Assimilation

by James Stryker

Andrew stepped out of the shower and tied the wet hair into a nub at the back of his head. After shutting off the bathroom light, he crept across the hallway.

  When he pushed the bedroom door open, he expected Robert to rise like a vampire.

  “Where have you been? I need to know exactly where you were. When was the last time you took your temperature? Are you feeling okay?”

  Yes, no thanks to the antipsychotic drugs you have me on.

  It’d be hard to withold that information and his anger. But Andrew lied to Robert constantly. He deceived him by existing and going through the motions. Heaping lies atop lies.

  So it will just be balancing one more banana peel atop the towering can of garbage. And really, this one I don’t feel guilty about. Because I doubt you feel the slightest bit of remorse for drugging me. After all, it wasn’t about the grocery list, so why would you even waste the time talking to me about it? Fuck you, Robert.

  But despite the deception, there was that damn conservatorship. He couldn’t afford to lose what little support he had from Robert. Yet.

  Robert didn’t appear to wake as Andrew slid into bed. He lay on his back, close to the edge and away from Robert’s sleeping body. Why was he even worried? Robert had been taking sleeping pills since Natalie’s death. If he was asleep, jackhammers in the room couldn’t wake him.

  Andrew found a good position with his arms behind his head and settled into his thoughts. There was a lot to consider. First thing, the medication.

  He’d left the pill bottle in the pocket of his jeans, now in the hamper. Since he was the only one who did laundry, he was sure of its security. He’d take care of it in the morning. Would Oz come by tomorrow too? Be on the doorstep and—

  Robert turned and folded his arm around Andrew’s chest. His voice was groggy, and his arm leaden with sleep. The touch made Andrew tense. The inner countdown started.

  1 Mississippi. 2 Mississippi.

  “Did you have a good time with Shelly, love? You must’ve to be so late. I missed you.”

  Robert’s tenderness ebbed Andrew’s fury over the medication and shifted back some of the guilt.

  Lying to me wouldn’t be an issue if I were Natalie. And even if that’s not my fault, it’s not yours either. It’s just a fucked up circumstance all around, and you deserve someone who missed you too.

  “You should spend more time with your friends. They make you happy.” Robert drew him closer and placed a kiss on his temple. Andrew fought the desire to move away and brought his arms to his sides.

  7 Mississippi. 8 Mississippi.

  “I worry about you,” Robert said.

  “There’s no need for you to worry.”

  “Mmm, that’s right.” He yawned. “You’re here.”

  11 Mississippi. 12 Mississippi.

  It was Robert’s breath near his ear, his face on the pillow next to him. But Andrew thought of Oz, and an idea began to form in his brain …

  “Are you okay, Nat?”

  The counting stopped as the name hit square in the chest. This again. This. AGAIN. He didn’t want to respond, but he had to.

  “Yes. Go to sleep.”

  “Wake me if you need anything.” Robert squeezed him close, nuzzling his cheek.

  Andrew felt claustrophobic. It was too much. Whatever Mississippi he’d be on now, enough was enough.

  “Robert, you’re suffocating me.”

  “I’m sorry. Good night, Nat. Love you.”

  He took reminders better when he was half asleep. Robert retracted his arm and turned, his breaths quickly becoming steady. Andrew shuddered.

  Would it be the same if you were a woman? If I was whole, and it was a woman snuggled close to me? Is that what I want?

  The image of lying next to a woman with her arm around him crossed Andrew’s mind. He tossed it out. But he shivered again when he substituted the woman for a man other than Robert. They made him equally uncomfortable.

  Andrew brought his arms back under his head and tried to relax. He closed his eyes, unafraid he’d fall asleep. He felt more awake than he had in a long time.

  Now what was that before the walls started closing in …

  The idea shone like a pearl in the darkness.

  Oz. He knew Andrew’s secret. He appeared to be understanding and supportive. And Oz cared about him. Andrew wasn’t sure he was ready to think about how much.

