Out of My Mind

by A. J. Truman

  She knocked on Gideon’s door whenever she wanted to talk with him, even when his door was wide open. She would tap gently, and her eyes would squint, as if she might catch her son watching gay porn.

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Gideon assured her. He saved that for after she went to bed, naturally.

  He never brought up anything about Mac or being gay around her. They would go about their business and talk about celebrity gossip or random people from temple, and then all of a sudden, his mom would burst out with a sentence like “How did you meet Mac?” or “Does this have anything to do with your father passing away when you were young? Should I have tried to remarry?”

  Out of nowhere. It was never a dull moment with Judy Saperstein.

  “This has nothing to do with Dad,” Gideon said. They were eating matzo ball soup at the kitchen table. His mom had prepared a vat of it in preparation for Gideon’s return. “Noah married a woman.”

  “But he was older when your father passed away. You were so young. Nobody should have to lose their parent at that age.”

  “It’s nobody’s fault. I’ve met guys who are amazing athletes who are gay. I’ve met frat guys who are gay.”

  “I know. You’re right.” She rubbed his free hand. “I’m still getting used to this.”

  Gideon didn’t mind the deluge of awkward, random questions. It felt nice to tell the truth for a change. He cut his mom’s matzo ball in half and scooped it into his bowl. She never ate her soup. She only liked serving it.

  “So Mac is from West Virginia, but grew up in Pittsburgh?”

  “Yes. His parents own a hardware store.”

  She let out an ahh and a large head nod. A hardware store owner in Westchester was as common as a stockbroker in Kingwood, West Virginia. Mac’s parents might as well have spoken a different language.

  Gideon checked his phone again. No sign of Mac.

  “Is he having a good time with them? Does it snow in West Virginia?” His mom asked.

  “I don’t know. I think so.” Gideon had texted him two days ago but hadn’t heard back yet. They’d been texting and talking on the phone every night. It was a routine. Mac knew all about patterns, and he was breaking this one.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Gideon slurped his soup. “Actually, yes.” No more lies. He had to remind himself that he didn’t have to hold things in anymore.

  He put down his spoon and told her that he hadn’t heard from Mac. “That’s not normal. How long does it take to shoot off a text?”

  “It’s only been two days, Gideon. Have some patience. You kids, today. Needing to text each other all the time.”

  “What if you hadn’t heard from me in a week?”

  “That’s different. I’m your mother. It’s my job to worry. Maybe he’s busy getting ready for Christmas.” She said Christmas funny, like she was asked to name a sex act. “Are you going to celebrate Christmas now?”

  “No! I still prefer Jewish Christmas.” It was a favorite pastime of Gideon’s. Movies and Chinese food on Christmas day, just as baby Jesus intended.

  “He’s fine.” She wiped a stray matzo ball crumb off his chin with her thumb. A mother’s work was never done. Her soothing tone helped make Gideon feel better, but he couldn’t escape the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right.

  Φ

  For Jewish Christmas, Seth and Delia joined him and his mom. They met up at the theater, and Delia and she hit it off. They both found somebody who loved to chitchat as much as they did.

  Movies on Christmas Day was no longer just for Jews, apparently. People crammed in the lobby and concession stand lines stretched over five people deep. His mom reserved the seats with their coats, while the three of them tackled refreshments. They each started in a different line to see who would get there first. When it became obvious that Seth had the golden touch, he and Delia joined him.

  “Gay guys are so adorable.” Delia blatantly observed a gay couple in her old line, two guys in their twenties who held hands. Gideon had a strange mix of emotions battling inside him. He wanted to raise a fist in solidarity while telling them to not be so obvious. This gay stuff was hard work.

  “You shouldn’t stare,” Gideon told her.

  “I’m not staring. I’m fantasizing.”

  “If they were two girls and you were a fifty-year-old man, you’d be called a pervert.”

  “It’s a double-standard I’m willing to back.”

  “I just realized there is nothing here for me to eat.” Seth gawked at the menu in bewilderment.

