Yeah The Boys, page 32
‘Do you think it’s Mum and Dad’s fault?’ I ask. ‘Like, for not being there for us? Did it make me the way I am, and you the way you are?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Doug clears his throat. ‘And can we not talk about my thing? It’s just a fetish, man, no big deal.’
‘I don’t wanna talk about it,’ I say. ‘It’s weird, but you’re not hurting anyone. Sorry if I overreacted. I don’t hate you for it.’
Doug swallows. ‘Orright,’ he says. ‘And I don’t hate you, either, for your thing.’
‘We don’t hate each other,’ I say. ‘That’s not bad.’
‘Not bad,’ Doug agrees.
25
MASCHIO
ZEKE
It’s hard to feel good about surviving the night when Curtis didn’t.
When I wake up in the quiet ward, I have another big cry. It comes over me like a rampage of tsunamis. Every time I think I’m done, another tsunami hits, and I’m a mess again. I think about Ahmed, losing his husband. Charlie, losing a father figure. Me and Rex, losing a protector. Curtis seemed so tough you’d think nothing could kill him.
I ask my nurse where they take the bodies. She says Curtis’ll be in the morgue and I can’t see him. It feels cruel to be in the same building and not be able to tell him I am here.
Nobody is exactly sure how Curtis died. Rex had mopped the kitchen so there was no mess when Ahmed got home from Kayla and Tenille’s. Curtis came home, kissed Ahmed in bed, went into the kitchen for his night-time protein shake and walked out into the courtyard to drink it in the moonlight in front of his favourite bonsai tree. Ahmed and Rex were startled by the thud of that big man’s body hitting the wooden deck, and nothing they or the paramedics did could save him. We do know it was a massive heart attack, but what triggered it might never be known: the stress of being attacked by Xander, or the panic of bankruptcy from the boycott, or the hate crime and harassment. Then again, Curtis abused steroids for decades and hit stimulants like a fiend. And he’d had a hard life, fighting against the grain.
Maybe it was all of it combined. His heart just couldn’t hold up to it anymore.
Nobody’s indestructible.
In the moments where my tsunami rampage ebbs, I realise that last night, I think I tried to die.
But waking up alive does not feel like failure. It feels like a second chance.
I think about Hammer, rematerialising into my life as if he hadn’t ghosted me for years. I still don’t understand how that happened or why Charlie called him. But that’s hardly my focus: I can’t stop thinking about what he admitted.
I only broke it off with you cos of footy. Not cos I ever stopped liking you. Okay?
Does that mean what it sounds like it means? The jock I was stupid enough to have a crush on didn’t just like me back – he still does? And he’s rocked up now to tell me that? Is he going to speak to me again? Will he reply if I text? Or will he ghost me again?
No matter what’s in store for me and Hammer, losing my shit at him last night has undone a toxic knot of grief I didn’t even know was strangling my solar plexus. Maybe snapping at footy training yesterday unlocked something in me. I feel lighter and stronger. Last night, I said to Hammer what I should have shouted in that hotel room.
I was angry like Jack Brolo.
I was strong like Curtis Levesque.
Once I’m released from the confines of my drip, I pad barefoot to the hospital ward toilet to take a dump. The exhaust fan whirrs. The tiles are cold on my feet. My reflection in the mirror is bruised, my knuckles bleeding again. If I died last night when my heart stopped beating, I would have died a coward. Hiding, twisting myself into knots for the approval of my parents, Sabrina, the world. It has been such a mistaken way to live: this desperate, frightened approval monster I became. There was never anything wrong with me and I never needed approval to be my own man. Curtis tried to tell me that. I’ve learned it now. Nothing the world throws at me can ever hurt me more than I hurt myself. I don’t fear displeasing anyone anymore.
The hospital’s foam soap smells of fresh citrus and stings the grazed skin as I wash my hands clean and allow myself to smile at my reflection instead of scowl at its imperfections. I am pear-shaped and shirtless and stocky and hairy and alive.
And I am so fucking done not being myself.
When I get the missed calls from my mother, I ignore them. I forgot about my plans with my parents: a coffee catch-up after my cousin’s christening. The last thing I want is for my parents to find out I’m in hospital and go full Sicilian on me.
