Nights Without Night

by Marina Vivancos

  I make pasta for dinner. I take my plate to the couch and pass him his nonchalantly. He takes it. I feel shaky with relief.

  We eat while watching Cow and Chicken.

  I’m worried he’ll leave as soon as he’s eaten, but he stays. I press against him, resting my head on his shoulder. He wraps his arm around me like always.

  The last thing I think about before drifting to sleep is him.

  *****

  Stupidly, I think that’s going to be it. That he’ll go out of his room once, then again and again until he leaves the apartment, and everything gets better.

  A week passes. Isadoro is back in his bed. The hair grows on his face. Spring arrives. I don’t know how time manages to advance through the thick molasses of our apartment.

  The lack of sleep, the amount of university work, the fear. It all coalesces. I feel like fissures are cracking my skull open. My eyelids, the roof of my mouth, the inside of my skin; it’s all rubbed raw.

  I’ll knock on his door, leave him food, talk to him through the wall. I’ll sit in his room with him. I’ll lay on my own bed, thinking.

  Nothing. There’s nothing.

  One day, after hours of classes I barely concentrated in and paintings that came out dull and with faulty perspective, I heat up a pizza for dinner. Something easy I think Isadoro won’t be able to turn down. It’s a daily struggle to get him to accept food.

  I walk into his room after barely knocking.

  “Pizza,” I say like I’m the delivery boy. Isadoro doesn’t move. I clench my teeth.

  “Isadoro, come on. Let’s just eat,” I say. I’m so tired I can barely think.

  He doesn’t move. I set the tray on the bedside table and the next thing I know, my hand has picked up one of the glasses of water and dumped it over him.

  He’s out of the bed instantly, sheet flung to the side. I stumble back, glass still in my hand. I can hear my heart in my ears.

  “What the fuck!” Isadoro shouts. I open my mouth, but my throat is closed. Isadoro’s eyes are bottomless. There’s nothing there.

  “There’s—I brought you pizza,” I say stupidly. He just stares at me for a moment before his hands are around my biceps and he’s hauling me off my feet. I cry out, but he just walks me the few steps to the door and dumps me outside. The door slams shut. I stare at it for a moment, dizzy, before taking a step back.

  “Shit,” I say, and stagger to the living room. I crumple on the couch. My breath is coming out in gasps, my hands shaking.

  “Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” I repeat, pressing my face into my hands. I try to calm down, but I can’t seem to catch my breath, air heavy through my mouth as my eyes clench tight.

  “Shit.”

  *****

  Guilt makes me wait three days before I approach his door again. I vow not to let the frustration get to me—at least not in Isadoro’s room.

  “Isa?” I say softly, knocking on his door. As expected, he doesn’t reply. I wait a few extra seconds. “I’m sorry about what happened. About what I did, I shouldn’t have…I’m sorry,” I say. I wait.

  Nothing.

  “I’m going to come in, okay? Just for a second.” I wait to see if there’s any protest. More silence.

  I push the handle down as I lean against the door and—a click. The door doesn’t budge. I try again. Another click. I stare at the handle, dumbfounded.

  The door is locked.

  It never occurred to me beyond the first time that Isadoro would lock the door. I try it again. Same result.

  “Isa. Isadoro. Open the door. Please,” I say. Wait. Nothing.

  “Isadoro,” I repeat. Something is crawling up my throat. There’s a band tightening around my chest.

  This I can’t take. This one final brick in the wall between us, this one final locked door. I, I—

  I rattle the handle, pushing against the door.

  “Isadoro, open up!” My head is filled with the rush of my blood. There’s something wrong with my throat and my lungs. Air will go out but not in, body clenching at each intake. I bang on the door.

  I need it to open. I need it to open.

