I am assuming your parents won’t attend so I have taken the liberty of getting Simon Vasquez to support us.
Lukas
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Informal Meeting
Whatever
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Informal Meeting
Max. Please.
Lukas
FROM: [email protected]
RE: Informal Meeting
Then tell me what is going on with you and Dad, and I will happily go along with your bloody plans.
Max
He doesn’t reply, and I sit there tapping at the screen refreshing my inbox like a loser.
TOM
Tom can do this. Of course, he can do this. He deals with all kinds of trauma at work every day. He can talk down the drunkest, most violent idiot within a few minutes. He can handle junkies as high as kites, violent offenders and humans full of rage. He is equally confident with the other side of the spectrum. People so full of fear that they can barely function. Families being torn apart in grief and despair. Tiny children lost to the world, making Tom sob in the bathroom where he hides out to regain himself.
He is not hard. Not like his colleague Amir, who shrugs things off and just says, “Inshallah.” Not like everyone else who seem to cope better with the highs and lows throughout the day.
At least, at work he doesn’t have to think so much, and to be honest, he thrives on the constant rush. The way his brain plans ahead sorting his patients into neat little rows, stacked and packed in order for his attention, with the new cases coming in by the minute and the pager in his pocket keeps beeping.
His days off are supposed to be restful, but all he can see are the things he should be doing. Like mowing the lawn, or at least googling for a gardening service to keep on top of what used to be a garden, but is now a field of long swaying grass. He thinks of putting something on the walls. Cleaning up the kitchen and ordering a couple of deckchairs, so he and Max can sit in comfort outside and smoke, instead of using an upturned cool box as a seat, which anyway, he can’t even remember ever buying. Maybe it came with the house. Maybe it has always been there.
He should stop smoking. He should seriously get Max to stop smoking.
He should do some research on Max’s medication. They had both agreed to stop some of them since the dosage of antipsychotics he had been on seemed to work, and he was surprisingly stable in his moods. The antidepressants had messed with him though, and had plunged him into a few weeks of catastrophic behaviour followed by a depressive stint that had Tom sleeping outside his door in fear. Even Max had agreed that he could cope with feeling depressed, in favour of being more stable.
Tom is sure there is a solution. A more compatible line of medication that may help. But at the same time, it terrifies him to read up on what can happen. He doesn’t want to understand. He doesn’t want to ruin the love he has for his son by creating an image of the illness he will have to carry for the rest of his life.
Max is Max. And Tom will look after him if he is physically able. Love him and hold him and fucking sleep on the floor to keep him safe.
Which means he will happily subject himself to going in for that meeting today. He will be supportive. He will lay himself down on the line. Beg for Lukas to help him. Beg and apologise and no doubt make a complete spectacle out of himself.
Not that he has a plan. Not that anything that is so carefully planned in his head makes any sense to say out loud. He had seen Lukas. Lukas had seen him. Those words he had so carefully thought out had been nothing. Lame idiotic pathetic bullshit compared to what he really needs to say.
He still smokes half a pack of Marlboro on the way to the subway. Stomps the butt ends out with an angry heel. Downs a bottle of water trying to moisten the back of his throat that still feels like sandpaper, whilst his stomach is trying to empty itself out in some kind of fucked-up fear.
Because, to be honest, Tom is terrified.
He is outside the C entrance at 4.55, his hands shaking and his mouth full of the taste of bile. Hiding under a snapback like some fucking teenager. Just in case. He can’t risk running into Lukas out here, because they would probably both lose their shit.
“Have you got a smoke?” Max asks as he kind of effortlessly falls out of the door. Tripping down the steps like he is dancing.
“Hello to you too.” Tom grunts, and passes the packet. “I’ve decided we both should stop smoking.”
“Yeah, that’ll go down well.” Max actually smiles. For about a second.
“It’s not good for us,” Tom tries, sucking on the cigarette in his mouth like he is having his last meal.
“Neither is you having a nervous breakdown or me starting to eat my own weight in chocolate to deal with the cravings,” Max flutters out, taking a deep drag. Satisfyingly smug.
“Are we ready for this?” Tom completely fails to look calm and collected. Defiant. Brave. He is neither.
“Can you tell me the truth?” Max says, looking up at him for once. His own eyes staring at him through the floppy mess of black fringe.
“Can you do me a favour?” Tom is begging here. Truly.
Max just takes another drag, shrugging his shoulders in that thin jacket he wears. He should be wearing a coat. And a scarf. A knitted jumper to keep that skinny body of his warm.
“When we go up there, can you let me have a few minutes with Lukas alone? Just so we can kind of talk it out and clear the air. Otherwise it will just be a bit… I don’t know. Awkward?” Tom can barely speak. Awkward is an understatement. Awkward is not even close to the truth.
“Whatever, Dad.”
“Thank you,” Tom whispers. Stomping on the ground not even close to the cigarette end that burns brightly on the step in the fading light.
He is about to pass out. Faint. Well, die. Almost.
He just wants this over with. Honestly. So, he can go home and dig through the kitchen cabinets for another bottle of something alcoholic enough to drown himself in.
Tom is a bad person. He hasn’t changed. Tom who has spent the last eighteen years trying to reinvent himself into a decent human being with values and kindness and empathy and love in his heart. Yet, here he is back to the scene of the crime, and all his body can do is muster up anger, shaking and pulsing through his veins like he is seventeen all over again, full of hormones and rage and violence and desire.
He still walks through the door into the classroom, leaving Max leaning against the wall in the corridor with a smirk on his face. Little fucker. He will no doubt have his ear to the door trying to listen in. Not that Tom cares. He will have to sit down and spill the truth to Max at some point anyway. Get all this lying off his chest.