Chapter Twenty
People change. Catching them in the act, that’s the trick. No one has seen a wrinkle etching itself into skin, or witnessed the moment a hair turns gray. Stomachs become flabby and muscles begin to jiggle, the transformation not hidden and yet undetectable. None of this happens overnight, but age often comes as a surprise. Usually an old photo is to blame, indisputable evidence that skin had once been tighter or eyes brighter. Other times aging is revealed in a chance reflection, a moment of confusion over this older person who looks strikingly familiar.
For Tim, the process of aging was presented to him like a play, one he repeatedly dozed off through. He would wake from the distraction of everyday life and see Eric with fresh eyes, realizing how much he had aged in the last year. Or even the last six months. Eric insisted the chemo was to blame.
Winter had been hell for them both. Tim finally talked Eric into trying chemotherapy, even sitting with him while the drugs were pumped into his veins. Then came weeks of illness, with Tim taking care of Eric as best he could during his recovery. At the end of the month, when Eric was back to being his old self, he returned to the hospital for another round of chemo, and the cycle would repeat.
Convincing Eric to return for each subsequent treatment hadn’t been easy, but they made it through together. Having recovered from the final round of treatment, Eric seemed like his old self again. Except in appearance. Chemotherapy hadn’t stolen his hair, but his face was more gaunt and his frame thinner, as if a black hole was eating him up from the inside.
“Stop doing that,” Eric said, lowering the book he was reading.
“What?” Tim said innocently from the opposite end of the couch where he was curled up.
“Looking at me that way. You promised you never would.”
Tim shrugged dismissively. “I’m a painter studying his subject. That’s all.”
“Well, study me when I don’t look like hell.” Eric set aside the book and massaged his temples. “Do you have classes tomorrow?”
“Just one. Nothing I can’t skip. Why?”
“I know it’s short notice, but I need you to drive me to MD Anderson.”
Located in Houston, MD Anderson is one of the most comprehensive cancer centers in the United States. Tim had already ferried Eric there multiple times, especially lately, since the strong painkillers he was on made Eric the equivalent of a drunk driver.
“Can we take your car?” Tim asked.
“Of course.”
“Then it’s a deal.” Tim reached out a socked foot and affectionately nudged Eric’s leg. “What’s the reason? Time to see how the chemo did?”
Eric nodded. “That, and a few other things. Bring a book. It’s going to be a long day.”
Tim knew that from experience. The next day he brought not only a book, but the laptop Eric had given him for Christmas. Eric dozed for most of the three-hour ride to Houston, which was just as well, since riding in cars made him nauseous lately. Plus, this meant Tim could drive the Jaguar XJR like the racecar it was meant to be.
Tim settled down in the waiting room as soon as Eric was called away by a nurse. As open as Eric now was about his cancer, he still didn’t like Tim being there for the tests and consultations or even when the hospice nurse came around. That Tim was allowed to be in attendance for the chemotherapy was an honor, and one step closer in their strange relationship that Tim still struggled to define.
Today the appointment was taking longer than usual. Eric reappeared twice, sitting with Tim while waiting for the next doctor or test results. In between these periods, Tim tinkered with his laptop, playing card games and listening to tunes. The nurse on duty, a ramrod-thin woman with tired blond hair, gave him a sympathetic smile whenever she caught his eye. When he grew weary of music and took off his headphones, she stopped to talk to him.
“I’ve seen you here before,” she said.
“Yeah, I might as well move in,” Tim quipped.
The nurse smiled. “It’s really nice of you to always be there for your father.”
They got this a lot. Eric found it annoying, but Tim thought it was funny and rarely corrected anyone. “It’s the least I can do.”
“He’s doing really great,” she said. “For mesothelioma, it’s amazing he’s made it this long.”
Tim’s jaw nearly dropped. Were the nurses supposed to be so negative? “Of course he’s made it this long. He’ll make it all the way!”
“He will!” the nurse said quickly. “He’ll be the exception to the rule, especially with a son like you. You’re both incredibly brave.”
She smiled again—a gesture Tim didn’t return—before resuming her duties. For the rest of his wait, he remained haunted by the discussion. No wonder Eric was so private about his illness, when even the professionals were all doom and gloom about his chances. The feeling of unease remained with him even when Eric returned, finally finished for the day.
