Taking Care by Eric Nguyen

Chad arrived from Long Beach just before midnight. When the plane touched down, he gave Max a call. Max said she was waiting near baggage claim. How was he?

“Tired,” he said. His flight was delayed.

“I know,” she said. “It gave me an extra hour. I got you dinner.” She rubbed a paper bag over the receiver. “McDonald's.”

“Great,” he said.

“Anything,” she said, “for the love of my life.” She said it jokingly, but lovingly, and it had meant something to both of them at one time. “And,” she said, “I can't wait for you to see me. I've changed so much. You won't believe it.”

But Chad could believe it.

It had only been a little over a year since the break-up, but so much had happened in that time. Max got a new job, Chad got a new job. Max stayed near DC, but Chad moved to the other side of the country. Max dyed her hair, Chad stayed with crew cuts and lost weight – it practically flew off him. When people asked him about it — how did he do it? — he talked about the gym across from his apartment, but in truth, he never went there. The men there all had gelled hair that reminded him of Max with short hair, and the same men were the reason he never went to any of the bars. He walked past them but never into them. He’d developed, since moving to California, a habit of walking. He'd leave his house at night and wander the city. He'd tell himself he was really going out for something — fresh air maybe, a snack perhaps — but at every window, he'd forget what he was looking for, and move on to the next building.

One time, he stopped at a store that doubled as a home at night. The lady was sweeping the front steps and asked if she could help him.

“No,” he said. “I'm beyond help.” He laughed but the lady didn't and the whole thing ended up awkward.

“I've changed so much, Chad,” she repeated, dragging out the word “so” to emphasize her meaning. “You won't even recognize me.”

***

At baggage claim, Chad scanned the crowd of familiar faces of passengers from the plane. He tried to remember what Max had looked like before, that is, as a man.

When he first met Max, it was at a nonprofit fundraiser. Equality- something or other. Or was it something or other -Equality?

Chad was coming in and Max was right behind with two heavy boxes stacked on top of each other. He helped Max in by holding the door. At the time, Max was working for the nonprofit as an entry-level receptionist who picked up the slack for the pay of half a person. Chad was covering the event for the local gay paper. At the fundraiser for marriage rights, they found they were the only ones not married.

“Everyone here has wedding bands,” said Max. “Married by the heart, but not by law.”

“And that's all that matters anyway, right?”

“Right. We don't need anyone to tell us what to do. But,” he said, “I'd want to win marriage anyway. Show it to their faces, you know. Fuck those Republicans.” Max had a way with his hands when he talked. In hindsight, Chad thought it was obvious. He almost blamed himself for not knowing, but he couldn't because at the time he liked Max's enthusiasm. Chad liked the way his voice escalated when he talked about politics, the way the words sometimes mushed together because he was speaking too fast. He liked the exuberant flamboyance that spoke of his passion.

Chad looked around again. Not seeing the face he remembered he held his phone tightly by his side in case it vibrated and watched the baggage fall onto the metal belt of the carousel. The metal plates looked like something from the medieval ages and moved with a rickety and rusted sound.

“Beautiful!” gasped a voice from behind. “Over here! Look at you!” she said. Chad turned around and saw his own reflection in black sunglasses. He looked at his skinny figure before he even realized he was looking at somebody else. He took a step back and saw the woman that Max had become — large sunglasses at midnight and pink all over. The hair was long blond with black highlights and hairsprayed with an earthy smell, like it was made of grass and dirt.

She leaned in for a hug. “Chad! I missed you so,” she said. “How've you been? How was the trip?” She patted him on the shoulder twice and then, after a pause, once more.

“Okay,” he said.

She leaned down to grab his bag, but moved back as he took the handle. “I didn't get any sleep on the plane,” he said. “You know me and planes.”

“You and planes,” she said, as if it was a joke everyone knew. “But I'm so glad you came. This is so important to me.” Her family didn't like her decision. The surgery was going to be hell. She was going to need someone to feed her soup, check her post-surgery dressing, read her romance novels, feed her more soup. Chad was the closest person she had, even if he was three thousand miles away. Three years together did that to you, she had said. She repeated it again, elongating her words to emphasize the meaning. “This is soooo important to me, Chad. Thank you, Chad.”

They drove to Chad's hotel only five or so miles from the airport. The hospital wasn't too far away.

“So what are they going to do with you? What are you going in for exactly?” he asked. Over the phone she said "top surgery." Chad meant to look it up, but didn't.

“It's nothing major. I'm just doing the breasts. The breasts will make me feel better. The rest I'll do later. But look at these breasts,” she said, pushing her chest forward, as if giving him permission to touch. They were flat. Chad had only touched breasts once. It was in college and he was drunk and it was at a party. The girl was practically begging for it. She guided his hand towards it and he remembered choking on vomit and running to the backyard and diving into a kiddy pool filled with Jell-O. But this was Max, and Max was different. But still. When Chad eased back into his seat, Max eased back into hers and concentrated on the road. At that time of night, there were only shuttle buses going to and from the airport. The marquee signs advertising the bus company were the only visible light along with whatever lampposts. “So, what about you? What you up to nowadays?"