  “Isa, please. Please, please,” I say, and I can’t take it. I can’t breathe, I can’t do it. Everything is so much all at once, all the shadows all around, the dishes in the sink and the unused easel in the corner and the silence, the silence, it’s clogging the back of my throat, my hands are shaking, flapping. I press my back against the wall but it’s not holding me up and I can’t breathe. I’m crying, my tongue pasty and thick, my ribs jumping, my eyes blurred and sightless. All the air is jammed in my throat at once so that I can’t, I can’t—

  The door opens. I’m on the floor, somehow. I look up.

  “Isadoro,” I say, his name scrambled by my defective body.

  “Hey. Hey, hey,” he says, and then he’s around me, touching me, his arms and his hands and then his chest as he hauls me to my feet and against him. My arms wind around his neck at once, clinging to him. My chest is convulsing in big, awful sobs as I bury my face into his neck.

  “Please, please,” I say, even though I don’t know what I’m asking for anymore. Isadoro shushes me gently, holding me close as he strokes my back.

  “It’s okay. It’s open. It’s okay. Breathe, okay? Breathe,” he says.

  I try, but I can’t quite get there.

  Everything is a haze. When I calm down from gasping to stuttering breaths, Isadoro makes to pull away. I cry out, holding fast.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” he says and pulls me with him. He manoeuvres us to the bed and we lie down. The sheets smell bad. So does he. I hold him close.

  We stay there in that dark pit.

  *****

  I wake up in the faint glow of a lamp. My eyes feel grainy, my mouth pasty, my throat raw. I blink. I’m still tangled in Isadoro, facing each other. He’s looking back at me with tired eyes. His beard has grown even longer. I rub my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  “Water?” I ask. Isadoro passes me a bottle from under the bed. I take a long swallow, swishing the water around in my mouth to try and get rid of the taste. When I’m done, I hand the bottle back to him and we settle down again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say after a moment.

  “You already apologized. It’s fine.”

  “No, not about the whole water thing, although I’m sorry about that too. I’m sorry about the whole…freaking out thing,” I say. Isadoro frowns, as if not understanding the apology. “I shouldn’t, I know I shouldn’t be putting anything else on you.”

  He looks at me. “Why?”

  “I know…that you’ve been through a lot and, coming back, it’s a big change and I shouldn’t be adding to that. I should be-”

  Isadoro puts a hand between us on the bed, stopping me. “Iván…” he sighs, closing his eyes. He says nothing further, as if exhausted. The air inside my chest trembles. I don’t know what I’ve said wrong.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize instantly. I don’t want him to kick me out. I don’t want him to close the door again.

  I don’t want to lose him.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know…I’m sorry, I just don’t know…” I feel my eyes heat with tears. I close them.

  I can’t do this. I can’t burden him with my own issues. With the guilt of seeing what this is doing to me. I try to get a hold of myself. To reach inside and just hold everything together, but it’s like the foundation of me is rocking back and forth. Like everything is shaking air and dust. My breath comes out wetly and I try to clamp my mouth shut but everything is crumbling.

  There’s nothing to hold onto.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat, and in the darkness of my closed eyes, Isadoro pulls me towards him. Before I know it, I’m crying again. I don’t know how to stop.

  “Come back,” I plead, fisting my hands on the back of his shirt. He holds me tight.

  “I’m right here,” he says.

  But he’s not.

  CHAPTER SIX
r />   “Jesus, Iván.”

  “Hello to you too,” I tell Jack. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, come…what happened?”

  I take a moment to collect myself. Take off my lightweight jacket, my shoes.

  “Can we go into the living room?” I ask. For some reason, my voice is already trembling.

  “Iván…” she says, placing her hands on my arms and looking at me. I avoid her eyes. I feel like I’m constantly at the edge of breaking. “Come here,” she says softly and pulls me into her arms. The next moment, I’m crying. I wrap my arms around her, shaking, and she presses me close, stroking my hair.

  She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t shush me. Doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay. She just holds me while I cry.

  When I’ve calmed down enough to move, she gets me some tissues and we sit on the couch.

  It all comes spilling out.