“What’d they say?” Tim asked as they walked down the hallway.
“Can’t we discuss something else?” Eric snapped. “All I’ve talked about today is cancer.”
“Sure. No problem.” Once they were in the car, Tim buckled up but didn’t start the engine. “Just give me a thumbs up or thumbs down. Otherwise I’ll go crazy.”
Eric sighed, but he raised a thumb in the air. “Now get going. I’m starving, and I know you must be too.”
Thumbs up. Okay. Tim could deal with that. Maybe they weren’t out of the woods yet—otherwise Eric would be happier—but they were headed in the right direction.
* * * * *
Car interior smelling like cooking grease from the golden arches, Tim swore under his breath. Eric had asked him to come straight home after class today, but Tim was running late. He’d only stopped to pick up french fries for Eric. Lately a lot of things tasted repulsive to him, but good ol’ fries always made Eric happy. Lord knew he could use the calories, so Tim brought them whenever he could. Except today he had gotten stuck in the drive-through for an annoyingly long time.
He gunned it home—as he now thought of Eric’s house. Tim really hadn’t intended to stay there for so long, but Eric asked him to move in permanently, over and over again, until Tim happily relented. Today two cars were in the driveway. One belonged to Lisa, the hospice nurse. The other Tim had never seen before. Lisa usually didn’t come by on Thursdays, so Tim ran inside the second his car was parked, fearing the worst.
He found Eric in the living room, the one based on René Magritte’s horse painting. For Tim it had taken on special meaning. While it looked like a woman riding through the woods, much of the image was missing. People were no different—everyone had their hidden side, be it sexuality or illness.
Eric seemed to be in good spirits. Lisa was seated next to him, across from a man who reminded Tim of his father, probably because he looked fresh from a round of golf.
“There he is,” Eric said. “What took you so long?”
“Fries,” Tim said, holding up the bag.
“Oh, how nice! Just set them down for now and have a seat.”
Tim sat, still tense and hoping for an explanation. “So—”
“Max Burnquist,” the stranger said, sliding a business card across the coffee table. “I’m Eric’s attorney.”
“Okay,” Tim said.
“There’s simply some paperwork that needs to be filled out,” Eric explained. “I need witnesses for this to be legal, which is why you are here. Please, Max, go ahead.”
The attorney started a handheld tape recorder, set it on the table, and cleared his throat. Reading from a piece of paper, he said, “Eric Conroy, do you testify that you are of sound mind and memory and not under restraint?”
“I do.” Eric sounded like he was taking his vows.
“And do you also testify that the content of this will, dated March 24th, 2001, is of your own creation or that the contents meet your approval and intentions?”
Tim’s stomach twisted. A will?
“I do,” Eric said.
The attorney moved some papers across the table to him. “Please sign here.”
“Lisa Ownby, do you testify that the patient in your care is still of sound mind and memory—”
Tim barely listened to the rest, distracted by the implications. Did Eric think he was going to die? When the attorney got to Tim, he answered and signed as expected. Then he sat there numbly as more details were discussed, remaining in his seat when Eric rose and saw his guests to the front door.
“I hate this,” he said when they were alone.
“I know.” Eric sat, rustling in the greasy brown bag for some fries. “One of life’s ugly necessities, especially when money is involved.”
“But why now?”
Eric chewed and swallowed, sucking the salt from the tips of his fingers. “I have family, you know. I don’t talk about them much, but I have a sister and a gaggle of nieces. My sister and I lost our parents, one to cancer and the other to drink, so we’ve seen the worst that can happen. We don’t stay in touch much, but she has three daughters headed off to college. I’ve already made sure they have tuition and everything else they need. When I die, my sister will inherit most of what I have.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Tim pleaded.
“A fair amount will go to charities I believe in,” Eric continued unabashed. “As for this house, I would like you to have it.”
“I don’t want it!” Tim shouted. “I want you, so shut up about your stupid will!”
Eric didn’t even blink. “Of course there are property taxes and general upkeep. You’ll have enough money that, if you’re careful, you’ll be able to afford that and live comfortably off the interest.”
