So, slowly, day-by-day, my life seemed to become more of my own.

My hair began to grow back, first just peach fuzz then half an inch and then an entire inch all over.

I began to gain back a little of the weight I’d lost, too. I still got tired easily and it wasn’t like I wasn’t seeing doctors every time I turned around, but all in all, it was a far sight better than it had been a few months ago.

I—we—had gotten into the habit of my staying at the condo most of the week and then around either Thursday or Friday I’d pack a small bag and Mom would take me over to the loft for the weekend or Brian would pick me up after work. We wouldn’t usually just stay around the loft, either cooking or having take out and maybe a DVD.

Shit, listen to me. I sound like a domestic goddess, but it was really OK. Once in a while we would go to Woody’s or maybe Babylon for a while and then we’d be welcomed back like returning heroes, but usually we just stayed close to home.

Once in a while some of the family would come over to either Brian’s or my Mom’s, sometimes Molly—who’s still completely in love with Brian—would come over for a day or an afternoon just to bask in his aura. Occasionally we would go out and do something like a movie or a play or something, but mostly we just stayed together.

Ted and Melanie, between them, managed to get most of the insurance bills under control, which was an incredible help. They couldn’t get them all covered, but the ones that weren’t they had worked out payment plans that wouldn’t kill and, so help me God, I’m going to help getting those fuckers paid off. As soon as I’m well enough I’m going to get a job and then I’ll be able to start kicking in some money.

You know, that’s how I think I knew that I was getting better; I started getting bored.

I could draw and that was great, but I couldn’t drive too much because I’d get tired—OK and I didn’t have a car and had to borrow Mom’s, but I really did still get tired and everyone else was usually busy.

Mom and Brian both worked, like duh. Molly was in school and she was like thirteen years old anyway. Dad was pretty much put of the picture. Mel and Linds worked, Deb, Ted and Emmett, even Vic, they all had jobs. Michael had the comic book store and I could talk with him about Rage and we did some work on a new issue, but we’ve never been what you’d call best buds. Daphne had school.

I was just plain bored. I had nothing really to do all day.

I called the local oncologist, Dr. Alban, and asked if I could get a job. He said that the most I could consider was something that was only ten hours a week. Or less.

Right, like anyone would hire me for that.

I did a lot of reading.

I watched movies.

I sketched.

I was about to take up fucking tatting.

I cooked dinner on the days I was feeling good.

I started a mural in Molly’s bedroom that she had been asking me about for years.

I had even taken to weeding the damn garden until I was told that I still had to be careful about the sun and I really hate wearing sunscreen

Right, yes, I know it’s important. I do know, OK? But it feels like you have bacon grease slathered on you and I just so frigging hate it.

That was another thing I’d come to really hate. The reactions that I get from everyone I meet. I used to be Justin. Then I became Justin the queer guy. Then I was Brian and Justin which evolved into Justin and Ethan which evolved back to Brian and Justin.

Now I’m that kid who had cancer.

I hate the looks I get when I walk down the street and people could see that I had no hair and that it wasn’t just a fashion statement.

I hate that when Brian and I go to one of the bars or dance clubs everyone makes a point of coming over to ask how I’m doing, how I’m feeling.

I hate that Brian still treats me like I’m made out of glass and I’m about to shatter—yeah. Mom and Debbie do that, too. I just fucking hate it.

I hate that I’m a Goddamned invalid.

Hey, have you ever really looked at that word—invalid? Take a look now and take it apart like I did.

Invalid = in-vaild.

That’s what I am now. I’m not valid as anything other than some kid who was really sick and got better but may head south anytime now so you’d better watch it.

I just so fucking hate it. It’s like I’m no longer ‘Justin’, I’m just ‘cancerboy’—does that make any sense? And don’t even get me stated on the ones who look at me, realize what’s happened and practically cross the street because it might be catching.

I’ve developed the biggest case of cooties you’ve ever seen.

One thing almost brought a smile to my face, though.

I was at the Giant Eagle with Brian a few weeks ago. I was feeling pretty good, even though I was looking like shit, and we had stopped in so that we could get some supplies for me to make dinner. I was looking at the chicken when I heard a voice…THE voice.

“Hey Taylor, I heard you’ve got AIDS. About fucking time, asshole.”

So I turned around, grabbed Hobbs by the back of the neck and planted this big wet kiss right on his mouth, tongue and all.

He looked like he was about to shit, I mean he was practically puking right there. He was so frigging scared and looked like he was about to hit me, really take me out when Brian showed up beside me and sort of got in between us, just giving Hobbs one of his really good glares. Then all he said…damn it was so perfect, “You might want to get tested, Chris.” Then he put his arm around me and we left him standing there.

Jesus, I love Brian.

