April 30
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The video camera in my mind's eye pans around the scene I've set (guess I picked up a habit or two from Mark): the door, closed, with a little yellow post-it stuck to the outside. Zoom in on post-it note: Roger -- We've got AIDS. I'm sorry. -- April. Focus on me, hugging my legs to my chest in the empty bathtub, clutching a razor loosely in one hand. Rolling up my sleeves. Removing my wristwatch. As I lean over to place it precariously on the sink's edge, I happen to notice the time.
11:59 PM.
Has it only been six hours?
* * * * *
Six hours earlier
I sat in the waiting room of the clinic, fidgeting. Every now and then I would pick up a magazine and flip through it, but after a few pages I would just put it back down and forget everything I had just read.
Finally, a secretary came out, glancing at a clipboard. April Weir? he read.
I stood. I'm April, I said, swallowing hard. Calm down, girl.
He gave me an appraising look, and shook his head slightly. The counselor will see you now, he informed me coolly, guiding me through a door.
The counselor's office was small and neat. Pamphlets were stacked in organized piles along the walls, brightly colored lettering informing me about various acronyms like HIV and STDs. The chairs were comfy-looking, if faded. Posters promoting safety and awareness plastered the walls. If I ignored the words, I could almost convince myself that I was back in my third grade classroom. Our fluorescent lights weren't quite so harsh as these, though.
The counselor came in. She was a small, bird-like woman with graying hair and bright eyes. She, too, carried a clipboard. I wondered if they were part of the uniform for people at clinics.
She offered me the hand not supporting the clipboard, and I shook it. My name is Ruth Shaevitz, she told me, a little distantly. April Weir?
I replied quietly.
IV drug user? she asked sternly, glancing between he clipboard and the faint tracks on my arms.
I lied.
She gave me a disparaging look. she murmured. Well, April, please sit down. I sat. She modified the harshness of her voice, slightly. Your lab test results are right here, she said, regarding them. Her eyes darted up to meet mine, and her expression softened a little more. You are HIV positive, she informed me, almost gently.
The numbness started then. It began in the pit of my stomach, and slowly expanded to fill my entire body. I have AIDS, I said shortly.
Well, not yet, she hedged. But yes, you will develop it sooner or later. Right now, you're only HIV positive. You're in the asymptomatic stage -- you should feel fine, normal. This period could last for months or years.
I have AIDS, I repeated.
She continued on as though I hadn't spoken. Given your, ah, history as a drug user, I would have to predict that your asymptomatic stage would end sooner rather than later. She went on, but I didn't hear her. Her voice faded into the background. The numbness had reached my brain, and I stepped out of my body and watched myself, dispassionately. I have AIDS. Like repeating it to myself would make me understand, make it seem real. Or make it go away.
I realized that Ruth had asked me a question.
She sighed. I asked, have you shared injectibles with anyone recently?
I replied. Yes. With Casey and Leila. I got it from Casey, I think. Leila turned up negative. My voice sounded so coldly logical. No emotion. Odd.
What about a boyfriend?
I haven't shared needles with him in a few weeks. We each have our own, works better that way, simultaneous highs and all, I said.
Ruth pursed her lips. What about other...sharing of fluids? I gave her a questioning look. She rolled her eyes. Have you had intercourse with him? she finally asked directly.
I blushed. Oh. Yes. Yes.
I think he had better come for testing, too, she said shortly.
The numbness abruptly fizzled away, and I wished it hadn't. What are you gonna tell Roger? pounded in my brain. How do you tell the person you love that he is going to die because of you?
How am I gonna tell him?
Somehow I found myself outside, on the street, walking. I glanced at my watch. 6:47. I was supposed to meet Roger and the others at some bar at 7:30.
I can't tell him. I can't do it. I don't want to see him hate me. I love him.
Finding some loose change in my pocket, I headed to the nearest pay phone and dial the loft. After three rings, Mark picked up.
CyberArts Studio, how can I help you? he said cheerfully. I could tell he'd just been talking to Benny. The Studio didn't exist yet.
