We Are Lost and Found Read online

  But then, in the silence, it hits me.

  Connor is right. Gabriel might be sick and not even know it.

  Connor might be sick and not telling me.

  I don’t know how to protect them.

  I don’t know how to protect myself.

  How do I live my life without becoming a statistic?

  My parents return. My dad grumbles about the traffic and the prices and my mom taking too long to pack.

  My mom looks at me, but doesn’t really see me. She tells me not to forget to take out the trash.

  I fantasize about standing in the middle of the living room and screaming that I’ve had my heart broken, but I doubt anyone would care.

  I call Becky and offer to meet her at St. Patrick’s when she gets off work. I don’t need to bribe her to hang out with me. I actually want to go to the church and lose myself in the quiet. And maybe she’ll have some insights for me.

  After I meet her and hug her and basically can’t form words for over a half hour, she leads me to a pew.

  It’ll feel better after you talk about it, she says.

  I’m skeptical about that, but it’s Becky so I tell her everything.

  She takes my hand in hers and says, Okay, first off, I don’t know anything about what Connor gave you, but Andy’s mom always talks about how there is no cure or prevention for this thing, so promise me you’re going to ignore those pills. Seriously, Michael.

  And I know you think Connor can be a bit self-absorbed, but taking the risk to come to your apartment is probably the nicest thing I’ve heard of him doing.

  Yes on both counts, I say.

  But as for Gabriel…

  Don’t judge him, Becks, I beg, I’m not sure I have the energy.

  I feel her hand tense in mine, but all she says is, I’m not judging. He’s old enough to make up his own mind about how to live his life. And I give him credit for being honest with you. But don’t hate me for being glad you didn’t sleep with him.

  I know I should be glad too, but I’m not, I mumble. Not if I’m being really honest.

  Oh, Michael, she says as she puts her arm around me and pulls me close. Do you know what I repeat to myself when I wake up in the middle of the night and Mom is gone or puking in the bathroom?

  What?

  This too shall pass, she says. Seriously, I get that it sounds sappy, but sometimes that’s the only thing that gets me through the day, just being aware that the time will come when I look back on this and know how it all plays out. Even if that sucks.

  But what do I do in the meantime? I ask.

  The bells start to ring, but somehow I can still hear her whisper one word: live.

  I’m sleepwalking.

  James calls one day to check up on me, Becky the next.

  My mom tries to feed me and my dad glares at me as if I’m in a shitty mood for no other reason than to annoy him.

  So really, life as usual.

  Except this time, Connor gives me a hard time when I cancel dinner. Go figure.

  I’m dimly aware of the phone ringing in the middle of the night. My sleep-addled brain says Gabriel, but I haven’t called him and I don’t think he’d call me.

  And definitely not in the middle of the night.

  I ignore it because I’m sure it’s a wrong number, or a prank, or one of those calls saying a distant relative has died. Besides, I don’t have a phone in my room, and I have no plans of getting up.

  But the minute my mother opens my bedroom door without knocking, I know it’s something else.

  Becky’s on the line, she whispers.

  Becky? I repeat. I glance at the clock. One thirty in the morning. My mother stands still, silent. Everything she has to say is written in her expression. She’s the one who will have to deal with my father’s annoyance at being woken in the middle of the night, but she doesn’t even look put out.

  I bolt out of bed, into the kitchen, and grab the phone.

  Becks?

  Michael. Her fear, her panic, is clear in the tight pitch of her voice.

  What is it?

  It’s James, she says. Andy called. It’s pure luck that they were there. His patrol, I mean.

  James? Becks, what happened?

  I don’t know, she says and can’t hold the sob in anymore. He was outside The Space. I think he was hurt pretty badly.

  I can’t process what she’s saying. Hurt? James? What does that mean? A broken ankle? Was he hit by a bus?

  Becks?