“Shut up!” Tim was on his feet. “Are you giving up? Is that what this is about?”
“I’m dying!” Eric shouted back, his composure breaking.
The force of those words sent the blood draining from Tim’s face. He’d never heard Eric raise his voice before. Never.
“You aren’t. You can fight this!”
“Not forever,” Eric said, his voice a croak. “I don’t just have lung cancer, Tim. Do you know what mesothelioma is?”
Mesothelioma. That’s what the nurse at MD Anderson called it. Not understanding, he shook his head.
“It’s cancer caused from asbestos exposure—a particularly nasty kind that no one survives.”
“What?” Tim’s throat constricted so tight it ached. “Of course they do. Why else would you do chemo?”
“I’ve been fighting for time,” Eric said.
Tim shook his head. “The nurse said you would make it through. She said you’d be the exception to the rule.”
“I already am,” Eric said. “They told me nine months, maybe a year, and I’ve lasted more than two.”
“See? You’ve already proven them wrong.”
Eric sat and studied him. Tim knew this was one of those moments. Eric would either point out the missing parts of the painting, or he would let Tim continue believing the illusion. When Eric did speak, Tim almost wished he hadn’t.
“The chemo didn’t help. The cancer barely responded, and I have been having… other problems. They did some tests and—” Eric shook his head, reluctant to say the words, tears spilling from his eyes. “They found a new tumor on my prostate, which they don’t think is from the mesothelioma. I’m falling apart! I’m trying not to, but I’m just—”
A sob broke from Tim’s throat as he rushed to Eric’s side. Tim grabbed him, pulling him close and holding him while they both cried. Eric felt so small, so frail in Tim’s arms. “Don’t give up,” Tim said, over and over again. “Please don’t give up. For me. Do it for me.”
“I didn’t expect to meet you,” Eric said, his head nestled against Tim’s chest. “I would have given up a long time ago, but you keep asking me to stay. Had you not come into my life—”
Eric didn’t finish the sentence. Tim didn’t need him to. Maybe he was being selfish by insisting Eric stay, but surely living longer was a good thing. Eric was fighting just for him, a fact that filled Tim with love and sorrow—a pairing he was used to. Tim had walked with these emotions before, each taking one of his hands and leading him to dark forests he once found frightening, but now were disturbingly familiar.
* * * * *
Hope fills the heart of those facing death. They dream of a place where time never runs out, where the impossible can still happen, be it on this earth or elsewhere. Perhaps that was why Eric slept so much now, one foot already in a better place.
Summer had come, the windows of Eric’s bedroom opened to let in fresh air so full of life that Tim sometimes believed it could cure him, that Eric could feed off the beautiful weather like a hummingbird did nectar. At least then he would be eating. A week ago, Eric had been too tired to get out of bed. Since then, Tim had been at his bedside, carrying him to the restroom when needed or making him roll over and change positions to avoid bedsores. When Eric wasn’t sleeping they talked, although lately he had less and less to say.
Tim grew tired of sitting and staring and waiting, so he fetched the painting supplies he kept in one of the spare rooms and started working. No longer was he out of practice. Tim painted regularly, constantly encouraged by Eric, although he still hadn’t found his own style. He didn’t let that bother him. Instead he pushed on, letting come what may when inspiration struck.
Today the light flooding the room set him off. Edward Hopper would have loved it. Tim took this light, put it on his canvas, and twisted it around Eric like a blanket. Protecting him. Saving him.
“Tim.” Eric’s voice was dry, so Tim put down the brush to fetch the drinking glass from the nightstand. Eric sipped from the straw and nodded at the canvas. “What are you doing?”
“Painting you.”
“Like this?” Eric smiled or grimaced. It was hard to tell. “You’re cruel.”
“I promised I would paint you,” Tim said.
“That’s right.” Eric’s eyes rolled around the room before coming back to him. “Make me a king, surrounded by beautiful young men.”
“I’ll make you an emperor with no clothes,” Tim teased.
Eric chuckled before he winced. “Time for more of those poppies, Dorothy.”