But then Charlie texts. Hey dude, ur folks rocked up at the front door and Rex let slip you’re in Charlie’s. Sorry. They’re heading to see you. Heads up.
Goddammit.
Thanks for letting me know. I hesitate, but add: How are you holding up?
Still in shock. I can’t believe it. Curtis. I loved him so much, Zeke. He was Superman to me. I thought he’d live forever. Ahmed has fallen apart, all over the shop emotionally. Kayla and Tenille are here. Rex is a mess. We’re all sitting here like stunned mullets.
There are no words to make it better. Before I can formulate a reply, Charlie adds: He was like a dad to me, man.
Another tsunami slams me; saltwater all over the bed sheet.
I know. I’m so sorry. Curtis was a good man.
The best man I’ve ever known, Charlie replies. Dunno what I’ll do without him.
Sorry I’m stuck in hospital. Do you have someone there for you? I ask. Reyna?
Reyna’s in Mandurah – Hectic Lettuce had a gig there last night.
Mason? I suggest.
Charlie’s reply is quick. I can’t. I fucked things with him. I guess it’s over.
The old Zeke would have said something gentle and comforting, but I tap a fired-up message to Charlie instead. Sorry for the tough love but here’s the truth. You can’t let relationships die the moment there’s one little argument. You let it happen with me, with Matt, even Hannah and Rocky. Mason likes you and you like him. Don’t fuck this up. Make the first move. You need him and he’ll be there for you, he’s that kind of guy. You deserve to be happy.
There’s a long silence. Several times, Charlie’s three dots appear and disappear. Finally he writes back: Wow, what got into you?
Padde, I write back.
Wtf is padde? Charlie asks.
It’s Italian. Sicilian dialect, actually, I tell him. It means balls.
When a staff member waves my parents through to see me in bed, my mother instantly bursts into tears, covering her face with her hands.
My father puts his arm around her shoulder and gapes at me, aghast. I’m so used to my parents using their emotions to manipulate me, I’m not ready for how real this is. They are truly upset to see their kid in a hospital bed. My mother’s face is pallid. Possibly for the first time in my life, I feel genuinely sorry for her.
‘What happened, exactly?’ Dad asks, once they move up to the head of the bed to kiss me. ‘Your housemate said some chemical spilled on you during a party?’
Hell of a double euphemism, Rex.
‘Look, Mum, Dad, I’m gonna be honest with you for once,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t a chemical, it was a drug.’ My mother gasps. ‘And it wasn’t a party, it was sex. I was having sex with two guys, and too much of a drug got into my system, and it nearly killed me.’
My parents are horrified. My mother stares at me like I just unmasked myself as a villain.
‘That’s – too much information,’ Dad says, his gaze lingering on the chart beside my bed. ‘We don’t want to hear this about our son.’
‘Tough titties, Dad,’ I say, with the same voice I’d use on the footy oval.
‘You what?’ Dad snaps.
‘Tough titties. I don’t care if you want to know or not, this is who I am,’ I say, locking eyes with him. ‘I’m not bisexual. I only said that cos I thought it might make you hate me less. I’m not into girls, only guys. I don’t want to live with Sabrina. And I’m not gonna move into your flat. I want my own place.’
Italian boys aren’t allowed to say this, but this is the truth.
‘Are you trying to hurt me?’ my mother cries, clutching her chest. ‘Why dump this on me now? I’m already upset about my poor boy in hospital. And we can’t pop in and stay in a pied-à-terre if you’re not living in it!’ She presses her palms to her cheeks. ‘No. This is too much to take in.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be if you’d listened to me the first time,’ I say flatly. ‘I told you who I was years ago. You made me feel like shit for it. I’m done bending myself out of shape to fit your life. You can bend to fit mine.’
While that verbal bitch-slap ricochets off the walls, my new nurse in this ward, Siobhan, trundles in with her obs kit on wheels and utterly fails to read the room. ‘Oh, do we have visitors?’ she asks in her Irish lilt.
‘Uh, yep. These are my parents. Sam and Anna Calogero.’
