Javi, Come Home

CHAPTER FIVE

     Javi wakes and his only thought is that one day it'll feel familiar waking up with the sense of not knowing anything. That he won't expect to have his bearings first thing in the morning. That knowing where he is, what day it is, how he got there are now luxuries.

     His eyes are open and he can't make sense of the beamed ceiling. It's not the shiplap ceiling of his childhood home, it's not the popcorn ceiling of the asylum he was in, it's not even the crown-molded ceiling of his apartment. He has no idea where he is but wherever it is, it smells of sandalwood and something analgesic.

     Someone touches him and he jolts out of reach, surprised. When he turns his head to look, he's even more surprised to see that it's Margie, Tate's mother, and she's sitting beside him in a wheelchair.

     He fights back a groan at the onslaught of pain thrumming through his head. He tries to sit up but his stomach is too sore. Margie watches him closely, her expression changing but in a way that Javi can't understand.

     He finally really looks at her and is saddened to see the effects of time on her, too. He's even more sad that he had no idea this was going on, isn't even sure about what it could be. Did she break her back? Suffer a stroke? He doesn't know, but he wants to and he isn't sure how much he's allowed to know.

     He wants her to break the silence but when she doesn't he clears his throat and says, "I'm sorry."

     She raises an eyebrow questioningly.

     "For leaving," he clarifies quietly. "For not keeping in touch. For just showing up at your house."

     She shakes her head at that last part. He looks at her confused and then asks, "Not your house?"

     She nods to that. So then Tate's house. Tate has a house?

     That spurs the thought, how did he get here? What is he even doing here? The details of last night are fuzzy. He remembers feeling bad, really bad, definitely more down than the last few weeks. He'd taken his meds like he was supposed to but they weren't helping. He'd gone to the bar, hoping a couple drinks would quiet his thoughts and tire him enough to sleep.

     He didn't remember drinking that much but he did remember wanting to feel something other than sadness. Remembered walking up to some guys and asking them, so which one of you bottoms?

     He thought that would do the trick but they waited to get violent. They were obviously offended but willing to give him the benefit of doubt. So he repeated his question. Its just that you both look like bottoms so I'm curious the dynamic here.

     The guy put all of his weight in the punch, hitting him between his cheek and jaw. It was good, the instant gratuitous pain. Javi wanted more. So he kept talking and he kept hitting him, hitting him hard, until Tate got between them.

     Javi had to really think to remember the details then. Tate catching the guys fist like it was a fly ball, holding onto it and pushing the guy back.

     "That's Oscar's son!" Tate had snapped like that meant anything at all.

     Javi was his son by blood, and nothing else. Javi was an embarrassment to Oscar.

❂

     "Can we just leave him here?" Sylvia asks looking down at Javi, who's crumpled on the couch like a rag doll. Emery's kneeling beside the couch wiping the blood on his bottom lip.

     "Well we can't bring him home like this," Em responds.

     "What if he has a concussion?" Syl asks. "What if he doesn't wake up? Then we're accomplices to murder."