"It's a memory. A... one... distinct memory."

"Can you tell it?"

"Not sure. It hurts."

"The telling?"

"That too. But it's all fucking painful. The... beating."

"How did it start?"

"I was born."

"Brian."

"Seriously. I was unwanted, five minutes post-coitus. And then my dear mother, good Catholic that she was, refused to even consider an abortion. There--it's the opening line of my autobiography."

"So... what you're remembering is something from your childhood."

"Yeah. I was about fourteen. Went bowling with Michael, the geeky little Italian kid I just met in eighth grade. Obviously, painfully gay... My best friend."

"Right, Michael."

"I had a good evening, scored a strike. We ran into each other's arms for a hug--winning was a rare event for us both--and I planted a big kiss on Mikey's cheek."

"What happened next?"

"Jack--my father--walked up to us, beer in hand. Must've already been plastered. He said something to us."

"Can you try and remember?"

"'What--are you a couple of fucking fairies?'"

"What did you do?"

"Ran. But not before I shoved Mikey away hard enough to make him fall."

"Where did you run?"

"I'm--not sure."

"Try to remember. Any memory of what you were thinking?"

"Anger. Hatred."

"Toward your father?"

"No."

"No? Toward whom, then? Michael?"

"Myself."

"Why?"

"I was a fucking fairy. A dirty, fucking fairy."

"Oh, I see. Let's set this one aside for a minute. What happened next?"

"I headed out, running like a bat out of hell. Could've won the Olympic 100-yard dash. No direction, no destination. Just streets."

"Did you go home?"

"Didn't even try to. Had no plan. It was late evening, fucking dark and cold. Ran through mostly deserted streets and alleys. And then... "

"It's O.K. Take a few deep breaths, Brian. Easy. You're safe here. You can tell me."

"Then I heard it."

"Heard what?"

"Pounding. Footsteps. Running. Following me, closing in."

"Was it your father?"

"Jack. Yeah. Grabbed me by the shoulders, almost floored me right there. Shook me till my bones rattled. Called me... names again."

"Faggot? Fairy?"

"Yes."

"Go on."

"I denied it. I'm not--at least I thought at the time I wasn't--a fag. I cried. It only egged him on. He'd always been like that when he was drunk."

"What did he do next?"

"Took off his belt, the wide leather one with the heavy metal Lion's Club buckle. And... and he beat me within an inch of my life."

"Do you remember it all?"

"I do now. Haven't in all the intervening years. See how good you and your voodoo head-shrinking are for me, Siggi?"

"All beatings are bad. But he had physically abused you regularly--was this an especially bad beating?"

"Must've been. He beat me to a pulp; there was blood everywhere from a deep gash on my head, running down my face and arms, splattering the bare pavement. After a while I stopped crying, it stopped hurting. I was left wondering whether he'll kill me."

"What happened next?"

"Not quite sure. Somehow I made it home--whether with him or on my own, I can't recall. I must have scared my mother--she's all heart, you know--because she took me in to Emergency. I still have the scars to prove it."

"When the ER staff saw you, weren't they suspicious?"

"They might've been. It was before the law forced people to give a shit, though. Besides, mommy dearest was smart. Didn't try to tell some lame story about me falling down the stairs. Instead, she said I was beaten up by a bunch of neighborhood scum."

"How was she with you? Supportive, comforting?"

"I should introduce you to her. If you knew the woman, you wouldn't ask... No, hell no! She wasn't the least bit responsive. Wearing blinders--that was always the Kinney family way."

"What was your reaction to the beating?"

"Nothing."

"C'mon, Brian."

"Nothing, I tell you. Don't you see? I didn't remember it--none of it--until last night. That's why I'm here today. It was all gone, buried in the rubble that was my childhood. Forgotten. Repressed, in your vernacular. See no evil, hear no evil, fucking remember no evil. None of it... "

"All right, Brian, you're doing fine. I want you to take a break. Here, drink some water and lie down on the couch for a while."

"Why Sig, you are finally going to take advantage of me?"

"Glad you can joke, it's a good sign. And no, I want you to take advantage of my plush shrink-couch which, I believe, you've already paid for thrice over."

"Are you better?"

"Better than what?"

"Stop the b.s., Brian, you're paying too much for my time to play the clown."

"No, I'm not better. So, do you mind telling me what all this shit is about? What happened?"

"I don't know. You tell me. Let's try to fit the pieces together."

