Title: Always

Summary: Angel has to come to terms with just what exactly her death will mean.

Notes: During-RENT, right before/around Contact in the musical.

[The following letter was found by Thomas B. Collins on his desk on the night of October 31st, 1996. It remained unopened until the morning of December 25th, 1996.

July 3rd, 1996

Dear Collins,

First things first: I AM SO SO SO IN LOVE WITH YOU.

Moving on. Honey, I know that you're opposed to all things cliché, and I guess a "letter from the dead" counts as cliché. But you're going to have to forgive me, sweetie, because I have to write this. I could say it, but I know that the only time you need to hear this is when I'm not physically with you to say it.

The moment Angel wakes up, she knows what day it is.

Not the day, as in what day of the week (Tuesday) or what day of the month (June 27th). It's the day, as in the day, as in the day that she's been dreading and yet expecting ever since that other day, the one that defined the rest of her life.

Angel thinks, as she stretches out in her bed, about the last six months. They've been, in her opinion, the best six months of her life. She's been accepted into a community of some of the most amazing people that she's ever known, and in addition to that, there's Collins.

Collins, who's at work right now, cheerfully "educating the degenerates," as he always explains to her when they sit down to eat dinner. He can whine and gripe about it as much as he likes, but they both know that he enjoys it. Collins, Angel knows, is an affecter (her own term for it), and he does best when he feels that he's affecting people. Collins is brilliant, and funny, and has the widest heart Angel has ever seen. It matches his wide smile and his wide personality. Collins is beautiful, inside and out, and Angel firmly stops herself from gushing even more about him. If she continues like this, she'll never get out of bed.

Without thoughts of Collins distracting her, she finds it easy to climb out of bed and get dressed. She's wearing red, orange, and yellow today—bright colors, because she needs all the brightness that she can get.

She's not very hungry, so she decides against stopping in the kitchen and instead heads straight out the door. Outside, it's hot in a way that only New York can be, with people still everywhere, brushing against each other and into each other.

Angel wonders what life would be like if you learned a little bit about someone every time you touched them. Imagine—even by pushing someone down, you might discover something that connects them to you. It'd be strange, she concludes to herself. Strange, but nice.

She knows the address of her location, so she takes her time in getting there. As she walks, she observes the people around her. In front of her is a family of tourists. The smallest little boy in the family seems to notice her gaze, and he turns around and stares at her. Angel waves back good-naturedly, and he continues to stare, wide-mouthed. She winks at him as his family turns a corner and he disappears from site.

Sometimes she forgets how she looks to people who don't know her. Drag queens are typically easily noticeable and often gawked at, but most of the time Angel doesn't realize it. In fact, most stares don't even register with her. This part of her is so much a part of her that at times, she finds herself wondering what people are staring at. She's just being herself. Like the girl who pierces her nose because she really, really wants to, or the boy who dresses all in green because it's his favorite color. Everyone's just trying to be themselves, and Angel thinks that most of the time, she's succeeding at it.

And when she's not succeeding…well, those are the days when she gets down, when she wants to just disappear and be done with it. Everyone has bad days, but Angel fears her extremely bad ones. They scare her, even to think about.

But people make things better, Angel thinks. She decides that she's certain of it when she sees a couple arguing and exchanging small kisses interchangeably. She nearly laughs but instead settles on a hidden smile. Enjoy it, she wants to tell them. Enjoy this life before it's too late.

But it's not too late right now, and that's what matters.

I have a confession to make. I used to see a psychiatrist. Her name was Dr. Lee, and I saw her in my first few weeks after I moved to New York. I was lonely and scared and ready to give up. My parents had just kicked me out, and the only thing they would pay for were psychiatrist sessions so that I could "come back to my senses". I decided to take advantage of it. I'm glad I did, because I learned something about caring about myself and caring about others.

I know that you're surprised, I bet that you never expected it. You thought I was the most stable person you knew. And I let you, because you needed to lean on me, just like I needed to lean on you.

Angel walks up the steps of the doctor's office. It's a seemingly insignificant little building, mashed between a grocery store and a pharmacy, but Angel knows better than to let outward appearances deceive her. She tells the secretary that she's here for her ten o'clock appointment, and the secretary replies that the doctor will see her in a moment.

As she waits, Angel flips through the Vogue that was lying out on the coffee table and thinks about how different things felt when she used to come here regularly. Now she feels superior to her old self. She's grown a lot, these past few months, even if she is only twenty-two.

She doesn't have much time to analyze herself before Dr. Lee appears at the door, beckoning Angel with a hand. Angel follows Dr. Lee down a short hallway to her office, and sits down on the couch across from Dr. Lee's death.

