Where We Go From Here
Page 4
At the same time, these last few days were important for me as I learned a little more about what the hell this thing is that everyone is afraid of and how it manifests in the body. I got a bit obsessed, doing research in Incognito mode so I wouldn’t leave a trace of my keywords on the computer. I browsed videos made by HIV-positive people, read testimonials, and even watched a documentary that showed how different things are now from when the epidemic first started, when everything was breaking news. How people would associate HIV and AIDS with being gay and nicknamed the disease “gay cancer” and “gay plague.” How they said it was God’s punishment, and how an entire generation, already fragile from all the prejudice of a macho, conservative society, perished overnight.
But I also saw hope: how treatment has advanced over time, and how people have been able to pick themselves up after so many deaths and so much suffering. During the process, I learned new words—like serology, serodiscordant, seroconcordant, undetectable, PEP, PrEP, Truvada, Efavirenz, viral load, and CD4 count—looking up the definition of each and trying to understand what it meant.
I read terrible things and felt a lump in my throat every time I stumbled upon another devastating article. I learned of cases where people, revolted by their own condition, decided not to get treatment and believed that spreading the virus was the best way to get rid of their own negative thoughts. I saw people who were harassed after opening up about their positive status, and others who’ve refused treatment and are waiting for the virus to progress in their bodies so they’ll die, because they don’t think life is worth living after testing positive.
Even if Henrique told me he’s getting treated and is undetectable, can I believe him? Can I trust that he’s telling the truth, or is he one of those people who says one thing but does another? How can I know what kind of person he really is?
“I think you could allow yourself to have a conversation with him,” Sandra says. “Who knows—even if nothing happens, what’s the harm if you become friends?”
“I don’t know,” I say as all these thoughts swirl in my head. “I don’t think he wants to be just friends.”
“Maybe you don’t want to be just friends.”
She knows me way too well.
“Maybe,” I admit.
“The big problem with fear, my friend, is that while it helps to keep us from getting screwed, it’s also the enemy of happiness.”
“Since when are you such a philosopher?”
“Since you started needing advice from someone who finds being happy to be a good thing. Promise me you’ll think about it?”
I ponder it for a few seconds in silence and finally answer: “I promise.”
It’s not as if I haven’t already been thinking about it for the last few days.
+
I get a text from an unknown number around lunchtime, when I’m eating at Miss Irene’s food truck with Sandra.
Unknown sender:
Hey, remember me?
What’s the guy with the sad songs called again? I’m in dire need of more depressing songs in my life, and I’ve had enough of Lana Del Rey.
I smile, then add Ian to my contacts.
“What’s up?” asks Sandra, looking at my expression. “Is that Henrique?”
“No, another friend,” I answer as I type my reply.
Victor:
Johnny Hooker.
How’re you doing?
He answers right away.
Ian:
Scared.
Tired.
Annoyed.
Victor:
That’s a lot of feelings for just one person.
Ian:
You have no idea.
Victor:
I didn’t think you were gonna text me.
Ian:
I wasn’t going to, actually.
Idk, didn’t want to bother anyone with my problems, and you don’t even know me.
You must be thinking all kinds of stuff about me.
Victor:
If I thought you were going to be a bother … I would’ve given you a pat on the back and walked away. Have you talked to anyone about your results yet?
Ian:
No.
Working up the courage to tell my best friend.
Victor:
Why?
You think he’ll freak out?
Ian:
Idk, I’m scared something will change.
Victor:
If it does, then he’s not your best friend.
Ian:
Good point.
Victor:
Do you want me to put you in touch with that friend I told you about?
I talked to him, he said it’s fine.
You don’t know each other.
So at least you don’t have to worry about him judging you.
Could be good for you.
He’s cool.
The messages say Read right away, but his answer takes some time. A balloon pops up with an ellipsis, indicating that he’s typing, then disappears, appears again, disappears, and appears one more time, as if Ian were writing the first book of the Old Testament with his fingertips.
