3 silent treatments

3

I was in the backyard, it had snowed the night before, so there was snow in every part of the yard and there was no distinction between nature and the clouds.

I was sitting in the hard, cold, chairs so I could breathe the air that hurt my lungs and lose my thoughts on the abyss that was the white of that space. 

The only sounds I heard were the conversations behind the walls, with the creaking of the snow. The passing of cars through the street, with their horns and their accelerations. There was not much to distraction there.

I had put on two sweaters to get out, three pairs of socks, and a towel that was the only thing I found as a blanket. I had been sitting there for a while after lunch and the second round of the pills. The questions for the day had already been asked, although there would be a continuation. 

There was the crunch of snow, dragging of the chair against the stones, exhaling and moving of legs, which made me look to my side. 

To see bruises on his face, dried blood on his lip with red and purple knuckles, and yet he was smiling, like the deranged one: 

"You should see the other."

I didn't see the other for five nights in a row.

I had started re-taken swimming, so that I could do something during the day, with the rules that had left me, I didn't have much freedom.

Caught in jail of a fifteen block radius, with Koi who I could take for a walk for an hour and a half. While I was entitled to freedom inside the house, so long provided there was a responsible adult in the house as if I were no longer one.

So now I had swimming in the mornings, books that lost their interest with the pressure of distraction. And the square that I already knew for every tree, chair, stone and crack in the ground. I learn to cook for Micaela and me, and I kept having a discreet conversation with the Bruhl.

There was a day that I accompanied my parents to the daily purchases and we met people who maintained the farce that we had created. I had chosen to stop accompanying them.

"I have to go for a checkup"

They were both in the study. My mother reading the contracts of a new firm that needed her help and my father with his eyes on the computer. The only evidence of them listening to me was the creaking of the leaves, the clicking of the keys that got louder, harder and from there it was prolonged silence. 

With my firm and square feet, my eyes at a key point and waiting:

"When?"

I told lies from day to hour of the moments that I knew they couldn't and hoping they could let go.

Even knowing that they did not want to step on that place again for a tenth time, knowing that they pushed it into the darkness of their mind. But still needed their eyes on me, they were still afraid and distrustful of me and for me:

"Very well, you can take the car, but we wait for you back by six o'clock, okay?" 

From there the issue was not mentioned again, at dinner, the television was turned on and nobody spoke. 

Nobody spoke the next day either and for half a day more.

On the sixth night, he was sitting against the wall of one of the corners. His head on his knees, his eyes were closed and his hands were in his pockets. We were sitting in opposite corners, not talking. Without making a sound we stayed that night letting time pass and the stars shine.

It was one of the few warm winter nights, where it hadn't snowed for two days and the air didn't hurt the lungs. Where he had to highlight the purple with yellow on his skin yet he had the black eye, the white knuckles and a split lip.

However, it was when you looked down when you didn't look in the face that you saw the arms that had a rainbow of green, yellow and purple. Where they had been painted and marked.

Although, we didn't talk about it that night (we never talked about it). Even when I knew the reason behind it. 

Manuel had told me, in reproach, in guilt and doubt, in a simple youthful pout:

"I just asked him why he was here"

I decided not to ask, not to press, however people gave me reasons, justifications that I did not need, nor wanted, like Gisele's:

“He didn’t do it on purpose, it was one of the bad days”

But he and I remained silent, without sharing our justifications for clean knuckles.

It was a circular table, three empty chairs around it. 

There were ten tables in different parts of the room, the room with grey and white tones. People entered slowly, with bowed heads, desperate hugs and kisses, a warm welcome and affection in the eyes. I no longer felt the envy of the patient but the appreciation of the visitor. My table was empty, far from the rest, next to the window that overlooked the central courtyard of the building.

The fingers of my hand fell down in the motion of stars stairs on the table, keeping the tap tap tap, keeping a watchful eye on the clock.

It had been ten minutes, I still had two hours left and I was going to wait for him. Even when families left, when people recognised me and it was counting to three people and me in the room.

He sat next to me and grabbed the sack of sugar from my other hand and began to spin it in his hand:

"Are you going to tell me about Tomas?”

"Tell me about Tomas"

We were in one of those that were one on one. 

In a room with too many old books, comfortable armchairs, colours on all four walls. Life in the windows and his glasses on the desk, hands clasped and the notebook resting on his side. We had been silent for ten minutes, the questions had already been exhausted and we had started as usual. With my eyes closed and those of his fixed on me.

My mouth was dry, my throat closed and I saw behind my eyelids the green eyes with dark circles. The mark ribs in brown skin, the vomit, the hair touching the treetops and we almost flew, so close that we crushed.

"Lucas?"

I was reaching number forty when he asked again and there was no time limit. However, there was a patience limit and I was testing it every day that I kept silent.

At some point I had to give in to start the healing, however, we were locked in the same old response.

“Tomas, family, dead”

The doctor's sighs and silence reigns.

The definition of Tomas in my life.

It is not a set of words or a synonym that leads to another word. The part that he played in my life left a mark of his existence and it was more complex and larger than life.

