Chapter Twenty Eight

GRAYSON

The twenty-minute drive back to Franklinton has afforded me the time to call Carter, informing him that I don't need to meet. I didn't provide a reason, because doing that would require confronting the reality of Julian's absence one more time. Keeping it vague helped me hold back the river.

And while I'd been thinking of it, I phoned the manager at The Six String Saloon in Tennessee. After describing the leather-bound journal with the word ‘Boston,' he immediately knew what I was referring to. Assuring him that I'd send him ten bucks via Apple Pay or something to cover the cost of postage didn't go over very well. The man's so friendly, he insisted upon mailing it without repayment.

Reclaiming my parking spot at The Wilhelm, I reach over the seat for my messenger bag and sack of Taco Bell. I've surely consumed an entire year's worth of greasy calories these past couple of days. Though, getting fat as a rhino doesn't faze me. If smoking has crept back in my life, or likely acquired my father's alcoholism, I might as well eat myself into oblivion. And besides, I need more greasy food to soak up the single malt waiting for me upstairs.

I flash my keycard on the suite door, waiting a split second. For some reason, it's fussy at precisely the moment I need to piss. Yet, my third attempt is successful. Inside, the messenger bag falls from my shoulder into the cushions of a lengthy couch. No time is wasted rushing to my bathroom so I can relieve my bladder.

After the satisfying hiss of a flush, I wash my hands at the sink. All the while studying my feeble echo in the mirror yet again. A haunting reminder of Sophia's reaction eats me alive for a second time. The first being as I pulled away from their house, studying the destructive path of both explosives claiming casualties all the way to Pine Street.

In the sitting area, I retrieve my open pack of Camels with only two remaining. Grub in the other hand accompanies my shuffle into the room. There's a balcony on the far wall, surely bereft of some magnificent view. But at least I don't have to go all the way downstairs just to trash my lungs with noxious chemicals. Always the budding optimist, Gray, you sorry motherfucker!

There's not a goddamn breeze in the whole state of Louisiana, meanwhile leaning over the railing outside. Smoke wafts from my nostrils in every direction on a long exhale. I'm uncertain what I'd do without the help of nicotine. There may be two or three Klonopin at home. And they would've only lasted a single day at most. After allowing the effects of my cancer stick to dash through my body, I return to bed while claiming the bottle of Glenmorangie.

I fuss with the thick protective wrapping, but the cork slides out with little effort. Not a moment is wasted taking a large gulp. Its crisp honey-apple flavor hurries down the hatch smoothly and easily. My food is surely cold by now, but my grief still has a wrangle on me to the extreme where liquor and tobacco take precedence. The Taco Bell sack rustles as I rifle around feeling the five tacos and two burritos.

It's no surprise Sophia has Alzheimer's, since Julian's neurologist told us the disease has a huge genetic component. But I'm sad because I can only imagine her brain is similar to an amnesiac's. Sure, she wept tonight once Amelia broke the news in her mother tongue. The bigger question is, will she remember he's still gone after the sun has risen in the morning? My memory sprints back in time to when Julian first received his diagnosis.

Julian and I were sitting in front of Dr. Nash's desk for thirty minutes. Although, it felt more like an eternity. His office staff told us twenty minutes prior, that he would only be just a moment delayed. But it became apparent to me that ‘a moment' in ‘doctor speak' must've meant an hour. Julian turned his head, revealing a nervous look on that beautiful mien of his.

He knew exactly why we were there. It had only been a month or two since his episode of getting lost while walking Boo Radley. The day he wandered all the way down to Central Park. Even though prior to the neuro appointment, I spotted him putting cottage cheese in his coffee. At the time, I figured it was a brief slip.

"It's gonna be all right, Momo," I said, planting my palm over his left knee.

The harried tone warming his face taunted me. "We already know what he's gonna say," he replied.

When entering a relationship, nobody prepares you for all the bad you will face. Nobody's there with a hot cup of tea and a list of signs or things to look out for. You're not given a handbook on how to deal with the roadblocks and detours life throws your way, which can test the very limits of the bond with your new partner. All you're equipped with are the primal instincts given to you when you're born. And it's your responsibility to know how best to cultivate them the best way you know how.

All I could do was console him with as much positivity as I could. Fuck me if I didn't know the truth, or the bitter pill we were about to be dosed with. The words which just ruminated through my brain felt more like the opening to an off-screen monologue in Grey's Anatomy—when Meredith is heard talking about a specific topic highlighting the theme of that episode.

