Commitment Issues Read online

  The doctor shook his head as he walked out.

  My mother pushed open the door. She was older, and she looked tired. She had aged fast in the years since we had seen each other.

  "Hi, son,” she said. Son? She called me her son, which would seem to be contrary to her saying she never had a son.

  "Mother,” I said quietly. I used to call her “Mommy,” but I didn't feel chummy about her being in my hospital room.

  "I'm here with Lucy,” she said. “Can she come in?"

  I shook my head no. Lucy was married to an evangelical preacher who raised money to convert homosexuals. He had a group to make gays marry somebody of the opposite sex. It was a vile and corrupt organization. I had heard of a couple of suicide attempts caused by the organization, but I had never heard of any conversion that worked. Changing somebody's sexual orientation never worked. I always wondered if Lucy married him because of me. Maybe she had tried to get me interested in girls and failed, so she wanted to commit to somebody who claimed to do that full-time. Mother had tried to keep the peace in the family, but she eventually sided with Lucy, saying it was because of the grandchildren. Lucy and the asshole didn't have any kids. I told her it was obvious that she valued Lucy more than me.

  Mother stuck her head out the door and shook her head no. She closed the door and walked up to the bed with a smile.

  "I've met Wyatt,” she said. “He loves you very much. I like him too. He's so pretty that all the nurses turn their heads when he walks down the hallway. You got a keeper this time, Sean, and he is so nice."

  And if she knew what just had happened in the hospital room, she'd probably fall over dead. Maybe we could get my asshole sister and her satanic jock-wad husband in the room, and Wyatt and I could do a repeat performance.

  "Do you need anything?” she asked.

  "Wyatt,” I said. “Where's Wyatt?"

  "I think he's talking to Lucy about something."

  My sister was probably telling him about the ex-gay program. I wanted to sell tickets to that conversation and open an off-track betting store to gamble on the results. Wyatt had been so timid when I first saw him, but he had blossomed into somebody who could handle himself even around my asshole sister and her husband.

  "I'm tired,” I lied.

  "Okay, dear,” Mother said. “I just wanted to see you. We had some strong disagreements in the past, but I want you to know that I love you. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn't strong enough to deal with addiction, but I am so proud of what you've done."

  I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

  * * * *

  "How'd you do with my sister?” I asked Wyatt the next day. When I awoke, he was sleeping in the hospital bed curled around me. We both faced the window, and he had snuggled in close to my back. It was the same position as when we made love, except that he was fully clothed, damn it. One of his legs was between my legs, and one of his arms was around my waist.

  "We had a tense moment or two. I told her that I don't really care what she thinks about me or you, but that I would insist on respect."

  "Good for you,” I smiled. “Did her head start spinning around?"

  "Not really, but I think she was surprised that somebody would be so direct."

  "You hold your ground?"

  "Held mine and captured some from the enemy. I told her if I ever heard of anything negative from her that she would never set foot in our home or anywhere else. I told her that life is too short for me to suffer bigots or hazing. She said that being called to faith can break up families."

  "I can't wait to hear what you said to that."

  "What? I was nice and never raised my voice, but I told her if any family was going to break up it would be hers, because I wasn't going to allow her hate speech anywhere near my family. I told her that we would pray that she learn to accept the fact that God doesn't make mistakes... that if God had made me gay at birth, it was dangerous and satanic to think she needed to improve on what God did."

  "What'd she say to that?"

  "Let me quote her: ‘But...,’ she said. ‘But... but....’ I told her to stop saying ‘but'. I told her I was very fond of her brother's butt, and it wasn't available even if she said please. I told her that I wasn't in the mood to share with anybody in a cult that thought they were called to fix what God created."

  "Ooooh, you did?"

  "I did. I asked her—nicely and with a smile—if she had any questions. She didn't. I think she was a little afraid of me, but I didn't threaten her. I got into her personal space a little, but we never touched."

