by AJ Wilde
"Please, Chris. I'm sorry. Baby, please."
The softest of touches on your shoulder, and the blackness recedes. You don't get me today. Not today.
"Nick?” He's still here.
"I'm here, it's okay. It's going to be okay.” You fold into his arms and hold on tight.
* * * *
The lurching train ran on over impossibly narrow tracks, crossing rivers, lakes, country roads, muskeg swamps, and beaver dams. This was the North: the old pioneer route to the rich resources of timber, nickel, silver and granite. The towns of Cobalt, New Liskeard, Swastika, and Matheson, founded on the working-class traditions of mining, lumberjacking, milling, and quarrying. The clay belt that meandered from the shores of Lake Timiscaming on the Quebec border, to the edge of the nickel belt in the west, produced generations of farmers that settled the rich rolling hills and fields. Then, farther north stretched the vast wilderness leading to James Bay and the Arctic, with the promise of kimberlite pipes rich with diamonds, and Ice Age rocks hiding gold.
But here on this train, there was only Nick and Chris.
* * * *
"I didn't mean to hurt you.” They sat together in the last car, watching the late afternoon sun dip behind the tree line. Tom Thomson's white pines had changed to spindly black spruce and tamaracks. The landscape looked parched and sparse. Bull moose ambled unseen through dank muskeg.
"It doesn't matter."
"Yes, it does. It matters to me."
"It's just—it's almost the end of the line,” Chris said.
"I'll still be here."
"Will you?"
"Count on it. I'm a lawyer, remember? We're not allowed to lie."
"Cochrane, next stop—Cochrane."
"Dude, there's nobody left on the train. Just us."
"How long until we get to Cochrane?"
"Two hours.” They kissed, like it was the last time.
Making out in the dining car of a deserted train could be construed as a metaphor for something profound, but it was just sex. Chris backed Nick up into the buffet table, sending plastic plates and flatware flying. Once on the floor, it became evident that this time, Chris had the upper hand. The slender body pinning Nick down was light enough for him to flip with ease, but along with the realization that he really didn't want to, came the unfamiliar sensation of complete surrender.
"I'm used to being in charge, you know,” Nick murmured, sliding his arms around Chris’ waist.
"Are you now?” said Chris with a smirk. “We'll see about that."
Nick let Chris kiss him until he was dizzy. There was something about giving up control to another person that was intensely liberating. To allow another human being to break down the barriers to your secret self; to let him see you at your most vulnerable, is the true meaning of trust. It took the rest of the journey for Chris to teach Nick how to let go, how to accept the gift of pleasure, and how to cut away the bonds of other people's assumptions.
* * * *
He looks up at you with those insanely blue eyes. You can still taste him. He resisted for as long as he could, but in the end, you taught him to surrender, and you buried your face in his hair as he cried out your name. Now all you have to do is hang on—just hang on and don't let go. Don't let him slip away.
"Cochrane, this is your final stop, Cochrane. This train is now out of service. Will all passengers please leave the train."
"End of the line, man.” Chris’ eyes searched Nick's face.
"Grandma?” Nick arched an eyebrow.
"Grandma.” Chris grinned.
They collected their bags and stepped off the train. The platform was deserted except for an elderly man and his dog. Inside the station, a ticket clerk sat behind the Plexiglas, playing solitaire on his computer. He nodded at Nick.
"See, we even have technology up here,” Chris remarked.
"I want to see the polar bear,” Nick said, feeling a little like a six-year-old on holiday.
"All in good time,” said Chris, pulling Nick by the hand. “First, you have to meet grandma."
They crossed the street, walked a couple of blocks, and rounded a corner. Chris led Nick up to the front door of a small cottage with white siding and blue wooden shutters. There was a basket of marigolds hanging from the porch. A gust of wind blew one of the shutters from its hook, and it flapped frantically.
"Go on. Ring the bell and ask for Rose.” Chris hung back, arms folded.
"No!” Nick protested. “She's your grandma. She doesn't know me from Adam."
"Humor me.” Chris’ expression was intransigent, and Nick knew there was no point in arguing.
"Fine. But you'd better jump in and introduce me.” Nick gingerly opened the storm door and rang the bell.
The indignant yelping of a small dog, the sound of a chair being scraped back, then the shuffling of feet, and the front door swung open. A short, gray-haired lady in her sixties stood in the doorway, looking Nick up and down. Her dark brown eyes regarded Nick with suspicion.
"Yes? Can I help you?” She looked past Nick, and he turned, more to elicit a little assistance from Chris, whose grandmother she was, after all, than to follow her gaze.
"Chris?” But there was no one there. Nick ran down the path, around the corner, and stared down the deserted road. A street light flickered into life against the gathering dark. It was cold.
"Chris! Chris, what the fuck? Where are you? Quit fooling around!” Nick's heart started to beat a little too fast. He felt sick. He felt a crushing abandonment that threatened to rob him of his wits. “Chris!"
Nick ran back to the cottage door, where Chris’ grandma was still standing, frowning at him.
"I'm sorry, ma'am—Chris was right here, behind me."
