Epilouge

I had seen a lot of faces that I recognized and a lot that I hadn’t by ten o’ clock that night.  His was a face that walked the line in between.  We had only met once, in a hospital a few years back.  Still, despite the brevity of the encounter it had left a notable impact on my mind.

The first time I saw the boy he there was a stream of saliva running from his mouth and pooling on the floor.  His face was pale and he was covered in a feverish sweat.  I had seen a number of my friends die like this.  It was tainted heroin, or so I thought at first when I saw the syringe clutched in his fist.  I watched his cold, still body in horror, thinking that I had seen this misfortune in a needle claim another life.  

His eye twitched, It must be my imagination.  His lip quivered, it could only be wishful thinking.  His mouth opened.  “Sh-uh-uh-aah,” he moaned.  It wasn’t just my imagination.  Fate had smiled on this one and granted him another chance.  

Out of respect to my former roommates I hoisted his cold clammy body over my shoulder and carried him outside, dialing nine one one as I walked out the door of my former fraternity.  I told the dispatcher my name was Conner and I need them to meet me on a street corner a little over three miles away.  The ambulance was waiting for me when I arrived, drivers scattered looking about frantically as I trudged up the sidewalk with the boy slung over a shoulder.  

Later, after he was admitted to the hospital , I asked a nurse if he would be alright.  After just finding out what had happened to my friend Connor, whose name I had borrowed, whom I had come to visit, I had a vested interest in the boy.  He had meant a lot to Connor, who believed that if he was determined enough he could change a life.  This was the boy he had chosen.  His life was now tantamount to maintaining my old roommates legacy.

The nurse thanked me, said my quick action may have very well have saved the boy’s life.  She also told me that he was the victim of a black market drug that cause severe brain damage concentrated in the areas of the brain that store memory.  It had been originally tested for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but the level of amnesia it created was considered to be entirely unacceptable.  She warned me that even as his friend (which is what I was leading her to believe at the time) he may or may not remember me, or anything at all for that matter, when he woke.

I waited around for four days as he slept, subsiding on snack machine foods until I ran out of money in my wallet.  

On the third day I woke from my slumber on the benches outside of his room.  The first thing I did upon waking was ask her if awake and doing alright.  She shook her head and carried over to me a tray of cafeteria food.  It was on his tab anyway, whether he ate it or not, so she thought she might as well start bringing it to me.

She smiled so warmly at me and “reminded” my that he had no family, and that I was the only person that likely would come for him and that she appreciated the dogged determination I showed sleeping by his door each night and eating only what I could find in that wing of the hospital.  She told me that she had seen too many cases of people alone in the world laying on their deathbeds who just passed away because they had no one to live for.  She said that everyone should have someone like me, who would greet them when they woke and thus give them a reason to keep fighting and get better.

I became determined that that was exactly what I would do.  No matter what he remembered or what he didn’t, when he woke I could put those remnants in perspective for him.  It was my gift, wrapped in a curse.  Not long after I finished my meal my wife called the cell phone that the morning shift nurse, the one who had been so kind to me all along, had allowed my to plug in at the nurse’s station to charge.  She had even allowed me to borrow her extra charger that she kept at work since I hadn’t brought one with me.

Kat was worried about me.  For all her compassion she didn’t understand why I had to stay here at the door of a man I had never known.  She didn’t understand a man’s capacity for loyalty and the unspoken vow I had made to my ailing roommate.  Despite this flaw, I loved her more deeply than anything.  At the same time I could not allow her to join me here.  When the time came to say what I would have to say, I couldn’t have her around to over hear me.

You see, due to me past indiscretions I was going to die soon.  And I felt that I would be cursed to repeat this, waiting by her bedside before she finally passed and I was left alone in the world.

So, I needed this practice here, alone.  I had to be able to do this not only for myself, my past roommate, but her as well.

On day four he finally woke.  I wanted to just rush in, but I allowed the nurse to go in first at her suggestion.  She wanted to explain the situation before any faces of his past were to show up.  People who had used this drug often had partial memories that could cause discomfort if they weren’t approached lightly.  He could know my face but not from where and the struggle of trying to recover the memory might drive him to such anxiety as to cause a panic attack.  He would have to get used to things not connecting properly.  All we could do is hope, she said.  I knew there would be no such problem, as he had no memories of me, something I couldn’t let her know without blowing my cover.  

I waited outside the door and heard her speaking.  I started to sweat and tremble with anxiety.  From behind the door I could only make out bits and pieces of their conversation.  The voice of the morning nurse …”finally wake, Mr. …”  I filled in the blank myself; Valentine, Jack Valentine.  It was the name the nuns had given him when they found him on their doorstep in late February.

