XXI.
March 18, 1991
The constant pounding of the rain on the roof of the cab he and Collins were in echoed in Mark's ears. It was the first spring 'shower', though it was anything but gentle. It came down in torrents, drenching anyone or anything that was brave enough to stand even a second in it. The city outside of the cab window was hidden in a haze of water droplets and cold.
"You okay?" Collins asked him, nudging him a little.
"No," Mark didn't even bother to hide the truth. He kept his arms crossed; he was cold not only from the rain outside but also from the fear and dread he felt inside of him. He felt Collins' rough hand on his shoulder then as the bigger man squeezed it comfortingly. Mark continued to stare out the window, wishing he could go outside and drown himself. He wanted to be numb. He'd conditioned himself before for this, hadn't he? Why the fuck wasn't it working now? Mimi should be there with them, but both Collins and Joanne had decided against it. The poor girl was already a mess enough and they didn't think she could handle any more stress. She'd been staying in Maureen and Joanne's flat since the night Roger had been brought to the hospital so she could be away from the loft a little while for her to get some proper rest.
Collins' hold on him tightened. "Hey, boy, keep your head up. We don't know for sure yet."
Mark only nodded. He wanted to follow Collins' positive attitude, but he couldn't. Roger had been in the hospital for two days now and they still had no news about him or his condition since the doctors were still running tests. Today they would know. The doctor had given them the 'go' signal just that morning. Mark didn't want to think it, but deep inside of him, he knew they were nearing the end.
He'd had a dream the night before, the night after Roger was rushed to the hospital. It had been a short one, with him seeing Roger in the doorway of his bedroom, dressed how he always did whenever he was going to go out. His face had been unshaven and his eyes had looked tired. His lips had been curved in a small, knowing smile.
"I have to go, Marky," was all that Roger had said in that dream. After he'd said that, Mark had woken up in the loft that contained only him and Collins (who'd come home immediately after he'd heard of Roger, and Dodge was with Mimi), his face stained with tears as thunder clapped overhead.
He'd promised Mimi that Roger would hold on a little longer. It ate at him that the only promise he'd ever given her might not even be kept. Even if Roger wouldn't hold on for him, he prayed his best friend would stay long enough to give Mimi enough time to prepare herself and say goodbye.
"Mark, we're here," he heard Collins say, and he nodded. He followed the philosopher out of the cab and into the hospital, not caring if he got soaked because of his lack of initiative to open the umbrella Collins had shoved into his hands. He didn't care when the philosopher started scolding him and made him take off his drenched coat. His eyes were too busy scanning the hospital for a doctor, any doctor, so they could finally know about Roger's condition.
"You sit there. I'll handle this." Collins ordered, making him sit in the plastic chairs the hospital provided for the visitors. Mark obeyed mutely, wanting to get this over and done with. The philosopher was better at this than he was, being the calmest, not to mention the most optimistic, among all of them. Hell would be freezing over and the man would still be acting as if it were a sunny day in May.
"He's in room 188," Collins reported, as he walked back to where Mark was. Mark's heart leapt. Out of fear? Excitement? Dread? He didn't know, but the mere fact that he was going to see Roger, and that quickly, made his mouth dry.
He was afraid.
"She says you're the only one allowed: 'Mark Cohen', she said. Apparently, Roger's had the visitors filtered for some reason," Collins frowned, scratching his head. "His doctor's been notified that you're here."
"What?" That seemed unlikely of Roger.
"That's what she said," Collins shrugged and held his hand out to get Mark's own. "C'mon, boy, get your ass up there and see how our little rock star's doing."
He pulled Mark up and helped him get to his feet, but Mark could hardly walk.
"C'mon…" Collins gave him a what-are-you-waiting-for-look. Mark gulped, staring at the corridor across from him that held Roger's room.
"Col…I can't…I can't do this alone…" he stammered, looking back at the bigger man. Fuck, he really couldn't. He saw as the philosopher gave him a sad smile, though Mark guessed that it was meant to be encouraging. He knew that Collins knew how this felt, to be confronted by something like this, seeing a loved one suffering, alone. He didn't have the heart or the guts to break any sad news to Mimi after all that he'd said to her. He knew he couldn't save everyone, because for God's sakes, who could…but he didn't want to fail her. He didn't want to fail Roger.
"There's no one else, Marky…you have to," Collins told him softly. "C'mon, I'll be here. I'll just be here. And Roger's waiting for you. Don't keep him in suspense."
Mark stared at the philosopher for the longest time before he licked his lips and looked at the corridor that lay in front of him. Why did Collins always have to have the answers for everything?