The petite, frail-looking lady shook her head. “That's impossible,” she said, flatly.
"What are you talking about? Chris and I, we were on the train together. All the way from Toronto—how else would I know where you lived, who you were? You're his grandmother, right? Your name is Rose?"
"Right. But everyone knows that around here."
"I'm not from around here. I'm from Toronto, I just told you that, weren't you listening to me?” Nick was aware that his voice was becoming strident. His stomach was doing backflips and he wanted to hurl.
The old lady sighed, as though she was worn out. “I think you'd better come in."
Nick followed Rose into her living room, where she sat down heavily in an old leather recliner. Nick perched gingerly on a hard wicker chair opposite her, but almost immediately jumped up again.
"There! That's him, right there!” Nick ran over to the framed photograph on the mantel over the fireplace. Chris grinned at him from the photo: younger, but the same glossy black hair streaked with bleach, the same dark brown eyes, squinting a little against the bright summer day, arms around an old brown dog—happy and smiling in the sunshine; and on the slender wrist, a bracelet of painted wooden beads.
"My favorite grandchild,” said Rose, wearily.
Nick stared at the photograph. He took it down from the mantel and studied it closely. Suddenly, he remembered.
"Here, I'll prove it to you,” Nick said, excitedly. “Chris gave me...” He looked down at his wrist—but there was nothing there. “The bracelet—he gave me the beaded bracelet, it's in the picture...” Nick trailed off. He was at a loss. “I must have dropped it on the road. It must have fallen off—I must have lost it. I'll go and look for it right now. I'll...” Nick was aware that he was babbling like an idiot. He looked back at Rose, only to find that she was crying.
"Why are you doing this?” she sobbed.
"What do you mean? Why am I doing what? Why am I here? Because Chris told me to come and see you. Because he brought me here—how else would I know where you lived? Where is Chris? Why are you crying? What the hell is going on?” Nick heard his own voice as though it belonged to someone else. There seemed to be some kind of disconnect between his mouth and his brain.
"
Please leave.” Rose snatched the photograph from Nick's hands and clasped it to her heart.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean...” Nick stammered. “Duncan! I can phone Duncan, he saw us—just give me a minute...” Nick fumbled for his Blackberry, and then remembered that it was gone. Broken. Lost.
"Get out. Go back to Toronto and your precious condo and Japanese artwork. You've done more than enough damage as it is.” Rose's voice was cold.
"But—I'm not...” Nick began to protest, but Rose opened the front door.
"Get out. Get out of my house, right now, and don't come back."
"Rose, please...” A note of desperation had crept into Nick's voice.
"Get out!” Nick was unceremoniously shoved out onto the sidewalk. Evidently, Chris’ grandma was stronger than she looked.
The door slammed shut behind him. Nick stared down the street, a cold swirl of panic rising in his gut. It was after eight o'clock, and night was closing in fast. He started to retrace his steps, looking for the bracelet among the clumps of dirty snow that lined the pavement. Chris, where are you? Don't leave me here all alone, please, Chris, I need you, please...
Cochrane in April wears a somewhat bleak aspect. The big white polar bear statue loomed over Nick's head, regarding him impassively. Nick walked on, back towards the train station. He rubbed his wrist where the beads used to be, and tried to ignore the strange hot prickling at the back of his eyes. When the station came into view, tears began to stream down his face. The sensation was so unfamiliar that at first, Nick didn't understand what was happening. He reached up to touch his face and found that his cheeks were wet. He hurt all over, with a nameless agony. For the first time since he was eight years old, Nick Sinclair was crying.
Nick wandered aimlessly across the tracks at the station. He had enough on his credit card to buy a ticket back. But why? For what?
"Hey, watch it there, fella.” The elderly station attendant's words cut into Nick's thoughts. “Stay off the tracks, the sign says. Youngster came a cropper there, about a year ago now. Some kind of lovers’ tiff, you know how it goes. Only twenty-two years old—very sad."
Nick stepped up onto the platform. Somebody had taken a box cutter and sliced out his heart, leaving a gaping, bloody cavity. “Chris?” he muttered, his voice sounding hollow.
"Yes, that was the name. Young lad, went to live with some asshole from the city, came home a wreck. Walked in front of the northbound train."
Nick's knees gave way. Bile reached up from his insides, making his head swim. All the breath had left his body and he stared down into the black void that was opening up before him. Chris...
"Yeah. Lucky really, if you can call it luck. Hasn't moved or said a word for damn near a year now. The doctors say a coma like that can last for the rest of the patient's life."
"What?” Nick's mind spun back from the edge of the murky dark. “Wait—what?"
"Kid's in a coma. Like I said, very sad."
"Where?” A direct shot of pure adrenaline hit Nick's muscles and he sprang to his feet. “Where is he? Is it far? How can I get there?"
"Hold your horses, lad!” The old man rubbed his chin and looked Nick up and down, as though appraising his market value. “Lady Minto Hospital, ICU. But they won't let you in unless you're family."
"I don't care. Take me there. I'll pay you any amount of money. Name your price—just get me there."