Taking the bottle of morphine from the nightstand, Tim drew more liquid into the medicine dropper than recommended, squeezing it into Eric’s mouth. Even these extra doses didn’t chase away the pain completely, but they helped. “Need to answer Mother Nature’s call before that stuff kicks in?”
Eric shook his head.
“How about some soup? You need to eat something.”
“Just keep working. I like the sound of the brush.”
Tim toiled further, bending the light into a nest, bringing out the colors hidden deep in the spectrum. And as soon as Eric was asleep again, he let himself cry while he worked, because that’s all he could do. Tim painted until his fingers went numb and his body ached from staying so long in the same position.
When he finished, he stepped back and stared until he was sure he had it right. Then he woke Eric, first saying his name, then shaking him gently until he stirred. “Look,” he said, rushing back to the canvas and turning it around so Eric could see. His heart was thudding in his chest as he waited for a response. What was on canvas wasn’t a lie—not Eric young and healthy. The painting was of him in his sickbed, but the light and the colors were like a filter that tore through the ravages of cancer, revealing the untouchable soul beneath.
“You made me beautiful,” Eric said.
“You’ve always been beautiful.”
Eric looked at him like he was being silly before closing his eyes. Tim stood there, arms limp at his sides, and watched him as the light outside dimmed, feeling disappointed that his magic spell hadn’t worked. Eric was still sick. Eric was dying.
“I love you,” Eric murmured, shifting beneath the sheets.
Tim went to him, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Eric?”
“Let me sleep, Gabriel,” Eric murmured, his brow creasing as if concentrating, but his eyes remained closed. “I’m tired.”
Tim opened his mouth, desperate to know if Eric had been addressing him a moment ago, or if he was thinking of Gabriel the whole time. Then Tim leaned back, biting his lower lip. Either way, he knew Eric loved him, and if he was dreaming of being with the greatest love of his life, maybe he was already experiencing a taste of Heaven.
“You know I love you, right?” Tim said. “I really mean it, Eric. I love you. I love you so much! I love you.”
Tim clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself. He wanted to say it a million times, because he realized that he’d never have another chance. This was it. No more relaxing nights on the couch together, the television off so they could talk the hours away. No more shared meals, Eric smiling over the table at the way Tim stuffed his face. All of this would be gone forever. No matter what he did, Eric was slipping away. Tim could scream all he wanted, punch the walls, cut his own skin, lie through his teeth or offer up his body and soul, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Eric would die—and Tim was powerless to stop it.
He felt tears rolling over the fingers on his mouth, felt the breath from his nose coming in manic bursts. Tim moved his hand away and tried once more.
“I love you.”
But Eric didn’t respond, didn’t wake up again, even the next morning. Tim called the nurse in a panic, which was silly, because he had known this was coming. He had read it over and over again in books and online, but part of him always felt that Eric would be one of the lucky ones. The exception to the rule.
“Oh, honey. That just means he’s close,” the nurse said on the phone. “If God is merciful, he’ll take him soon.”
If God was merciful, Eric wouldn’t be dying, but Tim kept silent. He spent the next two days at Eric’s side, giving him his medicine at the regular dosage times in case Eric was still inside there somewhere, feeling everything. And Tim took care of him in other ways he never thought he would have to, doing the unpleasant things that most people don’t speak about, except maybe with others who have been through the same experience. He did everything he could for Eric, even talking to him so he wouldn’t be lonely.
On the morning of the third day, Tim woke to find that God—merciful or not—had allowed Eric to slip quietly away in the night. Tim took his hand one last time, squeezing it desperately, but Eric wasn’t there anymore. The soul he had managed to capture a glimpse of on canvas had gone home.
* * * * *
The funeral went by in flashes. Umbrellas. Rain. People dressed in black and gray. Faces Tim had seen only in photos, but now older. Eric’s sister. The legendary Gabriel. Friends Tim had met in passing or not at all. So many people, their heads often turning in his direction, as if he had an explanation for this incomprehensible event.
Tim was lost, but Marcello was there, handling everything with the precise attention he gave his business ventures. “I buried too many friends in the eighties,” he said to Tim. “Funerals have become disturbingly routine.”
