Family Obligations

by Vivien Dean

  Yes, the happiest times of my life are those I’ve spent with you. I won’t deny that. I won’t deny that I look for pieces of you in men I meet. But that’s my problem, not yours. I’m a grown man, and it’s time for me to face the future. You have yours in that beautiful little boy.

  Consider this official absolution.

  As hard as it’ll be for me, I will prove my resolve to you by taking a break from writing for a while. I need to figure out a way to mend fences with my dad, anyway. I don’t suppose you want to call him and give him some pointers on what it means to be a father, do you? Ha-ha, just kidding. Too bad I’m not kidding about trying to fix things between us. It’s going to be tough, maybe impossible. We’ve had exactly two things in common my whole life—Mom and engines. He refuses to talk about either one, though I’m hoping if I call him up about this old Mustang that keeps breaking down on me, I might be able to entice him to at least spend a couple of hours in my company. He’s the only family I have left. I can’t just give up.

  I’m not giving up on you as a friend, either. I’m not looking for someone special right now—nobody deserves my kind of baggage—but I’ll respect your request for the future. Regardless of what it brings, though, I will always need what our friendship has given me. You are, and always will be, the first man I ever loved, but beyond that, you are also the best friend I have ever had. That value is too precious to throw away.

  I’ll just put it up on a shelf for the time being.

  Yours,

  Randy

  Sighing, Tate rubbed his tired eyes. It all sounded like a rationalization, that Randy had spit back at his father what he’d wanted to hear. The kind of love they’d shared, the desperation that had driven them back together… that didn’t just disappear overnight.

  Except the next few pieces of correspondence weren’t letters at all. They were cards, birthday and Christmas, the first few with Randy’s signature tucked inside, the later ones sprinkled with Mark’s. This was their sole communication, with brief declarations of “missing you” and “hope all is well,” until Randy switched it up by adding something more personal.

  Have been thoroughly tested. All clear. It will be a merry Christmas after all.

  The air whooshed out of Tate’s lungs. He’d been expecting it, but he’d been so caught up in his disbelief in Randy’s intentions, he’d momentarily forgotten about the prospect of AIDS. It was a relief to hear it had bypassed Randy. After everything else they’d gone through, they certainly didn’t need to add that, as well.

  Tate’s father had been relieved too. His response was an enthusiastic show of support in a card depicting a snowy cabin with a holly wreath on its front door. If Randy saw it as a reminder of their fateful weekend—Tate certainly did—he gave no hint. Instead he waited until the next birthday to answer with another card, though this time, the message was as long and personal as the holiday one had been.

  Several more years passed like that, with their notes getting longer and longer. In 1992, Randy broke the pattern yet again.

  Dear Mark,

  I cannot believe that it has been over a decade since I wrote those two words. But I made a promise that I was only going to put the letters on the shelf, and I’ve always been a man of my word.

  I will admit, though, I’ve been debating for a couple of months whether this was the right time to do it. Mark probably likes the status quo, I told myself. Why should I disrupt it? Other times I’d say, Mark might not want to hear these kinds of details. Even if I don’t mean them to, they could hurt, and that’s the last thing I ever want. I had a lot of potential reasons why writing might not be a good idea, but that’s the thing. They’re all potential. Without saying anything to you directly, I’d never have a straight answer, and that requires a letter, so here it is.

  Doesn’t it seem I always start these things off justifying why I’m writing again after so long? I’m so predictable.

  Let’s shoot for something unpredictable, then.

  I’ve met someone. Surprised? I sure as hell am. I haven’t dated anyone more than a few times since I last saw you. At first it was because I wasn’t ready. Then it got to be because I was too scared about getting AIDS. I had my work and my cars and a whole boatload of reasons why I didn’t need a man in my life.

  What’s that saying? The best things happen when you least expect it. In my case, they happen in the least likely place too.

  I help run a support group for AIDS survivors. It started out with me offering medical expertise so I could answer everybody’s questions, but over time, it grew into more. It became a sanctuary, if that makes sense. This group of people clinging to each other through common losses and fears. A lot of our members have lost lovers, and while I’ve been lucky in that regard, I still know what grief is. I’ve lost friends. I lost Mom to the cancer. In a way I still mourn the innocence of what we had in college. I connected with these people in ways I haven’t connected with anyone for years. And by anyone, I mean you, of course.

  His name is Corey, if you can believe it. Not quite as young as he sounds, but close enough. He won’t turn thirty for another three years. We got to be friends when he started coming to group a couple of years ago after his partner died, but that’s all we were for a long time. It took him cornering me on New Year’s Eve and kissing me at midnight for me to figure out he wanted anything more. I tried turning him down—a lot—but Corey isn’t the type to take no for an answer. Eventually I got tired of saying it too.

  We’re taking things slow. After all this time, I’m a little set in my ways. It’s hard to stop being scared. Plus, there’s his age. All I’m supposed to want from someone that young is sex, right?

  But he makes me laugh. He’s the biggest goofball you could ever meet, which is why he’s so great with everybody in group, but he’s got this way of zeroing in on someone and making them feel like they’re the only person in the room.

