One friend had even called me in a tiff around my first anniversary with Jeremy and said, “You know, he’s a boyfriend. Not a Siamese twin. It’s entirely possible for the two of you to be in different places at the same time.”
But Jeremy was jealous of my friends and did his best to make seeing them difficult. And I have to admit I liked Jeremy’s jealousy. Not because I didn’t care about my friends, but because it meant Jeremy loved me. And the idea that his love was sometimes irrational, somehow made it seem better, more likely to last. I guess we know how that turned out.
I could have called my family, I suppose. But I couldn’t think of one person in my family who’d be helpful or even remotely supportive in this situation. If I called my father and told him that a guy I’d dated killed himself in my garage, he’d say something like, “Your people do that kind of thing a lot, don’t they?”
He said that when talking about homosexuality. “Your people.” As though his oldest son came from some foreign country he’d never been to. My mother didn’t treat me like a foreign national; she treated me like a drug addict. If I looked to her for sympathy, she’d probably send a brochure for a reparative therapy group based on the twelve steps.
I could call my sister. She was easier to deal with. But she had a husband and two children. She’d likely refer me to one of my parents. Not because she thought they’d help, but because she was hoping that eventually they’d cut me out of will in favor of her kids. Any opportunity to make me look bad in their eyes aided her cause.
I decided to take an over-the-counter sleeping pill and try to forget everything. Walking from the bathroom to the bedroom, I stripped off my clothes and dropped them on the floor as I walked. I was naked by the time I got to my bed. I threw back the comforter and slipped in between the sheets.
Immediately, I jumped back out. The sheets were wet. Cold and wet. I turned on the lights and could see there was a large wet spot about chest level. Both the top sheet and the bottom sheet were wet, as was the blanket. The comforter was dry. Someone had pulled the comforter back and peed on my bed. I ran my hand across the stain and lifted my fingers to my nose. The smell was faint, but it was the smell of urine.
Eddie had pissed in my bed.
Chapter Seven
I slept on the couch. Or rather I lay down for a few uncomfortable hours with my eyes closed -- too much going on in my head for sleep. Eddie had killed himself in my garage. Well, not Eddie, someone named Javier. No, that wasn’t going to work for me. I couldn’t think of him as anything but Eddie. Maybe if he hadn’t killed himself I might have been able to switch to his real name, provided he ever gave it to me. But he’d done what he did, so to me he’d always be Eddie -- Eddie who killed himself in my garage.
Why? Why had he done it? Was he that messed up? Well, I told myself, just the fact of him killing himself in my garage said, “Yes, he was that messed up.” Should I have seen it coming? I mean, it was weird that he wouldn’t leave my place even though I dropped a ton of hints. And the way he made his living wasn’t exactly mainstream, and I guess was the kind of thing that could attract someone who wasn’t stable. But, no, I shouldn’t have seen it coming. That was expecting too much. And why did he urinate in my bed? Was he angry with me? Did I have more to do with his suicide than I’d thought? I’d only met the guy twice, though. Was he crazy? Was he that crazy? Was I some kind of stand-in for all his clients? Had he developed residual anger over all the men he massaged and masturbated, and decided to take it out on me?
Around six o’clock, I got up and drug myself into the bedroom. I had to do something about the bed. The mattress was obviously ruined. I stripped off the sheets and threw them into the washing machine. Now what? I had no idea what to do with myself.
On a normal morning, I would set up the coffee maker, do a few sit-ups while it brewed, microwave some oatmeal, then I’d sit down at my laptop. Check my email. Read a bit about what was going on in the world. I’d shower, dress and head off to work. Doing any of that seemed wrong. It would be a betrayal of sorts. Nothing about Eddie’s morning would be normal. In fact, he wasn’t even having a morning.
My laptop spent most of its time on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I grabbed it and made a little nest with pillows and a throw on my sofa. I Googled suicide. I learned that women committed suicide more often in China and men more often in the west. In America, most suicides are white men. Statistically, it should have been me hanging in the garage, not Eddie. Suicide is a symptom of depression. That struck me as odd. I think of a sore throat as a symptom, or a headache, but death? Death as a symptom is too final. You’re obviously not going to recover -- the symptom is bigger than the disease. Still, that was interesting. If Eddie was mentally ill, that
