The Anatomy of Perception

by AJ Rose

  Craig cringed. “Did he really come after you with a bat?”

  “Not while I was at home,” I said, smiling ruefully. “Besides, I told myself I was the baseball player. Even if he caught me by surprise, by the time I was sixteen and seventeen, I was taller, an athlete, and had a much better homerun swing. He was a permanently injured drunk with a mean temper. I didn’t have to put up with much from him by then, and he knew it. But I still found it easier to spend more time at Holly’s. Her parents were concerned for their daughter’s virtue until I came out to them. They were the only ones who knew aside from Holly. They assumed my father knew, considering how little time I was home, but I begged them to keep it secret so no one on the baseball team would find out. I was hoping for a scholarship to get out of West Virginia. If the guys on the team knew and had a problem with a fag on the field with them—and believe me they would have—I’d have never touched the ball again, and scouts wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “But you went to school on an academic scholarship,” Craig said, confusion wrinkling his brow.

  I nodded. “I did any and everything I could to leave, and I didn’t care if it was for my smarts or my sports. I got a full ride to UMD and got the hell out of there.”

  “And you got your degree in biology and went to med school at NYU and one day, some chump put your face on the side of a building and had his heart broken a little bit when he went by two days later and found it scrubbed off.”

  I hung my head. “I couldn’t risk it, Craig. You turned my face into a billboard. When I packed up to take the bus to College Park, he threatened me. Said he’d find where I was and come after me, that if he had to live his life in misery without Mom, so did I. He vowed to find Dylan and me. That’s why Dylan and I barely spoke after I left home. We didn’t want to risk leading the old man to each other. Hell, Dad even went to Holly’s parents’ house and harassed them to tell him where I’d gone, not that they gave him a clue. Holly’s dad called right after we got our dorm keys and said to watch my back, that Dad was off-the-rails crazy and was talking about paying someone to find me. At first, I didn’t believe it. He never even stayed sober enough to catch Dylan on his weekly visit. There was no way he’d come after me out of state. And hiring an investigator? I honestly didn’t think he gave that much of a damn about me. I was such a twit, thinking I could run like that.”

  “What’d he do?” Craig asked, eyes wide.

  “I came back to the dorm after midterms second semester to find him passed out on my bed, his hand curled around one of my old aluminum baseball bats. I still don’t know what led him to me, since I didn’t put any of his information on my college paperwork, and all of my grades and scholarship information went to me. My only tie to home was Holly’s parents listed as emergency contacts. But I guess he didn’t need sobriety when he had someone willing to look for me on his behalf and he could buy a bus ticket, same as I had.”

  “Why did someone who didn’t lift a finger to be a dad to you and your brother when you were kids care so much when you left? How did he even pay someone to help look for you?”

  I’d asked myself those questions ad nauseum, so I wasn’t surprised to hear them from Craig. “I think he hated me for reminding him of Mom, but he hated being alone more. When Dylan left, Dad realized I would eventually go too, and then he’d be by himself. But needing people was a sissy thing, so he’d never admit it. The more drunk and bitter he got, the more determined he became to keep me home.

  “As for the money to pay a PI, there was a little life insurance from Mom’s death, which Dylan knew about but could never crack into. Dad always had the money for bills, but was too drunk or ambivalent to pay them. Also, right after I went to Maryland, Dad refinanced the equity out of the house. Dylan called to warn me there was money for an investigator. He said his friends made sure he was safe, but I might be vulnerable with all the scholarship and moving information on me. He was pissed a bank would even consider giving Dad a house loan, but it was a couple months after 9/11 and banks were giving out loans like candy to keep the economy from crumbling. Without a power of attorney, Dylan couldn’t get control over the bills.”

  “What happened when he found you at school?”

  “I crept out of my room, went to the front desk and called campus security. Old man didn’t even wake up until they grabbed him to escort him off the property. There were several witnesses to him threatening to kill me, and the security guards advised me to go to the local police to get a restraining order. Holly and a couple kids from my dorm vouched for the death threats, and I had a legal order that he couldn’t be within a thousand yards of me.” I snorted. “You know those big banners cheer squads make for the football team to rip through at the beginning of a game? That’s how much good the restraining order did. Campus housing was made aware and moved me to another dorm. He found me again, so they moved me to a third dorm. And he found me again. That time, he gave me a concussion because he managed to stay sober long enough to hide behind the door until I got home. After that, they moved me to a four-flat used for grad students, and that’s where I lived the remaining two years. I think by then, they’d started leaving my real name out of the housing files.”

  “Holy shit, Dane,” Craig said in wonder. “Your life is like a movie or something.”

  “Now do you understand?” I asked pleadingly, turning on the bench and grabbing his hands, ignoring his flinch. His attempt to extricate himself was halfhearted at best. “Now do you see why I always had a problem with publicly displaying our affection, in case the bastard was lurking around the next corner? Why I had to erase my face off the jewelry store wall and the other places? Why I didn’t tell you I had a brother or a father or any of it? Holly was the only good thing to come out of West Virginia with me, and I shared her with you. I shared with you everything I could. And my baggage is the size of the building you live in, Craig. I didn’t want you to see it, and I definitely didn’t want you to feel you had to help me lug it around.”

