by Cameron Lowe
His manager was less than thrilled – in fact, he told Malcolm in no uncertain terms that if he didn’t show up, he’d be fired. Shit. They were starting to pin down the wedding plans and they needed the income. But this was Hugh, and Malcolm couldn’t leave the guy stranded. He told his manager he quit, grabbed his keys, and jetted for the door to grab a bus to the storage unit where he kept the Grand National, hoping it wasn’t sitting on flats.
* * *
It took him a long minute to remember where Hugh’s dorm room was. He got the wrong floor at first and stared dumbly at a marker board outside some kid named Travis’s room before he realized his mistake. He took the stairs two at a time, just as Hugh stumbled out of the bathroom. Dark wet patches like oil slicks stained his shirt where he’d been trying to wash off vomit still crusted to the hem.
Hugh had been growing his hair long, mimicking some look by Orlando Bloom or someone like that, and now he flopped it away from his eyes, staring blearily at Malcolm. Two of the fingers on the hand he used had the look of sausages compared to the others and didn’t bend like they did when he clenched and unclenched his fists. Broken, maybe.
“Oh, it’s you,” he muttered, and pushed off the wall towards Malcolm. His steps were uneven and he nearly fell in just that short of a walk “Where’s Vanessa?”
“She sent me up here to look after you.”
“She took off, didn’t she?”
“I…” Malcolm had no idea how to respond to that. “Yeah. She had classes.”
Hugh laughed hoarsely. “Bullshit. I was tripping and she…” He shook his head. “She finally figured out what an asshole I am.”
“Let’s get you inside.”
“I’m feeling better.”
“Still,” Malcolm said, smiling blandly.
“I am.”
“Hugh, take a look at your hand.”
Hugh huffed at that but lifted his hands in front of his face. “Oh,” he muttered, and reversed course, banging into his door before managing to open it. He motioned for Malcolm to come on in, and sat at the corner of his meticulously made bed. Malcolm stood at the door watching him guardedly. Hugh wobbled like an ice cream cone filled too high, and didn’t seem to be able to focus on anything.
“What are you on?”
Hugh winced and stared at the wall. “Shrooms. My anxiety pills. A caffeine pill or two.”
“Damn it, Hugh…”
“Don’t.” Hugh swallowed. It looked like it took some effort, and he reached for the mini-fridge by his bed to pull out a soda. If he’d been sober, the pain of using his bad fingers would have at least drawn a hiss from him, but there was no reaction from him. “Please don’t lecture me. I know everything you’re going to tell me and I feel horrible. So just quit.”
“All right. Now, are you going to go with me to the hospital, or are we going to call an ambulance?”
Hugh rubbed his eyes. “I’m not-”
“Yeah. You are. You were tripping hard enough to lock yourself in a bathroom stall. You’re on serious meds, your hand looks pretty screwed up, and your eyes are still unfocused. You can either go with me or the EMTs.”
“The EMTs? Come on, Malcolm.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re not going to back off, are you?”
“No. I’m not. You need to get checked out.”
Hugh nodded and finished off the soda in three long gulps. He crushed the can and dropped it into the wastebasket. “All right, fuck it. Let’s go.”
* * *
Gwen found Malcolm in the waiting room outside Rankin Flats Memorial’s emergency room pouring himself a cup of coffee. She rushed to him and hugged him tight.
“Is he okay?”
“Still waiting on the hospitalist or anyone to show up and talk to him. But he’s lucid now. I was with him until he fell asleep. They promised to come tell me the minute anything changes.”
“I’m gonna go back and see him. I know this is asking a lot, but would you do me a favor and wait for my parents? Just so they see someone they know when they come in?”
Malcolm nodded, and she checked in with the receptionist who buzzed her through. Before she went in, Gwen gave him a peck on the cheek. Her hands trembled as she stroked his chin.
“He’ll be okay,” Malcolm told Gwen, but she seriously doubted that was true.
Hugh was in the third emergency bay to her left. A nurse pointed the way before whooshing over to another patient’s bed. Her brother was awake and sitting up, grimacing as he twisted this way and that. Thinking he was in pain, Gwen rushed to him.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to call the doctor?”