  Andy is coming to pick me up. If we wait near the first car of the 1 at Times Square for you, will your parents let you come to St. Vincent’s with us?

  He’s in the hospital? I’m not even asking my parents.

  I just go.

  This is what Andy tells me:

  It was luck, stupid luck that we were even there on patrol. And I didn’t see what happened. I just saw him lying there on the ground next to the back door. There was blood. Man, there was so much blood. My patrol leader, Radar, tried to get him to talk while I called 911. James kept mumbling that he was sorry. But I couldn’t get him to tell me what he was sorry for, and then he blacked out when the ambulance got there.

  Hey Michael, are you sure you want to hear this? You look kind of green.

  We aren’t relatives, so we can’t see him while he’s still in the ER.

  Over and over the nurses tell us this as if we didn’t know, couldn’t read their stupid signs.

  His parents aren’t here. He isn’t close to them. Has anyone even called them?

  It doesn’t matter that we love him. It doesn’t matter that he loves us.

  We aren’t relatives.

  Andy doesn’t say anything about being worried to have cleaned up James’s blood, which I’m taking as a good sign, but I’m not sure what of.

  He goes back on patrol while Becky scrounges for change for the cigarette machine and eventually borrows two quarters and a menthol from the duty nurse.

  We head out to the loading dock so I can find some air.

  Maybe we can break into his room, she says. If we got in, do you think they’d believe we’re related?

  I stare at Becky’s long straight braid, picture my curly hair, and think of James and his blond bangs and his sky-blue eyes and his straight lines, and try to laugh. But it comes out like a strangled cough.

  What if it’s bad, Becks? What are we going to do? I ask. I selfishly realize I’m as worried about us as I am about James. It isn’t that I can’t stand the idea of losing anything or anyone else, it’s that James is the person my mind goes to when things are dark. He’s like this comforting light I need to know is out there somewhere. My brain refuses to contemplate how dim my life would be without him.

  She takes my hand, and says, Maybe we should go home. I left his mom a message and she won’t be able to reach me so easily here. I jump off the dock and then give her a hand. I don’t want to leave. Home seems too far away. But she’s right.

  Becky calls later and tells me James’s mom called her from England and is on her way back. Then she says she talked to Andy’s mom who convinced the duty nurse to promise to let her know when James is going to be released, so there’s nothing to do but wait.

  In the meantime, I try to reach my brother.

  There’s no answer at the apartment, regardless of when I call.

  There’s no answer when I go there and pound on the door.

  He isn’t at work, but I leave a note telling him to call me or I’ll throw the entire baseball card collection that Grandpa Bartolomeo left him down the incinerator.

  That does the trick.

  I miss Gabriel, but it’s more like I miss the possibility of Gabriel. With James, it’s different, tangible. I keep imagining him, pale against the white sheets, alone and scared.

  Conn
or pulls the celery out of his Bloody Mary and pretends to play the drums with it. James will be okay, he says. I mean, you guys are tight. He knows you’re there for him.

  I look up at my brother, amazed at his sincerity. Then he says, Hey, wanna hear some good news?

  I freeze with a fry in my hand and Connor’s words ringing in my ears. Still, I’m not sure I actually believe them.

  Give me that again, I say.

  A big smile creeps across his face and he repeats, Well, that designer, Maurice, came into the store last month, and we started talking about fashion trends and you know, other stuff, and then we kinda started spending time together. He’s into clean living and all of that. Not even pot, just a glass of wine on occasion. How wild is that?

  Anyhow, his designs are doing really well, and my friend Brandon is coming back to New York and needs me out of his apartment, so I had to find something anyhow, and we decided it last night. I’m moving in.

  With Maurice the shoe guy?

  Yeah.

  You don’t feel like you’re maybe rushing it or something?

  Life is short, Michael. Seriously, you should see this place. Also, Maurice is hot. And talented and not only as a designer, if you catch my drift. So what the hell? I mean, I’ve been spending all my nights there anyhow.

