Open space between--an RPS tribute to Heath
He fell into bed, his skin hot and itchy, his hair standing up in ragged spikes. Lying back against the musty sheets-should’ve changed them before today, fucking would’ve if he’d realized how much time he’d be spending in here today-he scrubbed both hands over his face and sighed. His eyes were dry at last, but his face felt swollen and stretched, his head floating somewhere up in space like a surreal balloon. The room was cold and his blankets were still lying on the floor since he’d kicked them off before running into the bathroom for his latest bout of heaves. But he welcomed the chill. Physical discomfort he could deal with. It was the agony that his brain refused to leave alone, the blasts of memory and longing and pure hard grief that raked through him over and over. The objects that he’d never be able to look at again without wanting to fall on the ground. A pink knitted cap. A skateboard. Striped socks. Red plastic sunglasses. A Brooklyn hoodie. A bright yellow dress. A teddy bear. A saddle.
At least everyone had finally left him alone. Hours upon endless hours of his parents’ drawn faces. How old they suddenly looked. He could tell they were rearranging their features carefully so he wouldn’t see their terror-and their secret relief. It had happened to someone they cared deeply about, but at least it hadn’t been their son. His sister’s continually welling eyes. Her long, nervous fingers toying with a ring, with her daughter’s pacifier, with a stray piece of thread. They longed to comfort him, and he was glad they were there, but he had understood one important fact from the moment he heard the first sentence of that terrible phone call. This was one experience he would have to get through alone. For now they were all standing on a sandy shore, waving and calling out to him from under a calm and benevolent sun, too far away to hear, while he lay on a rock alone, in the middle of a sea whose gray waves threatened at every moment to engulf him.
A spasm rocked him again. Rolling onto his right side, he hugged his knees to his chest and gritted his teeth so hard that a band of pain formed around his brain. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and was enraged by it. A sob tried to force its way from his throat, and he bit down to stop the sound, catching his tongue between his teeth and tasting blood. Gasping, he took a deeper breath, trying to calm himself, and let out a wail that surprised the tiny rational corner of his mind. “Heath,” he moaned, sending a prayer to whoever was listening. “Heath.”
Some time later his body relaxed, and his head dropped to one side. Gradually his arms and legs uncurled and his mouth fell open a little, surrendering at last to the sleep of purest exhaustion. His brow furrowed briefly and he scrabbled at the sheet without opening his eyes, pulling it tightly across his body and turning onto his other side. An extra pillow found its way into his arms, pressed against his chest and stomach and held tight between his legs.
“Jake.”
“Heath?” Surprise. “But-I heard-what are you-”
“Shh. I know what you heard. But I just wanted to tell you-it’s all right. I’m all right, I should say.” Smile.
“Oh my god, Heath, thank god you’re OK. Don’t do that, OK? Don’t scare me again.”
“I won’t, I promise. Just . . . .”
“Just what?”
“C’mere, OK? I just want to . . . feel you in my arms again for a little while.” Looking away. His forehead reddens slightly in the way it always did. Jake used to call it “tent scene red.”
“OK.” But as soon as their bodies join, he’s sobbing again. He can’t help it. His chest is hitching painfully, he can’t get enough air, and he’ll never be able to let go. He clings to Heath like a man afraid of falling on the ice, like a man afraid of being alone, like a man afraid to say goodbye.
“Hey. Hey. It’s OK, really it is. Shh.” He pulls back to look Jake in the eyes, grins for a moment. “Can I steal your line for minute? . . . It’s all right. It’s all right.” He strokes Jake’s hair and rubs his back.
Jake breathes as slowly as he can, forcing himself back under control. When he’s sure he won’t start weeping again, he takes a step backward and looks at Heath, really seeing him for the first time.
Heath is wearing worn, faded jeans, beat-up boots, a white shirt with wide black stripes. His tan hat lies on the ground nearby. Of course. He’s dressed as Ennis Del Mar.
Jake can’t stop staring. And Heath is enjoying the attention. His lips curve upward and he smiles again, his teeth as bright as a star against the sky. “Hey, you,” he says, and pulls Jake toward him again. Jake feels his body hard and strong and warm against his own. Heath’s hand is on his, guiding it between his legs. Their mouths move together, teeth striking off sparks hot enough to burn . . . .