Roger was awake when Mark came into his room, but he pretended he wasn't. He kept his eyes closed. He knew when his best friend entered, and when he sat on the chair beside the bed. He didn't want to face Mark. Mark would know soon enough about the PCP. He'd heard the doctors talking and they'd diagnosed him correctly, now they were giving him drugs through an IV. He still felt bad, because of the chest pains and the fact that the drugs they were giving him had caused him to have a slight fever, but he knew it was nothing compared to the emotional waterloo he was going to have to confront later.
Mark didn't speak. Roger heard no whirring from the fucking camera that seemed to be an extension of Mark's hand, or even movement, but he didn't open his eyes. He wasn't angry; if Mark hadn't called 9-1-1, he'd have died in Mimi's arms. But he certainly wasn't happy to have Mark there, even though he was the only one Roger had allowed the doctor could speak to and visit. But there was a reason for that.
"Mr. Cohen?" Roger heard the timbre of his doctor's voice as the door to his room whined open. Dr. Callahan, a guy in his late 50s, around his father's age. Shit. This was it.
"Yes?" a squeak from the chair. Mark's voice shook.
"You are Mr. Davis'…?"
"I'm his…I'm his roommate. We've known each other s-since childhood…" Mark stuttered. He'd had that stutter since forever; Roger had helped in fixing it back then, but it always surfaced whenever Mark was nervous.
"Very well then. If you'd like to step outside for a moment please…?"
Roger heard the chair squeaking again and then the door was shut. The room was completely silent again. But he didn't dare open his eyes, just in case Callahan or Mark was looking in as they were talking. He didn't know how long Mark took, but he waited, and eventually the door opened again and someone sat on the chair by the bed. There was a few moments' silence before Mark spoke up.
"Open your eyes, Roger. I know you're awake." He heard the filmmaker say roughly. Mark was pissed, and Roger didn't blame him.
Fuck.
"You know me too well, Cohen," Roger accused without opening his eyes.
"Open your eyes. We have to talk."
PCP. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. Nearly severe PCP, the doctor had told him. "He must have had it for some weeks or a month now," Callahan had said. A month. Like, when Roger had gone to the clinic. Mark didn't know if he was going to be pissed or fearful. PCP wasn't a joke, especially in patients with HIV. God, a cold was already dangerous to someone with HIV, what more fucking pneumonia? PCP. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. sPCP, the doctor had told him. "He must have had it for some weeks or a month now," Callahan had said. A month. Like, when Roger had gone to the clinic. Mark didn't know if he was going to be pissed or fearful. PCP wasn't a joke, especially in patients with HIV. God, a was already dangerous to someone with HIV, what more fucking pneumonia?
He knew Roger wasn't sleeping the minute he walked into the room. He'd known him long enough, and it was even Roger who'd taught him how to look asleep so he could fake sick on school days. He was right. Mark now stared at the musician's green eyes that flashed some strong emotion. Anger? Annoyance? Fuck, Mark didn't care at the moment. He decided he was pissed for the time being. The fear could come after he'd told Roger off.
"Roger, did you know you had PCP? Did the clinic diagnose you with it already when you went for a check-up?" he demanded. "I asked you, I asked you, didn't I? You fucking swore it was nothing…"
He saw as a million different emotions ran through Roger's face, but none of them was regret. Shit. He had known. Mark didn't need to hear it. The tense silence said it all.
"How could you? How could you fucking shrug it off as nothing?" Mark felt as if he were about to explode and cry at the same time. "Jesus Christ…"
He ran his hands in an aggravated manner through his hair and hung his head. He couldn't look at Roger. Dr. Callahan had pretty much said it all. Roger would have to stay until he improved, which was unlikely to happen unless his T cell count miraculously rose, or until…
Mark bit his lip at the thought.
There was really nothing much anyone could do. The disease was practically eating Roger inside out. His lungs were already half destroyed from all the smoking he'd done and were in no condition to battle the pneumonia. That, plus the fact that he had HIV, made the situation pretty grim.
"How could you not have told anyone? Fuck you, Davis. Do you want to die now? Are you so eager to go? Have you forgotten that you've got a wife you're going to leave behind and how she's going to fare when you kick the fucking bucket?"
Tears stung his eyes. One tear for regret, one for guilt, one for anger, one for sadness…all the different shit he felt at the moment. He was hurt, in addition to everything. Did Roger want to die already? Did he really have nothing to live for?
"Mark. Calm the fuck down." Roger's voice was steady.
"How can you expect me to be calm? This is no fucking game, Roger. You bet with your life and if, for one minute, you find anything remotely funny in that, then you're…"
"Cohen, shut up for one minute and listen to me. Look at me."