Mark, it's April.
Hey, hold on, I'll get Roger--
I said quickly. It's all right. I just -- something came up, and I can't meet you guys tonight, I hedged.
A pause. April, what's wrong? Mark asked, concerned. Mark's actions towards me had changed so drastically in one day. I hadn't had a chance to get used to the new, kind Marky.
It suddenly occurred to me that I wouldn't get that chance. And once I realized that, it became startlingly clear what I was going to do. The frightening thing was, once I figured it out, I felt nothing but relief.
Nothing's wrong, I told him lightly. I'll probably be back before you are, so I'll see you later tonight or tomorrow morning. White lie.
All right, Mark said dubiously. See you.
Tell Roger I love him, I said, at the spur of the moment.
He knows, Mark replied softly. Take care of yourself, April.
I hung up. I would take care of myself, believe me, I would. Just not in the way that he intended.
I leaned heavily against the phone booth, allowing one solitary tear to escape and roll down my cheek. Today is my nineteenth birthday, I think. Only nobody knows it but me. How can I be only nineteen?
Why me?
I spend the next few hours wandering around the Village. I have no sense of time or place; I just drift, trying to take in as much as possible and yet unconsciously tuning it all out.
The numbness returns as I walk. Horns beeping, tires screeching, people talking -- nothing registers. It's like walking through a fog of white noise.
At one point, I stop in a card shop and buy a blank card, with a cutesy picture of flowers and sunshine on the front. Inside, I scrawl, Lucky for you, it turns out the good don't die young, after all. Just the naughty. Enjoy your birthday, twin. This one's my last. With a pang of remorse, I add the loft's phone number at the bottom, along with an instruction to only talk to Mark Cohen. Then I address it to my old home -- couldn't remember where May was in college -- find a stamp, and drop it in a mailbox.
The moon is already high in the sky when I return to the loft. The others are still out. Quietly, efficiently, I set the scene. Finding a razor in the bathroom cabinet, my eye passes over the container in which I keep my needles. Briefly, I wonder why I hadn't felt the need for a fix all evening, then dismiss it as irrelevant. The numbness definitely controls my brain now.
On a bright yellow post-it note, I write, Roger -- We've got AIDS. I'm sorry, and sign it. Concise, to the point -- always my style. Then I stick it to the outside of the bathroom door, and close the door behind me. I step into the bathtub -- I want the mess to be easy for them all to clean up. Rolling up my sleeves, I realize that I had better remove my wristwatch. Placing it on the sink, I notice the time.
11:59 PM.
I don't know why this catches and holds me, but it does. I sit there, staring at the watch, as my mind travels backwards through time. The clinic. Yesterday afternoon, screaming at Mark, kissing him. Learning that Casey had AIDS. The Cat Scratch Club. Purple mark on Casey's neck. Months of drug-addled bliss with Roger. Feeling ignorant about Collins' gay disease. Sleeping with Roger for the first time. Roger and The Man interacting. Meeting Maureen, Roger, Mark.
Falling in with the wrong crowd.
Moving to New York City.
Leaving home to escape my perfect sister.
And me, my Daddy's Thunderstorm,' sitting on his knee, Sunshine' on his other, as he recited in a sing-song voice: April showers bring May flowers...
The time clicks to 12:00 AM. Midnight. Tomorrow. May.
My time is up. April's showers are fading with the new month. If I'm a dark blot in Roger's life, it doesn't matter. I did love him, even though I can only hurt him. Thunderstorms are like that: fierce. But the shower does pass. The rain stops.
I flick the razor across my left wrist, then quickly switch and flick it across my right. Concise. To the point. Roger, I'm so sorry.
I wonder who his May flower will be.
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I FINALLY FINISHED! ok, the feedback really counts now. please, if you've stuck with me for this long, the least you can do is review! i've been writing this for almost 2 weeks, just spend 2 minutes to write a nice little review! please? and to those of you who have been giving me feedback throughout -- THANK YOU!
kaydee falls