I can almost see his brown eyes as he contemplates whether contacting Henrique is a good idea or not. And when the answer appears, it’s only two sentences long.
Ian:
Maybe.
But, like … I wouldn’t be bothering him?
Victor:
If you are, he can block your number.
But I doubt he would.
Sometimes people like to help without expecting anything in return.
You should try to let yourself be helped.
It’s so much easier to offer advice when you’re not the one who needs it.
“What’s with all the typing?” Sandra asks, annoyed with my silence and my eyes being glued to the screen. “You’re really not talking to Henrique, right? Because if you are and won’t show me, I swear our friendship will be hanging by a thread!”
“It’s not Henrique!” I smile and show her Ian’s name and picture on my phone.
“Whoa, you get over your exes quickly.”
“He’s just a friend, I swear!” I answer.
“Right …”
I turn my attention back to the phone and read the last message from Ian while Sandra goes back to eating her lunch.
Ian:
Hey, you barely know me!
Victor:
If I tell you a secret, can you keep it to yourself?
Ian:
I’m now an Olympic secret keeper.
Yours is safe with me.
Victor:
I can read people’s minds.
And I know you’re the type who hates accepting help.
Whether for practical reasons or emotional support.
Ian:
And you figured that out just by reading my mind?
Victor:
Of course I did.
Ian:
Most frauds who say they can read minds rely on common sense.
Like, when a guy says, “I see you are suffering because of a family issue.”
Hard to find someone without family issues.
I laugh, which makes Sandra look my way again. She raises an eyebrow and goes back to her food in silence.
Victor:
Believe whatever you want.
I can read minds.
Period.
Ian:
Fine, then, Sookie Stackhouse.
Thanks for chatting with me.
I really needed it.
I send him Henrique’s contact info.
Victor:
My friend’s number. His name is Henrique.
Talk to him and see what he has to say.
Ian:
Could be a good idea.
Victor:
You’re a cool guy.
:)
Ian:
I’m sure Henrique thinks the same about you.
Are you guys, like, dating?
The question makes me uncomfortable, but the great advantage of texting is that the person on the other side can’t see your expression.
Victor:
It’s complicated.
Ian:
He’s positive, and you’re not.
If we were playing chess, this would be checkmate.
Victor:
I’m sorry.
I don’t want you to think I’m insensitive.
Ian:
No worries.
I’ll try to talk to him.
And we can chat more later.
A little later, he adds:
Ian:
Oh, and thank you so much.
Victor:
I’m the one who should be thanking you.
Ian:
For what?
Crying on your shoulder?
Victor:
Of course not.
Ian:
Then for what?
Victor:
It’s complicated.
:)
Ian:
Has anyone ever told you that you’re complicated?
Victor:
Believe it or not …
You’re the second person to tell me so just today.
Ian:
Once is chance, two times is a coincidence, three times is a pattern.
At least that’s what they say about serial killers.
Victor:
I hope there’s no third time.
Or I’ll start worrying.
I lock the phone and shove it in my pocket.
“Finally!” Sandra grumbles when I look at my food, basically untouched and now cold. “If you’ve found a new best friend, you better tell me right now. It’ll save me a lot of time I’d need to spend searching for a new one.”
“And I’m the dramatic one,” I answer, cutting a piece of steak and eating a forkful.
I’M ON A CROWDED BUS heading toward central Rio, squeezed between one man who doesn’t know the concept of personal hygiene and another who wears an exhausted expression, his hands holding on to the metal rail and his head resting against his own shoulder, as if praying silently for someone to let him sit down so he can sleep a bit before he gets home. My head starts throbbing, and when I try to distract myself with my phone, I notice a text from an unknown number. At first I think it might be a mistake, but as soon as I read it, I realize who it is.
Unknown number:
Hi, we haven’t met, but Victor gave me your number and said we could chat.
I’m Ian, how are you?