To Tim, the funeral felt like a circus. So many people were surprised that Eric was even sick, only in retrospect realizing why he hadn’t thrown any parties this year or commenting how Eric seemed tired at the last one. Tim just kept saying that Eric didn’t want them to know. Those final days were private, just between the two of them.
When everybody else finally went away, Tim found himself alone in a big house. He walked the hallways, exploring each room, opening drawers and cabinets and examining everything inside as if it had new meaning. And it did, because this was Eric. This was the story of his life—what he had chosen to surround himself with. He had left it to Tim so he wouldn’t be alone.
But it wasn’t the same.
Tim painted more than ever. He did little else, aside from eating and sleeping. What he needed to express was too big to fit on canvas, but he tried anyway. For a while he indulged in the morphine left on Eric’s bedside table. The medicine helped fill the void, but its comfort never lasted. Once it was gone, Tim picked up the brush and kept working. The phone rang, and so did the doorbell, occasionally, but Tim ignored it all, shutting out the world. Eric hadn’t left. His ghost was right here beside him. It was the rest of the world that had ceased to exist.
Until one morning, when Tim woke to find a very large man standing over his bed.
“I don’t like the beard,” Marcello said. “Maybe when you’re older, but you’re too young and handsome for it now.”
“What are you doing here?” Tim said, pulling the covers up higher.
Marcello sat on the edge of the bed, Tim scooting over so one of his legs wouldn’t be crushed. “I need a favor. There’s a charity dinner tonight, and I’m short-staffed when it comes to waiters.”
“Fuck you,” Tim said. “I don’t need your money.”
Marcello looked over his shoulder at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m well aware of that. You would be doing me a favor, so I would owe you one in return. Having someone indebted to you is infinitely more valuable than money. You see, I can’t hire just anyone for this job. Even gay charities revolve around men, and beauty is more effective than crowbars at getting wallets to open.”
“Leave me alone.”
“This isn’t what Eric would want.”
Tim didn’t respond. Even hearing Eric’s name hurt too much.
“Seven o’clock, my house.” Marcello stood again. “If you aren’t there, I’ll bring the entire party here. Don’t think I won’t!”
Tim didn’t doubt it. Once Marcello was gone, he got out of bed and stomped and raged around the house. Then he took a long look in the mirror and saw a stranger. The beard was alien, his hair unruly, his complexion pale and bloodless. Marcello was right. This isn’t what Eric would want.
When he reported to Marcello’s house that night, the man of the hour wasn’t in sight. Instead, an Asian guy in charge of organizing the event had him dress in an outfit suited for a Chippendale’s dancer and informed him how the evening would work. Luckily it didn’t sound hard. Tim would only be handing out drinks, not serving food.
A speech in the main room was followed by applause. Tim sulked in the corner of the kitchen until the time came to bring out the champagne. Once in the midst of the party, he found he couldn’t maintain his foul mood, not while surrounded by so much life. Nearly six weeks alone in the house made the prospect of conversation enticing, and most of the men here were more interested in talking to him than getting a drink.
Marcello came over half an hour in, guiding him away from the crowd and to the side of the room. “Well, what do you think?”
Tim sighed. “You were right. I needed to get out of the house.”
“And shave.” Marcello smiled. “You look much better now. But I mean, what do you think of that?”
He pointed to one end of the room where a banner read The 1st Annual Eric Conroy Foundation Fundraiser.
Tim felt a lump in his throat. “What’s the foundation for?”
“To support the arts,” Marcello said with pride. “Mostly by funding underprivileged artists through scholarships. Eric always loved his art.”
And Tim loved the idea. “I’ll give everything Eric left to me.”
“No,” Marcello said with a chuckle. “The men here have plenty to spare. Eric wanted you to have what he gave you, not give it away. What he wanted most of all was for you to be happy. You’ve grieved, and you can keep grieving, but you also have to resume living. For Eric. For yourself. Understand?”
Tim nodded.
“Good. Now get back to work and make sure these men are all drunk and horny before I ask them for their hard-earned cash.”
Tim laughed as Marcello floated back into the crowd, graceful as a Zeppelin. All around voices were babbling, laughter filling the air. Life went on. Painful and treacherous as it may be, life went on.