Dr. Lee gives her a curious look. "Angel. We haven't talked in…" she glances at the chart on her desk. "About eight months. How have you been?"

Angel doesn't tell her that about eight months ago, she lost the job she had, the only one where she actually had some sort of insurance that covered just about everything for these psychiatric visits. Instead she smiles. "I've been great."

Dr. Lee looks at the chart once more. "Let's see…I know that I didn't put you on any pills, and you haven't been coming to therapy..." She looks at Angel over the top of her glasses. "Unless you've been seeing a therapist?"

Angel shakes her head. "No. I haven't been seeing a therapist. I just…I put to use some of the stuff you taught me, some of the things you said."

"Oh." Dr. Lee looks and sounds surprised. She takes off her glasses and peers at Angel. "So, why here, why now? What's going on?"

Angel grins again. "I met someone. He's nice and sweet and cute and…I love him." She has no problem admitting it. "But that's not why I came," She adds in quickly before Dr. Lee can respond.

Last night you were so happy. You have no idea how cute you are when you're all excited about a paper or something your students wrote. You know, something that proves that they were actually listening to you.

Dr. Lee waits patiently for Angel to continue. She had always been so patient, but maybe it was because she had needed to be. Angel takes a breath and does. "I mainly came to say…thank you. If not for you, then I don't think I would have made it to where I am today. No, I know I wouldn't have made it. Thank you."

Dr. Lee smiles at Angel, quite warmly. Again, before she can speak, Angel cuts her off again.

"That was all I wanted to say," she says quickly. "I just wanted to make sure that I said it before I didn't have any more time."

This is her first stop. Angel had thought that she would have to explain. She had expected a look of confusion or some sort of questioning. In short, she had been prepared for a surprised reaction in response to her statement.

But, as she sits in the office, she remembers how Dr. Lee is a…well, a doctor (sometimes it feels like she's not one, but in a good way). Dr. Lee knows about the HIV-turned-AIDS, can read the symptoms. Strangely enough, Dr. Lee, out of all people, understands.

"It was a pleasure," Dr. Lee says, and it's one of the few times that Angel has ever heard those words and felt like the person saying them actually means it.

One down, Angel thinks as she walks out of the building. One down, and it hadn't been too bad after all. Then again, it wasn't as though Dr. Lee had been a close friend of hers or anything. Just her psychiatrist, and though she had admittedly helped to save Angel's life and restore both her self-confidence and her will to live, they hadn't been close on any sort of personal level beyond doctor and patient. So maybe it made sense that talking to her hadn't been too hard.

Still, that was one down, and only two left to go. Angel decides that she has to find some solace in that fact.

Angel is often searching for solace. It feels like she's always looking for happiness in the small things. Everyone seems to have a hard time believing that Angel gets down so often. But she's always thought that it was something that she should just accept, that just as easily as she can laugh, she can cry. It's just that lately, for the last six months, she's had more things to laugh about than to cry about.

It's a choice, though. She always gets to make the decision in the end. Laugh or cry? Happiness or sorrow? Because they're just two sides of the same coin. Collins sometimes talks about how comedy and tragedy are closely related; maybe it's something like that. Maybe everything's within an arm's reach, and it's just reaching out that's the hard thing.

Damn, Collins, my hands are shaking. You're at work, and you have no idea that I'm going to take away all our happiness at dinner. How can it all be over when we don't even know each other? We haven't even been together for a year. I don't even know your mom's name or where you grew up or anything.

Angel's startled to realize that she's been lost in her thoughts— somehow, she's ended up at the subway station. This doesn't happen to Angel often; she usually always has at least one foot in reality. Things have changed suddenly, and it can all be traced to that telephone call last night.

The subway ride isn't too long, only about ten or fifteen minutes. Angel spends the time looking at the fabric on her skirt. She remembers deciding which color she would use, when she was sewing it. She wishes she would have chosen the blue instead of the orange. Collins looks good in blue, and looking at the color would have reminded her of him.

Not that she ever really needs reminding. (Though today, Angel thinks that no reminding could ever be too much, because it'll all be over too soon.)

She gets up at her stop, slips out, climbs up, and finds herself back in the New York heat. It's just one block until her next destination. One block—how many steps? How many breaths of air, how many blinks? How many minutes? And then she's there, directly in front of the house. She pulls out the sheet of paper in her pocket to be sure that it matches up with the address, though she already knows that it does.

She doesn't let herself stop to think about it, just walks up and knocks on the door.

An elderly man answers the door. His entire demeanor exudes tiredness. He slumps against the doorframe, cane beside him, and waits for her to speak, but it's as if he's looking past her.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Lahmer," Angel says.

