Christopher reached for his coffee and took a sip. I could see that his hand was shaking. Since I wasn’t sure if he wanted to be touched or not, I simply let my boot slide up against his shoe underneath the table to remind him he wasn’t alone now.
“I kept up my normal life of studying while Positive Christopher did what he was told and began seeing doctors and counselors and taking all the pills they gave him. It took a while for me to accept reality and really begin to participate in my treatment. When I started to understand what viral loads were, it became this waiting game. My viral load was around thirty thousand copies when it was first checked.”
“Copies?” I asked.
“Yeah, the virus copies itself. It reproduces.”
I’d been trying to remain calm, but the more Christopher talked, the more agitated I became.
The virus was fucking reproducing inside of his body? Possibly even right now, even as we spoke?
“Is that high?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” Christopher responded. “Basically, the higher number of copies means the disease is progressing more quickly. It can get as high as a million copies.”
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” Christopher responded.
I felt Christopher’s foot press harder against mine.
“They started me on a combination of ART drugs. Antiretroviral therapy,” Christopher explained. “I was so scared, Rush,” he admitted softly.
I reached my hand across the table. I was glad when Christopher leaned in and took it. His hand was cold and clammy, proof that this discussion wasn’t easy for him. “I know you were, baby,” I said. “How about we take a walk?” I suggested.
Christopher nodded.
I quickly paid the check, left a healthy tip, and led Christopher from the restaurant. I’d spied a small park with a walking path on the way into the small town, so I knew it was close by, and we wouldn’t need my bike to get to it. I held Christopher’s hand as we walked past some small shops.
“I wanted to call Uncle Micah and Con more than anything,” Christopher said. “Even though I was so ashamed of how I’d ended up in the situation, I was more scared of the unknown.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I realized that not knowing was the part that was slowly killing me. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Luckily, I’d finished my finals by then, but that also meant no more studying, so I had even more time to think about what could happen. I couldn’t put Uncle Micah and Con through that. I couldn’t watch them suffer. I couldn’t be the cause of their suffering. I knew I’d made the right decision when I got tested again after taking the ART meds for a month. My count had actually gone higher. Not by much, but it just made everything worse. I, um, started to have some pretty dark thoughts,” Christopher admitted.
I couldn’t contain the rush of air that left my lungs. We’d reached the park, but instead of walking, I led Christopher to a stone bench between two trees. As soon as we sat, I pulled him against me.
We sat there in silence for a long time, but I never loosened my hold on him, and his grip on me never wavered.
“What made you decide to come home?” I asked. “You were just starting your treatment at that time, right?”
Christopher nodded. “When the count went up instead of down, I knew I needed to go home. Even if I couldn’t be with my family the way I wanted, knowing they were nearby helped. It reminded me that I had something to live for. But I still wasn’t willing to put them through the not knowing what was going to happen. It’s something that consumes my thoughts day in and day out. I look at things like these trees, but I can’t see their beauty. All I can think about is will I be here next year to see them? It’s like that with so many things.”
“Christopher…” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Is that’s why it’s so hard for you to see your family?”
Christopher let out a half sob and nodded. “Every time I see any one of them, I just want to tell them the truth so they can tell me I’ll be okay, that I’ll be here next year.”
I closed my arms around Christopher hard and kissed the top of his head as he sobbed against my chest. “You will be here next year, do you hear me? And the year after that and the year after that. You’re going to be around to help me to remember to put my dentures in, and you’re going to yell all the stuff from the news into my ear because I can’t hear the damn thing and am too stubborn to get a hearing aid. Do you hear me?” I asked almost angrily.