He wheezes and covers his mouth with the sheet to cough. “No, don’t call. Just drive me to Denver General, please.”
“I don’t have a car,” I tell him.
“You can drive my cab; it’s parked right out front,” he says weakly.
“I don’t have a license,” I counter and for the first time in my life, I regret not having one.
He slowly strips back the sheet covering him. Movement is a struggle. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” If he didn’t look so sick, I would swear he’s trying to make a joke.
“I don’t—” I begin, but swallowknow how to driveand walk to him with my hands extended so I can help him stand.
Looking at my hands, he pauses and speaks to them like he can’t look me in the eye. “You should know that I have AIDS, Toby. Most people don’t want to touch—”
Without hesitation, I cut him off with a whisper, “I’m not most people,” as I grasp his hands with mine and hoist him to his feet. I don’t think he’s ever liked me, so I assume he agrees with what he interpreted as a sardonic reply. But when he’s upright and his eyes are almost even with mine, they’re shining with unshed tears.
I can’t take seeing the tears, so I shift to his side and wrap my arm around his waist to keep him upright. He’s weak, so weak. He lifts his arm behind me and cups my shoulder with his hand, but the pressure is slight, his strength is gone.
“Where are your keys and wallet?” I ask. And then I add, “Do you need anything else?” because I can’t think straight immersed in this crisis. Adrenaline is making motion possible, but my mind is static.
“My keys and wallet are on the table by the front door.” A raspy, damp cough is expelled into his free hand before he can continue. “I don’t need anything else.”
I nod because all I’m focused on now is getting him out to his car and to the hospital as soon as possible. His cough sounds awful and his skin, now that I’m looking at it up close, has a grayish cast to it.
Bearing his weight as we walk down the porch steps to the car isn’t a burden at all. He weighs nothing. He’s a framework of bones his clothes hang from. In the car safely, I run around and unlock the driver’s door and jump in. I’ve ridden in cars on occasion, I understand the mechanics of driving even though I’ve never been behind the wheel. And it looks like literally having someone’s life in my hands puts doubt on the backburner for the moment. Pulling out into the northbound lane of Clarkson, I ease the gas pedal down gently at first to gauge its touchiness. From there, the short drive to Denver General Hospital is a blur of intense concentration on the road and the acute emergency in the seat next to me. His breathing is shallower now than it was inside his apartment and I wonder if it’s from the exertion of the walk to the car or if whatever is wrong is accelerating.
Pulling up under the ER portico in front of two sliding double doors, I throw the car into park and run inside. When the doors slide closed behind me, my eyes dart from one side of the lobby to the other, frantically searching for someone who looks like they can help. There’s a check-in desk twenty feet from me and I bolt toward it. “I have someone in the car who needs to be seen right away. Do you have a wheelchair? He shouldn’t be walking.”
She’s efficient and flags down a man in scrubs who follows me outside with a wheelchair. As we’re helping him out, Mr. Street grips my arm and the desperation, fear, and pain have crept back into his eyes and voice. “Will you stay with me,please? I’m afraid this is it and I don’t want to die alone.” His bottom lip is trembling and he’s trying not to cry.
Naked vulnerability is all I see and I can’t say no, so I nod and try not to cry myself. “I’ll go park your car and I’ll be right back.”
He nods once and pulls his lips in, biting down with his teeth in an attempt to trap the emotion inside. Traitorously, it seeps from the corners of his eyes.
By the time I walk in through the ER double doors again, I don’t remember parking the car seconds ago, but I’m here. My life is now a dazed succession of moments in real time, one second leading to the next.
Mr. Street isn’t in the waiting room, but the man in scrubs who helped us is walking toward me. He’s talking, but I only hear the last bit. “…examined. Someone will be out to speak with you as soon as we have an update on his condition. Would you mind filling out these forms while you wait?”
I want to say,I don’t even really know the guy other than fixing his fridge; I can’t fill them out, but I take them and say, “Sure.” Sitting down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, I feel like a thief flipping open his tri-fold wallet and rifling through the contents: a two-dollar bill, a Colorado driver’s license, a health insurance card, a MasterCard, a well-worn piece of paper that looks to be a library card from Huntsville, Alabama, and a photo folded in half with writing on the back,I love you. Now, always, and forever. I don’t open it because it feels too private and slip it back into the wallet.
Filling out everything I can on the forms doesn’t take long because I don’t know much. When I hand it to the women at the check-in counter, I shrug. She nods when she sees most of the questions on the form are blank and smiles. “It’s okay, thanks for getting us started. I’ll take it from here.”
I nod and I don’t know if it’s gratitude or shame or an apology. Maybe it’s all three. And then I sit back in the same plastic chair to wait. I don’t know why I sat back down in this one when there are several empty, especially since it has a crack down the middle that flexes open and bites at my jeans and the flesh underneath. It’s pain that gives me something to focus on, maybe that’s why.
Minutes, a few or dozens I don’t know, pass before there’s someone standing in front of me. They’re saying, “Sir?Sir?” like they’ve said it several times with no response. When I finally look up, the irritation in her voice doesn’t lighten. “Can you follow me? I’ll escort you to Curtis Street’s room.”
I rise and follow her obediently even though I don’t like the tone she’s using. It sounds demeaning and critical. I shouldn’t be here. Family should be here. Friends should be here. I’m neither. We walk in silence. We ride the elevator in silence. We walk some more in silence. When she stops in front of a door, I assume it’s his room and walk in without a word, happy to be away from her.
He still looks ashen. A cannula is delivering oxygen in through his nostrils, and an IV is delivering meds and/or fluids in through his arm. “Do you need anything?” I ask, because I’m at a loss.
“My wallet,” he says and tries to smile, but when the corners of his mouth turn up it’s the melancholiest expression I’ve ever seen.
Pulling it from my back pocket, I hand it over belatedly. “I had to open it. To fill out the forms. Sorry,” I explain lamely.
He takes it weakly and rests it on his chest while he opens it like he doesn’t have the strength to hold it. Taking out the photo, he lets the wallet fall away next to him on the narrow bed. Unfolding it, he looks at the image inside and the defeated smile turns wistful as he lovingly strokes the paper once and then presses it face down against his chest. One palm resting atop the other over his heart. “Don’t be sorry, Toby. I’m the one who’s sorry. Thank you for staying.” He coughs and this time instead of being raspy, it’s watery and doesn’t relent for almost a minute. He’s doubled in half when the coughing fit ceases, the photo still clasped to his chest. It’s disturbing to watch.
I pick up his wallet that’s fallen to the floor and place it on the bedside table, and when he regains his faculties, I ask, “Should I get someone?” It’s painful to watch him struggle. I don’t know if I can handle this.
“No. They think it’s pneumonia,” he says like that explains everything. When I don’t comment, he continues, “AIDS isn’t what kills you, you know? It’s something else that your immune system can no longer fight that finishes you…” he trails off.