  The way Oz had looked at him in the restaurant? He hadn’t looked at Tinks that way. Or even Santino, and it was evident how close they were. Especially if he developed deeper feelings, Oz wouldn’t let him be on the streets if he chose to leave Robert. His usefulness could extend beyond supplying unlaced medication. Maybe he didn’t have only two choices – enduring with Robert or gambling on CryoLife’s integrity. Oz could be the answer he was looking for. The escape route.

  I do feel safer with him than Robert. And it’s been almost eight hours since I thought about killing him. That’s a pretty good stretch. He’s amusing, and I didn’t mind being with him. Could I be happy with Oz? Could he be happy with me?

  If Oz treated Andrew like another man, it had to be better than suffocation with Robert. And God only knew what could happen if the conservatorship passed to CryoLife. Hadn’t Oz said something earlier about not knowing anyone who hadn’t assimilated to their original identity? Was that because his network included everyone under the sun except for those who’d chosen to revoke? Or did CryoLife just not allow those people to exist?

  Look at what they’ve been able to do with Robert in control. I’m flawed, but at least he’s interested in keeping me alive.

  Perhaps Oz wasn’t just an option. He was the only option. For life and sanity.

  And maybe even peace.

  Andrew knew there were things that could be done to bring the body more in line with how he saw himself. Besides being a pharmacist Oz interacted with all manners of individuals. Was there an exact agreement about how often Red was supplied with drugs? How many bags of pot did he trade for access to a dead body in South Carolina? How many ounces would he have to give to a doctor? It was an exhilarating thought to consider being able to change.

  But that idea brought up what should be the highest priority question:

  If I got everything I wanted – my identity as a man validated, the body I want, the life I want – would I want to be with Oz? Or am I willing to lead him on to get out of this prison? I don’t want another situation where I can barely tolerate who I’m with.

  As he did on so many other nights, Andrew lay still and closed his eyes. He imagined that he was how he saw himself in his mind. And not the emotional representations of Beta nu, Blue Nude, or June Celebration. But how he’d actually physically appear.

  Short blond hair framed his face, and his brown eyes were so dark they sometimes looked black. He wasn’t muscular, but his chest was strong. And flat. His waist didn’t taper in – it formed one solid trunk to his narrow hips. And below his hips, he wasn’t missing his penis. It was there, instead of an empty space of nothingness and shame. He saw himself possibly as a runner, his thighs slabs of muscle curled around his bones, his calves lean and taut. Wholeness. Perfection.

  He sighed.

  So, if I’m this person, and it’s Oz over there instead of Robert, how do I feel about that? If he does the exact same thing – turns and drapes his arm across my chest, kisses my temple. What is that like? How do I feel about him pulling me close? Am I counting the seconds of contact via Southern states? Am I claustrophobic?

  He opened his eyes and lifted his head to look around. The walls weren’t wavering and pulling toward him. The ceiling wasn’t crumbling, and the bed wasn’t rolling on the ocean. He didn’t panic, as he sometimes did when he thought about Robert touching him.

  And unlike only minutes earlier, when he’d pictured himself with a random woman and a different man, he didn’t feel discomfort. This puzzled him until he realized that the others were faceless, nameless.

  And I’m not just my body, s
o there has to be something more for everyone else. We’re not a flat painting. There is depth to who we are. If Oz was the same person, I’d be okay with him being this close to me.

  But neutrality wasn’t good enough. Did he want this closeness? He laid his head on the pillow.

  Oz says he missed me. Did I miss him?

  Andrew’s next couple heart beats came too close together.

  Truthfully, he missed Oz now and hoped he was okay.

  When Santino had dropped him off at the apartment, Oz had been passed out. Andrew had been alarmed when there’d been no response to his goodbye.

  “Is he okay?”

  Santino turned his head to the back seat. “Yes. I’m astounded it didn’t happen sooner with as much as you say he had.”

  “Are you sure? He’s not moving.”

  “He’s not going to feel much like moving tomorrow either, I’d wager.”

  “Couldn’t he have alcohol poisoning?” Andrew’s previous life as Natalie had been innocent and sheltered. Smoking and drinking were new to him. How much did it take for alcohol poisoning to set in? He had no idea.

