What It Takes (12 page)

“Will you make me a promise?” Andrew says, words thick with tears.

“Yes, of course.” Milo turns so they are face to face.

“Learn to believe it. Do everything you wanted to do that you were scared of before.”

“Andrew.” Milo kisses him, inhales him and tucks this moment into his heart. “I wish I could have this with you.”

“Do me a favor?” Andrew pulls back and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes, nuzzles into Milo’s hands and wipes his face clear of tears. “Write them down. Every dream you have for the future. The things you always wanted to do. Bring them to the bonfire, tonight.”

Milo searches Andrew’s eyes. “Only if you will, too.” He has no idea why Andrew wants this, but he’d do anything right now for him.

° ° °

Even for
Andrew, who loves winter, it’s colder than usual this December. Perhaps the coldest part is the mood that lingers in the air, in the planned goodbye to a father who never deserved such ceremony.

They planned a bonfire for Milo’s last night, something they used to do as teenagers that was just for them, a special group of friends bonding. Tonight it’s to say goodbye. These friends and their families—Sarah and Ted and Lucy, over time, had come to know the secrets the Grahams hid. They all understood the rigid care James took to ensure no harm was great enough to bring trouble to his door, and that the only support they could offer was harbor and complicity, giving Milo as many spaces and moments as possible in which to be a teenager. This bonfire is worlds away from the false front of the wake.

The only one to say that out loud is Ted, of course: This bonfire is meant as a
fuck you
. Milo would never say the words, but the idea was liberating.

Now only Andrew and Milo know what kind of goodbye it really is. And Andrew was so strong when they said it before parting, going different directions in the deep dark of the forest. He holds himself together with the knowledge that it will be best for both of them. Milo can only love Andrew with shadows from the past shaping them. The conversation with Nat lingers in Andrew’s memory: The truth is he does want a future with someone, one in which he can have complete intimacy. He can’t imagine that with anyone but Milo, and despite the synchronicity of vulnerability, love and comfort they shared hours before in Milo’s room, he’s not sure he can picture that ever happening between them again. Too much stands between them.

In this moment, with the shape of Milo’s body remembered in his fingertips, Milo’s heart finally so open for him, Andrew cannot fathom how he’ll ever move on. In his own bed, sheets bitter cool and neutral cup his body, curled tight around a too-huge grief. All the boys in this last year, flings and one-night stands, sweet ones who only lasted a few weeks, others easy to walk away from because they never matched his expectations—now, when he goes back to Brandeis, he’ll have to try for something else.

He wakes the day of the bonfire, heads to the hardware store and buys a gallon of the most neutral paint he can find, a light taupe, and a wide brush.

It’s almost impossible to see while he paints, he’s crying so hard, but he does it. He spends the day in the tiny space they once made to hide in. It takes three coats to cover the stars he painted with the hope that one day Milo would come back and find his way to him. He never thought it would be for goodbye, least of all a goodbye just as Milo woke up to him. Andrew knows his constellations, the names and colors of stars, but what he’d imagined for them was unique. He’d come here in October, picturing his body curled around Milo’s, and painted a map that might be all their own.

When he’s finished there’s paint in his hair, his eyes are swollen and his body still feels nothing but pain. But it’s good. It’s the start. A start toward a new reality where he isn’t going to love Milo like this, as if Milo’s his Earth and he a lonely, constant satellite, cold and hopeless.

° ° °

Sarah and
her new boyfriend, whose name Milo can’t remember, bring most of the firewood. She’s grown up in a way he completely missed in the last few years. When he came home, all he noticed was Andrew. Tonight Sarah’s hair is curled in tight corkscrews, shining in the firelight, and she wears makeup with a cat’s-eye effect.

He hasn’t noticed and can’t remember so many things. How much is simple distance from this old life, and how much the impenetrable skin he brought back to Santuit with him in a naive attempt to get through without feeling anything? Going through the motions today, he’s had time to reflect and reject his foolish idea that he’ll go back to USC, take off his travel clothes and wash everything down a shower drain. Because here’s Andrew, doling out coffee and hot chocolate, doctoring it, with a smile and laugh, with liquor from a brown paper bag.

