Page 89 of Something Like Winter
Hope fills the heart of those facing death. They dream of a place where time never runs out, where the impossible can still happen, be it on this earth or elsewhere. Perhaps that was why Eric slept so much now, one foot already in a better place.
Summer had come, the windows of Eric’s bedroom opened to let in fresh air so full of life that Tim sometimes believed it could cure him, that Eric could feed off the beautiful weather like a hummingbird did nectar. At least then he would be eating. A week ago, Eric had been too tired to get out of bed. Since then, Tim had been at his bedside, carrying him to the restroom when needed or making him roll over and change positions to avoid bedsores. When Eric wasn’t sleeping they talked, although lately he had less and less to say.
Tim grew tired of sitting and staring and waiting, so he fetched the painting supplies he kept in one of the spare rooms and started working. No longer was he out of practice. Tim painted regularly, constantly encouraged by Eric, although he still hadn’t found his own style. He didn’t let that bother him. Instead he pushed on, letting come what may when inspiration struck.
Today the light flooding the room set him off. Edward Hopper would have loved it. Tim took this light, put it on his canvas, and twisted it around Eric like a blanket. Protecting him. Saving him.
“Tim.” Eric’s voice was dry, so Tim put down the brush to fetch the drinking glass from the nightstand. Eric sipped from the straw and nodded at the canvas. “What are you doing?”
“Painting you.”
“Like this?” Eric smiled or grimaced. It was hard to tell. “You’re cruel.”
“I promised I would paint you,” Tim said.
“That’s right.” Eric’s eyes rolled around the room before coming back to him. “Make me a king, surrounded by beautiful young men.”
“I’ll make you an emperor with no clothes,” Tim teased.
Eric chuckled before he winced. “Time for more of those poppies, Dorothy.”
Taking the bottle of morphine from the nightstand, Tim drew more liquid into the medicine dropper than recommended, squeezing it into Eric’s mouth. Even these extra doses didn’t chase away the pain completely, but they helped. “Need to answer Mother Nature’s call before that stuff kicks in?”
Eric shook his head.
“How about some soup? You need to eat something.”
“Just keep working. I like the sound of the brush.”
Tim toiled further, bending the light into a nest, bringing out the colors hidden deep in the spectrum. And as soon as Eric was asleep again, he let himself cry while he worked, because that’s all he could do. Tim painted until his fingers went numb and his body ached from staying so long in the same position.
When he finished, he stepped back and stared until he was sure he had it right. Then he woke Eric, first saying his name, then shaking him gently until he stirred. “Look,” he said, rushing back to the canvas and turning it around so Eric could see. His heart was thudding in his chest as he waited for a response. What was on canvas wasn’t a lie—not Eric young and healthy. The painting was of him in his sickbed, but the light and the colors were like a filter that tore through the ravages of cancer, revealing the untouchable soul beneath.
“You made me beautiful,” Eric said.
“You’ve always been beautiful.”
Eric looked at him like he was being silly before closing his eyes. Tim stood there, arms limp at his sides, and watched him as the light outside dimmed, feeling disappointed that his magic spell hadn’t worked. Eric was still sick. Eric was dying.
“I love you,” Eric murmured, shifting beneath the sheets.
Tim went to him, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Eric?”
“Let me sleep, Gabriel,” Eric murmured, his brow creasing as if concentrating, but his eyes remained closed. “I’m tired.”
Tim opened his mouth, desperate to know if Eric had been addressing him a moment ago, or if he was thinking of Gabriel the whole time. Then Tim leaned back, biting his lower lip. Either way, he knew Eric loved him, and if he was dreaming of being with the greatest love of his life, maybe he was already experiencing a taste of Heaven.
“You know I love you, right?” Tim said. “I really mean it, Eric. I love you. I love you so much! I love you.”
Tim clamped a hand over his mouth to stop himself. He wanted to say it a million times, because he realized that he’d never have another chance. This was it. No more relaxing nights on the couch together, the television off so they could talk the hours away. No more shared meals, Eric smiling over the table at the way Tim stuffed his face. All of this would be gone forever. No matter what he did, Eric was slipping away. Tim could scream all he wanted, punch the walls, cut his own skin, lie through his teeth or offer up his body and soul, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Eric would die—and Tim was powerless to stop it.
He felt tears rolling over the fingers on his mouth, felt the breath from his nose coming in manic bursts. Tim moved his hand away and tried once more.
“I love you.”
But Eric didn’t respond, didn’t wake up again, even the next morning. Tim called the nurse in a panic, which was silly, because he had known this was coming. He had read it over and over again in books and online, but part of him always felt that Eric would be one of the lucky ones. The exception to the rule.
“Oh, honey. That just means he’s close,” the nurse said on the phone. “If God is merciful, he’ll take him soon.”
