,” he explains.
“He’s sleeping,” I say.
But Brian calls out that he’s awake, and Andrew prances in. Everything he does is flamboyant and dramatic. “Look at all these goodies!” he says.
At first I just wanted Andrew to leave us alone. His flowery cologne and silky, bright shirts, his fluttering hands, overly expressive eyes—he’s the type you can take one look at and know. But I’ve gotten used to him, and not only that, we rely on him. He comes over a couple of nights a week to cook dinner. He’ll do women’s work without a second thought—wash dishes, fold laundry. Twice he’s brought his mother with him. A quiet, rough-around-the-edges woman, she sits beside Brian and rarely says a word to the rest of us.
Andrew goes right over to Brian and kisses his cheek, not afraid to touch him. Then he pulls the items out one by one like a magician, and Brian laughs.
“Here, we have a package of Hanes underwear—look at the elegant white cotton,” he says dramatically. The only kinds of clothes Brian needs anymore are soft and styleless: pajamas, socks, T-shirts, sweatpants, sweatshirts.
“And this is for Lettie,” Andrew announces, and spins around with a red blouse in his hands.
“Great, she can wear it to my funeral,” Brian says, still laughing.
The word sucks all the air out of the room and hangs above us, a blade about to drop. “Brian—”
“Relax, Mom,” he says, but he’s looking at Andrew, not at me. Something passes between them. I’m not included. “It’s nice, she’ll like it,” Brian adds.
Andrew twirls once more with the blouse up over his head like he’s waving around a flag. He makes Brian laugh, and I wish I could too. But I feel like I’m alone in a snow drift, clawing at the sides that keep collapsing in on me, trying to find my way out. It’s so cold and white and empty.
Andrew comes in the kitchen. “I need more coffee. You want any?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot.”
He reaches for the tin of Folgers and scoops it out into a filter, humming as he works. I turn on the faucet, squirt in dish soap, and watch the sink slowly fill with hot water.
“He seems like he’s having a pretty good day,” Andrew says.
“So far.”
I plunge my hands under the sudsy water. The coffee maker gurgles and burps. Andrew picks up a dishtowel and stands next to me.
“Sharon,” he says. “Have you thought about home health care?”
I’ve made calls, all of them humiliating. There is a hospice center in Madison, but they told me they can’t accept him. They gave an excuse about the lack of beds, but I know if he had cancer, it would be a different story. I’ve called other agencies, trying to get a nurse or aide, somebody out here. They’ve all turned me down.
“I can’t get anyone to come out.”
Andrew dries a bowl carefully. “That’s not right, they can’t do that.”
“Well, they are,” I say.
We fall into silence. I hand him plate after plate. I wash, he dries. We’re a team.
Then he says, “Sharon, you need to talk to him about what he wants.”
“What do you mean?” I make the mistake of looking over, and his eyes lock on mine. Underwater, he reaches for my hand. The touch is a shock. I try to pull away but he holds on.
“Sharon, honey, it’s not going to get any better. You need to face this. Lettie too.”
He’s standing too close, his eyes searching my face, and the sudden intense rage surprises me. I want to grab him and shake him, to attack. He senses it: his slippery, strong hand lets go of mine. Then, I’m alone again. Nothing to hold onto, just warm, greasy water lapping over my skin.
“I am facing it,” I say. “Lettie’s not, but I am.”
“Then talk to him about things. About what he wants, you know, for his funeral.”
That word again. I get back to work. I pick up the sponge and scrub furiously.
Andrew sets down a glass. “I’m planning on making supper tonight. Banana pancakes. Why don’t you take the night off? You look like you need a break, honey.”
I turn to read his expression, to see if he’s mocking me. But he looks sincere, even worried. I don’t want to leave, but I’m thinking of Jess and Travis. It’s been a while since the three of us have eaten together.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Nothing to thank me for.” He holds the dishtowel by his fingertips, his wrist bent. “This is what I’m here for.”
“You don’t have to—” I start. “You’ve helped a lot. But don’t feel obligated.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to put you out. You don’t have to do this.”
Andrew neatly folds the towel and drapes it over the counter. “Yes, I do. I have to, and so do you. It’s the only option.” He looks at me, serious and clear-eyed. “This is the only thing we have to do. Take care of him.”
