My Life After Now

20

One Night Only




Two days later, I was seated on a cold, metal folding chair in the basement of a Methodist church in Greenwich Village. My plan had been to get a seat in the back, but the chairs were arranged in a circle, so there was nowhere to hide. Instead, I chose the seat closest to the door so I could book it out of there as soon as the meeting ended.

There were about a dozen other people in the room: milling about, chatting, laughing, eating their donut holes, and drinking their coffee. They all knew each other already; I was an outsider. I was also the only teenager. I actually may have been the only person under the age of thirty.

Dad and Papa were waiting in a Starbucks around the corner. They’d insisted on escorting me not only to the city but to the front door of the church—they probably thought I would bail on this whole support group idea if left to my own devices. Okay, they were probably right.

I was anxious. I didn’t want to tell these people personal things, and I didn’t want to listen to their sob stories. Plus they were probably all going to think I was just a dumb kid who had no business encroaching on their intimate little group.

Stop worrying, I told myself. It’ll be fine.

I chewed on my fingernails.

It was 8:05 now—we were supposed to start at eight. What was the holdup? Why couldn’t we just get this damn thing over with already so I could go back to my dads and inform them that it was all a waste of time and that I had no need to ever go back?

At ten after, I was seriously considering leaving. Wasn’t there a ten-minute rule or something? Like, if the meeting doesn’t begin on time, you all get a free pass to go home? Besides, it wasn’t like anyone had even noticed me. I could sneak out now and they’d never know.

Yes. I would go. Run the hell out of this place and never look back.

But just as I’d reached my decision, the big wooden door opened again, and a burst of energy flew into the room.

“Sorry I’m late, guys! My bad!” the woman said. No, woman was the wrong word. She was a young woman, a girl. She couldn’t have been much older than I was. She had light brown skin, tight blonde-streaked spiral curls forming a halo around her head, funky eighties-inspired neon pink and green earrings, and hot pink nails. She was the one who was running the meeting?

After everyone was seated and the girl had managed to catch her breath, she grinned at each of us. Her teeth were shiny and perfect. “Welcome!”

“Hi, Roxie,” a few voices responded back.

“I see we have a new face with us tonight,” Roxie said, looking at me. Apparently I wasn’t invisible after all. My cheeks turned red at once. “I’m Roxie. What’s your name?”

Here we go.

“Lucy,” I said.

“Welcome, Lucy. Have you been to a support meeting before?”

“Um, no, this is my first.” And last.

“Well, we’re happy to have you. Would you like to share?” Roxie asked.

“Share?” I repeated.

“Yeah. Your story, your experience with HIV/AIDS, how you’re feeling today…whatever is on your mind.”

Everyone looked at me with interest. I couldn’t believe they all actually expected me to tell them the most personal details of my life. I didn’t know them.

“Um,” I said, trying to find my voice again. “Actually, I’d rather just listen for now. If that’s okay.”

Roxie gave me a kind smile. “Of course.” Then she turned to the rest of the group. “Who would like to go first? And remember to introduce yourself to Lucy.”

A man two seats to my left raised his hand. “I’ll go.” He was…midthirties, maybe? I couldn’t quite tell because his face was oddly concave, like his cheeks had deflated. “I’m Ahmed. It’s been a bad week. I was laid off from my job on Monday.” There were a few sighs of empathy from the group. “So that means I’m losing my insurance at the end of the month. I don’t know what to do—I can’t afford my medication without it.”

When Ahmed was done speaking, Roxie assured him it would all work out and told him she’d put him in contact with some organizations who would be able to help him get his meds. And he actually seemed more at ease, like he had faith in her ability to help. Who was this girl?

Next, a woman in a big wool sweater and sandals and socks spoke. “I’m June. My daughter had her baby yesterday.” There was a wave of congratulations and mazel tovs. June smiled, but only a little. “I went to the hospital to see them. She’s beautiful. Andréa Marie. But I wasn’t allowed to hold her.” She paused and looked down at her lap.

“Why not?” Roxie asked.

“My daughter said she ‘didn’t want to risk it.’”

“Oh, June,” Roxie said. The lady next to June reached out and placed a comforting hand on her back.

I thought back to Evan’s reaction when I touched his arm that day in the car. Would it never get better? If people found out I had this disease, would they not want to shake my hand or give me a kiss hello or let me hold their babies?

Several more people shared. Some stories weren’t nearly as bad as Ahmed’s and June’s. One man spoke giddily about a woman he’d just met on an HIV-positive dating site. One woman didn’t talk about HIV or AIDS at all—she was just so excited that she’d been asked to be the maid of honor at her best friend’s wedding.

And then it was 9:30 and Roxie began to wrap up the meeting. “There is one announcement tonight,” she said solemnly. “You may have noticed that Lawrence hasn’t been here in a while. I got the sad news this weekend that he passed away last Monday. Before we go, let’s have a traditional moment of silence for our friend.”

The room went quiet. Some people closed their eyes, others’ lips were moving in silent prayer. But I noticed that no one cried. It was like they’d been expecting the news. Maybe Lawrence had been sick for a long time. But then again, Roxie said something about a “tradition.” Maybe getting the news that a fellow group member had died wasn’t an altogether uncommon occurrence around here. The thought sent a shiver up my spine.

After about a minute, Roxie spoke again. “Thanks, everyone! Remember, there’s no meeting this Thursday, but I hope to see you all back here on Friday!”

I’d almost made it to the door when someone caught my arm. “Lucy, hold up.”

I turned. It was Roxie.

“Are you going to come back?” She looked at me like she knew I hadn’t been planning on it.

“Oh, um, I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”

“Well, we’re here every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Except this Thursday, you know, because of Thanksgiving.”

“Okay,” I said, turning back toward the door. “Thanks.”

“Lucy?”

“Yes?”

“It’s going to be okay. I promise.”

What do you say to that?

I just shrugged and left.