Milo watches as Ted sets the wood alight. When the wind whips over the deserted chiaroscuro landscape of late dusk, he flips up the collar of his cashmere coat and huddles over a mug of Bailey’s-laced hot chocolate. The fire catches, burning oranges and yellows that mesmerize, and a glow spills onto the faces of his friends who had been fading into the dark. Milo lays the last of the wood himself and looks up across the pyramid—into the eyes of the man who has known him best his whole life. Who has loved him best, and whose love has kept him afloat in the years he thought he would drown in the big house his father kept.

Andrew looks tired, and his eyes look the way they do when he’s been crying but is trying to hide it. No one else seems to notice, or at least they’re not saying anything. Milo has known Andrew in so many ways, but never so intimately as now. Andrew: slip-gentle skin over long bones, his thin but soft flesh giving easily under Milo’s fingers. Andrew, who was open and unashamed, comfortable with taking pleasure and with giving comfort and pleasure to him.

“Here,” Andrew says when Milo comes to him. His hand holds a cream-colored piece of paper, folded in quarters.

“Your list?” Milo asks. Andrew nods. His eyes are painfully direct on Milo’s. He searches his pocket and finds his own list, considerably more crumpled. “Are we reading them?”

“If you want?” Andrew strays closer to the fire. “I’ll always remember mine. Will you?”

“Mine or yours?”

“Either,” Andrew says plainly. “I will. Both.” Andrew tries to smile; it’s an utter failure, but paints his lovely face so heartbreakingly that it’s nearly impossible not to reach out and touch his cheek. Andrew takes a small step away from Milo when he moves closer. With shaking fingers, he reads Milo’s list. The only change his face makes is a raised brow. When he’s finished, he looks at Milo. Milo opens Andrew’s list. He’s right. Even through the cramping panic in his chest, and the tears in his eyes, he knows he won’t forget Andrew’s dreams.

They could be
it
for each other, in a perfect place. Milo couldn’t put Andrew’s name on his list, no matter how he ached for it. His name isn’t on Andrew’s. Andrew loves Milo
who was
and Milo strains so for the Milo
to be
; neither would chain him to the past through a list of wishes. Milo understands, although it hurts, that he’ll only hurt Andrew if they don’t walk away, because there’s nothing Milo won’t damage, given time.

Andrew slots their fingers together and steps closer to the fire.

“Please remember—”

“I’ll never forget, Andrew,” Milo promises. Andrew’s head on his shoulder is a brief comfort; the scratch of his hair and his scent are wisps of sensation. Andrew carefully feeds Milo’s list to the fire, letting one corner catch before the flames and heat suck it into the vortex as black ash curls inward. Milo does the same and understands that they’re not walking away from dreams. They’re forging promises to make this choice the right one.

°

Long past nightfall, the logs burn themselves into collapse. Milo feels sunburned from the heat, but also cold. He’s had enough to drink to feel hazy, but not too much. He’s spent the night watching Andrew, watching sparks fly into the night, mentally cutting open the shell he’s been living in. Everything is starting to hurt, and when Milo thinks of how long it will hurt, and how much it will take to grow out of this, he wants nothing more than to close that shell again.

He could walk to Andrew and take his hand, lead him home and beg him to put him back together. But then a part of him would always be here, only half alive.

Andrew’s face is tipped up to the stars, and Milo takes a picture in his mind. Then he gets up and walks away.

chapter eight

M
ilo gets off the plane at Logan airport with a clipped step and a determined mind. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be back in Santuit. He’s not sure what his mother’s real state is—her voice has grown increasingly soft, losing the vibrancy she gained slowly in the years since his father’s death. Opening their old home as a bed and breakfast had revived her spirits.

