The Wardrobe’s Best Dressed: A Hard Silence: One daughter remaps family, grief, and faith when HIV/AIDS changes it all by Melanie Brooks

---

                              The Ryan White Story,
                                       and Mine

   A  made-for-TV  movie  had a happy ending.  Ryan’s  family moved to
a new  community  where  they  found  acceptance  and  tolerance.  The
final scene showed Ryan  arriving  at  his  new  high school. With news-
paper photographers’ cameras flashing,  the  principal shook his  hand,
saying, “We’re happy to have you.” He led Ryan to  a crowd of students
who  walked  him  toward  the  school  building. Hope  broke across his
mother’s  face as she  watched. Waving and smiling, she  drove away to
the catchy beat of Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.”
   I  turned  off  the  TV  then  and  stared into the empty screen. A fresh
dread squeezed my insides. I knew Ryan’s story was not over.
   The dying part just hadn’t happened yet.
   At home, I climbed  into bed, curled into a ball,  my knees once  again
hugged  to  my chest,  and burrowed beneath my duvet. I  couldn’t  stop

thinking  about what I’d watched. All these  things  didn’t  feel  like  they
were  supposed  to  belong  in   my  world: the  terrible  accusations  and
assumptions  about  how  Ryan  had contracted  HIV;  hatred from both
strangers  and  people  who’d   known  him  his  whole  life;  people  who
treated him like the disease was his fault.  His  family  lost  their privacy
and with it, security—something they’d  always  taken  for  granted.  But
the worst were  the  moments  when  Ryan  was  so  sick he  couldn’t  lift
his  head  from the  edge of the toilet  seat. Hidden under my covers, the
boding  presence  I’d  felt with me  ever since we moved  from  Moncton
seemed  so much  bigger.  A  pressing  question  hammered  against  my
skull: What’s next? What’s next? What’s next?
   This question hung on my tongue  the  next morning in the car on our
way  to  school.  I  glanced  at  Mom. Her  short brown permed hair was
still a bit damp from her shower, and  the mousse-crusted curls needed
to be brushed out. Her face was smooth, even without makeup.
   She steered the car down Abbeyhill  Drive, approaching the  entrance
to the school. I  drew in a shaky breath,  held  it,  and  then  blurted, “Is
Dad going to die?” It came out as a  question, but I was not  asking. The
answer had been there all along. I just needed to hear it.
   The car slowed. Surprise registered on  Mom’s  face. She  opened  her
mouth to speak and then closed it. Her lips pressed together.  My  ques-
tion was a cavern between us.
   “Mel,” she began, and I could already sense in  her tone  that  she  was
about to downplay, deflect, or reassure, the same way  she  downplayed,
deflected,  or  reassured anytime I got  brave  enough  to  ask  questions
about Dad’s illness.
   “Just tell me.” My voice was  steady,  but  the  plea  behind  the  words
made it sharp.
   We approached the school. Cars crowded the  rectangular parking  lot
out front, and students stood in clusters on  the  snow-packed  sidewalk
by  the   main  entrance,  backpacks  tossed  over  their  shoulders,  their
coats pulled close  against the cold.  Near  the  glass  doors  leading  into
the school, I  saw  my  friends:  Penny, John, Russell, Sunita.  They were
waiting for me before heading inside.


   “Tell me,” I said again, this time less steady, as Mom pulled up against
the  curb  and  turned  in  her  seat  toward  me.“ Is Dad going  to die?” I
turned too and faced her directly. My eyes locked on hers.
   She  gripped  the  steering wheel with her  gloved hands and  inhaled a
measured  breath. Then,  speaking  in  a  defeated  voice I’d never heard
before, she said, “Yes.”
   The single  word  ripped   through  the  protective  blanket   that  she’d
wrapped  around  me  for  the  last  four  years. It tracked into my mind,
sinking like a stone to the ocean floor, where it settled for good.
   “Okay.”  I  stretched  for  my  backpack  on  the floor  and clutched  the
door handle. “Okay,” I said again. I  pushed  the door open and  climbed
out  into the  frigid  air, welcoming it into my lungs. I walked toward my
friends,  plastered a  smile on my face, and  shoved everything else back
down.
   Just  before  I  entered  the school, I looked  back  toward  the  car and
lifted my  hand to wave. Mom  still gripped  the  wheel, her gaze trained
on  me. She  waved  back  and tried to smile, but tears traced lines down
her cheeks. She put the car into gear and drove away.

---