Finally, he nods. “Okay, brother. I’ll go for you if you promise to rest while I’m gone.”
Numi doesn’t ask much of me, so when he does, I try to comply. “I promise. And I’ll drink all of this crap.” I gesture to the water and even the disgusting liquid cleanse he’s made for me again.
Numi simply nods and, with his eyes still lingering on me, finally lets himself out of the apartment.
I gave my word to Numi that I would sleep. Numi knows that I sometimes say what he wants to hear, although most of the time I try to comply. He has become more of a nurse than a friend these last couple of weeks. He doesn’t have to do it, of course. He can walk away and wish me luck, like my other friends.
Numi, of course, is not like my other friends. Numi is an angel, although I can never bring myself to tell him that.
He will be with me through to the bitter end, of this I have no doubt, and I am fortunate to have such a friend. I am undeserving of such a friend. What did I ever do to deserve such loyalty and love?
I don’t know, but I have it and I know a part of me treasures it. The part of me that is comfortable with another man’s affection. A very, very small part of me.
I nearly smile as I turn over in bed. I cannot sleep. How could I sleep when my brother’s killer is still out there? Olivia’s killer, too. The same fucking killer.
As I close my eyes and try to sleep, the chaotic images come again. They are the surest proof I have that I am going to die insane. I don’t want to die insane. But I have no choice, no choice.…
Swirling images, coming fast. So fast and strange and beautiful and surreal. Incomprehensible, comprehensible. Bright and not so bright.
One such amorphous light scatters into a school of frightened fish. Swirling mist morphs into my mom, my friends, and then a face with a beard. I have no idea who the face belongs to. I don’t have time to ponder because my mind continues to spin out of control, spinning, scattering, fragmenting, disappearing into nothing. A lost mind… the ultimate death.
And then one such image appears from the sea of insanity. It is a face that I know well, although I rarely gaze upon it without the “8” carved in his chest and the slit along his tender throat.
My brother steps forward out of the flashing brilliance of a lost mind… he steps forward and seemingly into my bedroom, although my eyes are still closed. In this image, his neck is whole and his chest is unmarked. I would like to say it is as I remember him, but he is different now. Yes, he still looks young, but I see an ancient wisdom on his young face.
He is made of light. Beautiful, pulsating light. And his image holds. It doesn’t scatter or morph into something else. He smiles upon me kindly, loving, conveying a love that I do not deserve. I deserve no love. I can accept no love from him or Numi or anyone. I failed him. Failed him worse than any brother has failed a brother, ever.
I have seen the image of my brother before, stepping through the chaos of my nearly lost mind. These days, the image seems to be coming more and more. As I have often done in the past, I try to apologize, but my mouth will not open. The words will not come. And, as I struggle for breath and will my mouth to work, for my voice to come, the image of my dead little brother fades, and Matt seems to step back into the chaos of my mind, back to wherever he came from.
I sit up now, weeping hard, although I don’t have the strength to weep. The tears and heaving wipe me out, and I do finally sleep, I think.
The sleep doesn’t last long.
I maneuver my bare feet to the soft carpet and into slippers. I don’t know why I care about slippers anymore. But I do. Slippers are civilized. I want to be civilized even in death. I rise, sway, find my balance, and move carefully to the kitchen table, where my notes are spread over the table, along with the grisly images of both police reports.
My dead brother and Olivia both stare back at me, both smiling, both carved with cryptic symbols.
The motherfucker.
The key is here somewhere. In my notes. In these photographs. In these nearly worthless witness statements. In here. Right here. Staring at me, like my brother is staring at me now.
I call silently to Olivia, willing her back onto my shoulder, but she does not come. I am on my own now.
A soft knock on the door pulls me out of my lonely thoughts. No one comes to visit me these days, except one person. One beautiful person.
I rise, pull my slender fingers through my thinning hair, and open the door for Mary.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mary stands there, smiling.
I silently thank Numi for insisting I brush my teeth and wash my face before promising to get some shut-eye. Forgotten are the ugly photos and the police reports on the table. So very, very ugly, but never forgotten for long. I think I must have my days mixed up—Mary isn’t due here today, is she?
“Well, are you going to invite me in or not, Mr. Detective Man?”
I realize I have been staring. My brain is still in the sea of light with my brother. I force myself back to the present, back to reality. A shitty reality, to be sure.
“Of course.” I smile. I try to appear normal, affable. But not cool. Never cool. I gave up looking cool the moment I discovered I had AIDS. These days, I strive for looking sane. I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of it.
It is unusual for Mary to appear anything but calm and collected but she fusses with the indigo blue scarf wrapped around her delicate neck as we move into the living room. She is dressed in jeans and a cardigan sweater—also a first. Mary has no folders or notebooks today. She seats herself on the couch instead of her usual spot in the chair.
I distantly hear myself asking if she would like anything to drink. Coffee, soda, wine?
I am now astounded that she gazes up at me and asks if a glass of wine would be too much trouble.
“Of course not.” I am equally delighted and disheartened that she wants wine. Delighted because this appears to be a social visit. Disheartened because I doubt that I have the strength to uncork a bottle of wine. Despite my low blood pressure, I feel the pulse drumming in my temples in excitement.
In the kitchen, I fumble with the corkscrew. I curse myself for my weakened state. Perspiration beads my forehead as I try desperately to gain some traction into the soft cork. Soft or not, I just don’t have the strength. I inhale a little too sharply as a gentle hand falls upon my shoulder.
I turn, defeated, sweating, shaking. Mary smiles up at me. I feel like weeping, to let loose. To collapse. I don’t do any of those things. I smile weakly.
“Can I help, sweetie?”