I was glad that she was the attending when he woke, somehow she seemed to have a deeper compassion than the other nurses in the wing, the ones that worked other shifts.  I heard the gentle melody of her voice once again “…have amnesia after using… very powerful… quite dangerous as well I’m afraid.”

“Is it temporary?”  He asked.

There was a long jumble of soft spoken words before I caught the distinct tones of her voice again.  “Damage in the part of your brain that stores… largely irreversible.  You may have a chance… your roommate brought you… quickly… thank him.”

“Yes, I suppose I should.”  He said dryly, sounding as if he was in reflection too much to even fully notice her presence.  I would have to step up the dramatics if I wanted to make an impression on him I noted.

It was now my turn to make an appearance.  I waited for what seemed to be an eternity until finally the door opened the ushered me into the room.  “Your turn, good luck.”  She whispered to me before leaving.

He had a bit more color to him.  I noticed this immediately.  It was hard not to.  It was hard not to compare the way he looked now to the near dead state I had found him in.  Something more subtle also caught my eye, a very present look of fear in his eyes.  I had to be strong, I reminded myself.  For the both of us.

I stared to try to conjure my thoughts and give essence to the ideas that had been drifting through my head like butterflies on the breeze.  The most important thing is trust, I reminded myself and I began.   “Thank you for not telling her, I’m sure you realize I’m not who I said I am.”  Again nervous, I looked down at my feet and back up with renewed determination.  “My name’s Julius.  I, uh, came to see if my old roommate was doing well.”  I looked down again with a pause and when  spoke again I could hear the tenuous emotion in my voice.  

“Instead,” I continued, “I found you there with that needle in your hand, passed out on the floor.  I thought you were dead for sure.  I checked your pulse and realized that there might be some hope in saving you.  Of course, they don’t want any ambulance of cops out there so I had to carry you in my arms for nearly two miles to meet an ambulance.  When they asked for my name I just gave them his, said I was your roommate, hoped they wouldn’t ask any questions.”

 He could only stare at me with his frustratingly piercing gaze.  “Why?”  He finally asked, letting the fear and desperation show in his voice.

“Why…?”  I could only hope that his emotion didn’t match the intent of his words.  It was so sad to see a person in such a state of fear.  I watched as he trembled under the thin sheets on his hospital bed.  I phrased my question carefully, not wanting to assume the worst from his body language.  “What do you mean?”

He made no attempt to hide his gaze as he looked down looked down to where the needle had broken the skin; broken his will.  “Why am I still alive?  I have nothing to live for anymore.  I have no memories, that drug wiped them all out.  It was a struggle to even remember my name.  I don’t even know if I’ve met you before.  I have nothing left, everything I’ve ever done is just gone.  What’s the point in trying to live when you have no life left to live?”

I looked down again, not wanting his to see the uncertainty on my face as I spoke.  “You’re alive.  Your life is still with you.  The past?  You can’t live in the past.  You still have your future, and that’s what’s really important.  Hell, you’re lucky, so lucky, kid.”  Despite my uncertainty I spoke confidently, without rushing.  Haste would only cloud my point.  Here came the hard part.  I swallowed hard and continued.  “I have no future, you have no past.  Tell me, which one of us has the most potential?”  That said, said so easily in fact, I felt proud of myself, though I tried my hardest not to let it show, thinking that he might misconstrue it in some way.  Finally, I looked back up at him, looking directly into his eyes with renewed confidence and put into words something I had never spoken about before.  I felt the tear begin to come even before the words passed through my lips.

“I have AIDS.  I could’ve got it from a needle just like the one that was in your fist when I first saw you.  After all, that was my lifestyle when I slept in that bed in that very room.  It got to me, the lifestyle there.  My life was such a rush, the drugs just emphasized that for me, or so I thought.  It was all just a waste of a good future.  I have a wife, she doesn’t know.  I only just found out myself.  I can see the disease in her; I watch everyday as it makes her weaker.  One day soon I will stand by her casket and wish I was in that bed, just like you.  Then, I will die.  I might not even make thirty.  I can never remarry, I will never love again after her.  She is my alpha and omega, beginning and end.  My life, I feel, will end with her.  Even if I can find it in my heart to love again, how could I put someone else through what I’ve put her through.  I could’ve had a daughter, but I think it was the disease that caused the miscarriage.  I was going to name her Rose…  My wife has no future; my daughter’s future ended before it began; if I have a future, it will be consumed by pain of body and soul.  I don’t know what happened in your life that made you want to do this to yourself, I don’t know if you’ll ever remember, but is it really that bad?  You have a chance to start over.  Cherish it.”  

I felt my voice beginning to waver, but I had said all that need to be said, any more would only muddy my point.  I did the only thing that was left to do.  I turned and left the room.