As soon as Julian covered his mouth to shield a dry cough, I heard the door behind us swing open, then slam shut. His heavy footsteps could be heard as he approached his desk.

"Sorry to keep you both waiting," Dr. Nash said, clearing his throat.

He sat in his cushioned leather chair, studying Julian as he shuffled around a few papers. "Just like a month ago, I'm going to give you a name and address, and I want you to remember them until I ask you later to recall what I said."

Julian nodded. "Okay."

"Jim Goldberg lives at 29 Cornelia Street in Manhattan, 10014."

I watched Julian silently recite the info to himself with his lips as if he were studying for a pop quiz.

Dr. Nash turned on a computer monitor which swiveled so it could be seen by all three of us. After a couple of clicks and pressed keys from his keyboard, an image appeared of the MRI Julian went in for the week prior.

He pointed to an area of the scan with the tip of his pen. "This region here pinpoints to the hippocampus in your frontotemporal lobe, only mildly shrunk from the size of a healthy brain."

I understood maybe two words of that statement, but I trusted his medical opinion because he's the one with the degree.

"And this area here—while faint—indicates where plaque has possibly started to build up," Dr. Nash advised us while circling around another point on the scan. "Based on the cognitive tests we performed last month—the results of your genetic testing—and this MRI—I've arrived at a conclusion."

I swallowed a large amount of air which may as well have been heard from the moon's surface. Julian's hand crept over to my lap, so I gripped it firmly into mine.

"Julian, it's my firm belief based on the fact that you contain two markers of the APOE e4 gene—and all the other test results—there's a 99.2% likelihood that you're already experiencing the effects of a rare, but possible form of Familial Alzheimer's Disease."

The entire room grew silent yet again. I could hear muffled speech from out in the main area of his office. Even a bit of laughter. But I wasn't inside Julian's body, so I couldn't know exactly how he processed the information laid before us. His tight grip, however, indicated some level of frustration.

I scratched at my forehead with my left index finger. "So, what does all this mean?"

Dr. Nash's deadpan expression couldn't have been any harder to read. "It means that I'm going to try a starting dose of donepezil, which is generic Aricept," Dr. Nash responded, targeting his words in Julian's direction. "I'm confident it could be helpful in your case of what I believe to be early-onset, given your young age."

Julian raised his right hand to emphasize his reply. "And you're sure this isn't just some temporary thing, and it won't go away on its own?" he asked with a tilted head.

Dr. Nash cleared his throat, grabbing a coffee cup adjacent to him. He took a quick drink before responding. "Julian, do you remember the name and address I asked you to remember a few minutes ago?"

Julian nodded his head. "I'm pretty sure."

"Was it John Goldberg, Joe Goldberg, Jim Goldberg, or Jack Goldberg?"

Julian scratched the side of his head as if he'd honestly already forgotten the name. I was screaming ‘Jim' so loudly in my own head, I hoped it would trigger some telepathic message.

"John—I'm pretty sure?" Julian asked, rather than ascertaining.

Dr. Nash rapped his knuckles against the desk. "And did he live on 29 Lotus Street, 29 Cornelia Street, 29 Washington Street, or 29 Chelsea Street?"

Julian lowered his head, fidgeting with his fingers as if it were going to help him recall the correct answer. The answer resounded between each corner of my brain. ‘God damn it, Julian—it's Cornelia Street—think Momo—you got this!'

"I feel like I just had it right there," Julian replied, vanquished. "But I don't remember anymore, I'm sorry."

Dr. Nash clicked his tongue. "There's the answer to your question," he replied astutely. "This isn't going away, I'm afraid," he added. "As much as I'd love to say otherwise, I'd be doing you a huge disservice by telling you what you want to hear, rather than what you need to."

Julian and I checked out with the receptionist, ensuring she had his correct insurance card on file. We stepped out into the main hallway of New York Presbyterian as the elevator dinged loudly, ushering a cringey pain through both eardrums. Julian held my hand whilst boarding, pressing the button to whisk us downstairs. We exited the back entrance so I could treat him to a matcha green tea frappuccino—his favorite—across the street at Starbucks.

We stopped at the crosswalk when he turned his head, staring into my gaze as if someone had just run over Boo Radley. "This changes everything, meus amor."