  The incident at the bar. How things changed. How he won’t go out, or eat, or shower, or even sleep, probably, despite being in bed all day. I tell her about the glass of water. About the freakout. About that moment when the door wouldn’t open, and it felt like I would never be able to reach him. I tell her about the fear eating me up. The helplessness. The hopelessness starting to creep.

  What if? I ask. What if he doesn’t get better?

  Jack listens to me silently until I’ve emptied myself of words. At the end, I feel hollow and scraped raw, but there’s relief too, to have it out there, to not be carrying this alone.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say finally. Jack is turned towards me on the couch, holding my hand.

  “Iván…do you think that maybe you’re expecting more from yourself than is actually possible?” she asks. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “I don’t want to talk about that. I’m sorry. I just…” I take a shaky breath. “I can’t think about more problems. I just want something. One…I just, I need help…” I say. I try to not start crying again.

  “Okay, how about you go to the nearest V.A. centre? There’s one not far from here. You’ll have to quote some information regarding Isadoro, but you can get a consultation meeting without him. Go, tell them what you’ve told me. Hear what they’ve got to say, what services they offer,” she suggests.

  “I can do that myself?” I ask.

  “Well, maybe not…on the books per say, due to confidentiality reasons, but the V.A. supports families and loved ones as well, so I think you’ll be able to get someone to talk to you. Try it and if not, we’ll think of something else. But don’t keep it inside for so long. Don’t isolate yourself along with him, Iván,” she says. I nod.

  “And…” she starts. I look at her. “Never mind,” she says, shaking her head. I let it go. I already know what she’s going to say.

  It’s not me who should be going to the V.A. It’s Isadoro.

  Still. One step at a time.

  **********

  The V.A. centre is a nondescript building. It reminds me of a state college, with small staff offices and larger rooms for meetings and group sessions. The carpet is worn, colours monotone and muted, and it smells like stale coffee as I step in. I head straight for the lady behind the windowed reception desk.

  “Hi. Uh, I’m here to see Mr. Afif? I have an appointment,” I say.

  “Name?”

  “Oh, yeah. Iván Ríos-Prado.”

  “Okay. Sign in here and take a seat. Mansur will come get you in a bit,” she says. I do and sit down. I look around the waiting room. Camo-green chairs, low tables, pictures of landscapes. I pick up a magazine, flip through it briefly, and then set it back down again. I’m too jittery to even flit blindly through the pages. It feels like I’m betraying Isadoro by being here.

  Before my anxiety has a chance to really ramp up, a tall, Asian man comes out.

  “Iván Ríos-Prado?” he says.

  “Yep.” I get up and walk towards him. He smiles at me and I try to smile back.

  “Hello. Follow me and we can get properly introduced,” he says. I nod, and we walk down a hallway and into what looks like a therapist’s office.

  It’s demurely decorated, with a desk by the window and some comfortable looking chairs facing each other between that and the door. Mansur sits on one of the chairs and picks up a pad of paper from a coffee table at its side. I sit on the chair opposite him, twisting my fingers in my lap.

  “Thanks for seeing me. I know it must be unusual to meet with, you know, not a veteran,” I say awkwardly before he can start.

  “Not at all, I meet with loved ones all the time,” he assures me.

  “Oh. Well, that’s good to know.” I look at him, a little lost. “Sorry. I’m a little…”

  “Don’t worry. This office has seen it all. How about I tell you a little about myself and then you can tell me a little bit about your situation, so we can figure out how our services can help you and your friend. Sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  “As you know, my name is Mansur Afif. I did three tours in Iraq, from 2003-2007. After a bit of soul-searching when I got back, I got my degree in counselling and have been a counsellor here since 2011. I offer individual and group therapy, as well as advisory assistance, such as connecting people with services that might best fit them, be it for government benefits or other mental health services, as well as meeting with people such as yourself who want to know a little more about what we offer. Am I right in saying you have a friend who qualifies for V.A. services?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he, uh, he got back late 2017. He enlisted in 2010.”