Now he was here, uncertainly searching the crowd from the entryway.  Something announced his presence even though there was a crowd between us.  I fought the current across the room to get to him.  About halfway he saw me and his face lit up, though not exactly with joy.  Just an awkward recognition.  I waded in the sea of people for what seemed an eternity, fighting ever changing currents that pulled me this way and then that.  

Standing in front of him now, I reach out my hand.  “Nice to see you again,” I said.  He looked back at me for a moment , seeming to take in the whole of my face before speaking.  

“I’ve been looking for you, though by now I’ve forgotten why.  It seems you’re important to me for some reason I can’t seem to understand.”  The morning shift nurse had warned me about this, that there may be some permanent damage to his hippocampus, resulting in the inability to retain memories.  This had been years ago by now, so obviously his brain hadn’t been completely fried if he could still remember me, even in a minute sense.

“Well, that’s because I throw awesome parties, as you can see.  So good, that sometimes people can’t even remember them.”  As I said the last part I mimed downing a bottle.  He laughed.  I smiled.  It was good to hear a laugh out of a person who seemed so helpless before, really heart warming.  Sure, you’re a little late but the party’s just getting started; grab a drink and make yourself at home.  If your home was a raging punk show that is.”  This time we both laughed.  He said he would and made his way over to David who was standing in front of a table full of every alcoholic beverage you could think of.  All things considered, the partygoers hadn’t drank all that much.  It seemed they were too busy being swept away in the music to down a bottle or two.

The songs changed, the bands changed, and as the third band of the night started up with a roar I looked around the room.  No one was watching.  I walked to the back of the room and undid the lock on the chain holding the key to the mausoleum around my neck.  I turned the key in the door, stepped inside and shut the door.

I still remember when it got bad; when Kat started slipping away.  It was ironic that she ended up on the same floor, in the same room, with the same nurse.

Often, she was too drugged to be awake, but I sat by her bed, holding her cold hands between mine to try and add a bit of warmth to them.  No matter how long I held them it was never enough.  To warm them, or the regret in my heart.  Even when she passed into a coma I never stopped holding her hands.  I never stopped whispering “I love you.”  

Right up until her heart could no longer take the stress of the illness, I held her hands between mine, resting my head on the pillow beside hers, stroking her hair and whispering “I love you” into her ear.

The nurse kept commenting on how she remembered what I did for that boy, how she still remembered that day when I gave him to hope to survive.  She kept telling me what a loyal husband I was, and how anyone was lucky to have a husband like me.  

I never said a word back to her, in my mind she didn’t exist, there was only Kathrynne in the room, my beloved wife.  Besides no amount of praise could provide absolution for my misdeeds.  

That’s just how it is, even today.  No matter what I did, nothing could make up for what I had done to her, the way I had caused her life to be taken too soon.

No point in going on if nothing could make you feel satisfied again, right?  My life could only be sorrow now, there was no getting around that fact.  That was my reasoning behind not accepting the anti-retrovirals.  Hasten my death, for only death could bring me absolution now.  Still, by some twist of fate, even though I got weaker by the day, it seemed that nothing would put me out of my misery.  Every night I screamed at the God I now hated.  How could he give me health, the murderer, and give her death, a woman so unselfish that she was some kind of everyday saint?  It seemed that not even God could answer that question.  

So here was my plan, this would be my last chance to make right the wrongs I had committed.  Hopefully I could bring a peace into their lives that had been missing since college.  With that final good deed, I could leave the world.

The plan was simple, and all it required was a fake I.D. and about fifty dollars.  I would walk into a clinic and ask for a vaccine.  I would use to fake I.D. to get in and pay the initial bill with the fifty dollars.  Then I would get the shot.  The concept behind a vaccine is simple, a small amount of a virus is administered in a shot.  The body can easily fend it off and create antibodies for it.  

However, a person in the later stages of AIDS is so immunocompromised that even a small amount of a deadly virus is almost instantly fatal.   

I walked back out into the party, locking the door behind me.  I walked across the room, observing the smiles on each of their faces.  I was proud that I could make them all so happy before I left this world.  

I felt a tap on the shoulder.  I turned to see Jack standing behind me.  “David told me where you went.  About your wife.  I’m sorry.”

I found it hard to contain my misguided anger.  That’s what they all said.  Everyone was sorry for me.  Except for me.  They should be sorry for her, but they never were.  They should hate me, but they never did.

Jack spoke again.  “I don’t know if it’s any consolation, but someone once told me something very true.  ‘You can’t live in the past.  You still have your future, and that’s what’s really important…  You have a chance to start over.  Cherish it.’  I wish I knew who, but it’s just something I remember.  It’s always been important to me, that anonymous advice.  Maybe it can help you too.”

He was right; I was right; I should learn to take my own advice; I should just enjoy the party.