  "Sweet,” I said. “I could have used your help when we were growing up. I may have been too rough with Mother. She was here with some remorse, and I need to circle back around on that."

  "Not today,” he said as he held my hand.

  "No, not today."

  "I love you,” he told me.

  "Am I interrupting?” my doctor asked as he walked into the room. Wyatt got out of the bed and walked over toward the window.

  "No, damn it,” Wyatt said.

  "We need the room,” the doctor said. “Do you think Wyatt can take care of you?"

  "Yeah,” I shrugged.

  "Not just sleep with you,” the doctor said. “You aren't a hundred percent yet. You can't do everything like you used to."

  "I'll be fine."

  "We have your external injuries fixed. All your labs are looking good. Internal bleeding was stopped a long time ago, and your internal bruising is gone. I was worried about that punctured lung for a while, but it seems to be okay. The big problem was that all your internal organs were knocked loose by the bomb. They're on the mend, but you are a bit fragile. Chart says you are pregnant, but that—"

  "Whoa, huh?"

  "Just seeing if you were paying attention."

  "I was,” I said. “But if my apartment was blown up, I don't know where we are going to stay."

  "Well, I think your company has a new place for you to stay,” the doctor said.

  "You don't worry about the place,” Wyatt said proudly. “Chico and I got you settled. There's security in the lobby—burly guys in snappy uniforms with nightsticks and mace. It's a high-rise. You are moved in and unpacked, what was left that didn't get blown up. Chico and the radio network bought you some stuff, so you are good to go."

  "Do I even get a vote?"

  "No, apparently not,” the doctor said.

  "So you're just tossing me out on the street?"

  "Not at all. An orderly is bringing a wheelchair."

  "Okay, so you're rolling me out to the street."

  The doctor nodded. “Yeah, well, your insurance has been milked for everything we could get, so I'm afraid the hospital needs to move on to more fertile ground."

  "I don't know how I will live without your cheerful staff, doctor."

  "You will suffer in quiet desperation, just like all my other former patients. Try to cope, Sean. I don't think your insurance covers counseling, so you're on your own."

  "Okay."

  "I need to see you once a week for the next month. Wyatt has all the details."

  And the doctor was gone. He was very type-A and never just stood around.

  Wyatt went out to the hall to find the orderly and the wheelchair. He was just out of the room for a couple of minutes, but it was enough time for me to make a mess.

  I sat up in the bed and started to get up by myself. That was a mistake. I ended up on the floor. Maybe I'm not quite as ready to go home as the doctor thought.

  The police officer came into the room to see what the noise was. “Medic!” he called out.

  Two burly male nurses came running. Medic? The cop must have been military or something. I don't think the hospital had any medics, per se.

  "Silly boy,” one of them said. “You can't lay on your back for twelve weeks and expect to jump up and start walking. Don't be a hero here. Let the wheelchair get to you. If you break a hip, you can't go home."

  "You need the room,” I sai
d. “I know."

  "What's all the commotion?” Wyatt said as he walked in pushing my wheelchair.

  "Sean fell down,” one of the nurses said. “Can't get up."

  "Splat,” Wyatt said. I gave him a one-fingered salute.

  "Fight!” one of the nurses hollered.

  "I got a Franklin on the blond kid,” the police officer said.

  "Gotta give me odds, officer,” the nurse laughed. “I can't do that much without incentive."

  "Honey,” I told Wyatt, “if you'll distract these hooligans, I will see if I can get the officer's pistol."

  "God, I love it when you talk rough,” Wyatt said. “Here, sit. Let me roll you out of this toilet before the hoodlums tell us to pay the mortgage."

  "What we charge, you already paid off the mortgage and most of our student loans,” one of the nurses said.

  "You mean our paycheck might not bounce this week?” the other nurse answered. “Damn! Thanks, guys."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  T-bone. Isn't that what they call it when somebody hits your car broadside?