Inside, I knew that was the truth. But I refused to show defeat and chose to respond indignantly. "Stop it—Babe, this doesn't change a goddamn thing," I replied, planting a kiss on his lips. "We soldier on."

My attention returns to the present moment at the behest of this loud fucking television. For some strange reason, broadcast TV is most annoying when I'm not in the comfort of my own home. Suffice it to say, this show requires the volume to be on ninety. But once it breaks for commercial, it requires everything in me to brace for impact. It only proves that if I'm still sensitive to the objects of this world, I must not be numb enough.

Reaching over to the bed stand for my bottle, I realize there are tiny remnants of taco meat on the comforter in front of me. And drops of burrito sauce have left an ugly stain as well. Although the silkiness of scotch pushes away every worry as it slithers down the correct pipe.

The white envelope Amelia gave me is inches away as I sit cross-legged on the bed. Curiosity has consumed me since leaving their house because she never revealed its contents. Once I finish chewing my last bite, I wipe my mouth with a napkin before scooping the envelope in my grasp. It only has one word written on the front. Mamá. I unfurl the paper with several creases, instinctively clearing my throat as if I'm about to read it aloud, even though it's not my intention.

Mamá,

It breaks my heart to write this. But I've left Felton to follow the first person I've ever loved outside of our family. I feel that I owe you the truth, even though it's eaten me up inside trying to find the words to tell you this in person. But I don't know how you or papá will process what I have to say.

I'm gay. I realized this when we first moved here in January. I never did any of the things I told you I was doing, because they were all to cover up who I was really spending time with. To protect our safety, I can't tell you his name. But Mamá, I love him with all my heart and soul. And he cares about me just as much. In fact, his father is not a nice person, and he's most of the reason we're leaving town. I would tell you more about who my boyfriend is and where we're going. But I can't, and it's burning a hole inside of me.

I know you and papá probably won't accept my confession right away. You have different beliefs, and that's fine. That's another reason we've set our sights on a place where being gay is more accepted. But in time, even though we will not have spoken to each other again, I hope you'll be able to find it in your heart to realize I was always your little Papito. He just turned out to like boys instead of girls. Please take heart in knowing that he is still giving someone all his love and receives it back in spades. And that should be what matters the most. Or I hope, at least.

No matter where I go, or what I end up doing, I will do it all knowing that you were the first person to show me how to love. And that you were the one who raised me to be a bright and affectionate young man. There might come a day we get to speak again. I don't know what the future holds. If or when that day comes, I'll be grateful. Until then, please remember how much I love you and papá, and Amelia. Whenever you are down and miss me, just walk out at night and look to the North Star. My soul will feel it and I'll likely do the same. That'll be how we connect with each other from here on out.

I am so very proud that I spent my first nineteen years in your love and care. But it's time that I reach out into the world on my own—at my boyfriend's side—taking advantage of all that my future has in store for me.

Semper Juliano Imperio.

The screen on my phone resting before me catches my attention. It's a Google Alert I have set up to inform me each time the name Julian Torres is published online. It seems word of my lover's death has finally hit the press circuit. After a moment of loading the browser screen, I continue reading the headline.

INTERNATIONAL BEST-SELLING AUTHOR FOUND DEAD IN WASHINGTON HEIGHTS HOME

While brief, the article still penetrates my subjugated spirit. It says that I found Julian on the bathroom floor last Tuesday night and he was later pronounced dead officially at New York Presbyterian. It doesn't mention he was already dead in our home, and that it had to be confirmed by a doctor. But it does list the last two recent titles from his backlist, including "Broken in the Bayou."

The second paragraph points their subscribers to Julian's author website through Seven Liberties Publishing, where they can purchase his books. I'm certain it will generate some extra residuals, but I've finalized my decision of donating all future royalties to an Alzheimer's focused charity.

Another swig from the bottle escorts more Glenmorangie down my throat, when I raise the TV volume a bit once American Pickers returns from commercial. Given my blurred vision, I should be conked out in ten or twelve minutes flat. I've stretched out on the bed with the hooch firmly between my legs, and I'm comfortably propped up against a sea of pillows lining the headboard. For good measure, I reunite the anesthetic with my lips for one last guzzle to be entirely sure I succumb to a decent REM cycle. It's the first time I've slept in a bed since Friday, I think.