Page 34 of Ctrl+Alt Submit

AARYN

I pull into my parents’ driveway next to a baby blue land-boat of a sedan. I chuckle a little and turn to Errol. “Bet you a million bucks my aunt Stephanie is in the kitchen, hermetically sealing something in plastic wrap that was probably already wrapped up just fine in the fridge.”

He smirks and we get out of the car. The heat and humidity is like walking into a damp blanket. I use the front door keycode to let us in. “Hello? Anybody here? Aunt Stephanie?”

There’s a shriek and a crash. A moment later, my mother’s older sister sweeps into the living room, enveloping me in a hug and a cloud of perfume-scented cigarette smoke.

“What a surprise, Aaryn!” She’s the only one who regularly uses my given name.

“I haven’t seen you in years. Allyson told you about Roger, I assume. ”

I nod. “We booked the first flight we could.”

“You’ve always been a good son.” She sort of pats my cheek.

“Everything OK in the kitchen?”

“It’s fine, dear. You just startled me. I was putting away some leftovers.” I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from snickering as Stephanie turns, seeming to notice Errol for the first time. “Oh! Who’s this?”

“Aunt Stephanie, this is Errol. I don’t remember if you ever met him. He lived with us for a while my senior year of high school. Errol, this is my Aunt Stephanie. ”

“Oh!” she says again as she studies him. “Did you used to have brown hair?”

I groan inwardly, but Errol rises to the occasion —and then some. “I sure did. Happens to the best of us, they tell me.”

He gestures towards his hair before tipping a nod in the direction of Stephanie’s improbable, unapologetically ruby-red coiffeur.

“One of these days, maybe I’ll get lucky enough that you’ll tell me your secret for dodging that bullet,” he says with a smile so close to flirtatious that I blink at him in shock.

And holy shit, it works. The not not suspicious squint vanishes from around her eyes, and she preens. “Oh, I don’t know! A girl has to have some secrets, doesn’t she?”

I grin. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing in the kitchen. We’re just going to leave our bags here and drive over to the hospital. Do you want to come with us?”

Stephanie gives a wave of her hand. “I spent all morning there. I’m sure Allyson is sick of me.

I left once they decided to admit Roger.

They were going to get him into a room, but they sent him off for a battery of tests first. I told your mother I’d come back here and tidy up so she wouldn’t have to come back to a sinkful of dishes. ”

I wait until we’re back in the driveway before I turn to Errol. “Weren’t you just full of surprises in there!” I elbow him lightly in the ribs. “Where’d you learn that trick? You’re like the divorcee-aunt whisperer.”

Errol snorts out a laugh. “Bartending. Believe it or not, AJ is a master craftsman when it comes to that shit.”

“Really? AJ? The big biker dude who owns the place?”

“Uh-huh.” Errol nods. I’m about to say something hopefully funny in response when the heaviness —the awfulness —of the moment’s reality crashes down on me.

I stare at the lush green of my parents’ yard with the hummingbird feeder hanging from their orange tree.

It’s surrounded by the tiny birds that always freaked me out just a bit because they look like oversized, iridescent bugs. My dad just loves those critters.

“You OK?” Errol asks, and I realize I just zoned out on him.

I give my head a shake. “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

T he hospital is a sprawling, multi-building campus rising up from the flat landscape. After I find a spot for the car in the gigantic parking garage, Errol and I follow arrows until we reach a registration desk.

It’s only when the brusque security guard asks to see my ID that I start to worry maybe they won’t let Errol in because he’s not family.

“And you are?” She purses her lips and looks at Errol as he fishes for his license.

He glances up. “Oh, I —uh, we’re —”

“He’s my boyfriend. And emotional support human,” I add with a little laugh.

The security guard doesn’t look amused. But she scans Errol’s license without saying anything before handing each of us a bright-yellow visitor sticker and pointing us towards a bank of elevators.

In the elevator, I glance at him after I get my sticker onto my shirt. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve called you my boyfriend in public. That wasn’t really the most romantic setting for it,” I say with a grimace.

Errol’s eyes shine as he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls us together, resting his head on my shoulder. “Are you kidding? I’m completely flattered to be your emotional support human.”

It’s funny because it’s a joke and not at the same time.

The waiting area on the cardiac floor is deserted when we get there. I frown. “What’s the matter?” Errol asks.