  Craig said nothing, just stared at our joined hands for a long moment. I couldn’t take his silence and I couldn’t read his face. Not in the shadows of the trees. I lifted his hands and kissed his knuckles, smelling the remnants of paint and turpentine that he could never fully wash away.

  “Please,” I whispered. “Please, please believe me. I never meant to hurt you, and I was trying to save you from the pain of my past. It became obvious I had to deal with it, but I was so ashamed for you to see it. Worse, I wasn’t worthy of you. I didn’t believe I deserved your love, let alone your help. So I did the only thing I thought was right: I lied to drive you away, certain your life would be better without me.”

  “That’s so stupid,” he said thickly. Finally, he looked at me, his eyes shiny. Shadows obscured the rest of his expression, but his eyes were kind and sad. “I would have helped. You know I would have been beside you the whole time.”

  “And you would have eventually been destroyed because of it,” I finished for him. He let out a frustrated grunt. “Craig,” I cut him off. “I was raised thinking I was the reason my father drank. That because I looked like my mom, I hurt my dad every day without even trying. I learned for years my best wasn’t good enough, that my very existence was painful, and that being who I am gets me hit over the head with a baseball bat.” I checked myself. “I mean got me hit over the head. I was one hundred percent sure if you stayed, I’d break you, like I thought I broke him.”

  “And now?” The words were barely above a whisper.

  “Now I know that way of thinking is wrong. I know I’m not responsible for his bad choices, and I also know I have lingering issues because of my childhood. My PTSD from the mugging kicked off the whole episode with you and Holly. I have anxiety problems in public or social situations. I couldn’t handle being a surgeon anymore, Craig. I’m no longer an MD. I let my license to practice go and became a physical therapist. I’m probably the only PT in the world who’s done a double bypass graft.” Averti
ng my eyes at the admission of all the things of which I struggled not to be ashamed, I shivered, knowing I had to stop soon or face another episode, which I did not want Craig to witness. But he needed to know I’d lost so much. I needed him to understand I hadn’t wanted my losses to be his, too. “I had to give up my dream for the stability of a forty-hour workweek that involves almost no stress. I get to watch my fellow surgical residents sprint ahead by leaps and bounds, all while looking down on me for quitting. Their disrespect and lack of acceptance make me prone to hypervigilant episodes and all-out flashbacks because I get defensive. If I get like that, I have to remove myself from the situation, and let me tell you, it’s only because of Chief Noble I even have a job. I’m a mess, even two years later.

  “But I didn’t wreck my father. He did that himself. Therapy, Craig. I’ve had a lot of therapy, and I know all the buzzwords, but more importantly, I believe them now. They’re not just bunk and I’m not weak. I’m not less of a man. I’m facing this shit. Head-on, staring-down-the-demons facing this. And I still love you.” My voice cracked, my throat closing on further words. I stared at Craig intently, cursing the shadows and wishing we’d just stayed at the damned coffee shop. His eyes were closed; that was all I could tell. I waited, not sure what to expect.

  He let out a half laugh that could have also been a sob. “This is a lot of information,” he began. “I can’t think.” When he pulled his hands from mine, I let him go, missing the warmth and missing the hostility. His blank expression told me nothing, and at least with the anger, I could understand what he was thinking. He had most of the story now, but any more and he’d be overwhelmed. The question was, what was he going to do with it?

  When he stood, I stood. Several times, he opened his mouth to speak, only to close it before words emerged. He wouldn’t look me in the eye. Desperation spread insidiously in my chest. I’d convinced myself that once he had the full picture, he’d have no problems taking me back. I’d fantasized about him pulling me into his arms and walking me home, me lying on his bed and offering my whole self to him in a way I’d never fully been able to before. In the hopes of making those images become reality, I reached for him. Instead of falling into his comforting arms, he fell into mine, and I breathed in his smell, ran my fingers through his hair, and buried my face in his neck. My dick instantly sprang to life, and I didn’t care if he felt it or not. Craig was in my arms again after so long.

  But he was stiff and unyielding, and I could see less of his face now than when we were standing there in the shadows. One of his fists rose and tapped me twice on the back, and he was already stepping away as if the embrace were with a distant cousin not seen for years or a once-friend he really didn’t know anymore. What was most difficult was Craig didn’t give those kinds of hugs to anyone. The cousin would be hugged just as Craig would hug his mother, so his discomfort with me was stark and painful. I let him go and shoved my hands in my pockets. Had I any dignity left, I’d have walked away, but this was Craig. If he was rejecting me, I needed to hear it in words.

  “I love you,” I repeated simply, plaintively.

  He gaped at me, and then rounded on his heel and left me standing in the dark.

  April 2006

  I smiled as I scanned the faces of those enjoying the first real warm day of spring, spread out over Central Park on blankets, on bikes, tossing footballs, jogging, walking their dogs, or just being after a long winter. New York had cabin fever, and on this day, midsixties and beautiful with a slight breeze and a fucking brilliant sky, the city yawned and stretched her legs, remembering what life felt like.

  “Pay attention!” Holly yelled from thirty yards away as her Frisbee grazed my nose.