‘Lovely to meet the pair of you,’ Siobhan says, but in a bit of a jaded monotone. Unlike Pooja, who had an upbeat energy, Siobhan’s a stocky forty-something brunette with a clenched jaw like she’s perpetually had enough of everyone’s shit but has to smile cos she’s at work. ‘I just need to do Zeke’s obs – five minutes and you can have him back …’
Something savage overcomes me. ‘They were just telling me how proud they are of me, Siobhan,’ I lie. ‘Because I’m gay.’
Siobhan presses her hand to her chest. ‘Oh, bless, that’s too sweet!’ Her mouth forms a shocked ‘o’ shape, like something genuinely unexpected has snapped her out of her monotonous shift. ‘Goodness, I didn’t interrupt you – coming out …?’
‘No, no, my parents have known for years,’ I say. ‘We were just talking about how hard it is when you’re from a small town, and Italian, and Catholic. How it made me hate myself. But it made all the difference, having loving, supportive parents.’
Both my parents look like they could sink through the floor.
‘I came out at my brother’s wedding,’ I tell Siobhan. ‘My parents could have cared what everyone else thought, but they didn’t. All they cared about was me.’ My laser vision tunnels into my mother’s eyes. ‘Mum gave me an extra big piece of wedding cake and told me nothing could change how much she cares for me,’ I lie. I shift to my father, whose mouth is hanging open slightly. ‘Dad walked up to me, and I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t – he would never hit me, would you, Dad? He said, “You’re my son, and I love you no matter what.” And he hugged me.’
My father looks at the floor.
Siobhan’s teared up. ‘Oh darlin’, that’s so beautiful, honestly,’ she says, beaming at Mum and Dad. ‘I worked in a regional hospital for a while and I know how tough some of those country boys have it when they can’t face coming out. Honestly, if I could tell you the things I’ve seen, it’d break your heart. What wonderful parents you both are.’
My mother’s smile is as frozen as her eyes. ‘He’s a special boy,’ she tells Siobhan. ‘I – uh – need a coffee. I’ll be back.’
She flees my cubicle without a look back.
I expect my father to follow, but he doesn’t. He sinks into the chair where Hammer spent the night. His eyes are welled up, hands clasped over his lap, like he’s at a funeral. As Siobhan does my obs and chats with me, he glances at the chart beside my bed and taps away on his phone.
‘Blood oxygen sats are at ninety-four,’ Siobhan says, her demeanour much chirpier than when she walked in. ‘They want it back to ninety-seven at least. Let’s check again soon. If you’re back to normal, you’ll be free to go, darlin.’
I thank Siobhan. She leaves.
The air is heavy between me and Dad. My mother hasn’t returned. He puts his hand on the white sheet on my mattress, rubbing his hairy knuckles against the fabric like he’s summoning a memory.
‘I bought you a little plush soccer ball when you were born. It was in the St John of God Hospital in Geraldton. You won’t remember. When you were toddling, in your little walker with the wheels on it, I’d put the soccer ball in front of you and say, “Figlio mio, veni ca!” And you’d flap your hands and scoot over and kick it.’ His eyes are shiny, fond of me in a way I don’t remember seeing before. ‘I had a plan. You were meant to be my soccer boy.’
‘Huh? I never knew that.’
‘I wanted Robbie to be my footy boy. I wanted my firstborn to play footy and you were going to play soccer.’ He splays his hands at me in the hospital bed, like I’m a punctured soccer ball. ‘Then Robbie liked soccer more than footy. And you didn’t like any sports. I tried to make you do them and you wouldn’t have a bar of it.’
A vague image tugs at me: Dad pressuring me to join some Auskick thing in year one and me clinging to his leg and refusing to go onto the oval.
‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ he says, waving a hand that crumples into his lap, sad and weak, not a fist. ‘The dream has already gone skewiff. You and Robbie were both meant to live in Gero, have wives and kids, work for the family business. We’d play Briscola after work, sink beers, my footy boy and my soccer boy. We’d have pasta on Saturday nights. No matter what life threw at me, I thought that dream was simple enough to come true.’
‘Dad, I’m not dead,’ I say. ‘The pasta night could still happen. But one day I’ll bring a boy home, not a girl. If you’re never gonna let that happen, tell me now, and we’ll both have to move on with our lives.’
