5. EDDIE

Chapter five

EDDIE

T he next morning, I woke up in a strange bed. It took me a moment to remember everything that had happened. The reality of all that was crashing down on me as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, all its little cracks.

The thought of Jared, my nephew, now being under my care felt enormous. What would become of him without me? I knew I could not abandon him. I knew enough from growing up around Max to know the impact on a kid of knowing that they are not wanted, especially after the tragedy of a parent's death.

Thinking of Max's past made me think of him the day before, his embrace, his smell, his effect on me. I closed my eyes again, allowing myself to linger in the sensation of him holding me for a moment longer. It was then I felt my penis start to harden.

I opened my eyes. It was pointless even to think that way. I couldn't commit to being gay or bisexual in New York. To dream of Max here was a one-way ticket to fantasyland!

I watched the yellow morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, glowing like a halo around their edges. I got out of bed and pulled back the curtains back, and the day poured in. The warmth of the sun hit my body, bright and hot on my nakedness, a luxury I seldom experienced in the urban density of New York.

Basking in that sunlight for a moment, I couldn't help but smile, appreciating the simple pleasure of home. For years, I had avoided it, but then, looking at the thick trees and the bright flowers in the back yard, hearing the intense morning birdsong even through the glass of the window panes, I found myself drawn to it. I felt connected to it.

Then I realized that beyond that screen of trees were all of my sister's neighbors, any of whom could have been looking back right then and seeing my pale, skinny, naked body at the window. I turned away.

Pulling on some shorts to cross the landing, I went to shower in the bathroom. En route, I could hear no signs of life from Jared's room.

Having washed myself back in my bedroom, I prepared to dress; I put my shorts back on, along with a light sweatshirt.

I realized that the temperature outside was probably warmer than I thought. I pulled the sweatshirt off and exchanged it for a thin tee. Lastly, I pulled on some socks and sneakers.

The night before, I had fiddled with the air-conditioning unit but couldn't get it to work and had slept sweatily and fitfully. Now, in the sanity of morning, I got it to work in about five seconds flat. Cold air fluttered over my body. Why did you always solve these things in the morning?

I went out of my bedroom again. The house was silent; the only noise was the chatter of cicadas and birdsong outside. I stood at the top of the stairs, but then I made my way to Jared's closed bedroom door.

Tentatively, I tapped on the wood. Nothing. I called out Jared's name. I waited a second. Nothing again. So I knocked again, a little louder, and waited.

Eventually, I pushed the door open very slowly because you don't want to march straight into the bedroom of any teenage boy. I knew not to: I used to be one!

To my surprise, as the door creaked open, revealing the room dimly lit behind closed curtains, I found Jared not asleep but lying on his bed in shorts and a crumpled tee, his gaze fixed upward on the ceiling. There was an empty, haunted look in his eyes. I stepped into his room, taking a few steps to the end of his bed.

"Are you okay, Jared?" I asked.

He didn't answer for a few seconds.

"I couldn't sleep. Been thinking about Mom."

I stood there and smiled at him, even though he wasn't looking at me.

"It's okay to think about her, Jared. Grief takes its time."

He breathed out, and I could hear how his voice trembled, not precisely tearfully, as he spoke. "I miss her so much. It almost burns."

I went and sat down next to him on the edge of his bed.

"I know, buddy. I miss her, too. It's okay to feel sad."

Finally, his eyes moved to mine.

"Do you still think about your mom?"

I smiled again and nodded.

"All the time. But with time, it becomes different. It's not so painful anymore. The memories I have are… comforting. I think of her fondly, think of your mom and me with her in a good way."

"I hope I can feel that way someday."

"You will, Jared. It takes time. This is the hardest part, the early days."

"I am glad you said that," he replied warmly. "It makes me feel like there will be a time when I don't feel like this."

I nodded.

"And until then, it's okay to feel however you feel."

He was still looking at me, still smiling warmly.

"Thanks, Eddie. That helps a lot."

I stood up.

"Come on, get up, and we can make some breakfast together."

"Okay."

I went over to the window and pulled the curtains back to let in the light. It poured in on us both.

***

Together, we ate breakfast in front of the TV, just two bowls of cereal. I guess in the future, I would have to be the sort of parent who said not to do this, but right then, it felt oddly comforting, despite or rather because of the weight of grief lingering on us.

As we sat in front of the TV, Jared and I found an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants . I remembered when I was a teen, this was seen as one of the classics: "Band Geeks." Squidward gets the Bikini Bottom community to form a marching band to impress Squilliam Fancyson. SpongeBob somehow becomes the band's conductor, with hilariously disastrous results, but in his eternally optimistic way, a triumphant outcome.