  “What about popcorn?” Delia asked. “Gluten-free.”

  “But they might make it in peanut oil.”

  “Those bastards.”

  Gideon was only half-listening. A few high schoolers in front of them were staring at the gay couple and snickering to themselves. Not in a Delia-fantasy way. His blood pressure rose, and his appetite for concessions vanished.

  “I’ll just get some SweeTARTS.”

  “We’ll ask about the popcorn.” Delia squeezed her boyfriend’s hand. Nobody made a stink about that.

  The snickering in front of them grew louder, or maybe they were the only wavelength Gideon was tuned into. He also caught football-coach-looking guy in his former line eyeing their hand-holding with a disapproving scowl.

  “Have you heard from Mac?” Gideon asked, desperate to be lost in conversation. “I haven’t heard a peep in three days now. I emailed him last night, and haven’t gotten a response.”

  “No,” Delia said. “But it is Christmas.”

  “And I’m his boyfriend. Shouldn’t he be wishing me a happy Jewish Christmas? He hasn’t tried reaching out to you?”

  “I could also get Sour Patch Kids, although all that sugar makes the roof of my mouth sore.”

  “Not now, Seth.” Gideon was already on edge from the stares and whispers. He upgraded Mac’s ghosting to a disappearance. “Can you try calling him?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” There was no wiggle room on this.

  Delia took out her phone and dialed away. Gideon made her put it on speakerphone so he could listen.

  So he could listen to it go to voicemail.

  “Hey Mac! We wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas!” Delia said. “Hope you’re enjoying your ham. We’ll be eating popcorn and lo mein. Love you!”

  “Something’s wrong,” Gideon said. “Mac’s never taken three days to respond to anyone, and he was returning to a town full of people who hated him.”

  “Okay, now I’m scared,” Delia said.

  Mac could be buried in a ditch or fed to the cows or something crazy like that.

  “I have an idea.” Gideon took out his phone and did a frantic Google search for Mac’s family’s store. When it came up, Gideon remembered that it was Christmas day and would probably be closed. Still, he called and got the store voicemail.

  “Due to emergency circumstances, we will be closed through the end of the year. We look forward to seeing you in the New Year,” Mac’s dad said in a drone.

  “Shit.” Gideon hung up the phone. Worry flashed in Delia’s eyes. “This is not good. Do you have his parents’ number?”

  She shook her head no. Did any kid have their friends’ parents’ number? Gideon searched online for a home number. There had to be some phone number on some page on some corner of the web. The Internet wouldn’t let him down.

  And the whispering laughs struck again. Gideon glanced up from his phone. The annoying high schoolers were taking pictures of the two men, giggling like the circus had come to town. The gay couple put their hands back in their pockets, which killed Gideon most of all.

  “What the hell is your problem?” He said to the teens. “Put your fucking phone away.”

  “What?” One of them said. They had those shit-eating grins on their faces, total nervous laughter that only inflamed Gideon more.

  “It’s a gay couple. It’s legal. Welcome to the twenty-first century. Don’t film them,�
� Gideon growled. He ripped the phone out of the kid’s hand. “Delete it or I’m breaking your phone.”

  The kid gulped back all his stupid laughter. His fingers shook as he removed the video.

  “And apologize.”

  They did. Looking down at the ground the whole time, but they did. They stepped up and ordered their stupid snacks.

  “As you were,” Gideon said to the couple.

  They gave him a nod, and he nodded back. It wasn’t a fist, but it was close.

  Φ

  Gideon continued searching for the Daly home number in the theater as his mom and friends looked on.

  “Dammit.” Either Mac’s parents were well trained in keeping a very low online profile, or they were so old school that they just didn’t show up anywhere. He leaned over to Delia. “Any response from him?”

  “None.”

  “His parents might have his phone,” Seth said.

  “It’s scary to think that nowadays, if someone takes your phone, you are completely cut off. This is why I wanted you to get a landline in your apartment,” his mom said. He was glad to see her worrying about Mac.