Dad looks at me all teary again. I don’t understand why he’s so upset: this whole walk down memory lane, he’s looked like he’s been told I’m dying.
Dad stands up from his chair and sweeps me into a massive hug, his salt-and-pepper whiskers scratching my cheek. ‘You are my son, and I do love you,’ he says, echoing my false words to Siobhan earlier. ‘I’m sorry I hit you at Robbie’s wedding. It was a shock.’
I put my arm around Dad’s back and press my weight against his, feeling the strength of his body against me, warm and comforting and for once, not quickly withdrawing. I blink a sting out of my eyes.
Dad pats me firmly on the back. ‘So, tell me. How long do you have?’
I pull back. ‘Huh? In here? Just until my oxygen sats are normal …’
Dad stands up, clasping his hands in front of him in his funeral pose again. ‘No, I mean – how long do you have left …’ he says, struggling with the last two words ‘… to live?’
I blink back at him, utterly confused. ‘Um? I hope, like, until I’m eighty or ninety, I guess? What … did they tell you something I don’t know?’
Dad taps the chart beside my bed. ‘I saw this on your list of regular medications you’re taking. Truvada. I googled it.’ He looks away from me. ‘It’s a HIV medication. Why didn’t you tell us you had AIDS?’
Oh my fucking God.
‘Dad, no – you got the wrong end of the stick,’ I correct him. ‘Truvada’s used to prevent HIV infection, too. It’s called PrEP. We take it so we can have sex without a condom. I’m totally fine. And even if I wasn’t, HIV isn’t a death sentence anymore … they can treat it these days …’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Dad’s wiping his eyes, his shoulders shaking with relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘Wait, did you only apologise because you thought I was dying?’
Dad winces. ‘S’pose so. But screw it, okay, fine. Life’s too short. You can bring a boy home for pasta one day, if that’s what you want.’
I never thought I’d live to hear him say those words. I look at my father’s ruddy, stubbled face and see him meeting my gaze, like we are finally reaching an understanding.
‘Thank you, Dad.’
‘I wish I knew why you ended up like that. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.’
‘You didn’t, Dad. Just how I am. Roll of the dice. I didn’t make a choice.’
‘Right. I know. Robbie’s always saying that.’
We fall into a silence that isn’t completely uncomfortable. I’m kinda touched that Robbie has my back even when I’m not in the room. I decide to ask him to watch a game of footy with me next time we’re in the same town.
‘What happened to your hands?’ Dad asks eventually, touching his own knuckles by way of asking about my bloodied ones.
‘I snapped at footy training. Had some kinda meltdown. Punched a wall.’
‘Huh. Always the quiet ones you gotta watch out for, ay?’ Dad whistles, looking me up and down like he’s meeting me for the first time. ‘Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Bet your hands hurt. Bloody stronzo.’
‘Yep. And I’ve done my dash at that club because of it. Sucks cos I really liked footy, Dad. I don’t care if you make fun of me for it. God, those times when I was a kid, I wanted to be one of those footy boys, even then. They were cool and confident and they had fun. But they always gave me a hard time and it would’ve been hell – no, impossible – trying to fit in with them back then. I knew that. Finally got my shit together in my twenties and now I’ve even fucked that up. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.’
Dad folds his arms, a cumulonimbus expression storming onto his face. ‘Well, that’s a bit stiff. Footy club shouldn’t kick you out for that. Plenty worse behaviour goes on at every club I’ve ever known.’
‘They didn’t kick me out for it. I quit. I can’t show my face there again.’
‘Why the bloody hell not?’
‘Cos they’ve seen me act like an idiot.’
‘Yes,’ Dad says matter-of-factly. ‘You were an idiot. You behaved like a complete stupido. But so does every boofhead at any sports club anywhere. You think you’re better than the other boys there?’
‘No, I—’
‘Exactly. Because you’re not. You fucked up the same way any other bloke fucks up, bud. Just rock up at training next time and put your head down and carry on. Don’t let your team down, and don’t be a coward and quit something you love. I raised you better than that.’
I swallow. ‘Okay. Okay Dad. I won’t.’
My father nods with satisfaction. It’s a rare time he’s ever given me life advice that actually helped, and I think he knows it.