“No, I just don’t know how they expect people to lay in these things for hours and hours. Did you know the average wait time in an emergency room is over four hours nationwide, and Rankin Flats damn near doubles that?”
Gwen kissed his forehead and took his hand. “That can’t possibly be true.”
“It is, though. Unless you’ve got access to one of the private clinics, and trust me, you and I will never make enough in our lifetime to be admitted to one of those. Memorial’s got a stranglehold on most the city, and most the other big hospitals in the area are choked from a lack of staff. Turnover’s literally killing patients all over the city.”
“Enough of that talk,” she said, and smacked his shoulder. “What the hell were you thinking? Mushrooms and caffeine pills?”
“Sis, I hate to break it to you, but it’s not the first time.”
“Not helping!”
Patiently, as though he were explaining trigonometry to someone who could barely count to ten without resorting to fingers and toes, Hugh said, “I took them too close to my meds. It was dumb. But I’m fine now. By the way, Malcolm could be a race car driver. That dude knows how to book it.”
“Stop!” Gwen shouted, and buried her head against his chest, sobbing. Startled, Hugh stroked the hair on the back of her head, saying nothing until their parents stepped around the edge of the bay.
“Gwen,” he said quietly.
She stopped crying, and glanced up, sniffing, her eyes puffy and red. Her dad cleared his throat, and Daphne rushed forward to grip Hugh’s cheeks between her hands, whispering her son’s name.
“Is he… are you…?” Elliot asked, and he stepped forward, his whole body quavering.
“I’ll go,” Gwen said, and started to step around him, but Elliot grabbed her shoulder.
“Please don’t,” her dad said. “Stay.”
“Dad…” she said. He hugged her tight, their bodies both tensed as though the other might strike out at any moment.
“If I’d known a bad drug cocktail was all we needed to get the band back together…” Hugh said, trying to smile.
* * *
Gwen found Malcolm asleep in a chair in the waiting room, a hunting magazine open beside him. He looked like a giant child, his mouth wide open, his nostrils flaring with every breath. She wished she had a camera to take his picture. Oh well.
“Malcolm,” she said quietly, and he jerked awake.
“Hey. Is he okay?”
She sat down beside him and rubbed his thigh. “For tonight, yes. They’re moving him to a regular room for observation, probably until tomorrow. After that… I don’t know. He says he’ll go back to his therapist, and I believe him, but…”
“You don’t know if he’ll stick with it.”
Gwen nodded. “I’m going to stay here tonight. I understand if you don’t want to be around my parents, but…”
“No. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Thank you. How pissed was John that you called in today?”
“Ah. Um… pissed enough that I lost my job. I’m sorry, but I don’t regret it.”
She exhaled, hard, but nodded. “We’ll figure it out.”
At a snail’s pace, they walked together through the hospital, Malcolm relating what had happened with Vanessa outside the dorm and how he’d managed to talk Hugh into coming
to the hospital. Gwen seemed half her normal self, hunched over, exhausted. Twice they stopped to watch children outside play from the hospital’s giant windows, and she accepted his one-armed hug gratefully, needing him close.
A nurse was just coming out of Hugh’s room for the night as they approached. Hugh was in bed, one knee arched, his long hair falling down nearly around his eyes. That image seared itself into Gwen’s mind. To her, it was the beginning to the long string of bad days ahead and it was forever the image she associated with it. Daphne and Elliot were seated in a pair of plastic-looking armchairs pulled next to the bed. Elliot glanced up at their entry, and away again.
“My hero,” Hugh said, his smile pained.
“You can be pissed if you want to,” Malcolm said. “I don’t care. I’m glad to see you’re doing okay.”
“No, I get it,” Hugh said. “Hey, can you guys give us a minute? Me and Malcolm?”
That surprised everybody in the room. Daphne shook as she stood up, but when she leaned over her son to kiss his cheek, her eyes locked on Malcolm as if she were a lioness warning him to back the hell off her cubs. Elliot reached out tentatively, patted Hugh’s shoulder, and walked behind his wife on the way out.
Gwen hesitated, and Hugh gave her that same tired smile. “You too, sis. Scoot.”