Mark lifted his head, frowning. Roger was propped up on the bed, looking as pale as the sheets, but his eyes radiated a vibrancy that contradicted how the rest of him looked. God, he should've brought Collins in with him. Collins would know what to do, what to say. Unlike him. He was just blubbering like an idiot. He knew he was only making it worse, but he couldn't stop. There was no other way to look at the damned situation.
"What?" he challenged. "Go on and try to make this all fucking better because I don't see any silver lining behind this shitty cloud."
Roger glared at him. Then, his eyes softened.
"Mark, I'm dying. And you know that," the musician said, his voice hoarse. "You've known that for a long time. You knew something like this was gonna happen someday…when some virus would get a hold of me and gun me down…I knew it too, and I waited for it…"
"You could have beaten this. You could have beaten this if you'd only tried…" Mark cut in. He still couldn't understand how his best friend, feisty as he was, could have easily given up. They could've caught this on time and had done something about it.
"It was going to happen someday, Cohen, and you knew it. My T cell count was low when I was diagnosed with PCP, and I knew it was only a matter of time," Roger spoke slowly, but there was a snap in his tone. The musician sighed. "I didn't…I didn't tell you guys because I just wanted to live. Do you get that, Mark? I never wanted to live so badly my whole fucking life."
"If you wanted to live, you could have had yourself treated. I could have bought you the medicine, Jesus Christ, Roger…" Mark wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
"You don't get it…you just don't, Mark…" Roger shook his head weakly, looking sad and disappointed at the same time. Mark felt a sting as he stared at his best friend's face, partially because, yes, he didn't get whatever the hell Roger was trying to tell him when he knew he should have.
"I would if any of this were making any fucking sense!" His voice raised a little as it always did when he got angry. "It just doesn't, Roger, it just…FUCK."
Roger didn't speak for a while and Mark didn't either. His anger was quickly being replaced by sadness, as he'd expected. This was it. This was really it. This was the time he'd been dreading to face, when he had to learn how to start saying goodbye.
"Marky…you have to let me go…you have to learn how." Suddenly, Roger's voice was weak and he sounded exhausted. "I know why you're upset…trust me, man, if you and I traded places, I'd feel the same thing. But Marky, I can't be with you your whole life. You have to learn to be on your own."
Mark felt the sting again. He didn't want to let go…how the hell could he let go? How in the world did one person just try and pretend that nearly 20 years of friendship had never existed? He didn't look at Roger, even when Roger continued talking.
"I'm so…I'm just so fucking tired, Mark. I'm tired of the pain and the meds and all the shit being sick comes with. I don't want to leave you alone, really, and I want to live too but…we all know that's not how it's supposed to be. Please, man…I really…I really can't handle any of this anymore. I guess you can call that 'giving up' if you want…but I didn't want to spend my last months on earth in a hospital being pumped with drugs. It's not…it's just not how I want to go. That's why I didn't tell you guys about the PCP." Roger confessed quietly, sounding defeated. "I'm sorry…I hope you understand that…."
It was there that Mark really started to cry. Cry because he felt guilty since Roger was right. Cry because he knew he was being selfish, knowing Roger was hurting more than he was. Cry because there really was no other way out of this whole mess he was in but inevitable death of the ones he loved most. He buried his face in his hands as the tears started to fall.
"No, no, I'm sorry…" Mark couldn't look up. His tears fell onto his lap and made dark spots on his already half-soaked jeans. "I've been thinking of myself the whole fucking time. I'm the one who's supposed to be sorry, Rog…I know I'm weighing you down…I'm sorry, I'm sorry…but Roger…you have to remember you have Mimi, too."
"I haven't forgotten about her…"
Mark just kept talking. If there was anything to say, he figured now was the right time.
"I know you don't have much time left…Callahan said that it'll be…it'll be about a month maybe…two, if you're lucky…even with the meds…your lungs are too weak to fight the disease …" Mark was sobbing like a child. He'd never cried so hard his whole life and he had trouble talking because of it. He wanted to keep his sobs down, but they kept pushing up his throat and messing with his words, which only reflected just how upset he was. He still kept his head down. Roger didn't react to what he'd said about how long he had left. "Mimi…Rog, I…I don't want you to be hurting or suffering any longer, and I promise…I will learn to say goodbye…but Mimi…for her sake, please don't try to go so soon…not so soon…please try and fight for a little while longer…."
It was only there that he had the guts to look up. His glasses had fogged up so he'd removed them to wipe his eyes. Once he had them back on, he saw, through his teary vision, that Roger too had tears in his eyes, but still managed to crack a broken smile.
