Tough Love (20 page)

When all was said and done, Brendan stayed in Anderson for two weeks. At the time, I thought it was the best two weeks ever. After all, we were together and what else did we need?

But things were very hard for me. The rumors not only continued but got worse now that he was visible. I found a friend who allowed Brendan to stay in his dorm room, but when word got out that “a guy with AIDS was living in Smith Hall”, that had to stop. My family and friends were not happy he stayed in town so long, and the deception was taking its toll on me. I was exhausted, and my grades were beginning to drop.

Our relationship never wavered, though. We amped up the sexual activity, stealing every spare second to be together. I even found myself breaking the rules, sneaking Brendan into my dorm room during non-co-ed hours just to have sex. I had to work around my roommate’s schedule, too. If she suspected, she never said anything.

I am not sure that I was actually fooling anybody; did my friends know that I was having unprotected sex with a man who was HIV+? Probably not, but they knew I was in too deep, and that realization scared them more than anything.

One evening not too long after Brendan and I had our tearful “I’ll see you again soon”, I had a serious conversation with myself. A lot of what had been happening was getting so big I couldn’t contain it any longer.

I still wasn’t ready to confess my fornication to anyone, but I saw the need to go and get an HIV test. I was so afraid, worried that I could be sick and not know it.

“I just want to know,” I told Brendan when we talked on the phone. “I just...need to know.”

“Yeah, the nurse at the clinic asked me if you had been tested,” he said. “When are you going?”

“Soon. I don’t want to go to the campus nurse, because she might have to report it. I found a clinic in the phone book, and it says they offer free and confidential testing.”

“Sounds perfect for a broke college student who doesn’t want anyone to know what she’s doing,” Brendan said. “Tell me how it goes.”

I was so nervous when I called the clinic that I almost slammed the receiver back down before my fingers finished dialing the number. I took a couple of deep breaths while waiting for someone to answer on the other end.

Gosh, if I am this nervous just making the call, what’s it going to feel like going there?
I wondered.

The volunteer who answered could not have been nicer, answering all of my questions about their hours, location and the procedure itself.

“It’s just a simple blood test,” she said. “We draw only one vial from your vein. How does that sound?”

“And it’s completely anonymous?” I made sure.

“Yes, we use a number system; no names are ever exchanged. In fact, you don’t even have to tell us your name when you get here if you don’t want to.”

Phew! I was feeling a little bit better about the whole thing and made an appointment for the following afternoon. I didn’t want to waste any more time. Now I just had to get there. As a general rule, freshman weren’t allowed to have cars on campus, so most of my friends weren’t an option. And just like with Brendan’s visit, asking Donny to take me would cause more questions than I cared to deal with. In the end, I decided to rely on my childhood skills of riding public transportation and took the bus.

The bus stop was a block away from the tall office building in which the clinic resided. Trying to not talk myself out of doing this was harder than I thought it would be. There were a million cons, but only one pro: to find out my status. By the time I was ready to turn and run back to campus, I was at the door and decided to bite the bullet and just go on in.

The room was darker than I expected, not at all like a clinic or hospital setting. In fact, it looked more like the office of a private investigator in some 1960’s noir classic. Every wall was covered in wood paneling, and the large glass window in the door was even frosted.

Another deep breath escaped my lungs as I walked to the file-strewn desk and hit the “
Ring for Assistance
” bell. I heard a cabinet drawer shut to my left just before another frosty-windowed door opened. A woman stepped out, closing it behind her.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

Okay, kiddo –no turning back now.

I was shaking when I said, “I’d like an HIV test, please.”

“Sure, I can help you with that. Let me gather some forms, and I’ll be right with you. I’m Molly, by the way.”

I smiled but didn’t share my name.

“Okay, if you’ll follow me…we’re going to go in this other room and talk before drawing your blood. It’s more discreet so your privacy is not compromised.”

Molly asked me several questions, mostly concerning my sexual activity over the past six months. I explained that I had begun having sex with an HIV+ partner only three months ago, but never with protection. When she wondered about previous sexual partners, I told her about Micah.

“That’s all, though. Only two,” I said.

She showed me the numbering system that was going to be used. There were three stickers, each with identical numbers on them: one for the vial of blood, one for the paperwork Lisa had filled out, and one for me to keep.

“This is how you will come back and claim your results in two weeks,” she told me.

“Wow, two weeks. Okay.”

Once she drew the blood, double checked the stickers, and made an appointment for my two-week follow up, I was free to go.

“Thank you, Molly.”

She extended her hand out to me. “You’re welcome, dear. See you soon.”

Thank God I had school to keep me busy over the next two weeks. Even with being occupied with class, homework and projects, it was a very long wait. I kept trying to tell myself that I was okay; that I didn’t have any signs of HIV. But then again, it had been only three months, and most symptoms laid dormant for at least twice that long.

Not to mention,
my brain reminded me
, it was only weeks ago you had sex with him most recently.