He said that nothing else ever really happens. His new job sucks. “Jobs always suck,” said Max. He lost weight. “I can tell,” she said. He told her about the gym near his apartment. "You have to take care of yourself.” She told him this and took the exit for the hotel.

The hotel was located on an empty road. The exit ramp took them straight to it, and that road ended not far off. Inside, the red carpets and paisley wallpaper gave the place an air of faux luxury. Faux because the place smelled like mold and there was only one employee at the desk. Otherwise, the place was deserted.

In his room, Chad didn't even bother unpacking. He turned on all the lights and inspected. From the bathroom, he said that they didn't give him any soap or shampoo.

“It's the least any hotel can do,” Max said, sitting crossed-legged on the bed. Even though she was tiny to begin with — as a man and now as a woman — crossing her legs, she looked bulky and out of place, like a folding chair that was stuck and shoved into a closet. “You know what I did one time?” she said. “One time I was at this conference and the hotel did the same thing. Didn't give me any soap.” Chad excused himself to the bathroom. He closed the door and turned on the water in the sink. “Go on,” he said. His voice was muffled. He did the same thing when they were together. Mornings, he'd get ready to work, and Max would tell him about his dreams, or a thought he had, or something in a book he'd been reading — usually trash, according to Chad: Nora Roberts or Danielle Steel with glossy nondescript covers that stained with fingerprints. When they moved in together, Chad was ashamed of being seen with such books, but happy that at least his lover read. At least it was something.

Max waited, then continued. “The cleaning ladies,” she said. “When they made their rounds, they didn't close the doors. So when they were next door, I just walked in and took what I needed. They didn't say a thing, didn't even look up. I took a towel too. Took two towels!” She laughed. “Isn't that funny?” There was no answer, so she unfolded herself and walked to the bathroom. “Well, isn't it?”

“What about I see you tomorrow?” Chad said. He didn't open the door. The water still ran.

“Okay,” she said. “I'll pick you up at eight. We'll go to the hospital. My appointment is at eleven, but you know, lines and forms,” she said. “And traffic,” she added after taking a step away, as if it was an afterthought.

She left without saying anything else.

When he was sure she was gone, he rushed to open his room door. He looked down the hall and saw her wandering away slowly.

“Wait,” he said. He nearly screamed it. They met halfway, and he told her it was silly that she'd be driving at this time, why didn’t she stay with him tonight?

“But you have one bed,” she said.

“Don't kid us, Max,” he said. They walked back to the room, their feet slapping the floor.

***

The first time they slept together, their bodies fitted perfectly. After sex, he held Max and they were perfect C's at rest, their naked bodies curving into each other like puzzle pieces.

This time the bed felt awkward before they even lay in it. They decided to split the bed in two. Max got the side by the window, Chad closer to the bathroom because they both knew he usually had to get up during the night.

Not able to fall asleep, they turned on the TV. It wasn't anything they would've chosen or remembered, but it kept them up for another hour. Max eventually fell asleep to police sirens in a made-for-TV movie, something about a battered wife who was also a nurse.

The thing that surprised Chad was the way she slept was the same. Mouth open, snoring, hands under her head. It was not that he expected anything different, but the familiarity of it caught him off guard. It was, he thought, like looking at someone dead, coming back to life in another person's body. The soul was there, but something was amiss. He threw the covers over her, turned off the lights, and left the room.

He started on the first floor, where they had entered.

The woman working the desk was still there, but was busying herself with a magazine while listening to headphones. He walked down towards one end and looked into the closed-up shops. The doors that closed the shops were the same as back in the city, the garage types that had to be pulled down. Next to a newspaper stand was a shop that sold cigars and Indian memorabilia. At the end was a restaurant. Some of the letters on the sign were unlit and instead of “Le Petit Canard”, it read “Pet Car”. He looked through the grille of the garage door and saw chairs on top of tables and a small light in the back. A woman spoke French into a phone as pots and pans clanked against one another. They sounded like they were whispering, conspiring against something: the woman, the pots, the pans.

Feeling like an intruder, he continued walking. He went upstairs.

The hallways were lined with the same paisley wallpaper and faded red carpet. Some of the hallway lights were out, making shadows in the corridor — dark corners that almost looked like they disappeared. At the far end of the hallway though, there was a strong stream of light. An open room. As he came closer, he heard yelling, things dropping, or things being dropped. Then, finally, a woman was thrown out, and the door was closed. From far away, the woman looked like any other woman, but on a closer look, she was wearing clothes that were too tight, lipstick that was too bright, make-up that made her look clown-like.

