My Life After Now (9 page)

I scrambled around in my backpack for a pen and notebook, and then took down the number. “But wait,” I said. “Do you have my results in front of you right now?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do.”

“Well then, can’t you just tell me them? Why do I have to call someone else?”

“I’m not authorized to do that.”

I was beginning to get upset. “What do you mean? You’re authorized to give me my other test results. Why not this one?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that. Have a nice day.” She hung up.

What the hell?

I dialed the social worker’s number, my pulse racing.

“Diane Sullivan,” she answered on the first ring.

I cleared my throat. “Um, hi, this is Lucy Moore.” I realized too late that I wasn’t supposed to use my last name. “I was in there back in October—”

“Lucy! Yes, I remember,” Diane said. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’m just calling for my confirmatory results.”

“Well, we usually ask our clients to come in person to receive their results. Would you like to schedule an appointment now? I have several openings this week.”

“No, I want to know now.”

“Lucy, it really is better if we speak in person.”

I hesitated. “Why?”

“It’s standard procedure—”

My grip tightened around the phone. “It’s because I’m positive, isn’t it?”

There was a tension-filled pause. “We ask everyone to come in, regardless of their results.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not legally allowed to withhold my results from me.” Having a lawyer for a father came in handy sometimes.

Diane gave a tiny, yielding sigh. “Do you have your client number available? For confidentiality reasons, I can’t give you any results without it.”

I read it to her, the paper and my voice shaking. I heard Diane’s fingers typing the number into a computer.

“Lucy, your HIV result is positive.”

I dropped the phone in my lap and brought my forehead to the steering wheel.

The hope I’d been clinging to since three o’clock yesterday morning evaporated.

I waited for the nausea, for the panic, for the demons’ resurgence. I waited for the streak of denial, for the compulsion to lash out in violence. I waited for any perceptible reaction at all, but nothing happened.

And then I realized. Nothing was happening because inside, I was already dead.

“Lucy?” Diane’s tinny distant voice was calling to me. “Are you there?”

I took the length of five deep, long breaths.

“Hello? Lucy?”

Slowly, I picked up the phone and brought it back to my ear. “I’m here.”

“What are you feeling right now?”

“Nothing,” I said truthfully.

“It’s important for you to understand that with proper medical care and support, people with HIV can lead very productive lives,” she said.

“You have to say that.”

“I don’t. I say it because it’s true. I’ve been doing this a long time, Lucy. I know many people with HIV who live quite normally.”

“Well, I’m not one of them.”

“You can be,” she said.

“No. I can’t.” My voice was rising. “You don’t understand. How am I supposed to care about
normal
things like high school when I’m slowly being killed from the inside out? How am I supposed to be
normal
when the first person I told ran for the hills the second the words came out of my mouth?”

“I’m very sorry to hear that happened to you. But I’m sure you have many people in your life who will support you. A trusted friend or family member, maybe?”

“No. I’m not telling anyone else.”

“Having a reliable support system in place is a key factor in living a full, happy life, Lucy. I’d encourage you to reconsider. In the meantime, we have many group meetings here at the clinic, and I’d also really like to schedule a one-on-one in-person appointment with you.”

The dim ring of the bell sounded from within the school’s walls.

“I have to go,” I said quickly, grateful for an excuse to end the conversation. “Bye.”

“Wait, Lucy—”

I hung up the phone. The
normal
world was calling for me.

Lucy Moore as I had always known her ceased to exist. Instead, I was Mercutio. Rehearsals were my only link to the living. On stage, I got to be someone else entirely. I didn’t have to be me anymore, and I craved that time away from myself. So I was able to keep my promise to Andre, and rehearsals continued to go well.

When I wasn’t at rehearsal, I played the guitar. When I was immersed in a song, the music escorted my pain away, if only temporarily.

And I don’t know where it came from, but something amazing happened—I started writing songs. I’d never written my own stuff before. Whenever I’d tried, the only thing that came out were other people’s songs long ago stenciled on my brain. I’d begun to think there was nothing original inside me at all. But suddenly, I was filling notebook upon notebook with melodies and lyrics.