  The only other person in my life who ever made me feel like that was you.

  He’s not you. And I think I’ve finally figured out that’s okay.

  A long time ago, you told me to find love. What you meant was for me to find new love, because I already had what I felt for you. Is that still there? Yes. It always will be. It has a special place in my heart that only you can fill.

  I think Corey is helping me find his place, though. It’s not there yet, but I get glimmers of it in the distance, and it’s warm and inviting and, best of all, real.

  I would never have been able to recognize it at all if it wasn’t for you.

  Love,

  Randy

  Tate expected another letter to follow in quick succession. His father, after all, had once upon a time urged Randy to find someone else, to seek out happiness and connection. But as he scrolled down through the PDF file, he was surprised to see no word was immediately forthcoming from his dad.

  What effect had Randy’s letter had on his father? Had he been happy for Randy and graciously stepped aside, with the hope that new love could flourish and grow better without him in the picture? It made sense.

  Or had there been darker reasons for the silence? Had his father, in spite of all his good intentions, his desire for Randy to have a happy life, been saddened, hurt, and made jealous by Randy’s admission?

  Tate frowned, imagining this latter scenario, picturing his father alone somewhere, perhaps in the study in their family home that had been his sanctuary, reading and rereading the letter. His head would have told him to be happy for Randy—be generous. After all, didn’t truly loving someone mean wanting what was best for them? Yet even Tate knew how such a letter could cause the heart to ache, because, like a death, Randy’s new love could have meant that things were truly over between his father and Randy. And even though his dad had no right to him any longer, there may have been jealousy, pain, and the anguish of loss. The heart didn’t know from rational or what was logical.

  Randy had told his dad he now had what his father never could.
>
  It wasn’t until six years later, 1998, when his father finally got in touch with Randy.

  Dear Randy,

  Is it fate that keeps us together? Keeps the door between us open?

  I saw the article in this month’s POZ magazine—a profile of Corey, your Corey. It must make you proud to be with such an open and honest man. And grateful too—that he was one of five long-term survivors profiled.

  I feel some guilt for not being in touch, worried that you and Corey may have had some rough years. I read with a heavy heart about his health issues in the time before the drug cocktails we’re now beginning to see show such remarkable progress. The laundry list of afflictions he cheerfully rattled off in his interview must have made things trying for the both of you—and extremely worrisome for you. I know you were there for him, and sometimes that simple act—of loving and being there—can be just as powerful as any medicine. Even as a doctor, I know that much.

  But yeah, guilt. I had my reasons for stepping away, for losing contact, but it still pains me, makes me feel pretty damn worthless that I was not there to help you share the burden, to be a sympathetic ear when things got rough.

  Maybe that would have been inappropriate, anyway? Yes.

  It’s good, though, to hear the turnaround Corey made and how his current regimen of antiretrovirals have brought him back, made him vital, strong, and healthy once more. He certainly looks no worse for the wear. What a handsome man.

  I hope the two of you are happy. I thought of putting down, “I hope you never think of me,” but that would be a lie. I do hope you think of me and that your memories are only sweet.

  Things are good here. My practice is thriving. Tate is a star on the soccer field, and if he isn’t bringing home all As, it’s pretty damn close. We spend a lot of time together, and sometimes I fear I lean on him too much for friendship. Ah, who can love their kid too much?

  Sharon went back to school and got certification as a paralegal. She’s working now for a law firm downtown. Don’t take pity on me for saying this, and do forgive me if it’s too much information, but she has found a man at the law firm. She doesn’t know I know, and we both tiptoe politely around the ruse.

  But I have seen the joy that’s come into her being these past few months, almost as if she’s erased some years off herself. She’s colored her hair, lost twenty pounds, and I am not blind to the recent cache of new purchases from Victoria’s Secret. His name is Carlos. I won’t go into how I know.

  But I am happy for her. She deserves that kind of love, the kind I am no longer able to give her.

  Yet we remain the best of friends, and in an odd way, I know this affair will fizzle out. Sharon and I, in spite of everything, are a family, and even though she doesn’t ring any bells for me in the sex department (nor I in her, I’m sure), she is my family, and I love her with all my heart. I wouldn’t be surprised if there weren’t many long-married straight guys out there who might make these same kinds of admissions.

  Long ago, I wrote to you and mentioned something along the lines that all I ever wanted was a family. And I have that. It may not be ideal. Its definition might not fit neatly into any box. But it’s my family, and the good thing about this life is we get to define what family is for each of us.

  I have Tate and I have Sharon (where it counts—our hearts). There may be a bittersweet ache in me for what might have been, but you know what? In the end, having this son and this wife, so dear to me, is all that really matters.

  Or at least so I tell myself.

  I am happy for you and Corey; I really am. I hope yours is a family.

  Much Love,

  Mark

  Tate honestly didn’t know if he wanted to read anymore. It was bad enough that he had just lost his father, a man whom he adored, but to make this discovery now, to find this aching hole in his heart, this life of unfulfilled love (in spite of the words he had just read, which sounded more to Tate like his father was trying to convince himself of something, rather than Randy) tore Tate apart.