"Ladies, gentlemen and queers--here's our newest jigsaw puzzle, 'Brian's Brain!' Dark and twisted passageways, shitty attitude, a multitude of jagged pieces. Unfortunately, especially since his 'slight cerebral incident,' some of the pieces are missing, and none of them fit together."

"Want to call it a day, Brian?"

"Okay, okay, I'll stop. But none of it really does fit together, Sig. Why didn't I remember this one beating, and why do I now? I know, psych lesson 101, 'the return of the repressed,' but all the 'whys' still remain. Why this particular night, this particular beating? There were so many--dozens, maybe more."

"Was this one especially brutal?"

"Yes. With the trip to Emergency, a dislocated shoulder, and all the cuts and bruises and stitches, I'd say so. But it probably wouldn't even be in the running for the 'worst' title."

"What about the trigger?"

"Whose, Jack's? Beyond the obvious--that I was born--it must've been my flagrant show of emotion toward Mikey."

"No, what was your trigger?"

"You're being intentionally obtuse, Doc. Okay, I guess it was Jack calling me a fairy... "

"Had he done it before?"

"Not to my recollection. Nor after."

"At the time, did you think of yourself as one?"

"No, not articulated in words, not consciously."

"Did you have any same-sex experiences at that point?"

"Soon after. I was launched on my 'virgin voyage' by a dedicated gym teacher. Strictly locker-room sweaty jock stuff."

"Any hetero experiences?"

"Later on. Diddled a few giggling girls in high school, fucked Lindsay in college. We were both searching for self-definition at the time."

"What do you think being a fairy meant to your father?"

"That you were perverted, abnormal, sick... and weak. An abomination of nature."

"How do you think it would have made him feel toward you?"

"Ashamed--over and above the annoyance he'd already felt over my existence."

"Did it matter?"

"I wanted to believe it didn't. But it must have."

"How?"

"The fact remains I didn't tell him I was queer until I was almost 30 and he was dying of lung cancer. Not exactly a model of the 'out and proud' homosexual..."

"Did you want his approval?"

"Again, I thought I didn't. Now, I'm not so sure."

"All kids want their parents' approval. Their love. It's normal."

"Is it also normal to buy into their prejudiced, fucked-up values? Deny who you are... feel ashamed?"

"Is that what you think you've done, Brian?"

"You tell me. I lived a lie."

"But you maintained a fully open gay lifestyle."

"Yeah, right--finessed by caveats, boxed in by conditions and rules. Sustained by denials."

"Care to elaborate?"

"First, let's go back to that long-ago beating. I was fourteen, and, apparently sufficiently traumatized by the double stigma of the 'fairy' label and my own broken flesh to repress the entire event until today."

"Yes, that sounds like a fairly accurate assessment. And then, it seems, you built a paradox--the ultimate macho fucking machine, the gay super-stud of Liberty Avenue. Erected a wall to safeguard your image--the absolute 'top,' always the fucker, never the fuckee, never the same guy twice."

"I had more rules than pieces of underwear, needed them more. No feelings, no relationships, no commitments."

"You're being too harsh on yourself."

"How did you figure that?"

"Justin. He is a fact of your life. He came along, and made a lie out of your lies."

"Yeah? You think that's why he left me for the Fucking BeFuddled Fiddler? Because I was everything his queer little heart desired?"

"The answer must be an emphatic 'Yes,' Brian--Justin did come back to you, after all, and of his own volition."

"Stop, stop right there! What the fuck are you doing? I thought I was here to spill my guts about my dysfunctional past. I'm not here to discuss the... the rest."

"That's okay, then. Whenever you're ready. Just take it easy. How about taking another break?"

Dr. Gottlieb pushed the STOP button on the tape-recorder. He just finished listening to the full tape of his session with Brian. With a tired sigh he leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose, deep in thought.

Justin's call had come in early that morning. Luckily, as a rule he never scheduled patients for Sunday, so he was able to accommodate Brian on an emergency basis. But he insisted on seeing him in his office.

The psychiatrist knew they'd bumped into something significant the minute Brian had begun to talk, something possibly connected to one of the pre-stroke sources of his deep-seated neuroses and suicidal tendencies--and, if first indications were right, it was somehow tied up with Brian's convoluted view of his own sexuality. He wasn't quite sure where to go with it, but he knew that they reached a critical, and possibly risky, juncture in the patient's analysis. If nothing else, Brian's highly emotional state, the depth of his agitation and the starkness of the details he'd shared indicated that. And the silent trickle of tears--Brian wasn't known to cry easily.

