All I hear is our song,
I know I can't be the only one
But you and me we are a breakthrough,
Just forget the rearview
Don't ever let me go.
Over It, "Siren on the 101"
The Dean of the Department of Humanities was a short, lean woman in her early sixties with catlike eyes and smooth, appled cheeks. She looked like someone's grandmother and this made Collins feel comfortable.
"So, Professor Collins," she said warmly, "why is it you wish to resign from UCLA?"
Collins cleared his throat and shifted in the thinly cushioned chair he sat on. "Time to go home. Back to New York."
Dean Stewart flipped through papers on her desk. "Back to NYU? Were you offered your old position back?"
Collins shook his head. "No, ma'am. I…I haven't got much time left. I'd like to spend it at home."
"Time?" Dean Stewart leaned in.
"I've been diagnosed," Collins replied, "with lymphoma. Primary effusion lymphoma to be exact. Found only in a small percentage of male AIDS patients. My doctors say that…my prognosis is poor."
Dean Stewart pursed her lips. "I'm sorry to hear that, Thomas."
"As am I, Cassandra."
There was a silence between the two educators for a moment; they contemplated each other.
"Resignation is granted. You will finish out the remainder of the semester."
Collins stood and so did the dean. They shook hands, their eyes locked.
"We'll miss you, Thomas," Dean Stewart said genuinely. "Please give my best to Luc. Will he be going with you to New York?"
"I will; and yes, he is. He's willing to make the move…for me."
"That's wonderful. Keep in touch, Thomas."
"I'll do my best. Thank you, Cassandra." Collins straightened his suit jacket and walked out of the office and out of the building, heading towards his own office. Midterms were coming up; he was sure his students had their issues, questions, concerns, blissfully unaware of the cancer cells attacking their professor's lungs.
His diagnosis had come to him last month. The month before that, his body had shut down with flu-like symptoms—a racking cough, fever and congestion in his chest and sinuses. His lover, Luc, worried to no end.
It struck Collins how ludicrous this was, as Luc dragged him to the doctor's office—Luc, who was nearly half of Collins' size, caring for him—just as he had cared for Angel so many years ago.
There was a fluid buildup around his lungs, the doctor said. They wanted to do a biopsy, to which Collins consented.
The doctor called three days after the biopsy—the test results were in, something about "positive margins"; would he please come into the office to discuss?
Collins and Luc sat in the oak-walled office in front of Dr. Tiang. The office was dimly lit; the walls were littered with diplomas in gilded frames. The doctor explained about primary effusion lymphoma—a wicked type of cancer that resisted even the most aggressive treatment and held a twenty percent survival rate. Collins held Luc's hand throughout the whole ordeal, not crying, just slowly nodding his head. There was no point in crying now.
They left the office with numbers to call about treatment centers and home hospice care, along with a whole mess of pamphlets, a sort of What To Expect for cancer patients.
Soon after his diagnosis, Collins proposed to Luc that they return to New York. He wanted to spend his final months—or years, as the doctor had said he had as long as two—in New York, where he had spent the majority of his life and some of the best years. Luc consented to this and immediately began making arrangements.
Collins' first phone call was to Mark Cohen, now living in SoHo with his wife, Stephanie. They spoke at great lengths, but Collins mentioned nothing of his illness.
"I'm moving back," Collins said. "I've had enough of Los Angeles. So pretentious."
"Great!" Mark said enthusiastically. "I can't wait to see you!"
"Have you heard from Roger?"
Mark paused. "Not for awhile. He drops in and out, you know."
"I know. Well, he's due back for a visit soon. I'll see him eventually…right?"
"Right. Is Luc moving with you?"
"Sure is," Collins confirmed. "Look, when we get to New York, I'm taking us all out to dinner. You, me, Luc and Stephanie. Don't protest; I want to."
Mark laughed. "Alright, fine. I can see we've come a long way from rewiring ATM's."
"A long way. I'll call when I arrive in New York."
"Do you want me to pick you up from the airport? Help you move in?"
Collins smiled. "That'd be great. Thanks."
"I can't wait to see you," Mark repeated. "It's been too damn long."
"Agreed," he said. "Talk to you later, man."
They hung up and Collins broke down and cried.