So anyway, I called PIFA a couple of weeks ago and explained what was going on. They knew about the cancer, of course, because they’d granted me the original medical leave when I’d had to go to New York. I asked them if it would be possible to come back on a part time basis because I couldn’t handle a full course load yet.

The Admissions Office put me through to the Dean of Students, this really decent guy, and he listened to me and told me that he used to be in charge of whatever department it was that took care of disabled students and so he knew the regs inside and out. He told me that cancer is covered under the Disabilities Act and that not only did they legally have to work to accommodate me, he wanted to and would do whatever he could to make it happen. He meant it, too, which was pretty damn nice of him.

He took my number, asked a few questions and said that he’d call the Dean of Freshman—yes, I was still a freshman—and tell her what was going on and they’d get together about it and give me a call in a couple of days.

So, sure as shit, about three days later I get this call from the Dean of Freshman telling me that they had spoken to some of the professors and had found one who was sympathetic to my situation. It turned out that not only was the Dean a cancer survivor, but this professor’s wife was, too.

I was signed up for life drawing three days a week with the understanding that I might have to miss a class here and there and that I would have extra time to complete assignments because I still just got so damn tired.

So about a week later I was sitting in a studio with a piece of charcoal in my hand and drawing this nude in a class full of other students and no one asked me if I was OK or if I was tired or if I wanted anything. I was just another student and that was just fucking great.

Then on my way to the bus stop I saw Ethan and his new beau—I’d known about that for a while—having some big argument in front of the student union. Beauboy was yelling that Ethan could play on fucking street corners till his damn fingers froze, but if he thought that made him an artist then he was an jerk. It seemed to end with the beau walking off and leaving Ethan just standing there.

Christ—that had to be one of the best days of my life, and I mean that.

Oh, and the cheery on top? I had gone over to Craigtheasshole’s office, which was how I now thought of him and asked him if he thought that, maybe, he could see his way clear to covering the cost of one class, that it would be a couple of thousand with supplies. He was sitting there behind that big desk with the door open and his secretary sitting about ten feet away listening to every word

I went on about how Mom was really supporting me now, along with Brian, and they had been so incredibly generous that I couldn’t see asking them for anything. Besides, I couldn’t work right now because of the doctor’s orders and so—well, could be maybe pony up something here?

I had him by the short hairs and I knew it. I walked out with the check in my pocket.

Brian laughed when I told him, which I did about half an hour later up in Vanguard’s executive offices. I’d gone over after I left my father’s because it was almost lunchtime and I wanted to tell someone or I thought I’d explode.

He was in a meeting with some company that made office furniture—I could picture Brian’s face as he thought about the different things he could do with a nice sturdy desk—and so I just hung out in his office. Cynthia said it would be alright and she was busy, so I didn’t want to bother her.

I was just sort of sitting there, waiting. I started looking through some magazines on the coffee table but they were boring so I moved over to Brian’s desk. It was spotless, of course, even in the middle of a workday, so when I decided to draw I had to open one of the drawers to find a pencil and a pad. That was where I found the picture in a leather frame. It wasn’t really hidden; it was just sort of put away like it was private.

It was a shot of the two of us and looked like it had been taken on the dance floor at the prom. We’re both wearing tuxes but Brian’s jacket is gone and he has this white scarf around his neck. In the picture we’re both lit by colored lights and we seem to be in a white spotlight, there’re Mylar balloons around us reflecting the lights. We have our arms around each other and we’re kissing and I know that this is the dance he and Daphne tried to get me to remember. In my head I can hear the music that was playing and I can see the faces of the other kids and the chaperones and I remember that Daphne was smiling.

I remember it. I finally remember and I can remember how it was that night, how I knew that it would never get any better than that moment when we were twirling around and he had his arms around me and I knew with complete certainty that, no matter what he said—or didn’t say, he loved me as much as I loved him.

I remembered.

I was sitting there with this stupid smile on my face when I heard the door open and Brian was standing in front of me. He looked a question and I just said, “That was a good night.” And that was all I had to say for him to understand that it had all come back. He returned the smile and just nodded in agreement.

We went to lunch and I told him about the class, that my father had agreed to foot the bill and how I finally really felt like I was coming back, that I could get better. I felt stronger and, for the first time in a long time, I really thought that I had this thing pretty much beat.

It was a Friday and he did something I’d never seen him do before in all the time I’ve known him. He pulled out his cel and told Cynthia that he wouldn’t be in for the rest of the day, that he’d see her on Monday, and then he looked at me and asked what I’d like to do to celebrate. What was my pleasure?

“Go back to the loft and make love.”

“You want to fuck? You feel alright enough for that?”

Asshole. I said that I want to make love and I’m fine for that.”

So he gave me that half smile, half smirk and ended the day on a spectacular high note.

Return to Remission