  “Can you call Verizon and see if they’ve shut off his service?” Delia asked.

  “His number would’ve been disconnected. All the messages went through.” Gideon sunk his phone into the cup holder. He began picturing a world without Mac. It was a whole new layer of sadness.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” Delia said.

  “But how would we know?” Gideon didn’t know anyone back in West Virginia, only his parents.

  “Have you tried Information?” His mom asked.

  “What’s that?”

  She stared at the three of them dumbfounded. “Don’t make me feel old. You can dial four-one-one and ask to be connected to Daly in Kingwood.”

  “That’s a thing?” Seth munched on a SweeTART.

  “Yes! It’s not as high-tech as Google, but it should work.”

  The lights dimmed. Gideon cursed under his breath.

  “I’m going in the hall.”

  Outside their auditorium, there was calm, a brief moment between show times when the ushers hustled to sweep up the stray popcorn and empty the trash. Gideon dialed 411 and asked for Daly in Kingwood. He held his breath until the operator put him through.

  The line was ringing. Success!

  He paced back and forth. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.

  “Hello?” A quiet voice answered. It had to be his mom. Right away, something seemed off. You could just tell when somebody was having a good day or bad day.

  “Is this the Daly residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this the home of a Mac Daly or Cormac Daly, and his parents?”

  “It is.” It sounded painful for her to say that. “Who is this?”

  “Please don’t hang up. It’s Gideon, Mac’s boyfriend. I know I’m not your favorite person, but please don’t hang up. I haven’t heard from him, and I want to see if he’s okay.”

  Gideon didn’t hear anything. Seconds went by like decades.

  “Please,” he said again.

  His mother didn’t say anything back. She started sobbing.

  Gideon covered his mouth and sunk to the floor.

  CHAPTER thirty-one

  Mac

  When Mac woke up, he felt pain. His back ached and legs throbbed and head pounded. His body was an orchestra of torture, and the overture wouldn’t stop.

  He looked around at the unfamiliar room. The blank walls and the smell of disinfectant slammed his senses.

  Mac wailed out in agony.

  A nurse ran into the room moments later. She tapped some things on the machine and greeted Mac with a wide smile.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just give me one second.”

  The pain was blinding, literally. Mac’s vision turned white. He wanted to chop off his whole body and leave just his head. He looked down at the tubes and wires covering him. Red and purple bruising blotched his skin.

  Just as the pain reached a fever pitch, it began to subside.

  “That should be better,” the nurse said, unfazed by his squirming and yelling. She had probably seen worse.

  “What happened?”

  Before the nurse could answer, someone grabbed his hand. He looked up at his mom, and his dad right behind her.

  “Oh, my baby.” She tried to lean down to hug him, but the wires and bed made that an obstacle. He still took in her warmth. His dad kissed him on the top of the head. Mac had to be on drugs because that did not just happen.

  “You were in a terrible accident,” she said.

  The night came back to Mac in flashes of recognition. The headlights. Being chased. Something slamming into his back. Bits and pieces of a puzzle that wasn’t complete, but was put together enough to make out what it looked like.

  “It was Justin Weeks,” Mac said. Saying that name was a deeper kind of pain.

  “We know,” his dad said. “He’s been arrested.”

  “He has?” Mac tried to sit up, but it caused a sharp hit of agony. “How long have I been out?”

  “Three days,” his dad said matter-of-factly.

  “I’m going to need a little more.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” A policeman stepped forward. He seemed to be in his thirties, with a sturdy build and a thick mustache that Mac couldn’t stop staring at. “I’m Officer Calhoun.”

  “Hi.” Mac winced from a general pain that he would deal with later. “What happened?”

  “It seems that the Weeks boy hit you with a baseball bat when driving, and you stumbled off the road over the railing. You tumbled a ways down into the woods.”

  Mac caught flashes of trees and bare branches hitting him. He thought he dreamt that.

  “How did anyone find me?”

