It’s a hot July day and the grass is sticky with humidity. Yet Liam licks his soft serve in a lackluster way. We’ve been together three years yet my mental file on him is narrower the width of my pinky finger. Its first figurative page reads, in big bold letters: Liam has an insatiable sweet tooth. A parenthetical beneath reads: Lactose intolerance will not keep him from ice cream.
There’s a mood he gets into when he has something delicious in hand. He does a little hip-shimmy, shrugs up his shoulders, and hums a musical, “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” It’s maybe his happiest mood on a roster that’s not especially emotive. It’s the mood I’d expect of him now. But instead he leans out the open door of the rental car letting the soft serve drip over the grass as he consumes it in a joyless, methodical way.
“You okay?” I ask to his back.
“I think I’m just tired from the drive.”
Montréal greets us with a muggy one-hundred-degree afternoon. The old town, where we’ll be staying is right on the water but is all pavement, no trees. It’s a shame, because page two of Liam’s dossier informs: Liam wilts in the sun. There’s a footnote: Liam says he loves a hot, sunny day, because it’s a great excuse to ‘find a shady spot and have a cold cocktail.’ But long-term observation has shown that the subject often underestimates the power of the heat on him and the scarcity of shade on hot, sunny days.
His pallor has only grown more noticeable since we hit the cobblestone streets by foot. The man needs a cocktail, stat. (Page three of his file, which I reshuffle to the front, reads: Liam loves a cocktail.) We hurry up to the first rooftop bar.
Soon there are two ample goblets of deep red sangria between us, loaded with fruit and ice. If there’s any elixir that can bring him back, it’s this, but he only sips it as his forehead goes shiny with sweat.
He avoids eye contact as he sifts through his obvious discomfort. “I should’ve worn a lighter shirt… I think I’m just hot and tired… That was a long drive.”
Then it happens, something without precedent: “I think I might be sick.” This statement calls for some editing of his dossier, on the page that says: Liam never gets sick. Liam never talks about being unwell.
You know how cats hide their pain till they’re on the brink of death? Liam’s kind of like that. But he’s been explicit about how he handles it when he is sick:
Alone.
This is his worst nightmare, and I know it. Not that he’s sick, but that he has no choice but to be in the same hotel room as me, 2,500 miles removed from his creature comforts.
His apologies come on like a tic. He’s repeating, “I’m sorry,” so much by the time I tuck him into the hotel bed, that I understand why he wants to be alone, and the answer is almost too heartbreaking to confront. I make a cool, damp washcloth and drape it over his forehead, and he’s literally in awe of it, effusive over how nice it feels and how he’s never had one before.
I reassure his apologies a little, but mostly ignore them. Mostly just respond to him with a light smile, and a “C’est la vie,” as he laments that he will get me sick. I’m not too worried.
In fact, I feel some guilt of my own as I strike out to find a pharmacy. Liam never accepts anything from me. Not a favor, not a gift, not the last bite of a shared meal. The scales of our relationship are tilted in a way that leaves me feeling always on the back foot. And now he’s got no choice but to accept what I’ve been longing to give.
I come up empty at the pharmacies but return with ample groceries and a get-well card. His sorries have calmed down and, when I lie down beside him, he pushes his hot forehead into my shoulder and dozes off.
For the next two days I’m in and out. I know he still needs space, and he wants me to go enjoy the city I’ve been longing to see. But I’m sure to keep a rotation of cool washcloths on his head. We run out of them quickly since we’ve been declining housekeeping.
On my way out one morning, I find one of the housekeepers by her cart and ask her for coffee pods and washcloths. She responds in French, and I’m excited—so far everyone I’ve met has clicked into English as soon as they hear my accent despite my desperation to deploy some high school level French. But the line between excitement and anxiety has always been blurred in me, so I freeze and panic. Suddenly, I can’t even remember the word for towel.
I make scrubbing motions on my forearms, and she helps me out: “Ah! Une serviette!” But she tries passing me a hand towel, of which we have plenty. I shake my head with a smile, “Non.”
We gesture back and forth fruitlessly. With my hands, I show her the size of the serviette I need, to no avail. But as our gestures escalate, I sense we’re gaining on something. With an invisible washcloth, I start to scrub my face in big circles. Her eyes light up in recognition…
And with her invisible washcloth, she thrusts her hips forward and starts to scrub her crotch. “Ah, une petite serviette!” Pure joy on her face.
“Oui!” I say, with uncertain excitement, while we each stand there scrubbing very different parts of our bodies with our mimed washcloths. (Why haven’t we stopped yet?)
Our furious circles wind down, bringing the joyous cultural exchange to a close. Coffee pods, smiles, and petites serviettes are all exchanged.
Back inside the room, Liam is already asleep, and part of me knows I won’t see him like this again for a long time; he won’t allow it if it’s up to him. But my more hopeful parts gloss over that truth as I squeeze excess water from a fresh cloth over the sink. I drape it across his forehead and tell myself that it’ll be different when we’re home. That once let in, I won’t be pushed back out.