  Well, that explains why you haven’t been returning my calls, I grumble. I thought you were really sick again or something.

  Instead of confirming or denying the point, he stares at me with a goofy grin on his face. So even though I think he’s being ridiculous, and even though living with someone doesn’t mean he won’t be doing drugs or having sex with a million people, it seems like a start.

  But look, he says, I want you to meet him.

  I wait for him to follow his words with something snarky, but nothing comes, so I lean over and put my hand on his forehead like Mom used to do when we were kids.

  You’re feverish, right? I ask, even though his skin is cool. My brother has never gone out of his way to introduce me to anyone before. Not even Tony who was apparently worth getting kicked out of the house for.

  Connor doesn’t even bat my hand away; he just grins wider and says, I’m not. At least I don’t think I am. My glands are still a little sore, but I went to the doctor last week, and they can’t find anything. Go figure. But anyway, the store is having its annual open house next week. Let’s all meet up.

  I stare at my brother, wide-eyed. Trying to process everything he’s told me.

  Then I tell him I’ll be there. There’s no way I’m missing this.

  I get in to see James for ten minutes before he’s released. His arm is in a sling. His face is a mass of bruises. Stitches crisscross his swollen lips. I wonder what the club kids or those newspaper writers who are always talking about his cheekbones would think if they saw him now. If they saw him damaged and discolored.

  His eyes aren’t quite focused, and it disturbs me in a way that must show on my face. It’s the medications, the nurse explains.

  I bend down so I’m level with the wheelchair they’re insisting he use.

  You scared us, I say.

  James puts a long shaky hand to his chest. I can’t feel it, he says. His voice is equally shaky and not quite James.

  Feel what?

  My heart beating.

  I know this is the drugs too, but my eyes sting with sudden tears and my own heart seizes in my rib cage.

  I grab his hand and pull it away from his chest. His skin is cold, and his bare fingers twist with mine.

  Do what the doctors tell you, I say stupidly. Call me as soon as you can.

  Then he’s wheeled away to the waiting car, and I’m left with all of the important things I should have said.

  All the things I should have asked.

  All the things.

  Becky gets more details from Andy, who gets the info from his cop dad, who got it from some guy at the precinct who owed him a favor.

  And thing is, it was random. Just a bunch of assholes looking for trouble and finding my best friend instead.

  I close my eyes and see it. The show is over. James is outside, still in his stage makeup, or maybe dressed to go out. Smoking a long, thin cigarette in his long, thin hand when a guy comes up to him. Then more than one. Maybe they had a tire iron or a baseball bat or maybe just fists.

  It could have been anyone. Someone. No one. But they were there. And James, who never has issues with anyone because he isn’t a fighter. He can’t talk his way out of this one.

  Charm can’t cut through hate. Anger. Fear.

  I wince with each hit I imagine. Eyes. Nose. Mouth.

  James.

  Broken.

  Becky is at Andy’s and then heading to work. Connor is at Maurice’s. It doesn’t matter where my parents are, because what type of comfort have they given me in the last two years?

  I caress my guitar. I write James a song. No, a melody. I can’t sort through my brain to find words.

  I clean my room, alphabetizing my albums and packing away old comics I haven’t read in years.

  I migrate to the kitchen, pick up the phone to call Gabriel, and then put it back down.

  Pick it up again. Punch in numbers. The Dial-a-Daze line gives me a busy signal over and over.

  I spend hours staring out of my window at the traffic, wondering what happens next.

  Becky calls from the ice cream store.

  My boss is off tonight, come down and keep me company, she says.

  I don’t know, Becks…

  Michael, did that sound like a question? I’m freezing my ass off in here, and I just served fudge ripple to an entire little league team.

  Fine, I say, fine.

  I bring her my Clash sweatshirt to put on under her apron, and I can’t stop thinking that it was the same one James wore at my house. She pushes me onto a stool and instructs me to sit and watch while she scoops some daiquiri ice into the blender, followed by something clear she dumps in from a brown paper bag.