  “Well, a woman was driving on the road a few minutes after you were attacked. She found you and called nine-one-one. You were hit right by a private driveway, and the owners had installed security cameras, so we were able to get the whole thing on tape. Justin’s currently out on bail, but we’re watching him closely.” Officer Calhoun had a tiny smile that only Mac seemed to catch. “I have to say, you are extremely lucky, Mac. That road doesn’t get much traffic. If that woman hadn’t stopped, who knows when we would’ve found you. And if Justin had attacked you just a quarter of a mile in either direction, we wouldn’t have caught any of it on the camera.”

  His mom trembled behind the cop as that reality sunk in. His father held her tight. He looked at his son with warmth Mac hadn’t realized he missed.

  “How did she know to stop?” Mac asked.

  “This four-leaf clover keychain was reflecting terribly off her headlights in the middle of the road. She had to stop to see what it was. When she got out, she heard you wailing.” Officer Calhoun picked up the keychain from the bedside table. “This yours?”

  Mac nodded. Words escaped him.

  Officer Calhoun examined the four-leaf clover. “I guess these things really are good luck.”

  Thank you, Aunt Rita.

  “That Justin Weeks needs to go to jail,” his mom said to the cop, full of Norma Rae-type passion that was new for her.

  “We’re going to try to make that happen. We have a good case.”

  Mac wasn’t buying it. “Bad things don’t happen to the Weeks family, especially if all he did was beat up some gay guy. He’ll probably get a fucking parade for that.”

  His parents didn’t try to point out his cursing. They seemed to hate that Mac was right as much as he did.

  Officer Calhoun gave Mac a heavy look. “Mac, I know what happened to you years ago. I know the stories going around about you weren’t true. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I’d lived my life in the closet, but after your attack, I couldn’t stay quiet. No matter how scared I was, I knew by staying quiet, people like them won.

  “I came out to my squad six months later. They took it well. Not everyone, but most. I’ve been working
with our unit to include LGBT sensitivity training. I’ve gotten guys who used to hurl Bible quotes at me to at least recognize that gay people shouldn’t have to live in fear around here of being attacked. I won’t let what happened to you happen to some other kid.”

  Mac was speechless. This guy couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be Kingwood. Mac had spent four years thinking the worst of this town, but maybe there were some decent people here.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly to Officer Calhoun. The cop nodded at him in understanding that transcended words.

  “Anyway, I’ll let you rest up and spend time with your family.”

  “Thank you, officer.” Mac’s dad shook his hand, and the officer walked out, leaving three Dalys.

  His mom scanned his body. Mac didn’t want to look.

  “You’re really here,” he squeaked out.

  “Of course we’re here! It doesn’t matter who you love. You don’t deserve to get attacked!” She burst into a sob against his dad’s shoulder.

  “We love you.” His dad kissed his head again. Mac yanked him down into an awkward embrace. It felt so good to hug his father again.

  A few minutes later, a tall, black doctor with a shaved head waltzed into the room. Right away, Mac could tell he was a straight shooter who was too busy and tired to feed Mac lies.

  “Mac, I’m Dr. Wright.”

  “Sounds like I’m in good hands already.”

  The doctor managed a polite smile. “Mac, you sustained a number of injuries. Fortunately, we’ve stitched up your cuts and gashes, and did surgery to repair the compound fractures in your legs.”

  Panic took over Mac, overrode all of the drugs flowing through his system. “I broke my legs? Will I be able to walk? People break legs all the time and still walk, right? That’s why they say ‘break a leg’ in theater, because it’s not that serious.”

  “Your legs should heal, and you’re lucky there was no infection. However, you did suffer a spinal fracture when you fell. That will not heal on its own. I’m recommending you have a vertebroplasty procedure. We inject this special bone cement, and it will form an internal cast around the weakened vertebrae.”

  “You’re going to operate on his spine?” Mac’s mom asked.

  “Yes, though it’s not as involved as you’re thinking. It’s a minimally invasive procedure. Without the surgery, there’s a strong chance you will have chronic lifelong pain and might need to use a walker to get around.”