Deciding on a break, he made his emotionally drenched client lie down, and the younger man was resting--sleeping, hopefully--after a sleepless night and what undoubtedly amounted to a watershed session.

Pausing momentarily in his ruminations, the doctor called down to the corner deli to order fresh coffee and sandwiches for the two of them, then began to jot down some random notes to himself as he waited for the patient to wake.

Justin was distraught to the point of tears as he walked around the loft, picking up and putting down items at random, aimlessly wandering from one spot to another under the guise of straightening the place. He'd called Michael earlier, and could barely wait for his arrival--he needed to share.

Michael let himself in and greeted the loft with a loud "Hello, anybody home?" as his eyes searched the place. He carried a tray of coffee and Danishes in his hand and a mask of concern on his face. The worry-lines made him appear haggard--almost looking his age, Justin thought as he pondered in passing the toll Brian's illness had taken on his best friend. On both of them.

"Hi, Michael. Thanks for coming over on such short notice." Michael wore a set of old sweats and sneakers, clearly thrown together in a rush as he dashed out of his place.

"No problem. What's going on?" Even as he asked, Michael noted Justin's red-rimmed eyes and disheveled appearance. "Where's His Royal Crankiness?"

"Over at Dr. Gottlieb's, for an out-of-turn marathon session."

"He's that fucked up, eh?"

"Be serious, Michael," Justin frowned disapprovingly. "This morning Brian had a... a psychotic meltdown or something. I thought he was going to have another stroke--or that I would."

Michael grabbed Justin by the arm and dragged him over to the sofa. "Here, I brought you some caffeine and carbs to get your system going. I want you to sit in one place, stay put, and tell me in complete and coherent sentences what happened."

"I'm not sure what happened," or from where to start the telling, Justin added silently... sure as hell not from their private musical interlude in the darkened theater box; one of his best performances. "We went to the Pittsburgh Symphony," at Michael's raised eyebrows he added in way of explanation, "it was a business obligation. Anyway, during intermission we ran into Ethan."

At the other's sharp intake of air he blushed, regretting for a moment his decision to share this piece. But he had to--for all he knew, it was that encounter that had prompted Brian's later attack. He went on. "When we got home we talked, fought, made up, went to bed. I fell asleep, and didn't hear Brian get up. Woke to a godawful crash; it was Brian, losing consciousness and collapsing to the floor. He must've been out cold for a good five or ten minutes." His face clouded with the recalled fright of it--finding Brian, an oversized ragdoll sprawled limp and motionless by the computer desk--and wondered if he'd ever get beyond that, beyond the specter, the sheer terror of Brian having another stroke. Perhaps with the passage of time.

"What did you do?"

"He came to by himself. I helped him back to bed and called his psychiatrist."

"Why him? Why not Dr. Palmer? Or, better yet, 911?" Subtle for Michaelspeak, there was a creeping note of accusation in his words.

"Before you jump down my throat, let me backtrack a little." With a curious mixture of emotions, it hit Justin that in the past month, ever since Brian's partial return to work, the balance of care had tilted between Michael and himself. Michael spent more time now with Ben, where he belonged, and he--he took on more of Brian's care. "For a while now, Brian's been having these blinding, debilitating headaches; spontaneous onset, cause unknown. Dr. Palmer ran every test he could think of and came up with nothing. That's when he began suspecting something psychosomatic and referred Brian back to Dr. Gottlieb."

"Headaches? What, like migraines?"

"Kind of, except shorter and more violent. They would usually go away after he slept a couple of hours, which is what'd happened this morning. After that we got dressed and drove over to see the good doctor. He planned to keep him there for the better part of the day, trying out something he called an 'intensive intermittent therapy session.' I'm not quite sure how it works, but it sounds expensive. Anyway, I'm supposed to be back there to pick him up at 3:00."

"So," Michael stood, clearly confused, and began to pace, "this is something new, unrelated to the stroke?"

"I'm not sure. Brian won't really talk about it, and Sigmund can't." There was frustration mingled with despair on the young face.

"Is it the depression?"

