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Note: Maybe it’s because I have a teenaged son, but the mothers of the various characters interest me. As far as I know (and I could well be wrong), no one has addressed what would be going through the mind of Justin’s mother while she was waiting for word. That’s a horror I’d like to only deal with in fiction.
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Jennifer was sitting in
a booth at the coffee shop of
“Would you like
a fresh cup of tea?” The waitress—no that wasn’t really right,
in a hospital they were usually volunteers—was trying to help even though
she had no idea about why Jen was sitting there like that. It happened sometimes
in here. A parent or a spouse waiting for word about a loved one and not
wanting to be in the waiting room any longer. It
happened.
“No. Thank you.”
So she just sat and thought.
It was Brian’s fault.
If he hadn’t gone to the prom, if he hadn’t danced with Justin
in front of everyone none of this would have happened. If he had stayed home
or wherever he belonged then Justin would have danced with Daphne and they
might have gone to a party afterwards or out to a diner with some friends
and he would be back at Deb’s asleep upstairs in that ridiculous room
he was staying in. If Brian hadn’t picked him up that night months ago,
if he hadn’t fucked him and made Justin fall in love with him, none
of this would have happened.
Even if he had to seduce
her son, why couldn’t he have just dropped him when he was finished
like he did all the others? Why had he allowed Justin to keep coming back?
He never had before from what everyone had told her. What made Justin so
different that he would keep taking him to bed and take him dancing and to
bars? Why would he let a child move into his home? He certainly hadn’t
before, but he let him stay and even made sure that he got to school and
did his homework and studied for his tests. Justin told her that he had even
quizzed him on vocabulary when he needed help and made sure that his uniforms
were clean.
When Brian finally had
enough, he had driven him home, obviously wanting done with him. But then
ended up taking him away again when he was dissatisfied with Craig’s
conditions, not allowing Justin to live with the hypocrisy his father insisted
on.
It was Brian’s fault.
All of it.
Yes, Justin was gay,
she could accept that. It was Brian who had encouraged him to be outted,
to live openly gay, to go to the gay bars (at seventeen, for God’s sake)
and gay dance clubs and to join the GLC. It was Brian, a grown man with his
own son who had insisted that Justin not hide, despite knowing the
danger.
Brian, under the guise
of protecting him, had set up the situation where something was bound to
happen.
It was his
fault.
He was the one who had
called her when it happened. Brian was the one who had told her that Justin
had been hurt. His voice was quiet, emotionless and without expression. There
had been an accident, he had said. He had been taken to the hospital and
was being prepped for emergency surgery. Could she come now? Deb had offered
to stay with Molly if she wanted. Please come now.
She had left without
waiting for Debbie, running next door and begging her neighbor, a virtual
stranger to please help her; to just wait in her house until someone arrived.
Walking in, running into
the hospital, she had seen Brian sitting on a straight-backed chair, in shock,
covered with Justin’s blood, his face tear streaked. Michael was beside
him, his hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder
blades.
Stopping in front of
him she had looked at his face and understood that Justin might be dying,
might have already died.
He had looked up at her,
but hadn’t spoken. He just looked at her, broken and bloody and she
wished with all her heart that he was the one in with a fractured skull.
She thought, maybe, if she tried hard enough she would see Justin sitting
in that chair, covered in Brian’s blood and her baby would be the one
who was whole instead.
But as hard as she tried,
it didn’t happen.
She was pointed out to
a nurse who had led her away so that the doctor’s and the counselors
could speak with her. She was asked for his insurance information, asked
about any allergies and told that they didn’t know much yet, please
wait and someone would be out to speak with her.
When she finally asked
how, what had happened—was it a car accident? She had been told about
the bat and the classmate.
He had been beaten. Justin,
her sweet Justin, had been hit in the head with a bat and might die because
Brian had danced with him and kissed him and then led him away to an empty
garage where he could be killed.
She pictured it all in
her mind as she sat with her cold tea in the coffee shop. She could see them
in their tuxedos; she could imagine the other youngsters in their party clothes
pretending they were older than they were. Jennifer could imagine the smell,
even. It would have been a combination of soap and shampoo and hairspray,
after shave and perfume all rolled together into one scent. She could picture
the room and the balloons and crepe paper decorations, the mirror ball, the
music playing. She could see the couples dancing and sitting around at tables,
talking and wishing they could escape the
chaperones.
Daphne had been his date.
Where was she?
Jennifer knew that the
other members of Justin’s adopted family, his gay family, were there
waiting for news. She avoided them. They were part of this. They had made
him welcome, they had befriended him, and they had made him think he was
safe.
It was their fault,
too.
Finally, finally, the
doctor had found her. He had slid into the booth opposite her and told her
that Justin was alive. She stared at a spot of blood on the front of his
scrubs. Justin’s blood. First on Brian and now on this doctor. How much
could he bleed and still have any left? He was out of surgery and in the
recovery room. He was still unconscious. He had suffered brain damage but
they didn’t know yet how severe it was. They wouldn’t know for
a while, but they were hopeful. Would she like to sit with
him?
She went up to the room
in ICU they had placed him in and was surprised to see that it was light
out. It was just after nine in the morning. She hadn’t
realized.
He looked like her father
had looked before he had died. So small in the hospital bed, pale, unmoving,
connected to tubes and machines. The bandages were obscene and she hated
them. He was her brilliant and healthy and amazing son, not this—invalid.
He was smart and funny and gentle and difficult, and yes, he was in
love.
She didn’t notice
Brian until he approached the side of Justin’s bed. The side she
wasn’t sitting on. He looked down at her son’s face, his own features
unreadable. He was still wearing the bloody tux and that nightmare scarf;
the smears of blood were still on his face and
neck.
In all her life she
hadn’t felt the fury she felt looking at him. When she had found out
about her parents divorce, when she had found that Craig had cheated on her,
when she had been mugged—nothing in her life
had prepared her for the hatred
she felt now as she looked at this beautiful, damaged man.
He had no
right.
He had no right to be
there. He had no right to still be wearing those bloody clothes as some sort
of badge of honor or grief. He had no right to be unhurt or to stand in the
same room when she was hanging on with the tips of her fingernails to her
sanity.
She couldn’t bear
it. She—couldn’t.
She saw him look across
Justin’s body to her. The tears tracking down his cheeks pushed her
to new heights of rage.
It was the barest whisper.
“I’m so sor—.”
“Just—leave.”
She watched him go from
the room and heard his footsteps as he walked down the hall towards the elevator.
He was her son, she would
care for him. This would end now. She would end this now. These people would
never get their hands on him again. Never.
Never.
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