  “He could have a lot of things.”

  “Shouldn’t you check?”

  But he hadn’t received an answer. And it’d taken Andrew several seconds before he sensed that Santino was staring at him. Unlike what he expected, when he met Santino’s gaze it wasn’t leering. Santino’s glasses rested halfway down the bridge of his nose, and he looked at Andrew over the frames.

  “I’m just worried about him.” Andrew had shrugged.

  Santino delayed his slow response and studied Andrew’s face. “I’m sure he’d appreciate your concern; however, he’ll be fine. I’ll take good care of him. I always do when he gets like this.”

  Andrew turned the car door handle and unbuckled his seatbelt. He pushed the door open and was about to step out, when he turned and gave a final glance to the back seat.

  Oz lay curled on his right side, his arm tucked under his head. His sandy hair fell across his forehead, and he looked like he was asleep.

  “Please be careful.” Santino had touched Andrew’s arm, startling him.

  “Careful?” Andrew pulled away and got out of the car.

  “Careful yourself. And careful with him.”

  “Why? He seems harmless.”

  “He is, but I didn’t say ‘careful of’. I said ‘careful with.’”

  Andrew stopped, his hand on the car door as they regarded each other.

  Man with a Pipe. Even though Santino had no pipe. But his perceptive expression, and the feel from him was the same. Like he was waiting for Andrew to elaborate, to admit.

  But Andrew just shut the door. He didn’t know if there was anything to confess. He still wasn’t sure, and that was a problem.

  But I can admit that I miss him. I wonder what he’s doing. He’s probably asleep.

  He swept these thoughts from his head. One could miss many things or people. People who were only close friends. He had to concentrate on figuring out if Oz fell in that category, or somewhere else.

  So we’re lying here and he has me pulled close. The room isn’t collapsing. Andrew tried to begin where he’d left off.

  What about his breath near my ear? It would smell like pine trees and cigarettes. And it’d taste like that too.

  He had no interest in smoking, or drinking gin, but there was something about this combination of vapors passing through Oz’s lips that drew him in. If Robert’s breath was switched for this fragrance, instead of its refrigerator and toothpaste smell, it would disgust him. No, pine trees and cigarettes were uniquely Oz. It was the person behind the breath.

  If Oz says to me, “Good night, Andrew. Love you.” What do I say? Do I say it back, genuinely meaning it? Or do I say nothing, and hope he goes to sleep and leaves me alone?

  He stared at the ceiling, replaying the sound of Oz saying his name.

  “Andrew. Andrew. Andrew.”

  Undeniably amazing. But imagining the last part in Oz’s voice:

  Good night, Andrew. Love you.

  There were still four sturdy walls surrounding him, but that wasn’t good enough. Feeling “not uncomfortable” wasn’t love.

  Does it need to be love? I’m fond of him. And how he could help me. Maybe I could be happy with him.

  He looked toward Robert’s back.

  I’d rather have him than you. But is it because I’d be choosing him, instead of having him forced on me? He’d be my equal. He’s intelligent. He’s useful. He hasn’t lied to me like you have, and I feel safer around him. Andrew turned his head to stare at the ceiling.

  Safe is something. It’s not the same as peace or happiness, but Oz is the type of person that if he loved me, he’d keep me safe. And I could get used to that. Maybe he’d care about the real me. About who I am instead of who he’d want me to be. Maybe I could love him. I do love it when he says my name.

  And Andrew fell asleep, thinking of smoke curling through an evergreen forest, and listening to the sweet record of his spoken name.

  Chapter 26

  Oz wasn’t scraped off the bathroom floor the next morning, though he felt like he had been. He woke in a bed, fully clothed and dehydrated with a stabbing pain running through his skull. The blinding light coming through the window roused him and indicated that he wasn’t in his own bedroom.

  I’d never leave the shades open when it’s going to be this bad. He rolled on his side, away from the window, curling his knees toward his chest.