It was Friday night and I was alone, of course. My little desk lamp with the purple shade cast its dull light over my room. Dad and Papa were out at an art show (having realized their little library book enchantment had worn off, they’d tried to get me to go with them, insisting it would do me good to get out of the house, but I’d just kept strumming my guitar absentmindedly and eventually they gave up and left me alone), and Lisa had left shortly after they had, though I didn’t bother asking her where she was going. I was sitting in my favorite spot on my floor, my back against the bedframe, guitar in my lap. I played for hours, the six strings combining with my voice, the sound so big the four walls of my bedroom couldn’t contain it—it spilled under the door and out the windows so that the only sound in the world was this music.

I was so lost in it, playing so intensely, that it was a long time before I noticed that my fingers had actually started to bleed.

The song cut off and I stared at my bloody hand. I probably should have run to the bathroom to clean and bandage them right away, but I was mesmerized, watching the little red beads pulse and ooze from my fingertips. The blood spilled from my fingers, pooled around my cuticles, stained my nails, collected slowly in my palms.

So this was what it looked like: my new blood. The thing that was keeping me alive and killing me at the same time. It looked normal enough. Red. Plasmic. Wet.

The gashes were deep, on all five of my right hand’s fingers. The blood dripped onto the wooden body of my guitar. I didn’t wipe it off. Instead, I started playing again. I didn’t care that I was making the open wounds even worse, and I didn’t care that blood was getting all over the strings.

I played and sang and wrote till I passed out, and woke up the next morning still fully dressed, hugging my bloody guitar, scabs forming on my fingers.

It was November 17th. My golden birthday. I was seventeen years old today.

It was a Saturday, so luckily I didn’t have to go to school and suffer through all the smiling faces wishing me a happy birthday. Today was the first of my limited reserve of birthdays left, and there was nothing “happy” about it.

I shuffled downstairs and found that my dads had woken up early to make me my traditional birthday breakfast. A giant stack of alternating pancakes and homemade waffles, covered in whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and chocolate sprinkles, with a big fat birthday candle stuck in the top. I’d assumed this year we’d be forgoing the annual calorie-fest in light of my recent withdrawal from life, but I guess it was going to take a lot more than a severe case of depression to make my dads cancel their only daughter’s birthday festivities.

“Happy birthday, Lucy!” they cheered as I entered the kitchen. They were wearing party hats and blowing into noise-makers.

I sank into a chair. “Coffee?” I said, cradling my head in my hands.

“Coming right up! Anything for the birthday girl!” Papa said.

“Where’s Lisa?” I mumbled.

“Still sleeping. The pregnancy’s really making her exhausted these days,” Dad said. “Should we wake her up? This is your first birthday with all of us under the same roof, you know.”

“And only seventeen years too late,” I muttered under my breath.

“What’s that, honey?”

“Nothing. No, don’t wake her.”

Papa placed my birthday feast along with my
Rent
mug filled with black coffee in front of me.

And then they sang. “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…”

They waited for me to blow out the candle. “Make a wish, Lu!” they urged.

Suddenly, everything came to a grinding halt.
Make
a
wish.
As if it were that easy. As if I hadn’t been ceaselessly wishing since that day at the clinic. As if something as innocent as a childish birthday wish would right all my wrongs. As if the one thing I wanted wasn’t impossible.

Out of nowhere, I began to cry, the tears running down my cheeks at the exact same speed as the wax that was dripping down the still-lit candle.

Caught off guard, my dads immediately rushed to my side and put their arms around me.

“Lucy? What is it?” Dad asked anxiously.

It was
everything
. Becoming another year older, my brittle, scabbed fingers, the
Rent
mug, my dads’ smiling faces…it was all too much.

And then the physics of it all became suddenly clear: the only way to keep from sinking was to unburden myself of the weight.

“I have to tell you something,” I blurted out before I even knew what I was doing.

