Page 33 of Pages of My Heart

Charlie

It’s three weeks before Christmas when one of Charlie’s worst fears is realized.

Thomas comes home from work, eyes vacant, his body moving as if he’s wading through neck-deep water.

He follows Thomas to their bedroom as his questions go unanswered, maybe even unheard.

His heart constricts when Thomas sinks down onto their bed, pulling his body into the fetal position as a single tear trickles down his cheek.

Since just before Thanksgiving Charlie has been observing the signs seeping in like molasses, slowly dragging Thomas ever deeper into the darkness.

He was speaking less, his usual radiant smile coming and then retreating in a rush, his whole body dampened somehow, as if an invisible weight were bearing down upon him.

It didn’t seem to matter what Charlie did or said—it was like the wave had already crested, its crash onto the sands inevitable.

A feeling of failure hangs heavy on Charlie’s shoulders, being unable to help the one person he cherishes most in this world. His Tommy. His sweetheart.

The following morning Thomas refuses to rise for work, refuses to eat or dress.

Charlie makes the appropriate phone calls to their places of work, citing influenza with a terrible fever.

It will give them both a week or two’s reprieve, hopefully bringing them to their scheduled time off for the Christmas holidays.

And yet there is no way of anticipating how long Thomas will remain this way.

It could be days or weeks, like that first time over two years ago now.

It could be longer. Charlie simply does not know.

He checks on Thomas every hour that day, trying to coax him into conversation or into taking just a mouthful of food, but with no success.

Late in the evening, he tugs Thomas into a sitting position and then pulls him up onto his feet.

As they shuffle to the bathroom, Thomas’s body leans heavily against his side. Then Thomas begins to cry.

“Tommy, it’ll be okay. I’m here. But ya need to relieve yourself.”

“Don’t want . . .” Thomas’s voice breaks. “Don’t look . . . at . . . me . . .”

Ignoring Thomas’s words, Charlie focuses on holding him steady in front of the toilet while he urinates, wondering all the while how he’ll be able to get him to eat and drink.

“After we get ya back to bed, I’ll bring ya some of that pea soup you like. You gotta keep your strength up.”

But as soon as Charlie manages to lead him back to bed, Thomas curls back into a ball and pulls the blankets over his head, refusing even to allow Charlie to see his face.

Days pass and Thomas sleeps and sleeps. In between he cries, sometimes speaking inconsolably of his mother as regret and misplaced guilt twist his face into an anguished mess.

Charlie considers the day a success if he manages to wheedle a few mouthfuls of water or soup down Thomas’s throat, or if Thomas’s eyes connect with his rather than stare straight through him.

It’s terrifying and lonely, and some days Charlie has to retreat to the spare bedroom to fight back his tears in silence and out of sight.

On December 7th, the unthinkable happens—Japan bombs Pearl Harbor and America commits to joining the war overseas—and yet Charlie hardly has the energy to concern himself with things that still feel so distant when the man he loves is slipping away not ten feet down the hall.

There are visits from Evie and Maggie that provide some relief.

One day, he takes the opportunity to go to the store to stock up on some essentials while Evie stays at the house.

He knows how close she and Thomas have become as friends, and he trusts her to care for Thomas like a brother.

Upon his return, she pulls him into the kitchen and suggests they call a doctor, but Charlie just shakes his head.

“No. Tommy made me promise I wouldn’t let the doctors take him if this happened.”

“But he’s barely eating, Charlie! He can’t go on this way. And it’s not your responsibility. He’s your friend, not your brother. You’re not even working! Whose gonna pay the bills? The rent?”

“Evie, we—I got money saved, okay?” He holds up his hands, trying to placate her. “It’s gonna be okay. He’ll be better soon. And you know what his family is like . . . I don’t want them looking after him. Remember when this happened before? They didn’t even keep him clean!”

Evie squirms in her seat. “But how can you manage that?”

Charlie blinks, his body stilling as the meaning behind her question registers. “I—it’s fine. I help him walk to the bathroom, then leave him to bathe. When he’s finished, I help him back to bed. It’s no big deal.”

Evie nods slowly, chewing on her bottom lip. “Right. Yeah, of course.” She smiles weakly. “You’re a good friend. Tom’s always telling me what a great buddy you are.”