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Doug clears his throat. ‘And can we not talk about my thing? It’s just a fetish, man, no big deal.’
‘I don’t wanna talk about it,’ I say. ‘It’s weird, but you’re not hurting anyone. Sorry if I overreacted. I don’t hate you for it.’
Doug swallows. ‘Orright,’ he says. ‘And I don’t hate you, either, for your thing.’
‘We don’t hate each other,’ I say. ‘That’s not bad.’
‘Not bad,’ Doug agrees.
25
MASCHIO
ZEKE
It’s hard to feel good about surviving the night when Curtis didn’t.
When I wake up in the quiet ward, I have another big cry. It comes over me like a rampage of tsunamis. Every time I think I’m done, another tsunami hits, and I’m a mess again. I think about Ahmed, losing his husband. Charlie, losing a father figure. Me and Rex, losing a protector. Curtis seemed so tough you’d think nothing could kill him.
I ask my nurse where they take the bodies. She says Curtis’ll be in the morgue and I can’t see him. It feels cruel to be in the same building and not be able to tell him I am here.
Nobody is exactly sure how Curtis died. Rex had mopped the kitchen so there was no mess when Ahmed got home from Kayla and Tenille’s. Curtis came home, kissed Ahmed in bed, went into the kitchen for his night-time protein shake and walked out into the courtyard to drink it in the moonlight in front of his favourite bonsai tree. Ahmed and Rex were startled by the thud of that big man’s body hitting the wooden deck, and nothing they or the paramedics did could save him. We do know it was a massive heart attack, but what triggered it might never be known: the stress of being attacked by Xander, or the panic of bankruptcy from the boycott, or the hate crime and harassment. Then again, Curtis abused steroids for decades and hit stimulants like a fiend. And he’d had a hard life, fighting against the grain.
Maybe it was all of it combined. His heart just couldn’t hold up to it anymore.
Nobody’s indestructible.
In the moments where my tsunami rampage ebbs, I realise that last night, I think I tried to die.
But waking up alive does not feel like failure. It feels like a second chance.
I think about Hammer, rematerialising into my life as if he hadn’t ghosted me for years. I still don’t understand how that happened or why Charlie called him. But that’s hardly my focus: I can’t stop thinking about what he admitted.
I only broke it off with you cos of footy. Not cos I ever stopped liking you. Okay?
Does that mean what it sounds like it means? The jock I was stupid enough to have a crush on didn’t just like me back – he still does? And he’s rocked up now to tell me that? Is he going to speak to me again? Will he reply if I text? Or will he ghost me again?
No matter what’s in store for me and Hammer, losing my shit at him last night has undone a toxic knot of grief I didn’t even know was strangling my solar plexus. Maybe snapping at footy training yesterday unlocked something in me. I feel lighter and stronger. Last night, I said to Hammer what I should have shouted in that hotel room.
I was angry like Jack Brolo.
I was strong like Curtis Levesque.
Once I’m released from the confines of my drip, I pad barefoot to the hospital ward toilet to take a dump. The exhaust fan whirrs. The tiles are cold on my feet. My reflection in the mirror is bruised, my knuckles bleeding again. If I died last night when my heart stopped beating, I would have died a coward. Hiding, twisting myself into knots for the approval of my parents, Sabrina, the world. It has been such a mistaken way to live: this desperate, frightened approval monster I became. There was never anything wrong with me and I never needed approval to be my own man. Curtis tried to tell me that. I’ve learned it now. Nothing the world throws at me can ever hurt me more than I hurt myself. I don’t fear displeasing anyone anymore.
The hospital’s foam soap smells of fresh citrus and stings the grazed skin as I wash my hands clean and allow myself to smile at my reflection instead of scowl at its imperfections. I am pear-shaped and shirtless and stocky and hairy and alive.
And I am so fucking done not being myself.
When I get the missed calls from my mother, I ignore them. I forgot about my plans with my parents: a coffee catch-up after my cousin’s christening. The last thing I want is for my parents to find out I’m in hospital and go full Sicilian on me.
But then Charlie texts. Hey dude, ur folks rocked up at the front door and Rex let slip you’re in Charlie’s. Sorry. They’re heading to see you. Heads up.