"Well, he's definitely still depressed, but it's not as bad... as bad as it was." Justin left it at that, but they both knew what he was referring to. "Anyway, his meds have kicked in, and he is riding less of the mood-seesaw nowadays."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Don't know... at my wits end?" He almost whispered the words, and for a moment he looked like a small lost boy, stripped naked and unguarded in his vulnerability.

Michael was transported back in time, to his earlier memories of the brash 17-year old he'd met, and instantly resented, on that long-ago night on Liberty Avenue. The kid that wouldn't go away, Brian's personal stalker and Boy Wonder. The one that had gotten under the hitherto unbreached wire and straight through to Brian--his Brian--and never let go.

The bashing, with all its blood and horror, had only cemented the strange and undeniable bond between those two. Then, acting on a rash, immature impulse, Justin had decided to leave the tangled web of his undefined relationship with Brian behind, for the smoke-and-mirrors of the Fiddler's version of romance and couples-bliss. Betrayed Brian.

But the Justin who had come back was a different person. More mature, centered, less selfish. With a clear-eyed vision of what he wanted, and the same single-minded determination to get it he'd demonstrated in the early days. It was easy at times to forget that he was only nineteen. And that sometimes, like this morning, he was scared, rudderless and immature. Maybe not immature--vulnerable. Michael felt a rare flutter of sympathy for the younger man.

"Justin, you're not giving up." Even as he blurted it out, he knew it would be interpreted as an accusation.

"If you're worried about me running out again on Brian--don't. My running days are over."

"I didn't mean to... "

"Sure you did, but I understand. You're his best friend, you're looking out for him. So am I."

"He needs you."

"Ditto."

Coming full circle in a conversation that, with notable breaks, has been continuing between them for the past three years, they both kept silent for a while. Michael was restlessly pacing the floor, stopping once in a while to stare aimlessly at a random item or spot, only to resume his wandering. His next stop took him to the computer, and, rooted in one place he just stared at the screen for a minute before asking.

"The Lion's Club International--why did you draw it?"

The question cut into Justin's wordless sojourn. He raised confused eyes, "The what? Why did I draw what?" He noticed Michael was standing in front of the computer still running from last night, so he walked over to join him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"This." Michael's finger pointed at the screen, filled with a very definite design: a vividly blue circle, bookended by the head-in-profile of a pair of golden lions, the letter "L" emblazoned in its center.

"It's... it's Brian's. He drew it; actually, has been drawing it repeatedly for a while." Still seeing no point to the inquiry, he added. "Just doodling. People tend to be compulsively redundant about their favorite designs."

"Doubt that it would be a favorite." Michael's face was full of shadows as he continued. "His dad was a member of the Lion's Club, had a leather belt with the emblem, this emblem, on his bronze belt buckle."

On the edge of comprehension, Justin was still fighting it. "Ahhh, charity... So, the man had at least some redeeming qualities.."

Michael cut in. "I wouldn't say that. Brian had never told on him, never complained, but," he sized up Justin, as if weighing his trustworthiness for shared confidences, "my mom was always convinced that Brian was an abused child--in many ways, including physical. After a while I suspected she was right; for a crazy nutcase, she often is. Right, I mean. And," he inhaled deeply, letting go of the breath with a shuddering sigh, "I'm willing to bet Brian had often been on the receiving end of that heavy belt. Beaten."

"I must've been dreaming."

"Not a dream--more like a nightmare from the attendant sound-effects."

"Anyway, thanks for waking me from it. My real life is sooo much better."

"Well, isn't it?"

"Sure--I'm thirty one years old and a cripple, for starters, in a queer world where you better stay forever young and forever beautiful. And... "

"Brian, I have your full bio on record. There is no value in the retelling, especially with this particular spin. If you want to throw a pity party, I'm not your caterer."

"I know, I should ask my good buddy Emmett for that."

"Right. Shall we continue with the session?"

"Can't fucking wait. So where were we?"

"On a long-ago, deserted street, with a deeply traumatized fourteen-year old."

"I still can't believe I couldn't remember it. Was it the beating, you think, that did it?"

"It was the association between being battered, probably on a fairly regular basis, and the fear of being gay, I believe."

"But I am gay, this whole scenario makes no sense."

"Did you care for Michael?"

"I was--am--very attached to him."

"Any other feelings?"

"On his part."

"You sure?"

"Actually, not quite. For a while there, a long while, I was all screwed up and ambivalent about it. Sent him a shitload of mixed messages, fucked with his head. But at the end I always backed away."