  Why was there such a cruel thing as light? What good was it to anyone? Why couldn’t people move through darkness with bat sonar? Not that random screeching to elicit object vibration would be better for a hangover, but why did it have to be so fucking bright?

  He kept his eyes closed and tried to breathe without moving his face. The end of the previous night was a blur. After he’d entered the restaurant with Andrew, everything had a cloudy haze. He knew he’d caved and disclosed everything, becoming a blubbering, emotional mess. The odor and grease of weakness clung to his clothes and saturated his skin.

  But there’d been that man … That man who twenty-four hours before he’d regarded as a woman. A beguiling woman who’d made him so curious that he’d forced their worlds to collide.

  It was easy to switch to considering him a man. And not because it simplified things for Oz. On the contrary, he had a feeling things wouldn’t be simple for a long time.

  It could only be such an effortless change with it being true. Despite the feminine face and long blond hair, there was a masculine feel to Andrew. At his most tender, he radiated strong, powerful tones.

  A red warning light in Oz’s head flashed, but he allowed himself to remember the fingertips curling around his hair to convey he wasn’t alone.

  Andrew might’ve touched anyone in this way. Robert, the boy, anyone. But then their eyes had met, and Andrew’s hand had withdrawn. It’d moved to Oz’s cheek, his knuckles grazing it while they looked at each other. And he’d known that touch was for him alone. The touch and whatever was behind it.

  “You could find something that inspires as much passion out of you …”

  The cautionary light became a shrieking alarm, and Oz pitched onto his back. His head pounded and his eyes seemed like they were made of wood. He blinked, and felt splinters driving into the back of his lids.

  What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Oz? He squeezed his hands into fists and reopened them slowly before rubbing them over his face. I’m not going to think about this. It’s too much and too complicated. I can’t handle complicated anymore. Mathematics, people, or feelings.

  Oz took a breath. I’m going downstairs to kick Santino in the balls for leaving the fucking shades open. He did it on purpose.

  With this resolution, he pulled himself out of bed and straggled down to the kitchen.

  Santino sat at his table, a cup of coffee in his hand, and a newspaper concealing his face.

  “Good morning, Sunsh
ine. Or Mr. Seven Gins. Whichever may be weighing more heavily upon you. I imagine they both are.” Santino didn’t lower his paper, but the sly smile appeared in his voice.

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “And you interrupted me last night.”

  “You didn’t have to answer the phone.”

  “Yes, I did. It was you. You’d put aside whatever or whoever you were doing to take a call from me. Of course, I wouldn’t be calling drunk off my ass and needing a designated driver.”

  “You’re right. You’re not that interesting.” Oz slid into the opposite seat and stared at the back of the newspaper. The headlines ran together.

  “What exactly were you doing last night?” Santino set his paper down. “You looked like someone gutted you. Much like you do now actually.”

  “That’s how I feel. My head, anyway.”

  “Coffee’s there. I’m your rescuer, not your servant.”

  He walked to the counter as Santino raised the newspaper and turned a page. Thank God, he’d dropped it. Oz sighed and the coffee steam breathed over his face, easing the ache in his eyes.

  “What were you doing with her?”

  He knew Santino had raised the paper to hear that audible relief before continuing. It was like leaving the shades open or talking about him like he wasn’t there.

  But the construction of the sentence didn’t escape him. He stirred his coffee cup, keeping his back to Santino to avoid revealing the slow smile he couldn’t stop.

  “Her who?”

  “You know who. That woman you brought last Friday. What were you doing with her, alone and drunk?”

  Andrew hadn’t told him. Oz felt a wave of satisfaction in their shared secret. Should he say something? It’d be difficult to pretend not to know, especially with Santino. And it’d be hard for him to talk about Andrew like he wasn’t Andrew. He’d feel guilty, even if it was done to preserve Andrew’s privacy. Perhaps it could be avoided though.

  “We spent the day together. We had dinner. I got a little drunk.”

  “It’s not unlike you to get a ‘little drunk’.”

  Oz smiled before crossing to the table. Success.