"You can't get rid of me that easily," he declared, his voice cracking. He coughed painfully into his hand several times. "Is she okay?" Mark nodded and he saw a look of relief cross the musician's face. God, Roger did look terrible.
"Oh thank God. I was worried…I can't wait to see her," Roger added in a longing sort of way. He didn't need to say that he loved Mimi because Mark could see in his best friend's face just how much Roger adored his wife. It was almost tangible, his affection for her.
Mark wiped his eyes again on his sleeve, emotionally drained. For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat with each other, listening as each of them sniffled, gathered their nerves and regained their composure. Their friendship had reached a point where it went beyond words; there were times that their silences were the ones that spoke best. Mark didn't need to tell Roger about his promise or how exactly he was willing to be bumped off every single time just so the musician could have the time he loved with his wife, or how he was going to do his best in learning to stand on his own or about billions of other things, because he knew that somehow, Roger already knew. He was relieved that everything had been finally laid out in the open and that he finally knew what was ailing his best friend, but fear came fast and quickly caught up with the sadness he felt. What was going to happen now? What the hell were they going to do?
"Where the fuck do we go from here?" he asked softly, not expecting that Roger actually had an answer.
"You're shitting me." Collins said in disbelief as they stood in the waiting room. "He's okay?" "You're shitting me." Collins said in disbelief as they stood in the waiting room. "He's
Mark forced a smile, keeping up what he'd said he'd do. "Yeah, he's okay. The doctor said it was a respiratory virus and that he'd responded to the treatment for it well enough…" Lies. Lies.
Collins let out a triumphant laugh and clapped Mark's back. "That's great! That is the best news I've heard! When can we bring him home?"
"Tomorrow. If his T cell count stays up." Mark replied, trying his best to keep up with Collins' jubilatory mood. It was hard though, especially when he knew he was fucking lying to one of his closest friends. He was still remembering everything Roger had said.
"Mark…I want to go home,"
"What?" Mark frowns. Roger's just asked him if he could do a couple of favors for him and he agreed, but he didn't expect a request like that. "What are you talking about?"
"I want to go home." Roger repeats, looking straight at him. Mark is hoping that he's just joking but shit, he's not kidding around. The look on the musician's face means business.
"Roger, I…I don't know if that's a good idea…" Mark says. Is he crazy? It might be dangerous for Roger to be out of the hospital, with all the other viruses going around and how they can't really be always there to keep an eye on him since he and Mimi will both have to work to pay for the medicine Roger needs for the PCP. At least here, he's got everything he needs. And there's a chance still that he might recover anyway, even though it's slim…if he stays, he might actually get well.
"I don't want to stay here, Mark. They can do nothing for me here anymore, anyway. I still…I still want to do a few more things before I go." Roger isn't taking no for an answer. Mark knows the expression the musician's wearing too well. He lets his shoulder's drop and rubs his hands together, feeling his palms getting clammy. He isn't stupid and neither is Roger. Both of them know what Callahan said. What Roger's asking for is reckless, but not too far-fetched.
"Roger…I don't think it's even allowed…especially with your case…" Mark starts to say, wishing Roger will just think of another favor.
"My father can help us if they won't let me go..." The musician says carefully, though he looks as though he's regretting every word. "Though I hope we don't have to do it."
Mark's eyes nearly bug out of his head at the mention of the older Davis. This was serious, for Roger to even think of having his father come. "Your father? Jesus, you can just get Joanne, you know, for any legal stuff…"
Roger shakes his head and runs a pale, callused hand over the blankets.
"Mark…" he says in a low voice. "I don't want…I don't want any of them to know about the PCP…that's why I filtered the visitors."
Mark feels as though he's been hit in the face. "What!"
"I don't want them to know…" Roger admits, looking guilty. "I don't...want them to feel sorry for me. They'll be hanging around the loft every day, pretending to be happy when they're really not. I don't want them to go through that, Mark. It isn't fair. This isn't fair for you either…but you're the only one I can count on to help me get through these last…" He doesn't finish and the green eyes trail down to the sheets. The air is squeezed out of Mark's lungs. Roger is asking him to carry the secret. Alone.
"Not even Mimi?" Mark asks gently. These are favors from hell, but…he's willing.
"I…I can't. I can't do that to her. She's so happy nowadays. I don't want to go and dampen that. She'll be crying even before I'm gone, Marky. That will just…that will just make things harder for all of us." Roger isn't looking at him. A lock of unruly blonde hair hides his face from view. "I'm sorry I have to do this to you…I really am, man…but it'll only be for a little while…"
"No, no don't talk like that…" Mark looks down at the floor. He's the only one who's going to know that Roger will be…leaving…soon. It's a first in their friendship: The most painful secret. He can't help but feel upset.