"All right, all right. Give me a minute.” The elderly gentleman struggled to his feet and reached for the phone. As he lifted the receiver, he frowned at Nick. “You're not him, are you?"
"What? Who?” Nick said, somewhat at a loss.
"The boyfriend.” The man's finger hovered over the dialpad.
"No! No, well—not that one, at any rate,” Nick replied. “Please. I have to see Chris."
It seemed to take forever for the cab to arrive, but finally Nick was on his way to Lady Minto Hospital. Cochrane seemed drab—a gray little town at the end of the line. ‘Playground of the North', Tim Hortons, and a polar bear. A wet snow pelted against the cab window. By the time they got to the hospital, it was pitch dark, and visiting hours were over at the ICU.
"But I've come all the way from Toronto,” Nick found himself explaining to the pretty blonde nurse. “The train doesn't get here until 7:45."
"Family only in the ICU, sir, I'm sorry,” the nurse said, in a syrupy voice that was supposed to be comforting.
"But I have to see Chris. I have to, you don't understand. I stopped by to pick up Rose, his grandmother—but she was upset, she told me to come by myself anyway,” Nick lied. At this point, he'd lie to the Dalai Lama.
The nurse checked a piece of paper under her computer keyboard. “Yes, Rose is listed as next of kin; she hasn't been by for a while.” The nurse looked directly at Nick, searching his face. “She's lost hope, I think."
Nick nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I think you're right.” He held his breath. He could feel the nurse sizing him up—making a mental note of the tear tracks on his face.
"All right, I suppose it can't do any harm. Through these double doors, then the first door on the right."
"Thank you, thank you.” The nurse looked up to say “You're welcome,” but Nick was gone.
The first door on the right was ajar, and Nick knocked softly, even though his logical brain told him that no one would answer. The room was dimly lit, and beige hospital blinds shut out the night. The regular beep of a monitor punctuated the silence.
"Chris?” Nick whispered. The figure in the bed lay still, propped up with pillows, wired to an I.V. Nick sat down on the visitor's chair. Thinner, for sure, paler, but unmistakably Chris. The same shoulder-length black hair, fine features, long black eyelashes. And around a wrist so thin you could see the bones under the translucent skin, a bracelet made of painted wooden beads.
"Chris, it's Nick. I'm here, I found you. Chris, wake up. Please, I miss you, I need you, please.” But there was no answer.
Nick took the pale, slender hand in his own and cried. He cried for his own loss, and for Chris, and for Rose. He cried for a long, long time. When he was done crying, he talked to the unconscious figure in the bed, about his job and how he hated it, about his father's preconceptions and his mother's denial. He talked about how he could never say the words, not to anyone, that was why his girlfriend had left him; it was why everyone always left him, because he couldn't say the words. And then he slept.
Morning came cold and clear, the watery spring sun filtering through the hospital blinds. Nick had been dreaming, and in his dream he had stepped into the photograph and joined Chris, well and happy and strong, and they had played with the old brown dog, and walked on the beach and Chris had turned that dazzling smile on Nick and Nick had found himself immersed in joy.
Nick pulled up the blinds, flooding the room with light. He stared out at the sky; a sky so high and blue, it could drown any sorrow. He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. There was a bustle of noise from the nurses’ station—soon they would be coming in to check the I.V. and turf him out.
"Nick?” It was only a whisper on the wind. Nick shook himself.
"Nick?” The voice was weak and hoarse. But it was there, and it was real. Nick found himself rooted to the spot. His heart was racing, but none of his muscles would move.
"Nick?"
There it was again. With a supreme effort of will, Nick forced his feet to turn. He ran to the bed and knelt down.
"Is it really you? Are you real?” The soft voice could only manage a whisper. Dark brown eyes gazed up at Nick, the long black lashes fluttering.
"Yes, it's me, it's Nick—I'm here, Chris, I'm here."
"You came. You found me.” Chris murmured.
"You led me here. I was scared, so scared I'd lost you forever.” Nick gathered him into his arms. So fragile.
"I dreamed of you. We were on the train."
"How much do you remember?"
"Everything."
"Is it really you?�
� Nick echoed Chris’ question.
"Don't believe the evidence of your own eyes? Some lawyer."
"It's you."
They kissed, like it was the first time.
"You've been crying. I thought you didn't cry."
"I'm doing a lot of things lately that I haven't done in a long, long time."
"Why were you crying? Was it because of me?"
"You don't really need to ask me that, do you?"
"Yes, I do."
"God! You haven't changed."
"Not a chance, dude."
"Chris, you know how I feel about you."
"Tell me anyway."
As Nick gathered Chris into his arms, closing his eyes and breathing in his warmth, his scent, his life, he realized that he could never go back. Just as Chris had dreamed of him, and he had become real, Nick would dream a future for them—a future with a forge, and horses, a garden, and an old brown dog. So Nick said the words that he had never said in his life before, and became more than the sum of his parts, more than his legal education, more than his father's expectations. In the space of a single day, on a train to nowhere, Nick Sinclair became a human being.
What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
You dreamed
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in your hand
Ah, what then?
~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge
* * *
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