He inhales sharply, and just like that, Angel knows the answer to the question that she hadn't even thought of asking. Angel looks at him and sees Collins reflected back at her. It's Collins leaning against the doorway, gathering up the strength to say it again, to repeat the haunting words. But he says it, this man, just like Collins will say it, and the double image hits Angel twice as hard, and she's not sure how she's still standing by the time he speaks.

I'm terrified, Collins. I don't want to die. I don't want the pain. I don't want to leave anything behind. But I've already gotten used to the idea. I'm scared for you. This sounds horrible, but it's so true: death is easy for the person dying. A little hurt, and I'm gone. But it's worse for those left behind. And I know you, Collins. I know that you shielded your heart for years before you met me, and I know you'll do it again. You'll go looking for yourself all over and you'll really be trying to forget. Don't do it. That's an order. Grieve, mourn, then keep on living.

He gives her the directions, but she opts not to go there. It sounds morbid, but she knows that she doesn't want to spend any more time in the graveyard than she has to.

So instead she goes to the park (Tompkins), the place where she met Mrs. Lahmer. She sits on one of the park benches and remembers.

She remembers how she came into New York City on the eve of her 20th birthday, marveling at how she was no longer a teenager, though she felt like it. She remembers how she sat on this particular park bench, overwhelmed and scared. She remembers how Mrs. Lahmer had stopped to ask her if she was all right.

There was so much held in that gesture. And Angel had been struck by her kindness and by the unbelievable fact that she cared.

They had talked for an hour, and Angel, sitting in her baggy jeans and T-shirt, had found herself confessing things about herself (about how she was scared and alone and HIV-positive and a girl). Angel had cried, feeling like an idiot, but this woman just patted her back, comforting her.

Mrs. Lahmer hadn't been a psychiatrist. She was just an elderly woman who had time to listen. But she had handed Angel a sheet of paper with her address on it, "in case you ever need to talk to me again." And as Mrs. Lahmer walked away, Angel was struck by the love that Mrs. Lahmer had enveloped her in, and struck by just how much she wanted to be like that.

So no, Mrs. Lahmer hadn't done much. She hadn't done much but change the way that Angel handled her relationships with other people. She hadn't done much but change the way that Angel lived her life.

And no, Angel hadn't wanted to tell her much. She hadn't wanted to tell her much except a simple thanks for showing her how to love. She hadn't wanted to tell her anything other than, "I'm dying, and I'm only okay with it because you helped teach me how to live."

And now that Mrs. Lahmer's not there, Angel doesn't feel complete. All she'd wanted to do was spend today saying the things that needed to be said. But she hadn't been able to.

Angel reaches into her bag, pulls out her red pen and her little notebook (full of fashion designs that will never be finished). She purses her lips and begins to write.

Remember what I said in the beginning of this letter? I needed a psychiatrist. You always thought I had everything handled, but I didn't. But if I hadn't, then maybe I wouldn't have met you. I don't know. I just want you to know that it's okay to be screwed up. I want you to stay with the people who can help you and I want you to live for many many many more happy years.

"You look tired," Collins says. It's night, and they're sitting down to eat dinner. He's talked since he came home about something that happened at work, and for the first time, Angel hasn't been listening.

I love you, Collins. I love you. I love you. I love you! I'm running out of time, and I want to make sure you know that. I feel like we haven't had enough time together. I wish we could have had more. There's never been enough time…I hope we made the best of it.

"You okay?" Collins asks. Concern is written all over his face.

She was okay. Earlier today, she had been fine. But that was before. That was before it hit her how death was more about the people left behind than about the people dying. That was before she'd found herself confronted with the trauma of dealing with not having said enough to someone who deserved it. That was before she'd realized just what she would be doing to Collins. She can stare death in the face, but she just can't let herself think of not truly living, let alone being the cause of someone else not living.

Oh, my God, I'm so scared. I hope we make it through this. It has to have been worth it in the end.

"Collins," she says, and before she's even put her fork down, she knows that Collins knows, and that from hereon out, things are changed forever. It's not about reaching out for happiness or sorrow; it's about choosing to shield yourself from both. It's about the breakdown that will come for Collins, the breakdown that Angel must initiate.

I need to get home before you arrive. I can't let you see this. If I don't finish it now, I'll finish it later, when I feel better. I'm so sorry if this doesn't flow, I'm sorry if some of this doesn't make sense. I LOVE YOU.

"Collins, baby," she begins again, armed with the knowledge that it's not about her, it's not about fulfilling her list. It's about the people who she's leaving behind. "Yesterday the clinic called."

Love Always,

Angel