Broken People Page 8

  “Get out of here! My mother just did the same thing to me the other day. She told me I had to have some shrinkage.” She turned and looked at Brianna, who was returning from the restroom.

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” she laughed out loud.

  Brianna walked to the table, turned and faced Michelle, and placed her hands on her hips. “Michelle, are you ready to go?” she asked.

  My heart sank. I really wanted to sit here and have a conversation with Michelle. We had seen each other in school for years, but we never got a chance to speak to each other for any period of time. I was white, and gay, and she was Egyptian. We wouldn’t typically be friends, but here at Cups we sure could be. I sat and secretly wished that Brianna was in the bathroom throwing up or sick with diarrhea. Something. Something that made her go away, and not ask Michelle to leave. Or maybe that she was just at home today, busy doing something. Something that didn’t include being here. It seemed like she was never separated from Michelle. I wondered as I looked at her if she and Michelle would grow apart as college got underway. I decided we all would, and I felt bad for wishing that she had diarrhea. I wished she would just sit down. I looked at Michelle, and waited for her answer.

  “No, go ahead. I am going to sit here with David and talk, Okay?” Michelle responded.

  I tugged on both my thighs. At the same time. I quickly turned my face to view Brianna’s reaction.

  “Bye.” That’s all she said. And she turned and walked away.

  My head quickly spun to face Michelle, and see what her reaction was. When it stopped, it took five seconds for my eyes to catch up with my head. Michelle shook her head, tossed her forehead backward, rolled her eyes, and watched Brianna walk away. I took a bite of my yogurt. And another. Careful both times not to drip. I couldn’t think of what to say. I felt bad for Brianna, but I was glad that Michelle was staying. This made for the best Saturday ever.

  “Do you like John Coltrane?” I asked, taking a chance. I doubt she ever heard of him, but if she had and she liked him, we could be friends forever.

  “Are you kidding me,” she responded. “A Love Supreme. Giant Steps. My Favourite…”

  Before she could answer, I finished for her, “My Favourite Things.”

  “I love Coltrane,” she said.

  “John Coltrane is like magic. I get so lost in his music, When I listen to it, nothing else matters. I can get so wrapped up in listening, that I even forget where I am or what else, if anything, matters. Bad days turn good. Bad thoughts go away. When I listen to his music, well, I just. I just become whoever I want to. I just float. Or something. I don’t know. Now I sound like an idiot. I am sorry,” I stopped talking and gave her a chance to speak.

  “No, I know exactly what you mean. The other night, I was arguing with my mother about a tattoo I wanted to get when I turn eighteen. She said I couldn’t get the tattoo. End. Of. Story, she said, emphasizing each word. “I went up to my room and listened to My Favourite Things. It didn’t fix it, but it sure let me fall asleep,” she continued.

  “I think that’s just fabulous that you like Coltrane. Not about the tattoo. What happened, exactly?” I asked, taking a few more quick bites of my yogurt. I got an almond in one bite. Whoever decided to offer toppings for yogurt was a genius. Especially the almonds. I was eating a cup of heaven filled with crunchy almond surprises.

  She looked down at the table and spoke softly. “Well, I told my parents that when I turned eighteen, I had an appointment made for a tattoo. An appointment on my birthday. I struggled with telling them anything, because, well, you know. I was going to be eighteen. But, I decided to be forthright, and tell them. It just didn’t go well. They said if I got a tattoo, basically, they were done with me. That I would no longer be their daughter. I was shocked. And now, well, I am trying to decide what to do. What’s right. What’s wrong. You know what I mean?” She looked up at me. Her eyes were magic. She stuck her hand in her hair again. It didn’t get stuck this time.

  “Well, my father told me now that I am eighteen, I am a man. He is of the opinion that the instant you turn eighteen, you are an adult. Just bingo. Poof. An adult. I do not know that there is some form of transformation the day we turn eighteen, but I do believe that that is the age that we should be given the freedom to make decisions on our own. I think that we should sort of, well, proceed with caution. Maybe ask a lot of questions. Maybe just be careful not to do stupid things or make stupid decisions. My father was a Marine, and he just believes in all of that, ‘If you can fight for and die for this country at eighteen, you are an adult.’ So, my parents want me to be an adult. Like now.”

