Stanley nodded.
“Good.” He went into their closet and randomly pulled out shirts, pants, and shoes. Then Blake made a phone call.
The hospital ER referred Stanley to a prestigious medical clinic at Stanford. The doctors, specialists, and psychologists ran him through a wide-ranging battery of tests. Within a week, the medical team made a diagnosis from his presenting symptoms of cognitive impairment—mainly memory loss—word retrieval, and the inability to write coherently.
One of the doctors took Blake aside and told him his partner had experienced a severe stroke resulting in an acute lesion in the part of his brain that affects language. “It’s called expressive aphasia. Of course, it could also be the early stages of some sort of dementia, but we won’t know that for a while—months perhaps, or a year or two. It’s difficult to say. But for now, let’s stay with what we know. A stroke. If it is dementia—”
“It can’t be,” Blake said, interrupting him. “It just can’t.”
“No, not now it isn’t, but if it should develop over time—”
Blake started to speak, but the doctor held up his hand. “With regular medical attention, and a secure and safe home environment, he could do well for some time, until his care—”
“He has a name,” Blake said. “It’s Stanley.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” The doctor looked down at his clipboard, then back up at Blake. “He’ll do fine at home until he…Stanley…becomes too much for you to handle.”
“Too much? Never.”
“If it is dementia, and not just the side effects of a cerebral incident, it’s a devastating illness. You’ll know when you’ve reached the end of your tether, and he’ll have to be hospitalized.”
“No. Not happening. I’ll take care of Stanley. I’ll—”
“Yes, well—” The doctor put a hand on Blake’s shoulder. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we? We’re good for now.”
Blake nodded, and when the doctor took off down the hall, he leaned back against the wall, gave in to the emotions he’d held in check the past week, and sobbed uncontrollably.
* * * *
Their home became an environment cluttered with written notes. Blake used colorful Post-Its and arranged them in rows on the fridge—mini aids for Stanley as he navigated a new and unfamiliar world full of potential mine fields. He wrote down the steps for answering the phone, emptying the dishwasher, separating the recycling from the garbage, and directions for just about every other daily household chore he could think of. He made a list of important phone numbers and set it by the phone within easy reach: numbers for Dr. Edwards, the medical clinic at Stanford, the local hospital, even 911. He did his best to simplify Stanley’s life and guarantee his lover’s safety should Blake be away from home shopping or running other necessary errands. He couldn’t leave anything to chance. Stanley’s life might very well depend on it.
The couple was at the beginning of another journey, and Blake did his best to view their situation in just that manner. One day at a time. Whoever said that was a fucking genius. From now on it would be one day, every day, and he would cherish their time together as he had each of their thirty-six years.
* * * *
I look around and see we’re the only patrons left in the orchestra section, maybe in the whole theater. The nice-looking man is still there next to me, sitting quietly.
“Yes, honey, I’m here.” He puts a hand on my knee, then moves it higher toward my thigh. “Remember?”
“Yes. Good. You…here…me, too.” Damn words. I look into his eyes, and see tears.
“I’ve always been here, Stanley. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Yes. You…are…Blake.”
“That’s right and I’m not going anywhere.”
I turn my head and gaze up at the mezzanine and empty balcony. “We’re…only ones…left.”
“Should get moving, I guess. Let’s have a drink somewhere, then grab a cab home, okay?”
“Home. Yes. Let’s…home, Blake.”
He has some difficulty getting up and, as I seem to be better off physically, I let go of his hand, take his arm, and help him to stand. He flashes that beautiful smile, the one I remember, and together we head up the aisle. When we reach the lobby entrance, the chandeliers dim and go out behind us. Blake pushes the door open, and we’re enveloped in a world of sound and light. I am alive in this moment. I cherish the feeling and hold it close. I don’t want to lose it. Ever. I tap Blake on the shoulder, put a hand on the back of his head, then run it down his neck to his shoulder. So familiar. I love this man.
Blake hooks his arm in mine and his warmth rushes through me. There’s security in his touch, and so much love. The feel of his body next to mine comforts and protects me. For now, this is everything. This is happy. This is enough.
THE END
* * * *
ABOUT PAUL ALAN FAHEY
Paul Alan Fahey writes for JMS Books. He is the author of the Lovers & Liars Series and the editor of the 2013 Rainbow Award-winning anthology,The Other Man: 21 Writers Speak Candidly About Sex, Love, Infidelity, & Moving On. His first LGBT novella, The View From 16 Podwale Street, published by JMS Books, won a 2012 Rainbow Award.
Over the years, his writing has appeared in numerous literary journals such as Byline, Palo Alto Review, Long Story Short, African American Review, The MacGuffin, Thema, Gertrude, Kaleidoscope, The Feathered Flounder, and in a variety of fiction and nonfiction anthologies from Carry the Light, Cup of Comfort, My Mom’s My Hero to Writing on Walls, and Somewhere in Crime. He lives on the California Central Coast with his husband, Robert Franks, and a gaggle of shelties.
For more information, visit paulalanfahey.com.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small electronic press specializing in gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender fiction (including erotica, romance, and young adult), as well as popular and literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. While our preference is for GLBT stories, we accept stories containing any and all sexualities, as well as general fiction without a romantic subplot. Visit our site at jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
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