“I thought my mom would be here.” My mind takes off at a gallop. “What if she’s not here because he’s worse? Or they had to move him to the I.C.U. or something? What if —”

“I love you, Stud,” Errol interrupts my worry spiral, grabbing my hand and gently tugging me into a seat. “We’ll get through this. And your dad’s going to be just fine. I know he is.” When I turn towards him, he gives me a soft kiss and squeezes my hand tighter.

A cold, mean part of myself that I didn’t want to acknowledge had wondered: Would it feel strange being with a man rather than a woman in moments like this?

Would it matter that the leg pressed against mine was solid and masculine?

That the tender kiss brushing my lips came with a rasp of stubble?

That the hand in mine had a roughened palm and dustings of hair on thick fingers?

No. Not one bit. I’m gripping Errol’s hand like a life preserver. He feels like mine , and that’s all that matters. He’s all that matters.

M om puts her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry when she comes into the waiting area ten or fifteen minutes later and sees us. I stand up to pull her in for a hug. She feels smaller than she used to.

“How is he?” I ask as soon as we all sit down.

“They’re still running tests,” she says. “They haven’t told me anything. As soon as they get him back to the room we can go see him.” Her eyes go to Errol. “Thank you for coming down with Ran. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s OK. I don’t mind being moral support.”

I’m going to get emotional if I think about any of this, so I start talking. “We stopped at the house to drop our bags off and ran into Stephanie.”

“Oh? What was she up to?”

“Her usual hobby — rearranging your fridge.” That at least gets a tiny smile out of Mom, but she doesn’t get a chance to respond before a nurse with a clipboard comes over to the three of us. “Mrs. Knight?”

“Yes,” she says as we stand up. “And this is my son and…”

“His boyfriend,” I say as I pick up the clear plastic bag of my dad’s things from the chair beside her.

The word still feels strange in my mouth.

I focus on that to help myself push down the anxiety it gives me to see my dad’s clothes folded into a neat pile atop his sneakers.

Those ugly-ass sneakers should be on his feet and he should be back home in the yard, messing around with the hummingbird feeder or pruning the orange tree or whatever. This isn’t fair.

If it wasn’t for Errol’s calming presence next to me, I don’t think I’d be able to hold it together. I swallow down a queasy sensation as we follow the nurse down a hallway that smells like disinfectant. She stops in front of a doorway and consults her clipboard.

“Here we go. Roger Knight, room three-oh-seven,” she says with what sounds like forced cheer. My hands are sweaty. I grip the plastic handles of the bag and Errol’s hand tighter as we walk into the room.

I’ve seen enough medical dramas to know what to expect, but it’s still a shock.

Tubes and wires connect Dad to an IV pump and a heart monitor; the pulse of each beat along with a bunch of numbers scroll across the screen.

Behind his glasses, there are dark circles under his eyes.

His salt-and-pepper stubble is a stark contrast to his sallow complexion —although that might just be the effect of these godawful fluorescent lights.

I grab the hard plastic chair against the wall and pull it next to the bed so Mom can sit.

She takes Dad’s hand in both of hers, worry creasing her brow.

I sit gingerly at the foot of the bed, my butt perched at an angle because the bed is bent to elevate his knees.

Errol leans against the wall facing us. Looking at Dad, I realize that I’m probably looking at a view of myself in another few decades.

Pretty close, anyway. I inherited my mom’s eyes and her lean, wiry frame, but everything else is from him.

I shoot a quick glance at Errol. His attention is absorbed by his phone, so I let my gaze linger and study his face.

If it was me instead of Dad in that hospital bed, would he be sitting in an uncomfortable chair so he could hold my hand?

Where might the worry appear on his face? Definitely in his eyes.

I grimace. For better or worse, maybe Errol will look at my dad and think the same thing — that if he sticks around, that’s the face he’ll be waking up next to every morning.

I wonder what he’ll look like when we’re my parents’ age.

Where will it show? Will stress etch lines on his forehead?

Will mirth bring wrinkles to the outer corners of his eyes?

Will I notice the changes as they happen, day by day, or will there be a sudden moment — maybe a moment like this — where the passage of time suddenly shows itself?

Also, why the fuck am I thinking about us that far in the future?

When Errol looks up, I realize I’m staring at him. He gives me a little frown, his eyes communicating silently: You OK ? I give him a slight nod.