even if i am. (7 page)

chapter thirteen

happy birthday

Anthony, can we go back to that moment? Can you tell me again what you said after, “They found a malignant tumor on my colon,” because I have no idea.

I assume the details of your conversation with the doctor. My mind just repeated the word tumor. Tumor. Tumor. I didn’t know what to say so I told you my mother has cancer. I have no idea why I said it. I thought it would be helpful. How was I supposed to react when you told me they found a tumortumortumor?

I think people give hugs. I’m sorry, I gave you a pep talk instead. Trying to sound hopeful instead of random. I said, “You’ll beat this. I know you will. I promise you will. You’re only thirty.” I felt like a cheerleader.

I ended up hugging you. Not just any hug, mind you, but a hug that I believed could cure. Asthma. Arthritis. Even cancer. I think you did too, because you squeezed as hard as you could.

“Fuck.” You tried not to cry. “I have cancer.”

“We’ll beat this. I promise.”

…

You left work early. I muddled through the rest of the day in a fog, and then went home promptly at 6:00 p.m. The house was empty except for Gladys, sleeping on the couch. I must have watched her sleep for hours before I wrapped my arms around her tired body and cried. I cried through the evening, sobbing through my TV dinner, slipped on PJs, and then cried myself to sleep.

I cried at the thought of losing you, babe. I cried at the thought of never having you. I wished I was smarter, knew the right words to say — that I didn’t say the word cancer. I wished I was stronger emotionally and would’ve left Five Year sooner. I wished life wasn’t so fucked up and complicated, wasn’t so much bullshit. I wished we didn’t have to pretend we were anything but what we were. In love.

I wished I would’ve gone to your bay and kissed you all the times I wanted to, made out with you in the stairwell. I wished many things.

I woke to the sound of my cell phone. Thought it a dream to hear your voice on the other end telling me to come outside.

“What?”

“Just go outside already.”

“But I’m sleeping. I’m in my PJs.”

“There’s a surprise for you outside your door.”

I stumbled out of bed, slid on slippers. “This better be good. What time is it anyway?” I swung open my front door.

At exactly midnight with two pints of ice cream and a single candle illuminating the inside of your truck, I saw you.

“Come on, get in,” you yelled out the window. “It’s not right to celebrate your birthday alone.”

I climbed in.

“Okay, which flavor, Cherry Garcia or Chunky Monkey?”

I followed all the rules, man’s, God’s, my parents’ — I no longer cared about consequences as I crawled over to the driver’s side. Like a child in your lap, I kissed you. Hard. Unlike I’d ever kissed anyone. Ever.

“Don’t let go of me, even if I ask you to,” I muttered in between skin and lips. Devouring you with kisses, ice cream melting in the passenger’s seat.

“Happy birthday.” You started to sing as you grabbed me, not letting go.

chapter fourteen

no woman no cry

My cafe friend asked me if I felt as certain about Anthony as she did with her new love, if I felt as giddy and girly. It’s a question I hesitated to answer. I’ve been asked it before and God only knows why I can’t answer it honestly. I simply say yes. I give a one-word response. It was a superficial answer and I wish I could revise myself. It’s not that the question is intrusive; it’s just too personal. I have needed five years to understand the depth of what that question means.

It’s why the rest of the story is easier to tell when I imagine you, babe, at my side finishing my sentences like old times. Because to tell the passionate, difficult truth, I need you to help me; reminding me that our love is a universal human experience and it deserves to be opened up and shared.

So here we go, Anthony. I’m counting on you to listen, and to help me finish what we started together, five years ago.

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Friday, July 22, 5:36 p.m.
Subject:
full

you…

sigh

(cue heart swoon)

an interesting week we’ve had,

with ups and downs…

late nights

closeness…

that’s what it is…

a closeness

much closer than before…

don’t know when we broke through

whatever it was we had to get through,

but you feel…

amazing

unguarded…

or rather,

i feel

like

i am in your heart…

deep in your heart

Of the conversations, it’s the little ones you look back on. The ones you wish you could go back to and have again. Maybe the conversations don’t even have real importance or hold much weight, but you remember it. It marks a time. A place. A feeling. You remember the words and the sentiments. I remember the voice I used to comfort you, Anthony, and I certainly remember my fears. However, in this one conversation, it’s the words, “what if,” that I remember most.

…

“Come closer,” I cooed. I was sitting on the top step of our stairs with my arms opened to embrace him. “What’d they say?” Trying to get Anthony’s attention, I shook his body while I embraced him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Telling my roommates was difficult, harder than I imagined. They were sweet, strong, supportive but then they started talking about how we’re like a family in this house, and how everyone will be here for me — take care of me… It made me sad and scared.”

“Why scared?”

“Scared I’m going to let them down somehow. Seems foolish, but… what if I won’t be able to take care of them?” There it was. Maybe we were thinking about other what ifs, but this was the first.

“What do you mean?”

“What if I am too sick to be their friend — what if I’m too sick when they need me?”

Anthony fiddled with his fingernails, and his hands shook and I knew he was scared to talk such nonsense but I thought he was absurd and so selfless.

“I think you’re absurd.”