  No, we didn't get hit, but it was close. We were just pulling into an intersection when somebody blasted through a red light. Wyatt slammed on the brakes, and the other driver never realized what he almost did. He was texting.

  A police officer behind us noticed and went off ninety to nothing with lights blinking. Cop chase! Maybe we'd get television helicopters on the scene.

  "I hope they take away the asshole's phone,” Wyatt said as he breathed. His hands were shaking so much that I wasn't sure he could drive.

  "Want me to take over?"

  "Nope, I'll be fine."

  Just then, another car came screeching through the same intersection twisting sideways. It was doing what looked like a slow-motion pirouette toward the light. The driver saw the red light at the last minute and slammed on the brakes. There was oil or grease on the road, because all we saw was a car spinning through. We had just made it through the intersection. The car behind us wasn't so lucky.

  Wyatt pulled over to see if anybody was hurt. He went to the car that was behind us first. Good—the asshole in the spinning car could wait. The driver behind us seemed to be okay, according to Wyatt. The other driver, the one who had run the light, was out cold.

  "Booze,” Wyatt said. “I could smell gin in the car."

  "Great,” I laughed. “We almost get hit by somebody using their cell phone and then by a drunk. What a day, huh?"

  I called 911 to report the accident. Two cars, and one of the drivers was unconscious. Oops, check that—the other driver was awake and driving off as fast as he could.

  "Can you get the license plate, sir?” the 911 operator said.

  "Sure, wait, wait,” I said into the phone. “N-something 3-8-7-9. Sorry, that's all the plate I could see. He was going really fast, and it's a residential neighborhood. One of the other people here said there was a smell of alcohol."

  "You're saying the car was eastbound on Leopard Lane?"

  "No, westbound,” I said.

  "Westbound on Leopard,” the operator said. “I am dispatching an officer. Thank you."

  "Okay, bye."

  As we were about to leave, I saw the officer from the first stop swing back into chase mode. He was off down the road to catch the drunk driver. Let's see, driving under the influence, running a red light, hit and run. This was going to really ruin the guy's day. The officer would probably think up several other misdemeanors before he caught that driver. Maybe there were outstanding arrest warrants. People didn't usually flee a traffic accident without some serious reason, but a DWI might have been serious enough. The courts frowned on that kind of behavior lately. With a wreck, it could be an expensive day for the man.

  Part of me felt sorry for him. Part of me, not so much.

  There but for the grace of God go I.

  "Okay, I am officially calling this day complete,” Wyatt said. He was blocking traffic a little, and some asshole was sitting on his horn. Wyatt wanted to go have words, but I talked him out of it.

  "Wait, maybe we could get the sick guy home,” I said.

  "Sorry."

  "Wait,” I said. “I want a hamburger."

  "Let me find a drive-through."

  "There,” I said, “but let's go in."

  We did.

  "Double meat, single cheese,” I said.

  "Single meat, no pickles,” Wyatt said.

  "Is that for here or to go?” the woman said.

  "Which do you recommend?” Wyatt asked her. I could see something not clicking in the poor woman's head.

  Grease. It tasted so good. I was so tired of hospital food. I didn't even get French fries or a drink. I just wanted the burger. It was dripping with cholesterol. My arteries were going to be nice and firm again. Yeah, I was tired. Yeah, it would have been smarter to go home. I really enjoyed sitting in that hamburger stand with Wyatt. We both chomped down on our food.

  "You really messed with that poor woman's mind,” I said.

  "It was a line I heard a guy use one time,” he admitted. “This one wasn't mine."

  "Well, you both ought to be ashamed of yourselves."

  "Maybe,” he said, “but we aren't. It's way too much fun."

  "You gonna tell me who said the line?"

  "Don't have to. It was the third time that I used it, so I can claim it's mine."

  * * * *

  "Damn,” I said when Wyatt pulled into the underground parking garage. I saw my motorcycle near a far wall. He told me that the Harley dealer had sent somebody over to move it at no charge. It was their get-well present.