"Because you were not physically attracted to him?"

"Doc, my cock has been physically attracted to, and physically intimate with half the gay population of Pittsburgh. No, I just didn't want to risk what Mikey and I already had. I can get cock from anyone, but only Mikey can give me, well... Mikey."

"And how is it with Justin?"

"Different."

"How? I know you had a sexual liaison with him, a long one for you. You still do. Any commitment there?"

"No. No, no, NO! And this topic is still off-limits!"

"Stop yelling. I can hear you loud and clear... can you?"

"I'm tired, and I have a splitting headache."

"I'll give you something for it."

"Drugs are our friends, right, Doc?"

"Okay, now let me talk and you listen. A hypothesis, if you will, for your consideration. In the world you created to survive, attachment, love, commitment to another man would've all made you a homosexual. Gay, queer, fairy, faggot--just use any derogatory term of your choice from your father's particular slang. But fucking, no strings attached, with a long stream of strangers--and the more the merrier--was the macho thing to do to ward off the horrifying stigma of being gay. Being the top, always the top, like the alpha male that you are, anchoring yourself to reality with your cock, building yourself from your cock up one fuck at-a-time. Fighting your father within you, his poisonous message deeply internalized into your subconscious."

"Just out of curiosity--is this just a hypothesis for heuristic purposes, or are you writing my epithet? Either way, you're not helping my goddamned headache."

"Don't you see? Sexually dominating other males--which, incidentally, alpha males of other species engage in too--is even more masculine, in a convoluted way, than intercourse with women. Add to it the emotional detachment, and you've come up with your own special recipe of acting upon your true homosexuality without having to face your recoiling subconscious for it."

"Until... insert the sound of trumpets here... it's time for The Return of the Repressed, or The Subconscious Strikes Back!"

"Brian, I know it's too much at one shot to absorb. I know you don't want to contemplate it all, can't integrate it all into your conscious mind yet, at least not on the emotive level. Just sit on it, think about it, let it simmer."

"So basically, I am to believe that I was the victim of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder--PTSD, an old friend from my early days of climbing the learning curve after Justin's bashing. Except my reaction to my own trauma was to internalize my father's homophobic attitudes. And here I thought I was a model to our budding gay youth, teaching them how to be the best homosexual they could. All the while, I was a miserable failure and a fucking fraud all along... " "Brian, do you need a few minutes of privacy? Here's a box of tissues and I'll be right next door."

"Stay. Really. I don't mind losing it in front of you."

"You're not 'losing' it. You're having a typically human emotional catharsis. It can be very therapeutic."

"So, tell me, now that I'm liberated from my submerged memories and can proudly confess to be a 'fucking fairy' after all --who am I?"

"A work in progress. Most of us--the best of us--are, to the day we die."

"I don't want to progress any more. Some days I just want to lie down and... "

"And what? Die? How would that solve anything?"

"It wouldn't have to. Death, by definition, is a problem-free zone. No solutions needed."

Brian left the psychiatrist's office in a sullen rush, refusing to wait the extra hour or so until Justin's arrival. He'd been driven by his private demons, ghosts of his past--and those, Dr. Gottlieb thought with a sigh of regret, would continue to haunt his friend for a long time before he would be able to exorcize them. If ever.

The doctor put a new tape in the machine, pushed RECORD, and leaned back in his chair as he began to dictate. Still raw and drained himself from the marathon session, he wanted to summarize all it had revealed while still fresh in his memory. Being a disciple of the contextual school of scientific inquiry, he wanted the notes to reflect text and subtext, capture more than the recalled facts from the past. In order to help his patient, he needed to tap into the current stream of Brian's emotions evoked by those facts as they emerged to the surface of his conscious mind. He began his narrative.

Patient: Brian Kinney

Process Notes: April 27, 2003

Patient experienced a clinically significant breakthrough, related to what is possibly the primary causative agent for his neuroses.

The specific stressor in the patient's case is a severe beating inflicted by his physically abusive father, coupled with an accusation of being a 'fairy.' This trauma, occurring when the patient was 14 yrs. old, reactivated a previously quiescent but unresolved psychological conflict about his homosexual tendencies.

The childhood trauma resulted in regression and the use of several defense mechanisms; most notably in the form of denial and repression. While the immediate stimulus that triggered the revival of the trauma is still not clear, this revival is an attempt by the ego to relive the anxiety associated with the core cause and thereby reduce the anxiety or, ideally, master it.