Milo hasn’t been home in seven years. He’s seen pictures of her transformation of the old house. Inviting as it looks now, for Milo it will always be an ugly reminder of the past he’s worked to come to terms with. Once he acquired his job at Miller Green Developers in Denver, he had extra money to send her. The first few years, she slowly rebuilt herself, then confessed her desire to run a B&B. She sent emails with dozens of pictures attached: dreams and then transformations, until one day Graham’s Bed and Breakfast was born. She offered to ship what possessions he’d left behind. Milo barely bit back the hard response that she could burn them for all he cared.

He didn’t want a single thing from that home or his youth. He still doesn’t.

But she needs him now. She held off on asking; once she did, it came with an admission that she needed help. Milo’s not sure what’s going on—she was circumspect on the phone. There are few things in the world Milo wants less than to return to Santuit, but one of them is abandoning his mother when she needs him.

At the car rental place, he requests something cheap and small.

“How long will you need it?” the clerk asks, cheerfully tapping away at a keyboard with only a brief glance at him. His name tag reads “Rob.” He’s very good looking, with startling green eyes that stand out in contrast with his beautiful dark skin. Milo knows it’s polite to use the names of customer service representatives, but he wants to be in and out, not chat with a stranger, even if he is hot.

“I’m not sure, a few days?” He’ll figure something out, should he need to stay for any length of time.

“All right, we’ll write you up for a week for now?” Rob says.

“Sure.” He’s barely paying attention. He signs what he needs to sign, swallows down impatience, because none of this is Rob’s fault and yet Milo’s being an ass, and stuffs his bags into the car. Milo takes a moment to familiarize himself with the car, then sits a while with his eyes closed as the air conditioner runs to battle the humidity already settling over the city.

°

The drive is as ugly as he remembers. He never understood how people found this beautiful. He passes a windmill that makes his stomach clench for no good reason, other than that it’s so big it’s a little unsettling. Once he’s over the bridge and coasting down highway 28, the tension eases a little. He reminds himself that, while this is familiar, he’s not the same. It’s been a long time since he’s had a panic attack; he’s damned if he’s going to regress because he’s visiting a place full of painful ghosts.

°

“Hey, Mom.” Milo hops up the moss-covered rock steps to the lawn, then pulls his mother into a tight hug, lifting her tiny body off the ground. She’s thinner.

“Oh, it’s good to see you, honey.” Shelby squeezes him back. Although he flies her out to his house in Denver when he can, it’s not often she finds time to get away from her business. Even in the off season, she’s constantly busy.

“Mom, you look thinner,” he says right off the bat.

“Oh, let’s not talk about serious things right now.” She swats him playfully. Her smile is real and open.

He kisses her forehead. “Let me grab my bags.”

°

“So where do you want me?” Milo stacks his bag and carry-on in the foyer.

“I assumed you wouldn’t want your old room,” she says.
Observant, sweet Mom
, he thinks. They don’t talk about it much, but it’s always a surprise, a comforting one, when she acknowledges the reality of their past subtly.

“Do you want the front room or the attic room?”

“Attic.”

“Are you sure? It’s so small!”

“I’ll be fine, Mom. All I need is to be able to sleep. You still have the big bed in there?” Milo lifts his bag.

“Yep. Pretty much all that fits in there.” Shelby grabs his carry-on, which he gently takes away from her.

“Don’t. We can’t both manage on those steps.”

Milo heads upstairs, then opens the door to the narrow, steep steps that lead to the attic. As a kid, this was an alluring but sacred space: his mother’s sewing room, her retreat. Respecting her need for a getaway, he’d rarely gone up there without invitation. He’s always loved picturing her in there, the warm Cape light falling through steep skylights, the sloped ceiling and rich blue of the walls, the braided rag rugs in kaleidoscope colors she’d learned to make from her grandmother. His mother loved homemaking, even when James sucked its joys out of both of them.

He wrestles his suitcase up the stairs, ducks his head through the doorway, then goes back for his carry-on. The ceiling is almost low enough to touch his head at its peak; the room occupies the A-frame top of the house. But the bed is a four-poster with his grandmother’s quilt on it, and tucked against the wall is a dresser he’ll have to stoop to use. It is too small, but it feels perfect: close and redolent of the only soft memories he has of the place.