  When the machine shuts off, she pours two cups and holds one out to me.

  You look like you could use it.

  You haven’t heard from James yet? I ask after a couple of mind-numbingly cold sips.

  Seriously, Michael. He isn’t going to call me.

  I thought you might have tried to reach him.

  Well, I did. But of course his parents have that stupid answering machine. Seriously. I wasn’t just going to leave a message again, regardless of how eloquently his mother asked for it. I mean, it’s saved on tape. Forever. And who knows who could be listening in.

  I stay at the store until ten, listening to the tinny sixties music coming over the speakers and drinking daiquiri slush.

  No one else comes in until just before I leave. Then I’m surprised to see Andy show up wearing his full vigilante getup—red cap and all.

  Sorry about James, man, he says. I’m glad we got there in time. You know, otherwise it might have been worse.

  Worse. The word makes the freezing liquid climb up the back of my throat.

  I know it happens. But I don’t get why anyone would do that? I croak out.

  It’s a sport to these guys, Andy says. They go looking for f— Sorry, for guys who are obviously gay.

  But seriously, I say, James wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  Andy shakes his head and says, Welcome to New York City, Michael. When did that ever matter here?

  Connor and Maurice stand at one of the tall tables that have been set up around the store. They’re looking at each other like they’re the only ones in the room.

  Maurice is tall. Has dark close-shaved hair, super-intense eyes, and a faint trace of some sort of Midwestern accent. And yeah, Connor is right. He’s hot. And nice, actually. Like genuinely nice and not the least bit condescending when he asks about scho
ol and my music. He listens politely when I answer his questions, and he talks about his fashion stuff as if he hasn’t had to answer the same questions twenty times tonight alone.

  Next to him, Connor is glowing in a way I haven’t seen before. He’s relaxed, and I try to remember a time, even when we were kids, when he seemed so comfortable in his skin; like maybe he doesn’t feel as if he needs to prove himself twenty-four-seven. He gets us all a round of soda (seriously, my brother is drinking soda!) and leans toward Maurice whenever he speaks.

  I owe Connor for the hundred million times he’s embarrassed me in front of someone, but I can’t bring myself to reciprocate. And when Maurice is pulled away to talk to some reporter, Connor actually looks nervous when he asks, So?

  I like him, I say honestly. Then, because we’re still brothers and Connor is still Connor, I add, I mean, not sure what he’s doing with you, but…

  Surprisingly, Connor’s expression goes serious. I know, he says, rubbing the back of his neck, I know. I’ve fucked up so many things, but this feels like it’s all been worth it. Even getting kicked out.

  I watch his eyes search the room and then brighten when they land on Maurice. Then he says, I hope I don’t screw this up.

  Seriously, what planet am I on?

  James finally calls. I think I’m in hell, he says. Meanwhile, I think it’s heaven to hear his voice.

  James’s parents’ house in Connecticut has columns, water views, landscaped gardens. Is it really so bad? I ask.

  He pauses and the line crackles when he answers, It’s Dante’s ninth circle, Michael.

  Which circle is that? I ask. We don’t get to Dante until next year.

  He breathes out one word that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck: treachery.

  I really need a cigarette, he says after pause.

  I ask, Do you want me to send you some? Cigarettes are almost a dollar a pack now, and I have no idea how much postage would cost, but I’d do it if he asked.

  Thanks, he says. I’ll sort something out.

  There’s another pause. An odd uncomfortable silence that demands to be filled with the question I don’t know how to ask, but need to.

  Are you okay?

  James makes a sound that’s something like a sigh, then says, Let’s just say I’m not spending a lot of time looking in the mirror. Lord, I hope those doctors took sewing in school. I’d hate to think the only roles I’m ever going to get are as Frankenstein’s monster.