Results day finally came. The clinic opened at 9:00 and mercifully I didn’t have class until 11:00, so I went right away that morning. Checking my wallet for my number card, I shut the door behind me and started walking toward the bus depot. I’d never been so grateful for empty hallways.

I was thinking it would be nice to see Molly’s smiling face again when I reached the office door. She was such a calm presence the last time, and I was in need of that once again.

The desk was vacant so I reached for the bell. Before I could press the button, though, Molly came out of the back room.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here for my test results,” I said shyly. I wasn’t sure she remembered me.

“I thought so,” she smiled. “Do you have your number card?”

I handed it to her, and she disappeared for a minute. When she came back, she had my file with her. Then she had me follow her to the same back room, shutting the door behind us.

I was shaking. The rest of my life was riding on one little word that Lisa was going to tell me. Either “positive” or “negative” was about to be spoken in this little space. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe; the weight of this moment was bearing down on me. What kind of life was I going to have if I were positive? Who was going to want me now? Dear God, what was I even
doing
here?

“You’re negative.”

I’ve always thought it interesting that the word ‘negative’ has a positive connotation in the medical community. In every test, from a simple bladder infection to a brain tumor, the patient prays for the nurse to say, “Negative.” And in the seconds leading up to that moment, everything stops. Time doesn’t seem to move, and yet one swears it takes an eternity. Your heart stops beating, you stop breathing, and your blood ceases to flow. And then it all changes with that one simple word.

And I’d just heard it.

“I am?”

“Yes, your test is negative.”

“So that’s it?” I asked her.

“Yes, unless you plan to continue sexual relations with someone who is HIV+. If that’s the case, we recommend you continue to get tested every three months, through the sixth month after any possible infection,” Molly told me.

“Okay, that makes sense. So, if I’m still negative after six months from the last time we have sex, then I’m negative for life?”

“Theoretically. But keep in mind that every person you have sex with…it’s like you’re having sex with every one
they
have ever had sex with. You don’t always know about someone’s past relationships. Also, HIV can stay dormant for a long time. We are seeing a lot of patients who don’t even know they are infected until it’s too late.” She paused and then added, “Of course, we highly recommend using protection whenever you have sex. The risk is still there, but you can mitigate it by always insisting your partner wear a condom.”

I thanked Molly for her time and her kindness before leaving. On the way to the bus stop, I made a mental note to get another test in October, no matter if I were back at Anderson or going to school in Ohio.

Riding the bus back to the dorm gave me some time to think about the facts Molly presented. She’d said you sometimes don’t know about others’ pasts. That was true. I was fortunate that Brendan shared everything in his past with me. But I also knew I couldn’t always trust what he was doing in the present tense.

I thought of Damia and realized we hadn’t heard from her in a long time. A few months prior she’d told us she was due to have twins in May; it was now the beginning of April and with twins as her first pregnancy, I expected she would deliver early. I decided to ask Brendan about her that night when I called to give him the results of my test.

When I got off the bus, there was a bit more spring in my step. I knew I wasn’t out of the woods yet, at least not until the middle of September, but for now I was okay.

Naturally, Brendan was very happy when I told him about my newly confirmed status.

“You know, I never wanted this to be the way it is,” he told me. “I should have never put you in this situation.”

“I know that, Brendan. I know you never meant to put me in harm’s way. We made the decision to have sex together; we’ll face the consequences together. Which reminds me, have you heard from Damia lately?”

He sighed heavily on the other end of the phone, and I could tell something was wrong.

“Actually, she called yesterday to say she miscarried.”

“Really? How long ago?”

“I dunno, she wouldn’t say. She was very secretive about everything. I don’t think she was ever pregnant. I mean, I know she wasn’t pregnant with
my
baby, but I don’t think there was any baby at all.”

Should I believe him
? I wondered. She said they’d had sex, while he continued to swear they never did. The fact was, though, that Brendan had fooled around with her while we were supposed to be an exclusive couple. He’d been honest about that, at least, but it didn’t give me much hope. Not when our entire relationship was full of lies.

I’D LOVE TO say our relationship was a roller coaster, full of normal ups and downs. But if I’m being honest, that summer was more like an elevator going in one direction: down.

I finished the semester at AU, somehow managing to not flunk out. I did not maintain the “B” average it took to keep my scholarship, but I had enough credits to be considered a college sophomore.

I worked for a temporary employment agency throughout the summer to save money. It was nice, having something to focus on other than Brendan. Being home with him was draining, both mentally and physically. The walls and charades that I’d built up during the academic year--lying about having sex, pretending to still be a good little Christian girl--were much harder to maintain when I was living at home with my parents.

Not long after I arrived back in Toledo, Brendan decided he wanted to move out of his parents’ house. The timing worked out for him to move in with a friend who was already renting a house owned by my folks. In fact, it was my childhood home, the one vacated when we’d moved five years prior.