Jared and I found ourselves laughing uproariously. The absurdity of SpongeBob's optimism against Squidward's pessimism on some level was talking to us then: telling us that things would work out, despite whatever was going on now. The bowls of cereal were shaking in our hands, the milk moving back and forth, we laughed so much.

Later, Jared went back up to his room, and I decided to take the opportunity to make a discreet call to the school to get a sense of what they expected to happen. I was connected with Mrs. Thompson, the guidance counselor. She knew about Megan's death and asked me how Jared was doing, how he seemed. Mrs. Thompson assured me that the school would provide all the support Jared needed. I asked what that might look like.

"First and foremost, we can arrange counseling sessions for Jared to help him cope with his loss," she said. "The school psychologist comes in once a week and is excellent with situations like these. She can refer on, too, if we feel he needs more support."

"He doesn't seem too bad right now," I said.

Mrs. Thompson said that was good, but we would have to wait and see.

"It's very early days."

"Of course."

Mrs. Thompson continued. "In terms of his schooling, given the circumstances, I would advise that Jared take this week off to process everything. He can then return next Monday and see how he feels. He only has a few weeks left till the end of the school year, but we find that students of his sort of age generally respond well to getting back into a rhythm, if they feel up to it."

"That sounds like a good plan," I said. "I've been considering relocating Jared to New York, but with the school year ending soon, do you have any thoughts?"

Mrs. Thompson paused for a moment.

"It's understandable that you're considering a move, but I would advise caution, unless Jared feels strongly, expresses a strong preference. With summer approaching, Jared should finish out this school year here and then reassess his options once things have settled down. Sound him out about it. See how he feels."

I felt a creeping dread. Once again, the unexpectedness of us having to live with the terms of Megan's will struck me. We said goodbye, and we would be in touch. Mrs. Thompson said she would text me soon. As I hung up, apprehension gripped me. The responsibility of caring for Jared weighed even more heavily on my shoulders, and I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed.

I thought I might go out for a walk, but first went upstairs to talk to Jared. I climbed the stairs but found myself hovering at the door to Megan's room. I had never been to this house before, and I had no nostalgic claim on her space, yet still I wanted to see it.

I pushed open the door, feeling ever so slightly like I was intruding. The room was bathed in a soft morning light. I stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the unfamiliar sight.

Stepping inside, I felt a lump form in my throat, even though I had never been to this house when my sister was alive. So, nothing in the room meant anything to me – the cozy bed, its floral bedspread, the shelves lined with little bowls of jewelry, the framed photographs on the walls of Megan and Jared, when he was much younger, and then one of my mother holding him as a baby – and yet I felt very moved.

My sister lived in this room, and now she was gone.

I moved around slowly, running my fingers over surfaces. Picking up a framed photograph from her bedside table, I realized it was the picture of the two of us. I must have been about two, and she was probably twelve or so. In it, she tried to hold me almost maternally, and I was trying to wriggle away from her embrace.

It was ever thus, perhaps.

Slowly, I set the photograph back in its place and took a deep breath, knowing that I should leave the room. But then, out on the floor, as if she had pulled it out looking for something else and never had a chance to put it back, was a box filled with more photographs.

These looked very old. I pulled out the top photograph and held it up to the light to see it more clearly. It was black-and-white, from the 1960s, perhaps: a smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I recognized the faces of my grandparents – their laughter at some kind of party frozen in time. They were in their forties or fifties then.

Next was a series of vacation snapshots – my mother and father at a table at a seaside restaurant. There was Megan, grinning from ear to ear, maybe about six, and I realized from the time before I was born. My dad left not long after I came along, and we hardly heard from him again. We no longer even knew if he was alive or dead.

Another photograph was a moment of pure joy – my mom surrounded by women friends, their arms linked as they danced in a circle, but I could not tell where they were or what the occasion was. I didn't recognize any of the women.

The photos seemed to become a commentary on time passing and losing touch with those you once loved.

I unearthed snapshots of our childhood – Megan and me, again, me very small, her before or entering her teen years.

But then my heart skipped a beat when I stumbled upon several photographs featuring Max and me during our teenage years.

In the first photograph, Max and I stood side by side, our arms draped over each other's shoulders as we grinned at the camera. His magnetic grin – naturally wide and handsome even as a teenager – lit up the picture, his deep, dark eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned against me.

Next, Max and I were in a moment of riotous joy as we goofed around in front of the camera. He had me in a headlock, but my playful grin showed it was not serious. Were we doing it just for the shot? Who took it: my mom?

I couldn't remember anymore.

In each image, I saw the depth of my friendship with Max from which I had turned away, which I had left behind. I saw, too, now quite why he was so happy for me to be back, for the chance to reconnect.

We really had what appeared to be the best, closest friendship. Was it me who had slightly forgotten that part of it? I had felt myself in love with him, but I had actually been his best friend, too, and he had been mine.

Didn't friendship matter, too?