Anything But Lonely (previously titled All By Myself)
Chapter One: Silent Heart
I think it started when Mimi passed away. Well, to be honest it began a long time before that. It took root the day Roger met her. But that's another story entirely, one that I think has already been told way too many times, not to mention captured on my film. The dilemma I'm currently faced began after Mimi's death.
After she whispered her last words, I remember glancing at Roger. A tear slid down his face. Never in my life had I seen Roger cry -- not when his girlfriend April killed herself, not when he got beat up in junior high, not even when his dad ran out on the family freshman year. That single tear told me more than all the words he'd ever spoken.
I crept closer and placed my arm around his shoulders. He shrugged me off gruffly. "Roger, it's me, come on," I coaxed. But he ignored my offer of comfort, turning and retreating to his room. I sighed deeply and gave my friends a helpless look.
"He'll be okay, Mark. Just give him time," Collins' deep, soothing voice assured me. "When he's ready, he'll come around."
"Doesn't he see what he's doing? This is exactly how he acted when April died. It didn't solve anything then, and it's not going to now either." I sunk to the floor and pouted.
Collins seated himself beside me. "What was he really upset about then?"
I looked at him inquisitevely. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"What I'm saying is, April and Roger weren't truly in love, not the kind of love he had with Mimi. Sure, he was sad to see April die. But anyone who thinks his depression was entirely caused by her death is blind. You know as well as I do that they were growing apart anyway. He was more concentrated on his band, and she felt neglected. They wouldn't have lasted another two or three months at the most."
My eyes followed Maureen as she gingerly placed a blanket over Mimi then wrapped her arms around Joanne, who was speaking on the phone. Maureen saw me staring and she offered a tiny smile of encouragement which betrayed the rest of her red, tear-streaked face. I turned back to Collins, unable to force my lips upward to reciprocate Maureen's gesture. "It was the AIDS," I stated simply.
Collins nodded in agreement. "You don't know what that's like, Mark. Nobody does until they feel it for themselves. I can guess exactly what was going through Roger's mind then, and I can also guess what's going through his mind now. Believe me, learning you have AIDS is bad, but losing the love of your life is infinitely worse."
I was struck by a sudden feeling of complete exhaustion. Too many things had happened that day, and too many thoughts were racing in my head. I needed to get away from everything. "It's late," I mumbled.
Maureen checked her watch. "It's only 11," she told me. "You never go to bed before midnight."
"We've all been through a lot for one day, let's try to get some sleep," Collins said.
"I'll wait up for the mortician," Joanne offered.
Maureen slipped a comforting arm around her girlfriend's waist. "I'll stay with you, pookie."
"You guys are all free to crash here tonight if you want," I said, standing. They thanked me, and we all said our goodnights. But before I retired to my bedroom, I decided to check on Roger. The door was slightly ajar, just enough for me to pop my head in. Roger was sprawled out, face-down, on top of the covers. He was silent but his shaking shoulder gave away the fact that he was crying.
"Goodnight, Roge," I whispered, shutting the door entirely.
When I awoke the next day, Collins and Maureen were already preparing breakfast. She boiled water for tea and set the coffe maker while he scrambled omelets at the stove, pulling items from a grocery bag as he went along. I noticed Joanne straightening things up in the living room.
"Is Roger awake?" I inquired, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
"No, not yet," Collins answered as he sliced and diced.
"I'll let him sleep a little longer," I mumbled, mostly to myself. I crept over to Roger's door and nudged it open. There Roger was, dozing in the fetal position with his bedsheets tangled between his legs. He'd obviously slept fitfully that night, but now his body lay still, peacefully resting.
I studied his face -- the dark, puffy bags underneath his eyes, the indentations on his cheeks from the wrinkled pillow, the thin lips which were slightly parted in a sleep-induced stupor. I was tempted to record him on film but decided against that, knowing that if he woke up and saw me, I'd be as dead as . . .
Don't even say it, I thought. Why?, I argued with myself. Silence won't bring her back.
As quietly as possible, I shut the door again and joined the chefs in the kitchen. "Smells delicious," I complimented as Collins transferred an omelet from pan to plate.
Maureen handed me the coffee pot and sat on the counter, stirring her tea. English Breakfast with a splash of skim milk and two packets of Sweet & Low. I knew everybody's beverage preferences by heart, especially Roger & Maureen.
I poured the steaming black Folger's into a plain white mug and took a huge gulp. The heat and bitterness burned my tongue -- I never drank my coffee plain -- but it certainly woke me up.
"Should we go through Mimi's stuff today?" Maureen wondered aloud. Mimi's will specified that we decide as a group who receives what, based on who has the most need or sentimental value attached to each item. (Which meant Roger would get nearly everything.) After that, we were to donate the rest to Goodwill, considering that's where she got most of it in the first place.
"I don't know," Joanne said tentatively. "We should probably wait until Roger's ready."
I shook my head. "If past behavior lends any credence, Roger won't be ready for months. We might as well do it now, rather than sit around moping."
"Please," Collins begged as he forced a plate into my hands, "Eat breakfast first."
Despite my somber mood, I smiled. "Okay, we'll eat first," I consented, joining my friends at the kitchen table.
Halfway through the meal, Roger's door creaked open. He walked out slowly, his disheveled blond hair still uncombed and his pajama pants sagging ever-so-slightly at the waist. It was then that I realized Roger had grown thinner since Mimi took sick. I hoped it was just a reaction to being so glum, and not a symptom of impending illness. With his stress level, his already-frail immune system was practically nonexistent. Even the slightest cold would weaken him considerably and make him highly susceptible to something deadly. I didn't want Roger's life to end the way Mimi's did, quickly, meaninglessly, and with unfinished business left behind.
