“So, it wasn’t a random assignment? You wanted to go there? Why?” I asked, confusion apparent in my voice. “And what does my driver’s license and social security card have to do with it?”
“Well, you’re going to need them if you’re going to come with me,” she said, laying her hand on top of mine.
I looked around at the three of them in confusion as Dr. and Mrs. Dunwoody nodded at me. Gowithher? What did she mean? It didn’t make any sense.
“ToAkron? Ican’t! My dad—”
Vivian interrupted me.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking he won’tletyou go, but youareanadultnow, Nicki! You’re almost twenty-two. He can’t keep you from going. Especially if he doesn’t know,” she said, glancing at her parents nervously.
“…But he’llknow, Viv! Healwaysknows! He has everyone in this town in his pocket,” I said.
I’d tried once, years ago, right after the custody hearing to reach out to my grandparents on my mom’s side. Dad had arrived before the echo of the “this number has been disconnected” had even faded. I’d made the mistake of asking the librarian for change for the pay phone. Dad had eyes everywhere.
“Not everyone,” she said, smiling at me. “I have a surprise for you.”
Vivian stood and took my hand, dragging me out of the kitchen toward a small room the Dunwoody’s used for storage. I knew this because I’d helped Mrs. Dunwoody clean out a bunch of old Christmas decorations this last January and helped organize the room.
Viv stood outside the door for a minute, a Cheshire cat-sized grin on her face. She threw open the door to the room and took a step back.
Inside the room, on the shelves I’d painstakingly put together for her mom to supposedly turn into a new pantry, I saw stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes.
“Viv, what—” I began.
“Shut up, and open them,” she ordered.
I stepped forward and looked at the first cardboard box. It had the return address of a well-known pharmaceutical company. I looked at her in confusion.
“Open. Them.” She ordered again. Bossy Viv was out and active. I obeyed.
Inside the cardboard boxes were other white boxes. Hundreds of them.
“Viv, what is this?” I asked, looking from her to the boxes in confusion.
“Look closer, doofus,” she said gesturing at the box.
I leaned in and pulled one of the smaller boxes out. All of them were antiretroviral medications or related medication I took to control my HIV.Thousandsof dollars’ worth of medication.
“What did you do?” I looked at her in confusion. “Did you rob a pharmacy? I can’t take this—” I began, starting to push the box toward her.
“Yes, you can,” she said, interrupting my attempts to hand the box back. “I knew you were going to say you couldn’t go without your medications, you’ve been saying it for years. And I knew you wouldn’t let me—us—spend money on you,” she gestured to her parents, who had joined us in the hallway.
“You’ve always been way too freaking stubborn for your own good, Nick. And, no, we didn’t rob a pharmacy. Dad and I started contacting the manufacturers back in January and began working with their compassionate assistance programs. The response…” she blushed now, glancing around. “The response was overwhelming. I wasn’t sure what medication you might be on, and Dad didn’t want to ask anyone to look at your medical records, because he was afraid it would get back to your father. So we had to guess. You have, at minimum, six months of medication to get you through until you get a job that provides insurance. If you need more after that, we can contact the programs again.”
I glanced at her parents, fear and uncertainty warring within me.
“She never told me, son,” Dr. Dunwoody answered, laying his hand on my shoulder. “I’m not stupid, though. I’ve known ever since you broke your ankle your junior year.”
I shuddered involuntarily as I remembered that day.
I had been cooking dinner one night when my father got home. I hadn’t been feeling well the last few days, and was making what we called “brinner”, breakfast for dinner. It was something my mom used to make when I was sick, and I hadn’t stopped to think how my father would react to it. I was an idiot.
Dad had just gotten home from work and walked into the kitchen. He’d taken one look at the eggs and sausage simmering on the stove, and his face had taken on a blank expression I’d come to know too well. He hadn’t said anything to me, and I hadn’t even seen the blow that knocked me to the ground. Then he’d taken out his riot baton. The clicking sound of it expanding was one of those sounds that would forever haunt me. He’d taken a single swing at me while I was on the ground, still in shock from his vicious punch. I had reflexively jerked my legs up to protect my face and the baton had connected with my ankle.
The shockwave of pain that flashed through me made me scream and almost vomit, but also stunned me. He had dragged me out of the house to the shed, where the blows had rained down for what seemed like hours. I’d crawled back to the house late that night when I had finally felt strong enough and collapsed into bed.
The next morning I could barely walk and I couldn’t put any weight on my ankle. When I looked at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Bruises purpled my face and upper body. When I looked at my back, there hadn’t been any broken skin, but the dark red and black mottling was pretty obvious.Shit.