For Roger and Mimi, he thinks, For them…for your dying friends, asshole. You promised Mimi.
"Please, man…just these last favors." Roger says softly.
Silence. Mark looks at him, and Roger stares back. There's pity in the musician's eyes.
"I won't tell…" Mark whispers. He licks his lips, already feeling the weight of the secret on his shoulders. What he'd do for his best friend. He's sure that, if it were him on the bed, Roger would have done the same.
"I'm sorry…"
"Don't be…" he replies, then looks down at his shoes. "But Roger…you have to think about leaving the hospital…it's…it's not safe outside, man. And there are a lot of things you have to consider…" He tries to make Roger take back the first favor. He glances up at the musician and sees his best friend looking back at him sadly, a glimmer of fear in his eyes. Mark knows, the moment he sees Roger's expression, that he's fighting a losing battle.
"I don't want to die here, Marky," Roger says finally, his voice almost a whisper.
And it's enough to make Mark go out to look for Callahan and ask for permission from the doctor.
"This is great. Damn, I feel like celebrating. Ohhh man…" the philosopher rubs his hands in glee, this wide smile on his face. Then he changed his expression, as if he still wasn't sure. "You're sure you heard correctly, boy?"
Mark nodded, feeling like doing exactly the opposite of what Collins said. "Yes. I spoke to the doctor. And Rog is feeling better now. I got a chance to talk to him too…sorry we took long. There was just a lot of…stuff." He remembered how Callahan had nearly exploded at the request, but had finally given in, in the end, after he was squeezed dry of reasons for keeping Roger. He'd written a lengthy prescription of the medicines Roger had to ingest daily, though, and it wasn't going to come cheap. One drug cost nearly two hundred dollars. His Buzzline salary would cover it well enough, but then the rent would have to slide. He wouldn't forget the ecstatic look on Roger's face the minute they finally got Callahan to grant him a release. Mark still couldn't believe it had happened, that Roger was allowed to go. He'd still held on to the hope that Callahan would stick to his original decision, but he hadn't. It had only proved how hopeless Roger's case was…
"Aw, that's all right, little man." Collins enveloped Mark in a bone-crushing hug. "I can't really express how happy I am right now knowing that that boy's all right. Whew. It's a good feeling. Good feeling."
Mark wanted to cry as Collins held him, his head resting on the philosopher's broad chest. It was always comforting to be held by Collins because the philosopher was just a naturally warm and loving person. Mark couldn't believe he was lying to him. He wanted to tell Collins the truth, but he couldn't.
"What was up with the filtering though?" the philosopher pulled away as he asked the question, but his bright smile was still there. "Roger not up to seeing the whole lot of us?"
"I didn't ask…maybe he was just not feeling well that time or something…" Mark shrugged. His face was starting to hurt from all the fake smiles he's pulled his face muscles to display. God, he was his mother's son to be able to carry on long enough with them.
"Oh well. We'll come back for him tomorrow and this time we're bringing along the whole gang, even that rascal, Dodge. Ooooh, Mimi'll be so psyched to know her baby's okay…"
Collins ruffled Mark's hair and Mark nodded to everything he said. He was still smiling. He didn't know how long he was going to be able to keep it up. Fuck. This was his duty. This was his duty as Roger's friend, to be there for the best parts and the worst parts, even if he was going to have to do it alone. And a promise was a promise. A promise to Mimi and a promise to Roger were going to be kept, and he was at least glad for that. He remembered the dream he had had. Shit. He was going to have to start numbing himself completely.
I'll keep smiling. I'll keep smiling and filming like you told me to…He watched as Collins sauntered out the hospital doors, doing a little dance. The rain had stopped and the late afternoon sun shone over the wet streets, making the roads glisten. What shitty timing to have the perfect weather.
…But fuck, I'm dying inside.
But Mark would make sure that no one would ever know.
A/N: No, Roger didn't die and, phew, all that Mark angst drained me. Sorry if the chapter took too long. kept timing out whenever I tried to upload a document. This chapter isn't a good one and it annoys me to hell but I had to write it to get on with the next one. I have done my research on the PCP, but if you guys find something wrong with it, please tell me. IV treatment is usually the way to go for HIV-positive patients but, once they can, they can move to the pill version of the same drug. Shoutouts to Laurelducky for pointing out that Mimi was fifteen when she ran away, not sixteen (sorry hehe) and the rest of you for the lovely reviews. Thanks very much! Scarfy, is it really your birthday? If it is, then happy birthday:) Reviews force me to make more chapters at an insane pace, provided doesn't let me down. Haha.