“Milo, honey,” Shelby calls up the stairs.

“Coming.” He sets the stack of shirts on the bed and maneuvers his way down. It’s definitely going to take some getting used to, the steps are so steep, but he hopes he won’t be here long.

She’s at the table in the kitchen with a warm mug of tea in front of her. “I didn’t know if you’d like coffee or tea or water?”

“I’m fine. Mom, you look tired.” He sits across from her.

“Oh, I’m a little worn; I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“What’s up?”

“Lots on my mind. Excited to see you. Don’t worry so much. We have time to talk,” she says, dismissing his question.

“Mom—”

“Would you mind running to Winslow’s and grabbing some stuff for dinner, honey? I forgot to make time for it.”

“Winslow’s?” He remembers the tiny market too well.

“You know I like to support the local businesses,” she says patiently. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course. Do you have a list?”

“Yes.” She looks around vaguely. “I can’t remember where it is.” She laughs, an almost lost sound, it’s so quiet. His anxiety spikes. “Milo, sweetie, it’s okay,” she says, reading him perfectly. “I really am just tired. I worried, asking you to come here, if it would be too much for you.”

“Mom, I’m fine. I want to help you. I think we need to talk, though.”

“We will, I promise. Let’s have a nice night with some good food, and enjoy each other, please?”

“Of course,” he concedes, hand over hers.

°

Winslow’s isn’t quite what he remembers, even when he was a teenager. It’s all haphazard shelves, hit-and-miss stock, overpriced produce and the same old retired folks gossiping over poorly kept checkout counters. But it’s not as crappy as he remembers. Or it is, and his adult perception is different. Santuit has its own pace, its own flavor, the special energy of the full-time residents who know the waters and winds and ever-shifting sand. He’s always thought of it as a little big town.

“Hey,” the woman checking him out exclaims. She has poofy white hair that’s curled in the regimented style most Santuit women over sixty wear. Her face is weathered but familiar. “Miles Graham? Oh lord, oh we haven’t seen you in years!”

“Mrs. Shoon,” he manages after casting around in his memory for her name. “I can’t believe you recognized me.”

“Oh hush, you.” She begins bagging his selections at a snail’s pace. He recognizes the rhythm. It’s small talk and catch-up.

“As if I wouldn’t; didn’t I watch you grow up, always at the candy aisle wishing for more quarters with that, that friend of yours—Andrew?”

“You make it sounds like an episode of
Leave it to Beaver
,” he jokes.
Andrew
. Andrew, a name and a memory, but so crucial to his childhood history that those with long memories will always connect them.

“That’s life here, darlin’,” she jokes. “So, here to help your mom?”

“Yeah,” he pulls out his wallet. “She needs help, then?” He winces. “Obviously. I mean, you know—I mean—” He really doesn’t want to gossip about his own mother, but he’s dying to know what’s going on.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I assumed a boy like you would come back to a place like this for his mother.”

“Good call,” he says with forced cheer. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you again, then,” he adds, all awkward phrasing and unsure conduct, because he’s not sure how to cut short the curious and gossipy town rhythm.

“All right then, hon. Enjoy your day.”

“You too, Mrs. Shoon.” He hefts his two paper bags and heads out along Main to his car. On the opposite corner is Ashe’s: one of the nicer restaurants in town, the special-occasion place his father would patronize when he wanted to perform “perfect family” for the big moments. The last dinner Milo remembers there was to celebrate his departure for USC.

°

His mom manages to talk around and under the topic for three days. After pressing on the second day and seeing her get upset, Milo resigns himself to not pushing until she’s ready. He hates feeling itchy but doesn’t want to demand answers, especially because some of that itch is the simple desire to get the hell out of Dodge.