They pulled back and looked at each other. Dad sat on my left, Papa on my right, and they waited. I could only imagine what was going through their heads right now, but I knew that they weren’t expecting what I was about to say.

I finally knew what to wish for:
Please
don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me,
I thought.

And then I said it. “I have HIV.” It’s amazing how much weight three small words, five tiny syllables, can hold.

The only sound in the whole house was the crackling of the candle. I blew it out.

There was no going back now.

I held my breath.

My fathers’ faces were so blank, so perplexed, that at first I thought they hadn’t heard me. And I truly didn’t know if I could say it a second time. But they just didn’t know what to do with what I’d just said.

After a while, the blankness melted away and was replaced by disbelief. Papa even let out a miniscule chuckle, as if he thought I was kidding. The first real sign of actual comprehension was the twitching of Dad’s fingers, and then the eventual reaching out and clasping of Papa’s hand.

The reality and gravity of my words began to sink in. No one said a word. Dad’s face crumpled, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each deliberate gulp of air, his eyes filling with tears. I was stunned—I’d never seen him cry before. No matter what we’d gone through, he’d always been my rock. He released Papa’s hand and collapsed against me, sobbing. Suddenly he was the child, and I was the parent. He was shattered, and it was all I could do to remain strong—keeping my own breakdown at arm’s length—and hold him, afraid to let go and watch the pieces fall away.

Papa, on the other hand, was mad. Enraged, actually. His face was beet red, veins popping through his forehead. He knocked over his chair and stormed out of the house, slamming the door so hard the kitchen cabinets rattled.

I released my trapped breath. My birthday wish had failed—Papa hated me.

“Dad?” I whispered. “Dad, talk to me.”

There was no change. The crying continued. The shoulder of my T-shirt grew wet with his tears.

“Dad,” I tried again. “Please. Stop crying.”

Still nothing. Did he even hear me?

“Dad, you’re really heavy. My arms are going numb.”

That got through to him. He weakly sat back in his own chair and blew his nose into a Happy Birthday napkin.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly.

It took a minute for him to find his voice. “How did this happen?” he said finally.

I sighed. “Does it really matter?”

“Lucy.” He met my gaze. “Of course it matters.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I guess it does.” I told him the whole story, not editing anything out; there was no point in lying now. As I spoke, I couldn’t help feeling that I was waiting on his verdict, like the emotional breakdown was just an initial gut reaction, but after he’d had time to digest all the facts then he’d decide how he really felt. So I didn’t mind that it took a long time to relay the whole wretched truth—I figured the longer I talked, the longer I could prolong his judgment.

When I finished, I hung my head and said, “I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

Dad was silent. He was staring down at his lap; I couldn’t read the thoughts behind his eyes.

This
day’s black fate on more days doth depend.

This
but
begins
the
woe
others
must
end.

When he did speak, his words surprised me. He reached over and squeezed my hand tightly and said, “No, Lucy, I’m sorry.”

I blinked. “For what?”

“For allowing Lisa to come back here…”

“Dad,” I cut him off, “this is
not
your fault. It’s mine.”

“Let me finish. I
am
sorry for letting Lisa come back. I should have known better. And I’m also sorry that you felt like you had to keep this from us. It’s been eating at you, and we should have known.”

“Dad, please, stop blam—”

“Lucy,” he continued, as though I hadn’t even spoken, “you deserve so much better than this life.” His voice broke and he paused to steady himself. “Things aren’t going to be easy for you. But your father and I love you so very much, and we are going to be there for you every step of the way. Do you understand?”

He knew the truth, and he still loved me. I believed him when he said he loved me and would be there for me, but I didn’t believe that Papa felt the same way.

“I don’t think Papa would agree with you,” I said flatly.

“He does,” Dad said. “He just needs some time.”

“I’ve never seen him that mad. He’s going to hate me forever.”

“Lucy, listen to me.” Dad grabbed my shoulders and looked me directly in the eyes. “I know Seth better than anyone. He doesn’t hate you—he’s mad at himself.”