Goddammit.
Thanks for letting me know. I hesitate, but add: How are you holding up?
Still in shock. I can’t believe it. Curtis. I loved him so much, Zeke. He was Superman to me. I thought he’d live forever. Ahmed has fallen apart, all over the shop emotionally. Kayla and Tenille are here. Rex is a mess. We’re all sitting here like stunned mullets.
There are no words to make it better. Before I can formulate a reply, Charlie adds: He was like a dad to me, man.
Another tsunami slams me; saltwater all over the bed sheet.
I know. I’m so sorry. Curtis was a good man.
The best man I’ve ever known, Charlie replies. Dunno what I’ll do without him.
Sorry I’m stuck in hospital. Do you have someone there for you? I ask. Reyna?
Reyna’s in Mandurah – Hectic Lettuce had a gig there last night.
Mason? I suggest.
Charlie’s reply is quick. I can’t. I fucked things with him. I guess it’s over.
The old Zeke would have said something gentle and comforting, but I tap a fired-up message to Charlie instead. Sorry for the tough love but here’s the truth. You can’t let relationships die the moment there’s one little argument. You let it happen with me, with Matt, even Hannah and Rocky. Mason likes you and you like him. Don’t fuck this up. Make the first move. You need him and he’ll be there for you, he’s that kind of guy. You deserve to be happy.
There’s a long silence. Several times, Charlie’s three dots appear and disappear. Finally he writes back: Wow, what got into you?
Padde, I write back.
Wtf is padde? Charlie asks.
It’s Italian. Sicilian dialect, actually, I tell him. It means balls.
When a staff member waves my parents through to see me in bed, my mother instantly bursts into tears, covering her face with her hands.
My father puts his arm around her shoulder and gapes at me, aghast. I’m so used to my parents using their emotions to manipulate me, I’m not ready for how real this is. They are truly upset to see their kid in a hospital bed. My mother’s face is pallid. Possibly for the first time in my life, I feel genuinely sorry for her.
‘What happened, exactly?’ Dad asks, once they move up to the head of the bed to kiss me. ‘Your housemate said some chemical spilled on you during a party?’
Hell of a double euphemism, Rex.
‘Look, Mum, Dad, I’m gonna be honest with you for once,’ I say. ‘It wasn’t a chemical, it was a drug.’ My mother gasps. ‘And it wasn’t a party, it was sex. I was having sex with two guys, and too much of a drug got into my system, and it nearly killed me.’
My parents are horrified. My mother stares at me like I just unmasked myself as a villain.
‘That’s – too much information,’ Dad says, his gaze lingering on the chart beside my bed. ‘We don’t want to hear this about our son.’
‘Tough titties, Dad,’ I say, with the same voice I’d use on the footy oval.
‘You what?’ Dad snaps.
‘Tough titties. I don’t care if you want to know or not, this is who I am,’ I say, locking eyes with him. ‘I’m not bisexual. I only said that cos I thought it might make you hate me less. I’m not into girls, only guys. I don’t want to live with Sabrina. And I’m not gonna move into your flat. I want my own place.’
Italian boys aren’t allowed to say this, but this is the truth.
‘Are you trying to hurt me?’ my mother cries, clutching her chest. ‘Why dump this on me now? I’m already upset about my poor boy in hospital. And we can’t pop in and stay in a pied-à-terre if you’re not living in it!’ She presses her palms to her cheeks. ‘No. This is too much to take in.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be if you’d listened to me the first time,’ I say flatly. ‘I told you who I was years ago. You made me feel like shit for it. I’m done bending myself out of shape to fit your life. You can bend to fit mine.’
While that verbal bitch-slap ricochets off the walls, my new nurse in this ward, Siobhan, trundles in with her obs kit on wheels and utterly fails to read the room. ‘Oh, do we have visitors?’ she asks in her Irish lilt.
‘Uh, yep. These are my parents. Sam and Anna Calogero.’
‘Lovely to meet the pair of you,’ Siobhan says, but in a bit of a jaded monotone. Unlike Pooja, who had an upbeat energy, Siobhan’s a stocky forty-something brunette with a clenched jaw like she’s perpetually had enough of everyone’s shit but has to smile cos she’s at work. ‘I just need to do Zeke’s obs – five minutes and you can have him back …’
Something savage overcomes me. ‘They were just telling me how proud they are of me, Siobhan,’ I lie. ‘Because I’m gay.’