“You know, honey,” Shelby says over breakfast the third day, “Ted still lives here. Married a sweet girl; they have a little boy. Oh, and your friend Sarah, she’s up at Norwalk. You should give them a call.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mom,” he hedges, disguising it with an over-enthusiastic application of strawberry preserves on his toast. He doesn’t want to revisit his past more than necessary. There’s little he could say to friends he’d let drift away when Andrew cut ties with him. For a long moment they avoid looking at each other, because they know things must be said.

“You know, honey…” She pauses, then looks out the window. The sky is gunmetal gray. “I suppose we do need to talk.”

He puts his knife and soggy toast down carefully. “Yes, that might be good.”

“I’m not sure where to start.” She laughs. It sounds rueful and sad.

“You don’t have any guests this week?” Milo asks. He’s been wondering.

“Um, no. I had a last minute cancellation.”

Milo’s not sure if he can read the truth on her face. Even in the years they’ve both allowed themselves to flourish, it seems they both remember how to conjure the blank faces that often saved them from someone’s anger.

“Milo, I’m not going to pretend I don’t know how hard this is on you, being here. I know you know I know, we all here know,” she jokes, “but it had to be said. I thought a lot about what the right thing to do was, because I feel I owe it to you to spare you everything I can, after not having—”

“Mom, no, please don’t.”

“Like I said, it has to be said. But I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t need you.”

He takes her in, the streaks of gray that startle through her once mahogany hair, the creeping lines around her dark-circled eyes. Her skin looks thin, almost papery. He finally asks.

“You’re sick, aren’t you?”

Her eyes go back to the window, again and again. He wonders what they’re drawn to, when all they can see is the peek-a-boo, colorless sky between the leaves of the oak tree in the side yard.

“I’m sorry, honey,” is all she says. Milo stares out the window with her, then clears his throat, trying to force the tension out.

“Don’t be; it’s okay.” He squeezes her hand. “It’ll be okay.”

She gives him a sweet, mother-shaped smile and seems to think through her next words.

“All right.”

°

Milo settles her on the couch and himself in an armchair and gets to the business of fact-collecting so he can construct a plan.

“Please don’t panic,” she starts, ominously. “It
is
breast cancer—” She leans forward and shakes his knee when he inhales sharply. “The doctors think we have excellent odds. It’s stage two, so it needs treatments and surgery, but also has excellent odds for survival with the plan we’ve decided on.”

“Wait, have you already—how could you not—?”

“Milo,” she says softly.

“You wouldn’t have told me?” Incredulity sharpens his voice.

“No, no, I would have. Just maybe... with better news?” she says.

“Oh!” Now it’s sarcasm. “‘Better news,’ she says.”

“Milo, I wanted to spare you—”

“How is keeping secret your
cancer
sparing me? What if—”

“Milo, please understand. As a mom, it’s my job to try to spare you. And I have so much to make up for.”

“Mom, please stop.
Stop
. You don’t, okay? We were both there. He did it to us both.”

For a long time after his father’s death, he blamed her, and anger and resentment simmered. He always managed to tamp down those feelings when he spoke to her. It took therapy and effort to forgive and understand. But he has forgiven, and does understand, now.

She takes a shaking breath and makes an abortive motion with her hand that he knows means she’s dismissing it for the moment.
Fine
,
we’ll come back to that later
.

“There didn’t seem to be a clear best choice. Ask you to come back here when I knew it would be painful, and you’ve worked so hard to start somewhere new, or keep this a secret from you when I knew you should know.”

“But only because you need surgery you’ve decided to tell me?” Milo says. A hot wave of resentment he doesn’t want to acknowledge stirs.

“No. Now that I’ve started chemo, I don’t think the surgery itself is going to be the hardest part. I was going to tell you anyway,” she says, sitting up straighter. “I promise. I just wanted to wait it out.”

He evaluates her face, her posture, tries to read if this is true.

“You don’t have to believe me. You can be angry at me if you want, honey. If you want to leave, I’ll understand, too,” she says.

“Christ, Mom, if I want to leave? When you’re sick and need chemo and surgery and whatever else and
need
me?”