  “I wish your parents were my parents,” she said.

  “Believe me, you don’t,” I pressed the palms of my hands to my temples, and made an awful face. My head felt frozen from the yogurt.

  “What’s wrong, David? Brain freeze?”

  “What do you know about brain tumors, Michelle?” I rubbed my temples with the tips of my fingers.

  “It’s a brain freeze from eating that yogurt so fast. You’ve been eating it like a starving hostage,” she shook her head, and smiled. Her eyes followed.

  I spooned the remaining loose almonds from my cup. “I just love this place,” I said. I would tell her later of my tumor. Being gay was enough for one day.

  “I do too,” she smiled as she spoke. Her smile was infectious. I smiled.

  She smiled a lot, and I liked that. She made me comfortable, immediately comfortable. She reminded me of Dr. Baritz. Well, Michelle was going to be a doctor. Maybe doctors possess a quality that made them more caring than other people. More understanding. More able to understand people. Kind. Considerate. Compassionate. Michelle was all of these things. I pulled at my jeans one more time, and I smiled. I stood to take my cup to the trash. I don’t like trash on the table. Not if it doesn’t have to be there. And really, there is never a reason to have trash at the table if there is a place to put it. And, because there was a place to put it, I was going to take it there.

  “I am going to toss this in the trash, and get a glass of water. You want anything?” I asked as I stood.

  “Thank you, I will take a cup of water. When you get back, I have a question,” she smiled again as she spoke. She didn’t have her hand in her hair this time. Just her chin in her hand.

  I threw the trash in the receptacle, and went to get our waters. When I returned, I handed Michelle her water, and placed mine on the table. I handed her a straw. It had a protective cover. As I begin to sit, I pulled at my thighs, so my jeans wouldn’t wrinkle under my legs as I sat down. After I sat, I took a drink of water. I don’t like lids on my cold drinks, and was drinking straight from the cup, with no straw. Straws are gross.

  “So, David, are you gay?” she looked me in the eye.

  “Yes, Michelle, I am,” I responded, without hesitation. I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t believe anything. I had actually told someone besides Dr. Baritz that I was gay. Well, in a sense, Michelle was a doctor, but not actually. Just sort of. Well, not really, but she was more of a doctor than I was. I had so much more to say, but I left it at that, and was excited to hear what she had to say. My heart was beating faster than normal, but I was not nervous or sweating like I did in Dr. Baritz’s office. “Does it bother you?” I asked.

  “Does it bother you that I am a girl?” Michelle asked, in an almost offended tone, her eyes opened wider than before.

  “Heavens no,” I responded. I felt kind of excited with her response.

  “Well, David, I look at it this way. I was born a girl. Cloe was born a girl. My brother was born a boy. I was born heterosexual. You are homosexual. I haven’t decided if it’s necessarily a decision you make, or if it is the way God made you. Were you born that way, or did you consciously or subconsciously decide? I struggle with that. We can talk about it later.” She took a breath and continued, “I want to show you something,” she said as she took h
er phone from her purse. She spent a moment looking at it, and after looking at the screen and smiling, she handed the phone to me. “Look at that picture, David. Look at it good.”

  I looked at the phone. There was a black and white caption-less photograph on the screen. In the photo, which was in an operating room, there was a white man on an operating table. He was wearing a KKK Clansman robe, which was covered in blood. There was a black doctor whose hands were covering a gaping wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. The look on his face was one of urgency. The operating room was full of black nurses, black doctors, and a white Clansman. But, every one of the black staff was clearly rushing to save this man’s life. To save a man that would rather see those helping save his life hang by the neck than live. I could not stop looking at the photograph. I was moved. Michelle, with a broken voice, began to speak. I placed my hand on my chest and checked my heart. Still beating.