  He wished he could talk to Dad, wished he could tell him that he didn’t have to make the sacrifice he had.

  He shook his head. Who was Tate to say his father had made a sacrifice? Maybe the life he had was good enough, maybe he was fulfilled, maybe he took comfort in the fact that, although he never got to live in a marriage situation with another man, he had experienced a great love with one.

  And maybe, by extension, Randy was part of his father’s family—in his heart.

  Tate sat back and closed his eyes. Maybe he should consider Randy part of the family—even though he had only just made his acquaintance a few days ago.

  He looked at the document and saw it was nearing an end.

  He read on.

  Dear Mark,

  To say it was good to hear from you is an understatement. I was thrilled when I got home and found your letter, though I have to tell you, Corey was the one who brought it in. And I was the one who used to worry about Sharon stumbling across our correspondences! Is it testimony to how comfortably both of you fit in my heart that I was actually okay with it? I like to think so. It’s about time I gained some wisdom from all this.

  Anyway, I had to explain how I knew you, but I promise, as hard as it was, I kept my word from all that time ago and didn’t tell him the extent of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he figures it out, though. He’s incredibly intuitive, and I’m not exactly Mr. Stoic. But if I don’t volunteer the information, he won’t press. That’s just not his way.

  Wasn’t the profile fantastic? I couldn’t have been prouder when the magazine approached him. You’re right, it’s been a rough road at times, but what Corey wanted to show more than anything else was that HIV/AIDS can be just as much a disease of the spirit as it can be of the flesh as it tries to strip your hope away, but in the end, that’s the battle you have to fight hardest. Attitude matters. What’s the point of surviving if you’re not prepared to actually enjoy what you’ve been given?

  But you know that already. You knew that way back in college. You knew what you wanted more than anything else—a family—and you took the steps necessary to get it. I don’t have to tell you how much it hurt losing you. You felt it too. It took me a long time to accept it, but hey, we both know I’ve always been a slow study. It took both you and Corey for me to finally figure those lessons out for myself.

  I’m happy. Life is good. Is it the life I saw for myself twenty-five years ago? No, but I think most of us fail on those predictions.

  You didn’t. Look at that beautiful son of yours! I’m jealous, and that’s not an exaggeration. I might never have felt that same urge to have kids that you did, but I do regret not having the opportunity to be in your position. Don’t be afraid of being so close to your son. That’s a bond that nobody can—or should—get in the way of. Look at how hard I tried to find a relationship with my father, even knowing as I did that he didn’t like me or approve of my choices. I never gave up on it, because there was always that part of me that needed him, regardless of whatever protestations I might have made. When he passed away a couple of years ago, we’d reached a sort of neutral place, where neither one of us talked about the past or the future or anything of consequence. But I could go to his house, and we could spend a Saturday working on whatever engine was sitting in his driveway, and that seemed to be enough for us. It was the best we could do.

  You are better than that. What you’ve created with your life and for your son is a true gift. I hope you believe that. I do, with everything that I have.

  A long time ago, you asked me to do something for you, to go find someone to have a life with. Since I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, I’m going to ask something in return.

  Trust the choices you’ve made.

  Living with Corey these past few years has taught me a lot of things. We have both created the family we need. Does it suck that there wasn’t a way for you and I to do it together? Absolutely. That doesn’t lessen what we do have,
though.

  Ha-ha, listen to me. I sound like one of those damn Lifetime movies Corey makes me watch with him.

  I wish you could meet Corey. I think you two would really hit it off. Maybe sometime we can actually play out that fantasy you once had, where we came to visit you, and you and I could introduce our families to each other. Then I could look Tate in the eye and say, “You are the luckiest boy I’ve ever met, because your dad is one of the best men I’ve been lucky enough to know.”

  We can dream, can’t we?

  Always.

  Love,

  Randy

  When Tate’s gaze slid down automatically to the next letter, however, his chest tightened. It wasn’t addressed to Randy like he’d expected, nor was it handwritten. This one was typed and the salutation read…

  Dear Tate,

  I’m writing this before I leave for the airport to fly out for your dad’s funeral. I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous by including a letter from me to you in what I will tell you was the correspondence I shared with your father, but you’re not as much a stranger to me as I am to you, so it seems okay to me to take this step. I hope so, anyway.

  I also hope you didn’t just automatically skip to the end of the PDF and are seeing this first before you’ve read any of the other letters. If that’s the case, stop right now and go back. This won’t make any sense otherwise.

  Still with me? Okay, let’s do this.

  First of all, you are the luckiest person I know, because your dad was one of the best men, one of the best human beings I have ever been privileged to call friend. I’ve been waiting a long time to say that to you, and I truly wish it didn’t have to be like this. But the stars never lined up for us to meet in person, so this will have to do. Well, I guess that we will have met once you read this, but for obvious reasons, I won’t be able to say anything.