He swam back upward into consciousness little by little. His eyes were stinging and his lips felt numb. There was no blessed space of forgetfulness between sleeping and waking; his heart had never dropped the weight it carried while he was awake.
Yet something else was there . . . something unexpected. He had woken again in grief, yet somehow also with the old sense of joy and release. His pillow was wet . . . but so were the sheets.
There was, would always be, some open space between what he knew and what he tried-or could-believe.
But nothing could be done.
He couldn’t fix it . . . so he would just have to try to stand it.
At least everyone had finally left him alone. Hours upon endless hours of his parents’ drawn faces. How old they suddenly looked. He could tell they were rearranging their features carefully so he wouldn’t see their terror-and their secret relief. It had happened to someone they cared deeply about, but at least it hadn’t been their son. His sister’s continually welling eyes. Her long, nervous fingers toying with a ring, with her daughter’s pacifier, with a stray piece of thread. They longed to comfort him, and he was glad they were there, but he had understood one important fact from the moment he heard the first sentence of that terrible phone call. This was one experience he would have to get through alone. For now they were all standing on a sandy shore, waving and calling out to him from under a calm and benevolent sun, too far away to hear, while he lay on a rock alone, in the middle of a sea whose gray waves threatened at every moment to engulf him.
A spasm rocked him again. Rolling onto his right side, he hugged his knees to his chest and gritted his teeth so hard that a band of pain formed around his brain. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears and was enraged by it. A sob tried to force its way from his throat, and he bit down to stop the sound, catching his tongue between his teeth and tasting blood. Gasping, he took a deeper breath, trying to calm himself, and let out a wail that surprised the tiny rational corner of his mind. “Heath,” he moaned, sending a prayer to whoever was listening. “Heath.”
Some time later his body relaxed, and his head dropped to one side. Gradually his arms and legs uncurled and his mouth fell open a little, surrendering at last to the sleep of purest exhaustion. His brow furrowed briefly and he scrabbled at the sheet without opening his eyes, pulling it tightly across his body and turning onto his other side. An extra pillow found its way into his arms, pressed against his chest and stomach and held tight between his legs.
“Jake.”
“Heath?” Surprise. “But-I heard-what are you-”
“Shh. I know what you heard. But I just wanted to tell you-it’s all right. I’m all right, I should say.” Smile.
“Oh my god, Heath, thank god you’re OK. Don’t do that, OK? Don’t scare me again.”
“I won’t, I promise. Just . . . .”
“Just what?”
“C’mere, OK? I just want to . . . feel you in my arms again for a little while.” Looking away. His forehead reddens slightly in the way it always did. Jake used to call it “tent scene red.”
“OK.” But as soon as their bodies join, he’s sobbing again. He can’t help it. His chest is hitching painfully, he can’t get enough air, and he’ll never be able to let go. He clings to Heath like a man afraid of falling on the ice, like a man afraid of being alone, like a man afraid to say goodbye.
“Hey. Hey. It’s OK, really it is. Shh.” He pulls back to look Jake in the eyes, grins for a moment. “Can I steal your line for minute? . . . It’s all right. It’s all right.” He strokes Jake’s hair and rubs his back.
Jake breathes as slowly as he can, forcing himself back under control. When he’s sure he won’t start weeping again, he takes a step backward and looks at Heath, really seeing him for the first time.
Heath is wearing worn, faded jeans, beat-up boots, a white shirt with wide black stripes. His tan hat lies on the ground nearby. Of course. He’s dressed as Ennis Del Mar.
Jake can’t stop staring. And Heath is enjoying the attention. His lips curve upward and he smiles again, his teeth as bright as a star against the sky. “Hey, you,” he says, and pulls Jake toward him again. Jake feels his body hard and strong and warm against his own. Heath’s hand is on his, guiding it between his legs. Their mouths move together, teeth striking off sparks hot enough to burn . . . .
He swam back upward into consciousness little by little. His eyes were stinging and his lips felt numb. There was no blessed space of forgetfulness between sleeping and waking; his heart had never dropped the weight it carried while he was awake.
Yet something else was there . . . something unexpected. He had woken again in grief, yet somehow also with the old sense of joy and release. His pillow was wet . . . but so were the sheets.
There was, would always be, some open space between what he knew and what he tried-or could-believe.
But nothing could be done.
He couldn’t fix it . . . so he would just have to try to stand it.