Neither of us knew what to say. Instead silence filled the space between an exhaled sigh as he hid his face in my neck, rubbed his nose into my hair. He did that when he needed comfort, and I would press my cheek against his forehead, nuzzling back for the same sense of relief.

“My boyfriend gets home tonight…” We both sat upright. “I’m afraid to move out. I have no idea why, but I feel trapped, too weak to leave, or stir up conflict.” I kept barfing out words like
unhappy
,
unsatisfied
, and
uncomfortable
. Any word I could conjure starting in
un
. “Most of all I feel uneasy. I’m not a cheater. I don’t feel like I’ve cheated.”

“You haven’t,” he said, snickering. “Trust me. I know.”

“No, seriously.” I elbowed him, half-grinning. “I need to tell him this is really happening. I’m moving out. I owe him that. I need to tell him he’s not a horrible person, just not the person for me. How do I say that? After five years how do you tell the person you love that it’s simply not enough. I’m scared of his reaction. He acts like a child these days. I don’t know why this is so hard. I’m scared I guess.”

“You’ve said, ‘I’m scared,’ a couple times now.”

“I know. I know. Sorry. This probably seems so trivial.”

“You are far from trivial. I am here, whenever, or however you need me to be, even if only a friend. I thought we’ve worked that out by now.”

“I know.” I nestled into his shoulder with a soft, slow exhale. “Then there’s you, sweet, snuggly you.” I loved the way he tickled the tip of his nose against my neck. “Are you going to tell your mom tonight?”

“I’ll try.”

“Anthony, you’ve told friends. You’ve told your brothers. It’s time.”

“I know.” He didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I don’t blame him. “Okay, we’d better get back to work. Meet me in my truck later?”

“Yes.”

He headed to the sixth floor while I stood on the seventh.

“Are you still scared?” I yelled down the stairwell.

“Trying not to be. You?”

“Terrified.”

From:
[email protected]
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Wednesday, July 27, 10:22 a.m.
Subject:
i couldn’t attach the song i wanted to send with this…

and that sucks because it was perfect

i am scared

of being scared…

and so,

i am not.

even if i am.

for too much of my life,

at the worst times, some random times

and inevitably embarrassing times,

my hands have shaken…

despite me.

my efforts to focus.

calm.

steady…

FUCK!

and it is a sad betrayal

when your body gives up your mind,

shows that which you would conceal,

that which you cannot…

but something good

has come out of it…

and that is,

i know i still must act.

must push through it,

must do whatever it is.

fear is familiar.

and so,

when it comes

i know what to do.

“my fear is my only courage

so i have to push on through…”

— bob marley

i know…

i can’t believe i just quoted bob marley either,

but it came to mind,

and even if i sound like

a college freshman…

it helps the point.

despite your efforts

to illustrate the contrary,

i don’t think you are fearful.

i think you are bold.

and i think you are beautiful.

i think you are bold and beautiful.

(oh christ, i’m losing it…)

but there is something inside of you,

something i have seen:

a strength. steadiness. courage.

as opaque as you are.

it is easy to see.

perhaps you are scared now,

frozen by the fear you feel

because you don’t know

how to handle it…

fear is not familiar for you.

we are defined by

who we are in crisis…

you are overwhelmed.

so quit your fucking whining

and do something about it.

something amazing.

because that is who you are.

that is what i see.

…

Five Year returned from his trip visiting his grandmother in Cleveland. He showered me with guilt gifts, inquired about my birthday and the details of my week. I gave stock replies, and then my automated response turned attention to his travels. He described Cleveland, his childhood home, his grandmother’s appearance. I never met his grandmother, but she sounded sweet. I knew very little of his home and childhood in Cleveland. His stories were new and interesting. It was good to see him, a forgotten comfort in our lazy love. We kissed, hugged, conversed like old friends, finished each other’s sentences, and then laughed. I felt content.

I sat on the edge of the bed and searched for the courage while he removed dirty clothes from his suitcase. I knew this would be our last goodbye. I thought of your e-mail, your expressions, moreover, your strength.

I am scared of being scared… and so, I am not. Even if I am.

…

You never did tell me how the phone call went, but I imagined you pacing the room, rehearsing the conversation a dozen times while contemplating your mother’s response. Knowing you, you thought about everything to say, extremely careful in selecting words. I wouldn’t be surprised if you even wrote it down. Yes, you definitely wrote it down in that green notebook you always carried, highlighting key points, outlining needed details. Taking your time with the placement of each word. Likely your mind raced, listing things you should have done, should have finished or started. I bet you even blamed yourself for getting cancer. Somehow it was your fault. Persuaded yourself you needed to apologize to her first. You practiced your replies, your assurance.

Weeks’ worth of conversations had gone by and now it was time to tell her. You told me that you only cried once when you thought of telling her. You had a malignant tumor, and you hadn’t shed a tear. Maybe no one told you there is strength in crying. Though, I know that this moment, the simple thought of telling your mother made you sob. Uncontrollably. You wept. You wept for her fears, for her concerns, lamented your own pressures, awkward emotions, uncomfortable skin. Phone in hand. You were scared. Your hands shook while you dialed the number. This I am sure of.

I am scared of being scared…and so, I am not. Even if I am.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Anthony,” she sung, “it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

Swallowing your tears, “I’m okay.”

“Just okay?”

“I have something I need to tell you…”