Chad stopped as the figure walked closer. Her steps were heavy on the carpet. The heels seemed to stab at the threads. She turned her squarish jaw to Chad and made an angry frown. “Don't look at me,” she said. Her voice was deeper than he expected, it didn't match her face. It looked like she was miming it and a voice from somewhere else spoke for her. “Don't stare. You don't know me.” She was drunk. She smelled of perfume and beer and Lysol. She spat on the carpet and walked by and down the stairway. “You don't know me,” she yelled again before disappearing. “You know nothing.”

***

Back in the room, he lay in bed, on top of the covers, watching Max sleep. Max sleeps the same way, he kept on thinking, yet it's not the same. Her hair flipped into her lips now and then, and she'd chew on it before taking it out. Her eyes fluttered under her eye lids, but with bluish eye shadow, they looked like tiny beetles in the dark. They were ghastly and haunting, shifting and moving, like they wanted to fly away, but couldn't.

He closed his eyes and pretended he was alone. But the breathing was there and he couldn't pretend anymore, so he pretended he was sharing the same bed with Max in their old apartment. The bills weren't paid, but the bills weren't due yet. And anyway, they'd figure something out, between his writing and Max's work.

He fell asleep thinking this, their bodies facing each other at a cold distance, resting like parentheses in a sentence, Chad the beginning, Max the end.

***

When the operation was done, Chad was the first to see Max. He signed in as Max's husband. The nurses didn't say anything to him. He bought her lunch from the cafeteria, where he had waited most of the day, playing games on his phone. She woke up when he set the tray down.

She looked dazed and confused, like she didn’t know where they were, until she looked down at the bandages binding her chest.

“I wonder how it looks like,” she said. “I wonder if they're big enough.” She touched the sides of the bandages and dug into the tape. Chad told her to be careful as she snapped the tape open and lifted the bandage. She let out small yelp as air rushed in and looked down into the crack between her bloodied skin and the elastic. “I think it looks good,” she said. “Tell me, does it look good?”

“Looks like hell,” he said. He let out a tired laugh. “It'll heal.” He reached over and pressed the bandage back. She let out another sigh and held her hand there. She closed her eyes and eased back, laughing. She was always laughing, he thought.

“Remember that time,” she said. “When we both took our tests? And then they called us back because they had news? That they had bad news? That we had it?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And then you said you were glad that you had it with me because you couldn't see yourself with anybody else. That it was okay with me because you were planning to take care of me anyway?”

“Yes,” he said. He walked across the room and pulled one of the chairs closer to the bed. “It was silly.” He sat down.

“But then,” she said. “A week later they called back and told us to come in? They sat us down in a room without windows, and told us we'd be okay because the test lied? Because they were bad readings?”

He nodded.

She took a breath and let it out slowly before continuing. “This room reminds me of that room.”

He unwrapped her food and pushed it closer to her. “You haven't eaten since breakfast,” he said. “Here.”

“Tell me,” she said with a sigh. She leaned onto her side and looked at him. When he nodded, she said, “Do you still care for me? If the same thing happened, but in the end, it wasn't the same, would you still care?”

She sounded worried. Her voice sounded like it went up an octave, but he was unsure. “Why am I here?” he said, then smiled wider. It felt exhausting.

“How about later?” she said, closing her eyes, “Later. When I've gone too far? When I'm a totally different person? Will you care then?”

He told her to get some rest, they were kicking her out of the hospital tomorrow afternoon. She was speaking funny because she needed the rest.

“And the drugs!” she said. She laughed again and patted his knee. She asked him for one more favor. There was a book in her back pack. Read it to her, she said. She wanted to know what happened next. She said she must know what happened next.

He pulled it out. It was a Danielle Steel book with a glossy black cover and thin paper that reminded him of tabloids. He opened it to where she had left a faded receipt. She was always a slow reader. He began loudly and slowly. From what he read, it was about a woman who had it all, only to have it taken away under unforeseen circumstances. The woman works her way back up, she opens up a bakery or a bar (it's not clear), she finds a charming man, they go on expensive dates. He is loaded. Maybe he's an heir to an oil company or he's a respectable lawyer. They fall in love. They'll get married. They'll have kids.

After reading four pages, he wanted to throw the book down. He wanted to leave, to fly back home, to land safely in his own bed, and listen to the irregular crashing of waves from his window. The water was all he could think of. He imagined pools. He felt thirsty.

But she kept listening, so he kept on reading.

When she finally did fall asleep, he climbed into the bed with her, holding her gently. His hand hovered over her chest. He wanted to touch the bandages, to feel her heart, but settled for laying his palm on her stomach instead. Through the sheets, she felt the same, he thought. And she was right, the room did remind him of that time in the clinic. He lay there without falling asleep.

The nurses said nothing. They were husband and wife.