I consider whether or not I should get back to him. I wonder if it would be better to let the conversation die right now instead of getting involved with someone I don’t even know. Why did I let Eric say it was okay for a stranger to get in touch with me? Why am I making so many concessions to Victor when he doesn’t want anything to do with me? I’m no good for him, but good enough to act as a therapist to someone he just met?
At the same time, I know this guy must be terrified. I’ve been through all this and know how gravity seems off-kilter when there’s so much running through your mind. If I can help him feel better, why should I refuse to? If I’d had somebody to tell me everything would be okay, would I have had to spend so many sleepless nights with my face buried in my pillow, choking back screams and tears?
I remember that, when I was diagnosed, I wanted nothing more than someone to talk to, and the prospect of talking to a complete stranger had started to seem like a viable possibility. I had tried an online HIV support group, but I didn’t like how easy it was for people to remain anonymous online, and most people there would only share how much they wanted to find out who had given them the virus so they could get their revenge but felt exempt from their own responsibility in it.
It wasn’t a good idea. I spent way too much time consumed by all that negativity before finally giving up and trying a different approach, which included Eric and the fear that I had of telling him about my diagnosis.
At the time, we were already sharing our small apartment in Lapa, the result of a bond that stemmed from our similar family histories: My parents couldn’t come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t give them grandchildren (unless they were adopted) and that I wouldn’t have the traditional church wedding of my mom’s dreams, and Eric, a free spirit who found in drag a form of artistic expression—one that his father considered shameful—got kicked out of the house after his mother died.
Telling Eric about my test results was less traumatizing than I imagined. When something as scary as a chronic virus appears in our lives, we get all sorts of negative thoughts, and the first one is that, somehow, people will look at us differently. That they will avoid us, won’t hug us the way they used to anymore. So when I finally mustered up the courage and showed Eric the slip of paper with the damn X next to HIV+, I don’t really know what I expected. Maybe that he’d be disappointed, maybe that he would start screaming and want to move out, or that he would give me a hug and console me, as if I were on the brink of death.
But he did something else: He just shrugged, gave me back the paper, and asked if I had already started treatment. Afterward he went to the kitchen, opened the cabinets, and started preparing a ham-and-cheese lasagna.
“When my mom was alive, she always said there’s no bit of bad news that can survive a good lasagna. That was when I told her I was gay, both of us knew that my dad wouldn’t like the news, and the cancer was already eating her away. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, so that’s what she did for me. And that’s exactly what I want to tell you: It won’t be easy, but we’ll always have lasagna.”
That was more or less the part where I started crying and hugged him, because I was so thankful to have him in my life. And also because I was hungry.
But what about this Ian guy? Does he have anyone who can make him a lasagna, hug him, and tell him everything is going to be okay? Is he prepared to face the psychological torture that seems to consume you until you finally gather the courage and decide to share the weight of the discovery with someone you love and who will support you? He’s probably as confused as I was those first few days, not quite knowing what was happening or how life could keep on being wonderful, even with all its highs and lows.
I add Ian’s number to my contacts, trying to find my balance among the people pressing against me on the bus, then start typing.
Henrique:
Hi! Of course we can talk. My name’s Henrique, nice to meet you. How’s everything?
Ian:
Confusing.
Henrique:
I can imagine. Maybe it’s best if we talk in person instead?
Ian:
Do you have the time?
Henrique:
We’ll make time. Where do you live?
Ian:
Botafogo, you?
Henrique:
Lapa, but I’m not far from Botafogo.
Ian:
Do you have some time now?
I’m tired and want nothing more than to get home so I can finish Orange Is the New Black. Before I can answer, he sends another message.
Ian:
If not, that’s okay. We can do it some other time. I don’t want to be a bother.
I let out a weary sigh. When people don’t know each other, they tend to avoid the first meet-up, and I know from experience that he must be as uncomfortable as I am about this. If there were another way out, he’d be focusing on it. If he wants to meet in person so urgently, he’s probably doing very badly.