The explanation that could give a response and solution to the problems that led me to the white would take years to explain. Beyond that what I have left of it are several loose images and sound that accompany it. 

Pianos that were out of tune, rushed footsteps, horns, bottles against walls. And pools on stormy nights, Nina Simone to the volume of vibrating glass, laughter at night. With shared promises and midnight sighs.

The images of children competing in speed, flying chairs, bruises on our eyes, torn pants, lost uniforms, erased tears, wild teenage years. 

Car crash, prepared backpacks, muffled cigarettes, emergency rooms. Blood in the vomit, despair in life, blood on the hands, the smell of disinfectant, wet dog.

Spring and the scent of jasmine, the explosion of fireworks in autumn, photos with flash, school breaks, armed plans, broken hearts.

There is a life between the two. Between the name of Lucas and Tomas.

There is a galaxy, with tragedies and joys, our first love, our fights, shared sins. 

"Wherever you go, I follow"

From unions that weren’t separated by twenty blocks. My room was his room, his house was my house, our broken and united family were shared, and where one was the other was. With a separation of blood and DNA that was an illusion, we were the dynamite that exploded the other.

Funerals, birthdays, graduate parties, disappointments and expectations. We were a knot that could not be untied, a knot that only broke loose in the silence of a white room.

"Maybe another day, how are you?"

The hair was clean, the dark circles were almost non-existent. The fingers played with the sugar envelope and his eyes were on the window. 

There was a silence that stretched between the two and there was something that the separate weeks had not changed. The rhythm that returned to my body with his presence was comfortable, customary and safe.

"Well, sometimes I sleep at night, you?"

There was a lack of information in that response but we knew our dance and our conversation was a classic.

We talked about my family, about Koi and Micaela. We spent the hour in silent interrupted by brief conversations. We were the boys of the night at two in the afternoon. 

Five minutes before the hour ended and after they had passed with a quick warning and the smile that was still false and distant. 

He got up, threw the envelope at me, stood still, and without looking at me, we started a new rhythm.

"See you next week”

It was not difficult to tell my parents that they wanted a weekly meeting to maintain a regimen so as not to fall into disappointments and old habits. With a movement of hands and the vague response of:

"If that is what your doctors say"

From there it was days with silence and unexpected dinners for one. With Micaela filling the house with music, television and lost talks. Koi barking when they were gone and lying on my right. The Bruhl and their chaotic lunches and their afternoon of reading.

However, I was never with my parents and their need to talk, to improve and to be well. We had overcome those attempts, we already knew how we were and what to expect. And by Monday we were already talking once again about work, home and family.

"Today is my birthday"

Somehow one night, we were in my room, he said that his room you had too many shadows and cobwebs. Mine was new, distant and clean.

And there we were, sitting against the wall three bodies away because it had snowed. It was cold and we were evolving in not wanting to give up the shared nights.

That day Gise had given us chocolate puddings. 

He moves a body closer and swung his pudding against mine before eating it. I smiled at him while I ate what my birthday cake, my parents had called and visited for half an hour but

“Work, I'm sorry, we'll go next week”

(One month later they returned).

We ate without hurry and watching the snowfall through the window, and in a moment where I closed my eyes and finished the pudding. I felt the cold touch of his hands on my skin, the dull green eyes that looked at the corners, and the feet nervous

"What?"

He grabbed my hand and got up, we were in the middle of the room, with the bed against the wall and little space for mobility. He took two steps away, he looks at me, he bit his lips

"Awkward Dance"

He began to dance, with eyes closed, arms over his head and turning on his axis. It was crazy, it wasn't a dance, it was just uncoordinated movements that were free, easy and happy. And we were dancing, eyes closed, crashing nonstop and pain in the muscles and lungs. With the sound of my laughter and the visualisation of his smile that was hidden between his hands.

On visiting days, I used to sit at a table waiting for my parents, who almost never came. And after that, I would receive sweets, letters, gifts, apologies.

There were rare occasions where one would come and that was the case of that day, my mom had come. She looked tired, older than her age, with grey hair, wrinkles in her eyes and worn clothes. She seemed defeated and it hurt. It hurt in my being, my soul, to see what my stay really did to her. That was the only time she appears to be raw and real.

With her warm hands in mine, asking about me, offering homemade food and making comments about my condition. But above all, listening, without comments or judging.

I had retired to the bathroom and I could see that it was a day that the room was full of family, friends and lovers. There were tears, smiles and a devastating silence, born in a corner of the room, near the window.

There were two people, an older man with sunglasses, dressed in a suit that was looking to the other side of the room. He was accompanied by a woman in a winter dress and jacket, who had her hands in the middle of the table. Waiting, wishing, the contact of the hands that played with a blue envelope. 

I was returning to my mother, who had red and wet eyes when I witnessed the goodbye of these two people. A rejected kiss, cold contact, a few words from the father, and sadness in the mother with fear in the last words said.

"Tadeo misses you"

And a repulsion in the answer

"How would you know?"