Believe (Brimmy)

Chapter Five (Brian Haner)

I was too ill to go to the service with Daniel Rosa, thank God. Now I am in bed, and Mom is on the phone with the doctor. Dad is in my room with me, sitting by my side with a bowl and tissues. Every once in a while I cough up blood.

I am exhausted. I want to sleep, but Dad says I can't until the doctor can come and see me. Dr. Boone has been my doctor ever since I got sick. He thinks I have some sort of cancer, but there's no way to be sure. My symptoms are weird.

I actually sorta miss going to the service, if only because I want to see Jimmy again. It was great fun running into him at the store. He seems like a real swell guy, and he cares about his dad a lot. Mom says you can tell if someone is a good person by the way they treat their parents. I mean, me and my parents have our fights, but I love them and respect them. They mean the world to me.

Dad runs his fingers through my hair. "How are you holding up, kiddo?" he asks. I shrug. The simple action takes it out of me.

"I'm tired." I say. "My insides hurt. Worse is right here." I point to a place on my side, then cough, hacking up a wad of blood. Dad holds the bowl so I can spit it out, then hands me a glass of water so I can cleanse my mouth.

He looks like he wants to say something to me. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Then, he clears his throat.

"I love you very much, son." I can barely hear his voice. Ever since I got sick, Dad has changed. He used to be strong, handsome, humorous. But my sickness has changed him. His hair is turning gray. He has moments of weakness often. He doesn't smile nearly as often. Sometimes I would walk in on Dad in tears, Mom trying to comfort him.

"I know." I smile. "I love you too, Dad."

God, I want to sleep. I'm so tired, my whole body is throbbing. Dad says, "And I'm sorry I got mad at you about playing softball."

Softball? What is he talking about?

Suddenly, it dawns on me. Back when I was well, I wanted to join the softball team. Dad had been really mad, saying that softball was a girl's sport, and if I wanted to join a sport, I should join anything else. He had hounded me about being gay for weeks, which I was, before I finally just missed tryouts and didn't play at all.

I denied being gay, of course. I was sweet on Zacky at the time. He was on the team. He said that there were a few gay kids on the team, and they sorta found community together in softball. The straight guys, which still made up the majority, were genuine and kind, and they treated Zacky with respect. I had wanted to be a part of that.

I didn't want to join baseball because the boys on the team were into hazing and were royal pricks. I was too scrawny for American football, and I didn't care for soccer or basketball. It was softball or nothing. Maybe if we had a hockey team I would do that, but we didn't. Not at my school, anyway.

Mom and Dad had a fight about me. Dad was sure I was gay, which was right. He wanted to send me to a church boarding school. He wanted to confront me about it. Mom had talked him down, though. She assured him that just because I liked softball didn't make me gay.

Neither of my parents know I heard this conversation.

"It's okay." I say to Dad. "It's not like I can play anymore anyway."

Dad doesn't like to admit he's wrong, and he doesn't like to apologize. I know this is a big deal for him. We sit in silence for a moment longer. I start to doze.

"So your mother tells me you've made a friend." He speaks up, and I nod.

"His name is Jimmy." I grin. "We met him at one of Daniel Rosa's services." I don't mention that I think he's attractive. That I want to see him with hopes of one day asking him to be my sweetheart. With hopes of one day kissing him.

"Is he one of the crazies?" Dad twirls his finger by his head in a "cuckoo" motion, and I laugh.

"Yeah, he's one of them. But I like him though. He's a good crazy." I cough again, and Dad's momentarily carefree expression vanishes. I spit blood into the bowl he holds.

"Am... Am I going to die today, Dad?" I ask him. Is that why he doesn't want me to fall asleep? Is that why he hasn't left my side all day? He was supposed to go into work today. Why was he here?

Dad looks horrified that I had said that. "What? No, Junior, of course not. We're just going to have the doctor come take a look at you, that's all. You'll probably have to stay at home for the next few days. Nothing major."

I can hear the doorbell ring down the hall. Mom answers it. "Dad?" I whisper, and he gives me a tight smile.

"I-I'm sorry, too. I know I haven't been a great son to you and Mom, and-"

"Hush, Brian." Dad interrupts me. "You are everything your mom and I could have ever dreamed of. We love you so much, just the way you are. You are perfect to me, do you understand me?"

I nod slowly. There's a lump in my throat. I reach out for him, and Dad gathers me up. He presses his face in my hair, and I breathe in the scent of his aftershave.

He pulls away when the door opens. I can't believe how much energy that hug took out of me. Mom and Dr. Boone enter. I struggle to sit upright, and Dad stands.

"Hello, Brian and Brian." Dad and I both wave. Dr. Boone looks at me. "How are we feeling?"

I shrug. "Tired. My whole self hurts." Dr. Boone frowns, nodding his head.

"Your mother tells me you've been coughing up blood."

Dr. Boone looks at the bowl where we've collected the nasty stuff. He listens to my heart. He puts his stethoscope on different points on my back and tells me to breathe in and out. He checks my pulse and looks in my eyes and mouth and ears and nose. He presses down on different points of my abdomen and chest. Two spots have me crying out in pain.

He's brought a clipboard with him. He looks down at it, then at me, then back to the clipboard. "Tell me about your weakness and fatigue."

I talk until I run out of energy. My strength can stay up for a while if I don't stress myself too hard. If I take a break at the first signs of aching, I'm usually good to go. I tell him about crutch-days, and days when I can't even get out of bed. I tell him about the vomiting, about how sometimes I'm too nauseous to eat and sometimes I can't even hold water down. I tell him about the pain when he asks. I tell him how it's gotten to the point that I'm always in pain. When it's dull, I can ignore it, just like how you can forget the feeling of the clothes on your skin, or you forget that you're breathing and blinking. I told him lately it's been getting worse.

Dr. Boone nods, frowning down at his papers. He asks about how I felt when I first started having the symptoms, and how they compared to now. I tell him honestly that I feel much worse. I'm tired so often, and I can't do many of the things I used to.

Then, Dr. Boone asks to speak to Mom and Dad in private. I frown.

"Why can't you tell me?" I ask, "I'm the one who's got the sickness."

"It's something you might not be ready to hear just yet." He smiles a fake smile, something I've seen far too often from far too many people. "I'm going to tell your parents, then they can tell you when they feel ready."

They leave my room and shut the door. I huff, pulling myself out of bed and reaching for my crutches. I feel like I'm going to pass out by the time I reach the door. I press my ear against it. Nothing. They must have gone to the kitchen.

What is he saying? That I'm going to die? Well, we know that. We just didn't know if it was one year or ten years down the road from now. No one quite knows what the issue is with me

I strain to hear something, anything. There is only silence. I wait with baited breath, for the sound of them returning, for them to explain to me what was happening. But they don't.

And the silence is broken by the sound of Mom's wails.