  I couldn’t help it, being distracted by my surroundings. I looked for him everywhere. Not my dad, but my… personal Picasso. He had painted my face around Manhattan in the dark of night two more times, always somewhere I would find it, which meant he knew my general route to school and made sure I saw his work. Given how exposed it made me feel, I probably should have been looking for my dad, to be on the safer side. But that was less fun.

  “Sorry!” I called, jogging after the Frisbee and flinging it back. She swooped into the air like a dancer and came down with the red disc, returning it to me with barely a flick of her wrist. “Show off!” I hollered, having to dart far to my left to snag her throw. At the last second, my foot slipped, and I skidded on my chest across shaded grass, its morning dew not yet dried by the sun.

  “Klutz!” Holly retorted, trudging toward me. I rolled to my back and laughed, for once not letting school, or the politics with my classmates, or my fears of failure leak into my day. I stuck my tongue out at my best friend, who wore black leggings and rainbow-colored Converse beneath a billowy white t-shirt that hung nearly to her knees, so big the neck kept falling off her shoulder to expose a Hello Kitty bra strap. When she reached me, she sank to the grass, putting her head on my thigh as my laughter took me over. The giggles eventually subsided while we lay there, watching as clouds scudded across the picture-perfect blue.

  “That one looks like a saccular cerebral aneurysm,” I pointed to a cloud straight above us, visible through a break in the trees.

  Holly rolled her eyes. “I think it looks like a pregnant woman.”

  “Why not a pregnant man?” I chuckled, flexing my quadriceps so her head jumped on my leg.

  “Now you’re just being ridiculous.” She turned to her side so she faced me. “You know mpreg only exists in fiction. Have you been reading Kirk and Spock fanfic again?”

  “Yeah, on top of the fifteen to twenty chapters I read every week, not counting the labs and classes I also attend. I have so much time to read slashfic.”

  “Well, I assumed it accounted for your good mood, but now I know I’m a foolish woman who should stick to her books and her knitting.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her. “What the hell are you talking about? You don’t knit.”

  She flapped her hand. “Goes with the whole librarian thing. People seem to think I should be a knitter, too. Do I look like a knitter to you?”

  I appraised her with raised brows. “You know, there’s this girl in my program who knits socks during every lecture. Records the audio so she can go over it later, but sits there and knits during class. Says it helps with surgical dexterity and she hears every lecture twice. I’m thinking of taking up knitting, since I’m going to be cutting people… who ask me to. Would you teach me, oh knitting librarian?”

  She laughed, but when I didn’t, hers faded into uncertainty. “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah,” I shrugged and went back to observing clouds that looked like kidneys and aortas. “It looks very zen, actually,” I observed. “Knitter Girl is calmer than the rest of us. Though she does carry around pointy sticks, so maybe she pokes people’s eyes out on the train before she gets to class and that’s what calms her down. I don’t know.”

  “Needles.”

  “What? They haven’t let us touch needles yet. We aren’t to the practical parts of our classes.”

  “Dope.” She smacked my arm. “I meant the pointy sticks. They’re knitting needles.”

  “Ah. I like them already.”

  Holly sat up. “What on earth has gotten into you today?” she demanded. “You’re being incredibly silly, and you’re usually so serious and brooding.”

  I studied her face, then went back to cloud observation. “I don’t know. I’m happy today. I’m content. I know who I am and no one is going to hurt me because of it. You don’t have to be my beard anymore and you get a life of your own.”

  She scoffed, as she usually did when I brought up her high school sacrifices.

  “I mean it,” I said, sitting and drawing my legs up to rest my forearms on my knees. “You have saved me, figuratively and literally, too many times to count. I love that you don’t need to right now. I’m free of that bastard and the world is full of possibility. I support myself okay and have friends and am putting myse
lf through med school. I survived my shitty childhood and it’s over. I can take up knitting because it’ll help me when we finally get to touch a scalpel, and I don’t care if people who see me automatically think I’m gay, because I’ve endured worse. I’d be gay if I didn’t knit. So let’s do it. Let’s learn how to make each other ugly Christmas sweaters and those ski hats that reach our knees and have big puffy balls on the point.”

  She eyed me, then stood and offered me a hand. “I’m not so sure I want to be a stereotypical knitting librarian, but I refuse to let you be the only one that can make an ugly Christmas sweater. I’ll just make sure my hair always contains one rainbow color. Let’s go find a knitting store.”

  We spent the rest of the day at a fiber store in the Upper West Side, where we happened to fumble in right before a beginning knitting class began. Given that Holly was earning an actual salary and could sometimes afford to splurge on things, she bought the needles, yarn, and pattern for both of us to knit a scarf, and we stuck around for hours until we got the hang of it. It turned out to be a lot of fun, and the people in that class were eventually replaced by those in a more advanced one, which we didn’t pay for but lingered in the chairs nearby to watch. We crashed some group’s yarn club or something, and by the time we left, we were well into inches of scarf as well as starving from having not eaten at all.

  “You think about telling your roommates you’re gay?” she asked, shouldering the bag carrying our craft supplies while I paid for our street vendor hot dogs.