  “David, this picture basically defines all my beliefs about medicine, life and humanity in general. How much more beautiful does it get? They’re black, and rushing to save this guy’s life. And he’s in the KKK. Like, what? Tolerance. Respect. Grace. It’s so beautiful.” She stood, and continued to speak. “That picture will forever be dear to my heart. And that’s the thing about medicine. The doors to a hospital, to a doctor’s office, at least to my Doctor’s office, are an equalizer. It doesn’t matter if you can pay, it doesn’t matter where you are from, or what you are, because I have already sworn that I will do whatever I can to help you or to save your life.” Her voice cracked, she rubbed her eyes, and she continued. “The practice of medicine is just a place where, theoretically, all prejudices disappear. And, as a doctor, we help people because our hearts want us to. This picture is so beautifully human. It’s like the epitome of humanity. I love it and it hits me hard.”

  “Thank you, Michelle, for sharing that with me, you are an amazing woman, and will be a great doctor.” My body was buzzing from the intensity of seeing the photograph and hearing her speak with such authority and purpose. She believed in what she was saying.

  “So, David, the long version answer, no I do not care if you are gay, you’re human. That’s all that matters.” She, standing, opened her arms to give me a hug. Doctor Baritz doesn’t give hugs. Dr. Michelle does. I stood, opened my arms, and hugged her. My jeans wrinkled, and we held, embraced, for what seemed like forever. She tapped me twice. And it was then that I decided. This girl was going to help me. She would help me. I had to tell my father. Before she goes to college, she could figure out a way to help.

  Help me. Be me.

  Chapter 8

  Show some respect

  MARC. Treat people with respect, and people will respect you for being respectful. Always be respectful. My mother drilled this into my head from the time I was old enough to understand her speak. I found this to be true. I lived my life in a manner of being respectful. I didn’t necessarily respect everyone, but I treated everyone with respect, always. Treat everyone you encounter as if today is their last day on earth. The life you live will be your reward.

  “Dude, have you had sex with her?” Adrian asked, as he hit me in the arm with the palm of his hand.

  “Our relationship is private, you guys know that. Now, stop,” I responded.

  “C’mon, Marc. Just tell us something. You’ve never really had a girlfriend. Give us something,” said Marcus.

  “Listen, I told you guys, I will tell you about her. Who she is. What she’s like. But. It is not fair to her or to us to give anyone intimate details about what we do. Do not ask again. It’s a matter of respect,” I responded in a stern voice.

  We sat and ate our lunch. Joey and Adrian were the closest friends that I had ever had. Marcus moved here last year, and had become part of our group as soon as he moved here. We ate lunch together daily. I took another bite of my apple. I thought of Britney.

  “Dude, cut that shit, it’s fucking long,” Marcus remarked.

  “No, I am not cutting it. I like it this way,” I responded. My hair gave me comfort, and had become somewhat of a trademark.

  I wanted this day to end. Britney and I were going to see each other after school. I looked at my watch. 11:50. Having her in my life. Experiencing her exist. These things made it difficult to not have her beside me every moment of the day. Her absence made me yearn for her presence.

  “I’m going to the bathroom. Be back in a second,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Joey.

  We walked. Joey and I were close friends. His father had always treated me as if I were one of his own children. It wasn’t a replacement for a father, but it was nice to be around his family. He was Catholic, and had seven brothers. Not one sister. I didn’t envy what Joey had. I often wondered, however, how many brothers or sisters I may have had, had my father not died. What might have been different.

  “Sorry if we made you mad back there, Bro,” Joey said, turning his head toward me as he spoke.

  “No problem, Joey. It’s just. Well. You know. I respect her. And I have to treat her with respect. Always. You can’t love someone if you do not respect them,” I responded.

  “I’m ready for this year to be over, aren’t you, Bro?” Joey asked as we walked back from the bathroom.