Ten days into the episode, it is painfully clear that Thomas has lost weight, and the dark circles under his eyes stand in sharp contrast to his pale, sickly face. Thomas is a ghost of his usual self.

Then things take a turn for the even worse.

Charlie comes in from shoveling the front walk to find Thomas sobbing uncontrollably and babbling incoherently, rocking in their bed like something has possessed his body.

He thinks he will have no choice but to call a doctor now, but Charlie knows Thomas will never forgive him if he lets them take him to an asylum.

So he does all he can, wrapping himself around Thomas’s weakened body and holding him close to his chest for a day and then a night, stroking him gently, laying kisses to his face, and whispering declarations of love until the sobs finally subside under the dim glow of the weak winter sunrise.

When Bridget finally comes to visit, she stands wordlessly over Thomas as he lies staring vacantly at the wall.

If she wonders why her brother is in the big double bed in what she knows to be Charlie’s room, she doesn’t say anything about it.

Against his better judgement, Charlie takes the opportunity to pick up some groceries, only to return to find a scowling Bridget standing in the sitting room waiting for him, arms crossed over her chest.

“He needs to be taken to the hospital,” she says without preamble. “He’s been like this for too long, and we’ve seen this before with our mother. You can’t cure the madness.”

Charlie’s reaction is fast and explosive.

“He’s not mad!” he bellows, two weeks of pent up worry, anxiety, and hopelessness bursting out of him all at once.

Then more calmly, “He—he’ll get better .

. . just like he did before. He doesn’t want to go to a fuckin’ nut house, all right?

He made me—I promised him I wouldn’t let that happen. So that’s that!”

Shock registers clear on Bridget’s face, but just as quick she’s narrowing her eyes, head tilting to one side.

“Charlie, you’re not family.” Her voice is like ice.

“You and Tom may be fooling yourselves here playing house, but you don’t get to make these decisions.

If he’s not better by the end of the week, I will be calling the doctor. ”

Bridget looks him up and down, the edges of her mouth curling down in a way that makes Charlie feel like a dirty child.

He wants to argue, but he knows better and keeps his mouth shut.

As far as Bridget and the rest of the world are concerned, he has no authority over what happens to Thomas.

She’s just reminded him of that in a way that makes his blood run cold.

Bridget leaves without another word and Charlie sinks down to the floor. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying desperately to hold onto some semblance of control, but it’s no use. The tears spill over as fear stabs at his heart.

A few days before Christmas, Charlie is in the kitchen when he hears a sound in the bathroom.

He smiles, a small flame of hope igniting inside him.

If Thomas has gotten out of bed on his own, then perhaps he is finally on the road to recovery.

Setting his knife down on the cutting board, he hurries to the bathroom, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.

“Hey, you feel—” What he sees makes his heart plummet. “Tommy, what the hell? Stop! Stop, what are you—?”

Thomas sits on the edge of the bathtub in his pajamas.

His eyes flick up to meet Charlie’s. The razor blade in his right hand catches the light where it’s suspended above his left arm, the delicate blue veins of his exposed wrist only thinly protected by his nearly translucent skin.

Charlie’s heart shatters, his breath trapped in his throat by fear as defeated green eyes look back at him.

Broken.

Then anger rises, a fury at Thomas that burns in his gut like the worst kind of betrayal. Isn’t Charlie enough for him? Isn’t their love enough?

He grabs Thomas’s wrist, squeezing tight.

“Drop it.”

The blade lands on the floor with a sharp clatter, bouncing once before stilling under the sink.

Charlie kneels in front of Thomas, cupping Thomas’s face with his hands. Silent tears topple over and stream down his lover’s face, his body shaking while his mouth remains open, frozen in silent torment.

All the anger drains from Charlie’s body in an instant. “Sweetheart, oh sweetheart,” he wails, as he pulls Thomas into his arms, the two of them collapsing onto the floor.

“I don’t want . . .” Thomas gasps for air, “to burden you . . .”

Charlie holds Thomas tighter in his lap, shaking his head. “No, no, never.”

“You’d be better off without—”

“No!” he says sternly. “Don’t ever say that. Stop, Tommy, please. Please don’t, sweetheart. We’ll get through this together.”

Thomas’s rigid body finally softens, his weight relaxing against Charlie’s chest. Thomas’s tears start to subside, breaths coming in stutters and soft whimpers, like a wounded animal who has lost all will to live.