The two men – not much more than boys, really – stared at one another as Gwen, startled and annoyed, came over to squeeze Hugh’s hand. She gave Malcolm a peck on the cheek, and on the way out, closed the door behind her.
“Have a chair,” Hugh said. “Or… on second thought, maybe stand. Those look like someone just painted over boulders.”
Malcolm laughed and settled for a spot on the bed near the other man’s knees. “Look, if you’re expecting an apology…”
“No. I’m not. I was being stupid. What did Vanessa say?”
Malcolm had no idea how to answer that. “I… she was very scared for you.”
“And pissed off, if I know her.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Mm,” Hugh said. “I love her, but she is the fire to my gasoline. Do you love my sister?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Calvin loved her too. But Calvin loved Calvin more than Gwen. What I mean is… I don’t have the damn words. Do you really love her? Will you love her?”
“I don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Never mind,” Hugh said, irritated. The remote to the TV hung from a rubber cord over the edge of the bed, and he picked it up with his good hand and flicked it on.
“I could give you a bunch of bullshit, Hugh. I’m no poet. Yes, I love your sister. I want to see her happy.”
“See, that’s the thing,” Hugh said, flicking the TV off again. “You want her to be happy. So did Calvin. That’s what Vanessa wanted for me too. Happiness… is bullshit. It’s a high we ride for a while until reality crashes down. Happiness is temporary. What I’m asking is do you love my sister enough to see her just be? Can you live with her if she’s…” Hugh’s voice broke, and he looked away towards the window. “…if she turns out to be as fucked up as I am? If that’s all she can be?”
“Through sickness and health, right?”
“I notice you didn’t deny me being fucked up.”
“Did you want me to?”
Hugh laughed. “Damn, I like you. You’ve still got that new car boyfriendness smell to you. You still trying to be perfect around her? Does she know your armpits and your asshole stink yet?”
“I’m pretty sure she’s aware. I sweat gallons.”
“Good answer.” But Hugh’s smile dried up. “I don’t blame Vanessa for leaving. She wanted to see me happy too. And wanting to see someone happy, Malcolm, that gets exhausting. It’ll wear you down until there’s nothing left but the anger and the frustration. You’ve gotta build this thing on something stronger than seeing her happy. Just… want to see her. That’s all you have to aim for.”
Malcolm nodded. “You’re a sharp guy, Hugh.”
“Sharp guys don’t wind up in hospital beds from mixing shrooms and pills. But thanks.”
“Hey. Be my best man.”
That seemed to wake Hugh up. “What?”
“When we get married. Be my best man.”
“If you think I’m suicidal or some shit…”
“I do, Hugh. I know about the cutting.” The other man’s gaze flicked away. “And I know what I saw today. This isn’t about that. It’s not about you becoming my best friend, either. Despite your advice, I’m not ever going to stop wanting to see Gwen happy. I think you’re right, though, that someone needs to be there when everything isn’t okay. Much as I want that to always be me, she’s gonna need you too. So stick around. Be my best man.”
All the false bravado and middle-fingery seeped out of Hugh all at once, and he brushed the hair out of his eyes again, looking five years younger than he actually was. “A-all right,” he murmured. “Thank you.”
* * *
Gwen sat down with an audible thump onto the hospital’s waiting room couch. She buried her hands into her armpits, rocking back and forth instinctually like a child again. Hugh. Her brother, OD’ing. And her parents, so close and her so unsure what to say. But just like that, they were there, her father’s strong, steady arm around her, her mother clutching her head in her hands and pressing it to her belly, and all three of them just hung on.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Gwen whispered. “I can’t worry about Hugh and fight with you two and…” She drew a deep, studying breath. “I love Malcolm. I want to marry him more than anything else in the world. Please, learn to accept that.”
“I’m sorry,” Elliot said. That stopped almost all the tears in the room all at once. Whenever Elliot apologized, there was always an addendum – never just “I’m sorry,” but “I’m sorry you’re upset,” or “I’m sorry you think this way.” It was the calling card of the egotistical, and to hear him offer such a plain, simple apology was nothing short of miraculous.