  “That’s quite a number of tours.”

  “Yeah. Special Ops.”

  “That makes sense. How did you meet him?”

  “I’ve known him since forever. Since before I can remember.”

  “Ah. Childhood friends. Did you keep in touch during his service?”

  “Yeah. Phones, Skype…He stayed with me during his leave.”

  “It sounds like you’re very close.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, he…yeah. We are.”

  “Does he have anybody else in his support system?”

  “Um…I mean he and my parents are close. They talk on the phone, but my parents live far away and they’re busy with work, so…”

  “I see. So, it’s mainly you?”

  “I guess.”

  “What about you? You’re close to your parents?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any other support system?”

  “For me? Oh, well, yeah, I guess. I have friends.”

  “That’s good. So, what made you decide to reach out to us?” he asks.

  “Well, I…I guess I’m just, I’m worried. I don’t know what to do. How to help him.”

  “Okay. You don’t mind me asking questions about the situation? You are not obligated to answer any of them, of course. Say pass and we’ll go to the next one or stop there.”

  “Okay. Sure, yes.”

  “Okay. When you say worried, can you tell me a bit more about that? Are there any behaviours your friend is showing, or not showing, worrying you?”

  “Well…He doesn’t talk to me. No, wait,” I say, shaking my head. “He, okay, he seemed to be doing better when he first got here but it’s like things are getting worse.”

  “In what way? Are there any specific behaviours that have changed to give you the impression things have worsened?”

  “He doesn’t leave the house, or his room, even. We live together, so…When he first got here he would leave the house, socialize…now he just doesn’t.”

  “What did he use to do when he left the house?”

  “Go to the dog shelter. He had a job as a bouncer at the bar I worked at. I got it for him, I…maybe I pushed him too hard…”

  “Did you insist he take the job?”

  “No. No, no, I just suggested it.”

  “It doesn’t sound like you pushed too hard.”

  “I guess. I just…”

  “I understand. We’ll get back to that in a
moment if you like, let me just ask you a few more questions. So, from what you’ve said, one of the main changes concerning you is a decline in how often he leaves the house. I’m guessing he doesn’t have the job at the bar anymore?”

  “No, he, uh…He sort of, I mean the guy was an asshole, but he sort of hurt someone.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Well, I was working behind the bar and some guy was not taking no for an answer, if you know what I mean, and grabbed at me, and Isa- I mean, my friend, was working the door and he sort of…hulked out. Grabbed the guy, slammed him against the wall. The guy cracked his head…”

  “Any charges pressed?”

  “No. But since that night, that’s when everything changed. I mean, I knew, before, that things weren’t right, but they seemed okay. Now, he doesn’t do anything. He doesn’t come out to eat with me, I think he barely eats. I—I have class, so I can’t. I mean I want to, but I can’t be there all the time, you know?”

  “Of course. I understand. How do you know he doesn’t leave the house when you’re not there?”

  “Well…this is gonna sound kind of shady, but I leave a tiny slip of paper between the front door and its frame when I close it, so I know if someone has opened it ‘cause it would fall, you know? And it’s always untouched.”

  “That’s quite inventive.”

  “I got the idea from an anime I watched when I was a teenager, so…” I say. He chuckles.

  “As I said, inventive,” he smiles. I shrug, smiling back. “Was the incident at the bar the first time you saw him lose his temper since he got back?”

  “He only lost it once before. I was driving and someone cut me off and he almost jumped out of the car. He would have if the door hadn’t been locked.”

  “Has he always shown that kind of temper?”

  “No. Not at all. He’s always been intense and very…like, righteous? But not in an asshole way. Just, he’s always been very into what’s right and what’s wrong and he’s just very black-and-white about that stuff. And I’ve seen him do things because of that but never so reactive. And it’s not like he started shouting at everybody when he got back, it was only two incidents, but…”