I suspect now that the series of extreme, short-duration headaches experienced by the patient in the past month were psychosomatic markers as his subconscious attempted to release the suppressed traumatic memories, possibly in response to an external trigger.

Diagnosis:

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), (309.81).

Predisposing factors: conflict about sexual identity, continuous physical abuse, inadequate support system.

Stressor: violent incident with father at age 14.

Onset of PTSD: delayed.

Possible trigger: unknown at this time. Note, too, that the recent cerebrovascular incident is most likely a contributing factor. It weakened the patient's defenses and emotional control, turned some of his denial patterns moot, and might have brought to the forefront the necessity of commitments--possibly to Justin.

Prognosis:

Guarded, based on the patient's age at the infliction of the original trauma. Much of the prognosis, in my professional opinion, will depend on social support being available to and accepted by the patient in his current circumstances, already difficult and challenging as he recovers from the stroke.

Treatment:

Psychodynamic approach to reconstruct, analyze and discuss the event to reach abreaction and catharsis; education about methods of coping.

Close monitoring is indicated for any signs of interaction between the patient's PTSD and depression.

Pharmacotherapy: Imipramine, dosage TBD.

He didn't call ahead. After Michael had left, he puttered around a while longer, until the walls began to close in on him and he had to get out. With a couple of hours to kill before picking up Brian, he took the Jeep and headed straight to the Munchers'.

Lindsay opened the door with that typical 'other' Sunday look--the one that would have been frowned upon by her straight-laced church-going family. Sweatpants, a much-worn t-shirt, uncombed hair hanging in her face. The smile that brightened her eyes when she saw him made her beautiful.

"Justin, it's good to see you. Where is Brian?" Her question came naturally, as naturally as their entire Liberty Avenue family beginning to see him and Brian as some strange, non-identical twins rapidly morphing into one being. It was, he guessed, a compliment of sorts. "If you're here to see Gus, he's at the playground with Mel. The weather is too nice to keep the little monster in all day."

"No, actually I'm glad to catch you home alone." It was always fun to see Gus; the kid, even though he didn't really look like Brian, had a lot of the same body language, little gestures and intangibles about him that were echoes of his father... a miniature, complications-free version. But right now he wasn't up to the chaos of a two-year old, he would much rather deal with the gentle, adult nagging of Lindsay instead.

"Brian has an appointment," he answered her question finally. "I just thought I'd drop by for a quick visit... if that's okay?"

"What's wrong?" Lindsay decided to cut to the chase. "Is Brian being his bad-ass self again?"

"No, not exactly. He's just being Brian." As if that was ever an explanation. Or an excuse. Justin paused, weighing for a moment how to put into words what had been eating away at his resolve. "It's me."

"What do you mean?" A whole slew of scenarios flew through her mind, none of them to her liking as she asked, unable to keep a hint of mistrust from her voice.

"I'm not sure I'm up to the task."

"And what task would that be? The TLC, feeding and taming of Brian?"

Justin remained silent for a while, considering. Lindsay loved Brian, knew him almost as well, if differently, as Michael did. She was onto his bullshit, knew how to make him cut it. Shared with Brian something he and Michael never would--Gus, their own little living investment in immortality. Lindsay was a friend to them both; ally, confidant and advocate to Justin at times he needed it most.

He took a deep breath and continued. "I just feel so overwhelmed sometimes by... by all the problems. All the demons Brian has to fight. And it makes me wonder--"

"Wonder what? Whether he'd be better off fighting them without you?"

"No, Lindsay, and you know that's not what I mean. But at times, I have to question whether he wouldn't be better off with someone else more his peer--someone stronger." His eyes dropped, to avoid her direct, probing stare. "I'm not talking about leaving him, for fuck's sake, if that's what you think!"

"No, Justin, I know that. I just recall a time not too long ago when you were the one fighting, arguing, risking all for what you wanted. Why try and deny Brian the same right to choose what he wants?"

"I'm not, but this isn't about what Brian might think he wants, it's about what he needs. And I'm not at all certain lately that I fill the bill."

"Being strong is not the main requirement and qualifier for a relationship. Rising to the occasion and finding the strength when needed by those we care about is. It is you Brian needs to be strong for him. And you are." Facing Justin's doubting silence, she asked, "Is it the stroke?"