I warmed his cup of coffee in the microwave and stirred in a packet of sugar. Roger didn't look up when I placed the mug on the table beside him.
"Morning," I greeted. No reply. "Collins made omelets if you want one." His face registered no reaction, and for a moment I had to make sure I'd actually spoken out loud. Shrugging, I took a plate of food from Collins and set it with Roger's coffee. "You should eat," I prodded gently.
Joanne sidled up next to me. "We're gonna go home and get cleaned up, hon," she said. Her voice always had a way of comforting me, as though she'd wrapped her arms around me, stroked my hair, and promised everything would be alright. "Call us if we can help with anything. Otherwise we can go through the, uh, property tomorrow." We were all afraid to speak Mimi's name around Roger.
I nodded and gave both her and Maureen a hug. Once they left, Collins and I cleaned up the kitchen, then he went to his room. In a few weeks Collins had to leave for Austin, to teach at the University of Texas. I know he wished he could stay, but we were all short on money (especially after paying for Mimi's funeral arrangements) and this was a rare opportunity. Whether he planned to impart his theory of "actual reality" upon the students there, I don't know; I can probably make a pretty good guess, though.
Now Roger and I were alone in the living room. Of course, I might as well have been the only person there. Roger certainly was elsewhere mentally. I tossed one more glance is way before venturing into his bedroom. Mimi's stuff was already stored in boxes by the closet. Collins had offered to do that when we realized she wasn't going to make it this time.
Sighing, I plopped down on the floor and dragged the first box toward me. I reached in to find a framed photograph, a still shot which I had taken on New Year's Eve. Roger was holding up a rope suggestively and Mimi held a cheap plastic cup filled halfway with equally cheap champagne.
On an empty box I scrawled "ROGER'S" in permanent marker then set the frame inside. He would want that, if he ever pulled out of his present state.
Next I discovered a black leather shoulder-sleeve thingy. (Okay, I have no idea what they're called -- ha, proof that I'm not gay!) It was part of Mimi's favorite outfit. She only wore it on special occasions, like Christmas Eve and Roger's first performance of "Your Eyes" at a club. This also went in the Roger box. Not only did he think she looked particularly sexy in it, the clothing held special significance since it was the first outfit he ever saw her in.
I pulled out a black pager in a leopard-print case. "AZT break!" Mimi's voice, perenially upbeat, echoed through my mind. No use for this anymore, I figured. I wondered how many doses she probably missed in the days before she got sick. That was one thing Mimi and Roger had in common: a tendency toward forgetfulness.
Tossing the pager angrily to the side, I reached into the box and discovered a large pink binder. It was decorated with pressed flowers -- Mimi liked to act tough but she had a secret feminine side, too -- and labeled "Mimi's Scrapbook." Intrigued, I turned to the first page. A large picture of her smiling face filled almost the entire sheet. It was dated January 1997. Before she met Roger. Before she became a junkie, too, it seemed. Her eyes still sparkled healthily and her cheeks were full and rosy. I started to tear up; it was hard to imagine the girl in this image morphing into a drug-hardened AIDS victim, with gaunt cheeks, limp hair, and dull, listless eyes. I removed the page from the rings of the notebook and put it in Roger's box.
The next page displayed two pictures, one of Mimi and Roger at the Life Cafe, Christmas Eve '97. The other I took secretly as they shared their small, lovely kiss amid the chaos of the riot. As far as I know, it was their first kiss. Another item for Roger.
Then came a page with individual photos of the family, taken at various times throughout that first year: Roger strumming his guitar (folowed by one of Roger reacting angrily to having his picture taken.) Me, grinning for my own camera after Mimi begged me to let her snap a photo at a night club. Maureen, mooning the audience at her protest. Joanne winking (presumably at Maureen). Collins, in the midst of an impromptu philosophy lecture at the loft, where I was probably the only person actually listening. Angel, posing stylishly in her Santa garb. Finally, Mimi dancing at the Kat Scratch Club, her leg wrapped around a pole during one of her tamer routines.
I decided to keep this sheet, pondering ways to integrate the stills into my next film. If I ever finished it, anyway.
I sifted through the rest of the scrapbook, dividing pictures up to the people featured in each. One I kept for myself, though. It was a wide view and I had no idea who of our friends owned a widescreen lens. On one side of the photo I was curled up on the couch, reading something. The other side showed Roger, perched on the table with his guitar as usual, but something was unfamiliar. Instead of playing he was watching me. The entire scene drew a blank in my mind -- I couldn't remember the occasion at all. It felt unusual to see Roger staring at my oblivious self, rather than the other way around.
Carefully I placed the photograph in my box. I selected a few more of Mimi's belongings for myself, Collins, Maureen, and Joanne, then stored the rest in Roger's box. If necessary he could go through it later (I was guessing much later) and choose what to keep and what to donate.
When I exited Roger's room, he was still motionless on the couch. I honestly don't think he had moved a single muscle while I was gone. "Hey," I called. "Your breakfast's gonna get cold." He didn't so much as peek at the plate. I sighed and threw myself down next to him, causing him to bounce on the cushion.
"Look," I started, "you've pulled this before, Roge. I know you're upset. I know you're grieving. But that's no reason to retreat into a shell." My hand brushed his arm. "You can talk to me, remember? You can trust me. We're best buddies." I took on a more firm tone. "You've gotta open up to someone. If you harbor everything inside you'll explode. You of all people you should know that it doesn't solve anything."
Roger glanced at me from the corner of his eye. Well, at least it was some sort of movement.
"Please, I miss you. I don't like depressed-Roger. I wanna see the old, thankful-to-be-alive Roger. That's the guy I became best friends with in 7th grade. You know I'll support you no matter what. I just hate to see you hurt yourself."