Page 29 of Hunter's Hidden Camera
Then, her voice trembling, she says, “Hunter. You know why I think about you, right? You know why I worry about you, right? You know why I feel so connected to you, right?”
At first, I have no idea what she’s talking about. I lean back and look into her kind eyes, and all of a sudden I realize . . .she knows. She knows that I am gay. She knows that I struggle with this. She knows who I really am.
I want to say the words out loud: “I’m gay.” But I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t know why.
Here is a woman who loves me, who knows the truth. Why can’t I say the words?
I continue to sit on the bed, my head down, my tears falling.
“Are youhappy, Patricia?” I ask.
Patricia smiles, and it cuts through all the sorrow. “I am. I really am. I mean, I’m a nurse practitioner, and I love my job because I love helping people. I’ve been married to an amazing woman named Jo for five years now. She’s an architect, but she’s taking some time off because she’s pregnant with our baby. You may have seen Jo with me at those funerals.”
She takes hold of my hand. I squeeze.
Then, she says, “And what about you, Hunter? Areyouhappy?”
I think about this question for what seems like a very long time. Silence, followed by more silence, followed by even more silence.
Then, I shake my head “no.”
That survival knife that’s in the bottom drawer of my desk . . . So many nights, over many years time, ever since middle school, ever since I was burdened with the knowledge that I am gay and that I didn’t know how to deal with it, so many nights, I have held the blade of that survival knife to my throat. I don’t know how serious I ever was about actually slicing my neck open. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit that sometimes I want to die.
I don’t share those feelings with anybody. I don’t even dwell on them myself. As soon as those thoughts come up, I stuff them down as best I can. I mean, I feel ashamed to even have those feelings. From the outside, my life is great. I live in a nice house, I have money, I have friends, I have so much when others have so little. Who am I to feel bad about myself? Who am I tocomplain? I don’t deserve to be sad, I think to myself. So I stuff those feelings, I stuff those feelings, I stuff those feelings down.
But once in a while, I’m not successful, and I press that knife against my skin. I draw blood. I force myself to stop. And the next day, I wear a collared shirt that I button all the way to the top to hide the mark on my neck. The mark that would show everyone how much I hurt inside.
And as if she can see into my mind, as if she can read my thoughts, Patricia gives me the warmest embrace I have ever felt. She holds me tight, allowing me to cry all I want.
“Forget your parents,” she says. “If I want to hang out with you, I’m going to hang out with you.”
I feel as if I could live in this embrace forever.
But then, I crash back into the reality that is my life, and I ask, sincerely, softly, “Why do I hate myself so much?”
“Oh, honey,” says Patricia, leaning back and looking me in the eyes. “That’s not hate. That’s just love taking a nap. And you and me? Together? Together we’re going to wake it the fuck up.”
15
Disturbance
“Your Uber is here,” Patricia says, looking at her phone.
She has to get back to work (that waiting room was horrifying, after all), so she ordered me a ride home.
As we walk towards the exit, I consider whether or not I should tell her about the whole Nash situation. I know she has a lot of wisdom, so she could probably guide me to do the right thing—or she just might take over the entire situation and resolve it all herself. She’s that kind of person.
Just as I’m about to say something to her, a couple paramedics and nurses round the corner, urgently pushing a police officer on a gurney down the hallway toward us.
One of the nurses says, “Where’ve you been, Patricia?”
Patricia quickly scans the police officer with her eyes. “What happened?”
“Multiple gunshot wounds. He tried to stop a robbery.”
The gurney passes us, and Patricia starts to follow it, picking up her pace so that she’s moving as fast as everyone else.
While moving, she turns her face to me. “I’ll call you when the test results come in, Hunter. Love you.”