The house feels strange and unlived-in. Jess is at cross country practice, Travis at work. I hardly see him these days. Even at night, instead of going to our bed, I sleep in the guest room. I tell Travis it’s because I don’t want to keep him awake with my restless tossing and turning, which is true, but there is more to it. His body, his skin touching mine, unnerves me, quickens the rage and hurt inside me, and it is all I can do to just lie silently in the dark, hands clenched into tense fists.
I’m browning onions and hamburger in a frying pan when Jess walks in, sweaty and flushed. She usually goes over to Lettie’s a few times a week. She and Brian watch TV or, if Brian is having a good day, play Go Fish. There isn’t any tension between them, not anymore. I’ve asked Jess if the kids at school have said anything to her, but she just shrugs, her eyes guarded and open at once.
“What are you making?”
“Spaghetti. How was practice?”
“Good.”
“How far did you run?”
“Two miles.” She peels off her hooded sweatshirt and tosses it on the back of the chair. I’ve had many sleepless nights worrying about Jess, but being on the cross country team has lit a flame in her—she’s more confident, growing stronger.
“I couldn’t run a mile,” I say.
“You could if you trained.”
She rummages through the refrigerator. She’s stopped the excessive dieting. She needs protein and carbs, she explains, for her long runs.
“How was school?”
“Fine.” She bites into an apple. “I got an A on my geometry test.”
“Good for you.”
Jess surprised all of us, how good she is at running. I’m just happy she’s doing something. Maybe she’ll make friends.
By six, no Travis. Another hour goes by. “Let’s just eat,” I say.
We set up TV trays and watch Jeopardy. It’s been a long time since we’ve spent any time together, just the two of us. Jess responds to Alex Trebek with questions, and sometimes they are right. She doesn’t ask questions about Brian. She knows he’s sick. She knows he’s sick with AIDS. I should talk to her about death, but words elude me. And, if I don’t speak them, then I won’t make them come true. The doctor told us we had to prepare ourselves—a month or two at most, probably only weeks. Travis looked at his shoes. I held back sickening sobs. He wasn’t certain, I told myself, nobody could predict the future.
“How do you feel about your meet this weekend?” I ask.
“Okay.”
“I plan on being there. Your dad will be too.”
When I reach over to touch the back of her neck, she surprises me by curling into me, somethin
g she hasn’t done for at least a year or two. My arm grows numb, but I don’t move it. And across town, Andrew helps Lettie take care of my son, the way, Brian has explained to me, they are all taking care of each other back in the city, men—boys—abandoned and shunned by their parents. They feed and wash and cook for each other, they take each other to the hospitals and they make funeral arrangements, and they fight doctors and politicians and drug companies. They take care of their living and their dead.
Sunday morning, I’m on my knees, pulling up and cutting back spent marigolds and petunias. Maybe one day I’ll go back to church, but not to the one where I have spent so many Sundays of my life. The Dennisons burn trash and the smoky scent of the air makes me nostalgic. I want to bake cookies for my kids, carve pumpkins, make wreathes out of Indian corn.
My knees ache from crouching, and as I stand up, my hips burn. The caretaking has added new aches and pains to my body. Travis, wearing a flannel shirt and workpants, rakes the first of the fallen leaves into a pile. I remember Brian running across the yard, leaping high and falling spread-eagle into giant piles, laughing.
“Travis.”
“Hm?”
He doesn’t stop what he’s doing to look at me, the rake scratching, leaves crunching and shushing.
“He needs to see you,” I say.
He drags the line of leaves into a pile, then turns toward me. His hands in leather work gloves hold the rake still, like a flag pole.
“I just saw him. What do you mean?”
I don’t know how to get through to him. “I think he needs to hear from you, that you don’t blame him, that none of this is his fault.”
Travis’s face darkens, his jaw tightening, his mouth drawn in a frown. I feel him fade away from me, a disappearing light. Then, fuming, he works the rake quickly—violently—across the scattered leaves.
“He knows that,” he says.
But he doesn’t. Because Travis doesn’t believe it. My husband is not a bad man, but he is terrified of letting go of this mask of normalcy—because then what will he be left with, what will he have to look at?
The Prettiest Star Page 23