Page 41 of Pages of My Heart
Bridget looks him up and down, the edges of her mouth curling down in a way that makes Charlie feel like a dirty child. He wants to argue, but he knows better and keeps his mouth shut. As far as Bridget and the rest of the world are concerned, he has no authority over what happens to Thomas. She’s just reminded him of that in a way that makes his blood run cold.
Bridget leaves without another word and Charlie sinks down to the floor. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying desperately to hold onto some semblance of control, but it’s no use. The tears spill over as fear stabs at his heart.
A few days before Christmas, Charlie is in the kitchen when he hears a sound in the bathroom. He smiles, a small flame of hope igniting inside him. If Thomas has gotten out of bed on his own, then perhaps he is finally on the road to recovery. Setting his knife down on the cutting board, he hurries to the bathroom, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.
“Hey, you feel—” What he sees makes his heart plummet. “Tommy, what the hell? Stop! Stop, what are you—?”
Thomas sits on the edge of the bathtub in his pajamas. His eyes flick up to meet Charlie’s. The razor blade in his right hand catches the light where it’s suspended above his left arm, the delicate blue veins of his exposed wrist only thinly protected by his nearly translucent skin. Charlie’s heart shatters, his breath trapped in his throat by fear as defeated green eyes look back at him.
Broken.
Then anger rises, a fury at Thomas that burns in his gut like the worst kind of betrayal. Isn’t Charlie enough for him? Isn’t their love enough?
He grabs Thomas’s wrist, squeezing tight.
“Drop it.”
The blade lands on the floor with a sharp clatter, bouncing once before stilling under the sink.
Charlie kneels in front of Thomas, cupping Thomas’s face with his hands. Silent tears topple over and stream down his lover’s face, his body shaking while his mouth remains open, frozen in silent torment.
All the anger drains from Charlie’s body in an instant. “Sweetheart, oh sweetheart,” he wails, as he pulls Thomas into his arms, the two of them collapsing onto the floor.
“I don’t want . . .” Thomas gasps for air, “to burden you . . .”
Charlie holds Thomas tighter in his lap, shaking his head. “No, no, never.”
“You’d be better off without—”
“No!” he says sternly. “Don’t ever say that. Stop, Tommy, please. Please don’t, sweetheart. We’ll get through this together.”
Thomas’s rigid body finally softens, his weight relaxing against Charlie’s chest. Thomas’s tears start to subside, breathscoming in stutters and soft whimpers, like a wounded animal who has lost all will to live.
“You gotta let me help you. You’ve gotta meet me halfway. Please. I need you here, Red,” he whispers, then repeats it again and again. “I need you.”
Thomas buries his face into the crook of Charlie’s neck, and there they remain, clinging tightly to each other on the cold bathroom floor until the dark of night descends.
Thomas
On Christmas Eve, Thomas forces himself to get out of bed and have dinner with Charlie at the table. He’s still weak, fighting against limbs that feel like lead, dragging him down with every step, but he needs to do this. Charlie had left him alone in the afternoon, returning with a Christmas tree for their sitting room. The fresh scent of pine fills the house with hope and, he prays, helps mask the stale odor of his own body. He’s grateful he bought Charlie’s Christmas gift before Thanksgiving and that it’s wrapped and ready to place under the tree before tomorrow.
The guilt from a few nights ago, when he’d raised that blade to his wrist and thought about ending his life, remains with him, thick and oppressive. How could he have considered it, knowing how his mother’s attempts had nearly destroyed him? If he’d done that to Charlie, he could never forgive himself, not even in death. This episode had been so much worse than his first in ’38, like he’d been trapped behind an invisiblewall, cut off from Charlie and lost in an endless maze of his own dark thoughts. And it’s terrifying not knowing what brought it on—feelings of hopelessness, of unworthiness, twisting and growing like a choking vine around the insides of his mind with no clear cause or reason.
He knows three weeks have passed since he last went to work. The long periods of nothingness where he could do little but sleep are punctuated by fragments of memories. The moments of pain, of sorrow, are interspersed with images of Charlie trying to force tasteless food into his mouth or make him drink water that felt too frigid. There are the memories of Charlie helping him to the bathroom and lifting him into the tub to wash him. Tender hands and quivering lips upon his numb skin. Worried and fearful eyes making him shrink away with shame.
Charlie enters the dining room, setting their plates down on the table before taking his usual seat opposite him.
“Thank you, Charlie. I’m . . . I’m not sure how much I can eat but—”
“It’s okay,” Charlie interjects. He gives Thomas a small, encouraging smile. “If you can eat a little, I’ll be happy.”
Thomas tries to hold Charlie’s gaze but has to drop his head, the guilt unbearable. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about. You’re doing better. We got through it.”
“Is Jimmy mad about you taking time off work?” Thomas cuts a potato in half and pushes a small piece into his mouth, fighting through the exhaustion even this simple act brings.
“Nah. I’m his best worker. Told him I got the flu real bad.”