"If you mean the physical part of it, no. I'm sure I'll always dread a possible recurrence, but it's gotten a little better with time. The paralysis I don't mind, except because he does. In my eyes, he's still perfect." Not that any of us is, he added the silent thought, recalling with a shiver the hard wood of the bat contacting with bone and flesh. With an unconscious move his left hand reached to rub the palm of his right.

"But at times aren't you overcome by all the help he needs? Isn't it a burden? You're not even twenty yet..."

In the past months it has become a familiar refrain in his life, a question often asked of him one-on-one when the conversation would progress to that certain level of intimacy. The voice would drop to an almost-conspiratorial whisper, the person asking would lean in closer, as if anxious to establish eye contact... his mother, Daphne, even well-intentioned, meddling Debbie; then the inevitable question would come, Isn't Brian a burden? He'd grown to hate it, in turns being resentful and defensive.

"Brian's doing pretty well, you know. He can do most everything for himself. And, hopefully, he'll continue to improve."

"But not to the 100% he expects."

"No, not that."

"It's none of my concern, but..." Lindsay paused, hesitant, then continued. "Your sex life, you know--is it business as usual?" She blushed.

Justin was momentarily taken aback by her question, the absurdity of the two of them, well-bred WASP souls that they were, having an entirely inappropriate conversation about sex. Then, in a rare instance of empathy, he saw it from Lindsay's perspective. She was a woman and a lesbian, alien to the wonders of cock. Except for one cock--Brian's--which, if Justin wasn't mistaken, she'd had the good fortune to be acquainted with. Brian, who also happened to be the father of her son. Her curiosity had to be hopelessly insatiable, given the givens.

He gave a grin as he decided to reply. "So far, no complaints." And he felt his cock stir, strain against his jeans as it, too, cast its vote, thinking of Brian's night performances. "His stud-credentials are in no way impaired."

"So, what is it? Mental?"

"Well, Brian's always been 'mental,' even at the best of times. And the stroke was like a fucking earthquake, uprooting the few tried-and-true anchors in his life. Independence. Control. Self-image."

"He was never really all that 'together,'" Lindsay commented wryly. "He had a meltdown just at the thought of turning thirty; as if it were the end of life as he knew it."

Justin looked away, staring mutely at the discordantly cheerful piece of fabric dressing the den window, clashing with every piece of upholstery around it. He thought of Michael's revelation about that particular birthday. The scarf.

With a shudder he surfaced from the memory. "He's seeing Dr. Gottlieb for what I thought was predictable post-stroke depression. We were told early on in the hospital to look out for that. But it's more--and he's not getting better."

"Have any clue as to what's going on?"

"No. Not directly. I obviously cannot ask the Doctor--all that bullshit about patient/provider confidentiality. But from the random things Brian says or does... I think some real old stuff's been stirred up, so he's dealing with all that too."

"Well, he's gone through a near-death experience, that's likely to raise some of his ghosts... and, from the little I know about his childhood, he's had many of those."

"But I thought he'd moved on... managed to bury them."

"Justin, you can't bury what's not dead. Brian hasn't really dealt yet with the pain, the damage of the past. That's why he could never put the ghosts to rest."

"Between fighting for a foothold in his present life, and struggling to accept the past, what if he... what if he can't? What if--?"

Lindsay gave him a quizzical look, wanted to say something, thought better of it. Instead she stood and walked over to stand beside him. "He won't. He won't fail. Brian is strong. And he has the whole cavalry to the rescue--Sigmund, the renewed support of all of us, and he has you." She squeezed his shoulder to let the touch convey her confidence.

"Yeah, I know. Now you see why I feel so overwhelmed?" He rose, gave her an impulsive hug, and as he released her from his grip, asked with a disarming grin. "You think I could have some of Gus's Oreo-cookies ice cream? For lunch?"

"That can be arranged. Just don't tell him."

"I won't if you won't. Promise."

He took the bowl of heaping ice cream from her hand and settled with it cross-legged on the floor. Instead of using the spoon, he began to lick the ice-cream, tongue rooting for the dark, gooey Oreos pieces.

Still a kid, Lindsay thought, a babe in the woods. Trying to deal with the big bad wolf...

Notes in this chapter are based on a description of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in Synopsis of Psychiatry, Kaplan H. I. & Sadock, B. J., William & Wilkins Pub., Baltimore, MD 1998, Ch. 16.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO will be posted on Sunday, DECEMBER 14, 2003

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