I slowly turn the knob; am I ready for this? “Christopher,” I whisper to announce my presence. I don’t expect a response. I know I won’t get one. I walk to the chair on side of the bed. The room reeks of stale body odor. It reminds me of old people. I sit down. He knows I’m here. His eyes open and shift in my direction. His eyes are the only thing that allows me to know that this is him. Their color has not faded; his eyes are the same blue with yellow trim that I have known for seven years.
My eyes fill with sadness. Wanting to keep my promise to his mother, I turn my head. He can’t see me hurting. He cannot see me cry. People do not cry like this when they think you have a made a full recovery. People cry like this when they know you are days away.
I try to catch my breath and my hardest to not blink. My eyes fixate on his night stand. There is a Bible, some chocolate drink, tissues, and the frame. That wooden frame. The one I made with a collage of our pictures. I gave this to him on one of our anniversaries. That is Chris in there. I need to scan his room focus on everything but who is in front of me. I cannot recall the number of times I have sat in this room watching movies, eating, playing games, cleaning, or making love. I have always hated the term “making love.” It sounds so girly and not my choice of terms. But I loved him. He was not some stranger; he was my boyfriend of four years. He adored me unconditionally. He was my first and I was his. We exchanged our innocence years ago.
His room is adorned with trophies. He was so athletic, baseball, football, track, and basketball. He would have made it to the pros in any of those, I have no doubt. His mom has hung up his John Curtis football jersey number 32. I guess this is to remind visitors of who he was. To draw away from the body that lays in his bed. He does not like visitors. His room is so dark; I hate that I can’t turn on the light. This stupid lamp makes it so dim. The picture of his dad on his dresser reminds me the irony of life. His dad is head of EMT at East Jefferson. He saves lives everyday but he can’t save the one that means the most, his son.
My eyes finally make their way back to him. He is laying in the middle of the bed. There really isn’t much of anywhere else to go. He has gained 120 pounds thanks to medical steroids. He doesn’t look like Chris. Stretch marks look like slash wounds and cover his whole body. Only the ones that have stretched to the point of ripping open his skin have gauss covering them. Chris was never meant to be this size. He looks at me with those eyes. Can he tell I’m lost and horrified when I look at him. I try to control my facial expression. His eyes seemed trapped within that body. His arms are big, black and blue from needles. God, how it hurts to see him this way. My fingers gently trace a scar lining the middle of his head.
He sits on the couch across from me explaining his next surgery. “They are going to try to remove the tumor.” He points to the middle of his head where they will cut him. I winch at the thought. The only thing that pops into my mind is the scene from Hannibal when Dr. Lector cuts open the man’s brain. I shake the image. “Promise me you’ll be okay” I demand. I need some sort of relief. I need to hear him say it. “I’ll be fine” he says.
I stare at the scar. He thinks he kept his promise. Last he was told he made a complete recovery. Who knew that the tumor would “seed” and spread giving him a week? Why should anyone tell him differently now? His mouth is open. It is the only way he can breathe. I hate it when people do not breathe through their nose. He has film of chocolate gathering on his teeth. It’s from that stupid chocolate vitamin drink his grandmother gives him. We always laughed at the way his grandmother said his name with her spanish accent.
His grandma’s house has always been convenient. She lives two blocks from the parade route. Every year when we are done with the floats, Chris carries me on his back to her house. The screen door always slams shut behind us. We pry what feels like a thousand beads from around each others neck. He’s careful to make sure none pulled my hair. We leave the entire pile on the floor. With the weight off of shoulders, we head straight to the kitchen to consume all of the delicious spanish food. My favorite has always been the homemade salsa. After eating way more than we could possibly hold in we would make our way to his grandmother’s spare bedroom. This is where we allow the excitement from the day to calm and we play cards for the rest of the night.
The last time I had spoke with his grandmother she told me how he kept demanding the radio so he could call me. How can he call me if he can’t remember the word “telephone?” I place my hand in his and ask him to squeeze it. I want him to acknowledge me. I want to know he is present. I feel his fingers tighten around mine. I am wearing the ring he gave me for my 16th birthday. I never take it off. It’s the most precious thing I own now. The air is heavy.
I get up and walk around his room. I need some air. I fucking hate how this room is so stale. How do you expect someone to live when they breathe this air?
I walk past the awards and pictures touching each one. Remembering everything. I won’t remember him this way. Every Saturday I had to wake up early while most slept in late. I could not miss one of his track meets. I sat with his mom in the stands. I was usually holding a hot dog in one hand, for myself, and a red Poweraid in the other for him. The shot would go off and all the boys would go running. Chris would fly pass me in the stands. I couldn’t help but laugh at the movements of his hands every time he would run. They looked like duck feet flapping in water. Sure enough, he got first place. It never failed. He can’t run now. His dad has to carry him to and from the bathroom.
I remember the bag I brought with me. It houses not all, but a lot of pictures and notes. Oh and that one famous Elvis journal. The one that has over two hundred pages of our times together. It is the only real journal I ever kept up with. This is his favorite part but the hardest for me. I read him our notes. He smiles as he remembers. This is his memory. He laughs at the time we put detergent in the hot tub on vacation and the one where I managed to dress him up in makeup.
He catches me off guard and puts his hand on mine. I allow my head to fall on his arm. A million questions scream in my mind. How do I breathe? Why is this happening? How can this be him? There is only one that manages to push its way through my lips. “Chris, are you mad about any of this?” He stares at me. I know he can sense my bitterness and desire to scream, kick, throw something. He gently clutches my fingers and with the most sincere look whispers to me, “No.”
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