Siobhan presses her hand to her chest. ‘Oh, bless, that’s too sweet!’ Her mouth forms a shocked ‘o’ shape, like something genuinely unexpected has snapped her out of her monotonous shift. ‘Goodness, I didn’t interrupt you – coming out …?’
‘No, no, my parents have known for years,’ I say. ‘We were just talking about how hard it is when you’re from a small town, and Italian, and Catholic. How it made me hate myself. But it made all the difference, having loving, supportive parents.’
Both my parents look like they could sink through the floor.
‘I came out at my brother’s wedding,’ I tell Siobhan. ‘My parents could have cared what everyone else thought, but they didn’t. All they cared about was me.’ My laser vision tunnels into my mother’s eyes. ‘Mum gave me an extra big piece of wedding cake and told me nothing could change how much she cares for me,’ I lie. I shift to my father, whose mouth is hanging open slightly. ‘Dad walked up to me, and I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t – he would never hit me, would you, Dad? He said, “You’re my son, and I love you no matter what.” And he hugged me.’
My father looks at the floor.
Siobhan’s teared up. ‘Oh darlin’, that’s so beautiful, honestly,’ she says, beaming at Mum and Dad. ‘I worked in a regional hospital for a while and I know how tough some of those country boys have it when they can’t face coming out. Honestly, if I could tell you the things I’ve seen, it’d break your heart. What wonderful parents you both are.’
My mother’s smile is as frozen as her eyes. ‘He’s a special boy,’ she tells Siobhan. ‘I – uh – need a coffee. I’ll be back.’
She flees my cubicle without a look back.
I expect my father to follow, but he doesn’t. He sinks into the chair where Hammer spent the night. His eyes are welled up, hands clasped over his lap, like he’s at a funeral. As Siobhan does my obs and chats with me, he glances at the chart beside my bed and taps away on his phone.
‘Blood oxygen sats are at ninety-four,’ Siobhan says, her demeanour much chirpier than when she walked in. ‘They want it back to ninety-seven at least. Let’s check again soon. If you’re back to normal, you’ll be free to go, darlin.’
I thank Siobhan. She leaves.
The air is heavy between me and Dad. My mother hasn’t returned. He puts his hand on the white sheet on my mattress, rubbing his hairy knuckles against the fabric like he’s summoning a memory.
‘I bought you a little plush soccer ball when you were born. It was in the St John of God Hospital in Geraldton. You won’t remember. When you were toddling, in your little walker with the wheels on it, I’d put the soccer ball in front of you and say, “Figlio mio, veni ca!” And you’d flap your hands and scoot over and kick it.’ His eyes are shiny, fond of me in a way I don’t remember seeing before. ‘I had a plan. You were meant to be my soccer boy.’
‘Huh? I never knew that.’
‘I wanted Robbie to be my footy boy. I wanted my firstborn to play footy and you were going to play soccer.’ He splays his hands at me in the hospital bed, like I’m a punctured soccer ball. ‘Then Robbie liked soccer more than footy. And you didn’t like any sports. I tried to make you do them and you wouldn’t have a bar of it.’
A vague image tugs at me: Dad pressuring me to join some Auskick thing in year one and me clinging to his leg and refusing to go onto the oval.
‘It doesn’t matter anymore,’ he says, waving a hand that crumples into his lap, sad and weak, not a fist. ‘The dream has already gone skewiff. You and Robbie were both meant to live in Gero, have wives and kids, work for the family business. We’d play Briscola after work, sink beers, my footy boy and my soccer boy. We’d have pasta on Saturday nights. No matter what life threw at me, I thought that dream was simple enough to come true.’
‘Dad, I’m not dead,’ I say. ‘The pasta night could still happen. But one day I’ll bring a boy home, not a girl. If you’re never gonna let that happen, tell me now, and we’ll both have to move on with our lives.’
Dad looks at me all teary again. I don’t understand why he’s so upset: this whole walk down memory lane, he’s looked like he’s been told I’m dying.