“Oh, Dad…”
“He’s… not Calvin. But we can figure that out. We’ll learn.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, and hugged him.
A few minutes later, Malcolm came by and poked his head in. “Um, Mr. and Mrs. Caplan, Hugh is… we’re, uh…”
Daphne rushed over and hugged him. Malcolm’s eyes went big, and he cautiously patted her back. She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for bringing him here. And looking out for him. And our Gwennie, too.”
“Yeah, of course,” Malcolm mumbled, turning beet red.
Elliot stepped over and offered his hand. The two men would never be real huggers, but Malcolm came to realize a handshake from him meant about the same. “We’ve been… talking. I’m sorry if we’ve been a little… ah… protective of Gwen.”
“I get it. I’m a little protective of her too.”
A tiny hint of a smile cracked Elliot’s worn face. “Good.”
* * *
The next day, once they both were off work, Gwen rested against Malcolm on the couch, her head on his shoulder as they stared at the blank TV screen. In front of them was half a small pizza from Furio’s, the first thing either of them had eaten in well over a day and a half.
“Let’s do it,” Gwen said tonelessly.
“Do what?”
“Tomorrow. Let’s just go get it done.”
“Get what done?”
She pulled away from him and stared. “The wedding.”
If Malcolm’s heart could have, it would have exploded free of his ribcage. “Wait, what?”
“Let’s go see the Justice of the Peace, let’s get the license, and we’ll be Mr. and Mrs. Irving. We’ll get started on everything. The rest of our life. We’ll just, we’ll just…”
“Gwen.”
“Let’s just do it!” she babbled, far too manic. She pulled away from him and lifted her shirt up and over her head. Not that he didn’t love staring at her in her cotton bra, but this sc
ared him a little. “We’ll take the few hundred we’ve saved and we can… I don’t know, get a bed or something. Let’s go, Malcolm, let’s just get it out of the way.”
“Hey. Gwen, look at me.”
She did, her eyes glistening, a huge smile on her face. But there were worms in those eyes and that smile, and he thought about Hugh’s words in the hospital room. Don’t aim to make her happy. Build it on something stronger. She could be happy the next day with their marriage license and he would be ecstatic. Or…
His lips searched out hers, and she tried to slip her tongue into his mouth. He didn’t let her, instead making her focus on the press of their skin, the feel of his calmness. His hands wrapped around her back and she helped guide him to the clasp on her bra, but he didn’t free her breasts. Instead, he held her hands there, and broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers.
“We’re going to get married, Gwen. And if you tell me you really want it to be tomorrow, of course I’ll marry you tomorrow. You’d make the already-happiest man on Earth the happiestest man.”
She laughed, a hint of desperation tinging it.
“But I think… I’d like, if that’s what you’d like, to stick to the plan. We get married in that cute little church near your parents’ place. We’ll invite our entire giant brood. We have the reception in the park, the one you took me to, where we can listen to music and feed the ducks and argue about whether the next song should be my amazing music or your twangy odes to beer and F150s.”
This time, Gwen’s laugh was pure.
“I love you, Gwendolyn. You want to run away together, we’ll do it. But I want us to have our wedding moments. I want to see you go all bridal King Kong on someone when things go wrong. I want to realize at the last possible minute my slacks don’t fit me anymore and I have to borrow some that are two sizes too big. I want my uncle Andy to get drunk and shout stupid jokes at the top of his lungs because for some dumbass reason he thinks the louder you tell a joke the funnier it is. I want to horribly, horribly regret eating macaroni salad that’s been sitting out way too long. I want-”
Gwen kissed him again, and this time it lacked the feverish need. Instead, it was slow, and sweet, but soon it blossomed, and this time, their tongues did dance, playfully finding each other again each time their lips broke apart and came back together. Malcolm stood up, and she helped him out of his clothes. Then it was his turn to slide off her pants, stopping to push her back down on the couch where he worshipped her with his mouth, his tongue, and his fingers until her whole body stiffened and she cried out her pleasure. Gwen led him to the bedroom, and their bodies joined enthusiastically. After, they lay together, tracing each other’s figures and faces.