  The lobby of the building was up two floors from the parking garage elevator. There was a guard in the lobby who already knew Wyatt, and he guessed who I might be.

  "You must be Mr. Roberts,” the security guard said as I nodded. “There's a welcome kit upstairs for you. Mr. Nelson has a key, but your key is waiting for you upstairs. None of those bandages look like they were any fun."

  "You got that right,” I said.

  "Can I help you get into your condo?"

  "Naw, we got it,” Wyatt said.

  Sixth floor. The door was just around the corner from the elevator, and I was glad about that. It was far enough not to hear partiers but close enough that my injured body didn't have too much of a hike. Wyatt opened the door, and I saw the condo for the first time.

  "Holy Toledo,” I said. There was marble everywhere. All the potted plants from the hospital were in the living room. There was strange furniture here and there, so I assumed there wasn't much of mine left to move.

  "Let's get you into bed, and I will see you tomorrow."

  "What?” I asked. “Tomorrow?"

  "Yeah,” Wyatt said with a grin. “I figure you need some down-time. You haven't really had any time to yourself for several months."

  "But what if I want you to stay?"

  "I can do that, but you need some rest."

  "Wyatt,” I said as I sat on the bed with a plop, “I love you. I want to live with you. If you don't have anything planned for the next fifty or sixty years, would you consider calling this place your home?"

  He guided me onto the bed and moved onto my lap. He stayed on top of me, and I could see him grinning ear-to-ear. He put both of his hands on the sides of my face and let his fingers meet gently on the back of my neck. There was something tender about the way he held my neck. It was comforting and gentle. He leaned down to give me a kiss. We held each other without moving for the longest time.

  "I mean, I might have some spare time,” he said. “Are you sure it's what you want?"

  "I want you here. I want to live with you. I want to call you my lover and my soul mate. Whatever I have, I want to share with you."

  "We have some negotiations first, before everything is settled."

  "Negotiations?” I asked.

  "What side of the bed?"

  "Let's keep it simple. If th
ere's a left and right, I'll take the left, because that's where I am politically. If there's a top and bottom, I'll be on the bottom with you on my top."

  "Music to my ears,” he whispered as he nibbled on my earlobe. “Oh, you are not ready for what the network did to one of the other bedrooms."

  "One of the other bedrooms?"

  "Dude, you have arrived. There is a formal sitting room and an informal den, and we have three bedrooms."

  "No shit?"

  "None that I've been able to see. Maybe you have to pay extra. If you want shit, maybe we can get Chico to make some inquiries."

  "What now?” I asked.

  "They want you to go back on the air in two days. Janie will be here tomorrow sometime. One of the bedrooms is a full studio. They stripped all the walls down and built them back as soundproof. I can't believe how much material was already in the walls, but it wasn't good enough. They put more stuff in the walls of that one room than they have at Fort Knox. There's even a false floor, an ‘isolation floor', whatever that means."

  "It means building noise doesn't make it into the room."

  "Makes sense. There was a jet overhead, and it made one of the engineers worried. They hadn't planned on doing a floor until the jet came over. He said you could hear the jet because the building resonated the noise. Oh, and there's a window in the studio, and they had to redo the wall about a dozen times until the building manager was satisfied that it looked okay from the outside of the building."

  "La-dee-dah."

  "Yeah, that's what Chico said."

  "What about the engineer?"

  "Ronny?"

  "Yeah, Ronny."

  "So many people, I forget the names. Ronny is still downtown, but you and Janie Marroquin have a full-time video link to the engineering booth. Ronny was here and put your video monitor on a big screen television. He said it would be like you were looking at him through a window at the main studio."

  "Very thoughtful."

  "That's what Janie told him,” Wyatt said.

  "Let me guess, he also got a big video monitor for his end?"

  "You and Janie must think alike, because she asked the same question. Yeah, you and Ronny will both be on big screens. They have all the news feeds coming into computers in your studio here."