Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [106]
No, I want to tell her, he wouldn’t.
I notice that I have polished off nearly half of the Dewar’s. I glance over at the picture of Pighead in the car from our trip to Massachusetts all those years ago. And a picture of me in that fucking motel pool. I look at it and think, The deep end.
And then something else hits me. Something so blindly obvious that it’s no wonder I have been unable to see it. The problem is that it’s been eight years since that trip to Massachusetts, six-and-a-half since he learned he was positive, six-and-a-half since I decided to get over him in that way. And I didn’t. I didn’t get over him. I never got over him. My feelings simply went into remission. They were pushed out of the way by the olive in the bottom of my martini glass.
No wonder I don’t feel anything. I’m about to lose everything.
It’s after visiting hours when I arrive at St. Vincent’s. The receptionist at the front desk lets me up despite the fact that I probably smell like the floor of a bar. She lets me up after checking her computer. “Go ahead,” she says, handing me a pass. I want to turn her computer monitor around and read what it says. Why is she letting a drunk up to his room near midnight? Does it say, “Lost cause, admit all”?
ICU is dark, though pulsing with the electronics of life support. I get the feeling that nobody here is sleeping. They’re just unconscious. I walk softly, trying not to let my sneakers squeak against the tile.
“Pighead?” I say softly. “I’m here,” I tell him. I look to see if his eyes are moving beneath his eyelids, to see if he’s dreaming.
His right eye opens. The eye closest to me.
“Pighead?” I say. “It’s me. It’s okay. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
He doesn’t squeeze my hand. But still. There’s something in his eye. Something of him. I need to tell him. Now.
Except I can’t say anything. I can’t say anything that will make him think something’s wrong. “Pighead, you know how much I . . .” and then I say, “It’s okay.”
A tear wells in his eye. It wells and then spills down his cheek. And despite being pumped with booze and coke, I can read that one eye as clearly as a billboard for cigarettes. Only instead of saying Alive with Pleasure it says, I Have to Go Now.
“You’re going to be okay, Pighead. They’re going to fix you. You need to fight this off. Fight as hard as you can.” Plop, plop, plop, my own tears hit his sheet.
His eye says, “I can smell the liquor on your breath, Fuckhead. What the hell are you gonna do without me?”
“Pighead?” I whimper.
His eye says, “I have to go now. Don’t follow me. Be good. Stay dry.”
I need him to get up and start making hot dogs. I need him to yell at me for something. I need him to absolve me of every bad thing I have ever done to him or anyone else. I need him to know I won’t run away or be shallow anymore.
His eye closes. A nurse enters the room. “Your friend had a very fitful evening. I think it’s best if you let him rest. He needs to rest.”
“How is he?” I ask her.
She looks at me like, What, are you kidding? “I’m sorry,” she says, touching my arm as she leads me out of the room.
Well, there’s my answer.
“He can get better, you know. I’ve seen him do it before. I mean, he was fine only a month or so ago.” I think, It has been only a month, hasn’t it? Or has this been going on longer? Have I lost track of time?
“You can come back tomorrow,” she says. Then she adds, “You should probably sleep some yourself.”
At home, I drink the rest of the bottle and finish up what little coke is left. I play the last message Pighead left on my answering machine. He left it before any of this shit happened. I saved it because it was so unusual. It said, “It’s eleven-thirty, you must still be at work or over at Foster’s. Anyway, Augusten, I just wanted to let you know that I love you.”
At the time, I thought, Huh? What’s this shit all about? Why is he so Hallmarky all of a sudden?
Now I know.
I wake up to the nagging ring of my phone. The machine picks up. I hear a hang-up, then the phone rings