Dad stands up from his chair and sweeps me into a massive hug, his salt-and-pepper whiskers scratching my cheek. ‘You are my son, and I do love you,’ he says, echoing my false words to Siobhan earlier. ‘I’m sorry I hit you at Robbie’s wedding. It was a shock.’
I put my arm around Dad’s back and press my weight against his, feeling the strength of his body against me, warm and comforting and for once, not quickly withdrawing. I blink a sting out of my eyes.
Dad pats me firmly on the back. ‘So, tell me. How long do you have?’
I pull back. ‘Huh? In here? Just until my oxygen sats are normal …’
Dad stands up, clasping his hands in front of him in his funeral pose again. ‘No, I mean – how long do you have left …’ he says, struggling with the last two words ‘… to live?’
I blink back at him, utterly confused. ‘Um? I hope, like, until I’m eighty or ninety, I guess? What … did they tell you something I don’t know?’
Dad taps the chart beside my bed. ‘I saw this on your list of regular medications you’re taking. Truvada. I googled it.’ He looks away from me. ‘It’s a HIV medication. Why didn’t you tell us you had AIDS?’
Oh my fucking God.
‘Dad, no – you got the wrong end of the stick,’ I correct him. ‘Truvada’s used to prevent HIV infection, too. It’s called PrEP. We take it so we can have sex without a condom. I’m totally fine. And even if I wasn’t, HIV isn’t a death sentence anymore … they can treat it these days …’
‘Oh, thank God.’ Dad’s wiping his eyes, his shoulders shaking with relief. ‘Thank God.’
‘Wait, did you only apologise because you thought I was dying?’
Dad winces. ‘S’pose so. But screw it, okay, fine. Life’s too short. You can bring a boy home for pasta one day, if that’s what you want.’
I never thought I’d live to hear him say those words. I look at my father’s ruddy, stubbled face and see him meeting my gaze, like we are finally reaching an understanding.
‘Thank you, Dad.’
‘I wish I knew why you ended up like that. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.’
‘You didn’t, Dad. Just how I am. Roll of the dice. I didn’t make a choice.’
‘Right. I know. Robbie’s always saying that.’
We fall into a silence that isn’t completely uncomfortable. I’m kinda touched that Robbie has my back even when I’m not in the room. I decide to ask him to watch a game of footy with me next time we’re in the same town.
‘What happened to your hands?’ Dad asks eventually, touching his own knuckles by way of asking about my bloodied ones.
‘I snapped at footy training. Had some kinda meltdown. Punched a wall.’
‘Huh. Always the quiet ones you gotta watch out for, ay?’ Dad whistles, looking me up and down like he’s meeting me for the first time. ‘Well, that was stupid, wasn’t it? Bet your hands hurt. Bloody stronzo.’
‘Yep. And I’ve done my dash at that club because of it. Sucks cos I really liked footy, Dad. I don’t care if you make fun of me for it. God, those times when I was a kid, I wanted to be one of those footy boys, even then. They were cool and confident and they had fun. But they always gave me a hard time and it would’ve been hell – no, impossible – trying to fit in with them back then. I knew that. Finally got my shit together in my twenties and now I’ve even fucked that up. Guess it wasn’t meant to be.’
Dad folds his arms, a cumulonimbus expression storming onto his face. ‘Well, that’s a bit stiff. Footy club shouldn’t kick you out for that. Plenty worse behaviour goes on at every club I’ve ever known.’
‘They didn’t kick me out for it. I quit. I can’t show my face there again.’
‘Why the bloody hell not?’
‘Cos they’ve seen me act like an idiot.’
‘Yes,’ Dad says matter-of-factly. ‘You were an idiot. You behaved like a complete stupido. But so does every boofhead at any sports club anywhere. You think you’re better than the other boys there?’
‘No, I—’
‘Exactly. Because you’re not. You fucked up the same way any other bloke fucks up, bud. Just rock up at training next time and put your head down and carry on. Don’t let your team down, and don’t be a coward and quit something you love. I raised you better than that.’
I swallow. ‘Okay. Okay Dad. I won’t.’
My father nods with satisfaction. It’s a rare time he’s ever given me life advice that actually helped, and I think he knows it.