“For what?”

“He thinks he’s failed you. And he’s right. It’s our job to protect you—from everything from monsters under the bed to…things like this.”

I noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to say the actual word.

“We tried,” he continued. “We did everything we could think of to keep you safe. I always thought, if anything, you’d get pregnant. But Papa—
this
was always his worst fear.”

“It was?”

Dad nodded.

“But why?” It wasn’t like this sort of thing happened all that often to girls like me.

“Do you remember Patrick?”

Patrick. Our old family friend. I hadn’t thought about him in years. All I really remembered about him was that he gave me my very first Broadway album—the original cast recording of
Beauty
and
the
Beast
—and he spent Christmannukahs with us when I was young.

“Only a little,” I admitted.

“Patrick was Seth’s best friend in the world. They met in second grade and were inseparable ever since—kind of like you and Max and Courtney. He had his share of problems, but he loved Seth and he adored you. We didn’t find out until very late that he had AIDS. I don’t even think he knew until those last months.”

A memory was dislodged. I was about six, and Papa was so sad. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that Patrick had died. He’d had a disease. I asked if I could catch Patrick’s disease. Papa took me into his arms and promised me I couldn’t.

Okay, now Papa’s reaction made a whole lot more sense.

Dad and I spent the rest of the day at his art gallery. They were closed on Saturdays, and we set up a picnic on the floor and ate falafel sandwiches and drank milkshakes surrounded by all the works of art.

I don’t know how he did it, considering it was the only thing both of us were thinking about, but Dad didn’t mention it again for the rest of the day. Instead we talked about the play and we talked about the documentary he’d just seen about a guy who decided to live for an entire year without earning or using money and we talked about the vegetable garden he wanted to plant in the spring.

We walked around the gallery, pausing in front of each painting and sculpture. Dad told me about the artists and what the intention was behind some of the more abstract pieces. I couldn’t believe how much they were selling some of them for—my favorite painting, an enormous canvas covered in different shades of blue, with paintbrush bristles dried into the paint strokes, was sixty-five thousand dollars.

As the sun started to set outside the gallery doors, Dad surreptitiously glanced at his phone. He’d texted Papa before we’d left the house, letting him know where we’d be, and I knew he’d been hoping he would show up. We both were.

“Still no response, huh?”

The corners of Dad’s mouth turned down the slightest bit. “He’ll come around,” he said, tucking the phone back in his pocket.

“If you say so,” I said.

“Lucy, have I ever told you about the time I told my parents I was gay?”

I thought back. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded. “I was seventeen. The prom was coming up and my parents asked me one night at dinner if there were any girls at school that I wanted to ask. I was so taken off guard I distinctly remember choking and spitting out a mouthful of peas. I’d thought they’d known I was gay; I’d always assumed it was obvious. I’d never shown any interest whatsoever in girls and the walls of my bedroom were covered with pictures of Luke Perry and Johnny Depp.”

I giggled and Dad smiled.

“So I shook my head and said, ‘Uh, I’m gay. I thought you knew that.’ I was so casual about it. But they weren’t. Apparently they hadn’t had the slightest idea—and they were not happy. My mother immediately started praying and my father actually kicked me out of the house, shouting that no son of his was going to be a faggot. I had to stay with friends for over a month.”

“But Grandma and Grandpa are members of PFLAG! They love Papa!”

“They do now. But it took them a while to get used to the idea.”

“Whoa.”

“The point is, Lucy, that they came around. And so will Papa. Just give him a little time,” Dad said.

We threw away our food containers and packed up to go home. “Dad?” I said as we walked to the car. “Thanks for today. It actually wasn’t such a terrible birthday, all things considered.”

He took my hand. “I love you, honey.”

“Love you too.” I let those words linger in the air for a moment. “Oh, and one more thing—can you not tell Lisa about any of this? Or anyone else?”

He studied me for a moment. “Of course,” he said, and we drove home.