  “Yeah, I suppose so. In some ways, I would never like it to end, Joey. You know, we all lose each other when this ends. When school ends. We all go our separate ways. It is the beginning of a new life. Some of us might come back here during the summers to see our families. But, if you think we will all be back here at the same time, or during the same period of time, you’re crazy, Joey. Things will change. We will change. We will meet new friends, find new places to hang out, and different things will become important to us,” I ran my hands through my hair as I responded in a defensive tone. Thinking of losing my friends made me feel somewhat uncomfortable.

  I looked at Joey as we walked, and continued, “The friends that we have now, they will be the best friends of our life. Our memories that we have now, they will be our most fond. I guarantee you, Joey. We will soon begin our next phase of life. Being responsible. Responsible for ourselves. Responsible to our relationships. And, ultimately, begin a family. Begin a new generation, an extension of ourselves. Become responsible fathers. And things change. Priorities change. We say they won’t. We want to hold on to this, but we can’t. Life begins. And these friendships, Joey, they will fade.”

  “Dude, you are so fucking deep, and I totally don’t agree,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Joey, ask yourself this; are your mother or your father still friends with their high school classmates? I am sure they’re not. Think about it. Things change. And we are going to lose this. All of it. Time will pass. And. It’ll be gone,” I said with outstretched arms.

  “You say that a lot, time will pass, time passes, you know?”

  “I got it from my mother, you know that. It’s true. Time passes. Things change. It’s really the only assurance we have. And, I suppose, Joey, it’s about all we know for sure. Time will pass and things will change.” As we stepped to the table, the others looked up and stopped talking. We had obviously interrupted them from a conversation. Probably about sex. I pulled my hand from my pocket and looked at my watch. 12:00.

  “Well, you guys about ready?” Adrian asked.

  I grabbed my leather jacket and put it on. “Yes, I’ve got to text Britney before class. I’m ready,” I reached into my inner coat pocket and got my phone.

  “Well, holler at me tonight, Marc,” said Joey.

  “See ya,”

  “See, ya,”

  “Alright,”

  As I walked down the hallway, I sent a text message to Britney, making sure she was still able to meet after school. She immediately responded, texting me back a smiley face. I began to fill with thoughts of change. Time will pass, and things will change. Change is as inevitable as the tide. Things change. I placed my hand on my chest. Baboom…baboom…baboom.

  Walking awa
y from the lunch room, I saw that two kids were arguing, shoving each other, and beginning to fight. All of the other kids began to gather around, wanting to see the fight. I have never been in a fight, nor do I care to be. I have come to believe that we become the sum of our experiences in life. We are not really individuals; we are assembled from a little bit of everyone that we encounter in life. I have carefully spent my life exposing myself to all of what is good. As a result, I am a good person. I have not, by choice, intentionally exposed myself to any of what life offers that is bad. My lack of diversity in life and lack of this exposure worried me sometimes. I would often lay and wonder what would I do, or how would I react, if I was ever exposed to something I did not have previous experience dealing with. I wanted the diversity, but I did not want the exposure. Being good, and surrounding myself with what was good, provided me with comfort. I was assembled of a thousand pieces of what is good, and as a result, I was, and always would be, good.

  The evening finally came, and with the evening, came Britney. Laying on the bed together, it was as if I were living my life just for her. Taking each breath to keep her alive. If for some reason I were to die, I felt she would certainly die with me. As her heart beat in my chest, I thought of my mother. How and why has my mother made it without my father? If this love, love that just is, is truly the once-in-a-lifetime love that only a select few find - and with that love comes dependency - how could she live without him?

  She did it for me. If she wasn’t pregnant, things would have been different. She has lived a life for something she loves, and sacrificed her love for my father to love me. My mother’s love for me has kept her alive. Absorbing my mother’s love, I smiled.

  Lying on the bed, her elbow bent, and her head resting on her hand, Britney spoke, “What are you thinking about, Marc?” As she spoke, her hair hung perfectly across her face.

  “Loving you, Britney,” I responded, looking into her brown eyes.

  “What about it?” she responded, smiling.