The cold shoulder doesn’t fly with me. I’d rather someone yell and throw a punch than give me the silent treatment. It drives me up the wall and incites my inner asshole to force confrontation. I have a sharp tongue when I’m angry, cruel and merciless, but Gabriel was an extremely sensitive boy, and I had to keep that in mind. He left the kitchen as I entered and fled the living room when I followed, but I wouldn’t let him make it up the stairs. I had my limits. I called out to him and asked him to look at me. He walked up two more steps, stopped, but didn’t turn around. I asked him to look at me again, but he shook his head and climbed the rest of the stairs. Grabbing hold of the railing, I pulled myself up the first few steps and went after him, my nerves tested as he shut his door on my face. I turned the knob. Locked. I banged my fists and demanded to be let in, a pointless endeavor, wasted energy and ignored completely. Kicking the door and warning of my return, I stormed off to fetch a credit card.

The room went silent as I slid the card up and down the crack of the door until I wedged it under the lock. The door clicked open and I ducked inside, straightening my posture and preparing myself for a heated showdown, but I would start with an apology. I would start with a confession of my own wrong-doings and misguided actions, and then I would flip it. I’d tell him I had good reason for snooping through his things and then pull out the small red balloon from my pocket. I’d tell him to learn from my mistakes and to not become me. I’d tell him he’s better than that, and then I’d move in for a hug. Looking around the empty room, I focused my attention on Cobain’s downturned mouth and sad blue eyes.

“Gabriel, we need to talk,” I said, “come on out of there.” I waited. I didn’t want to force it on him. He needed to speak his mind without my initiating it, but I was a man of little patience. “I’m coming in,” I said and pushed open the closet door. His black canvas sneakers prevented me from opening the door all the way, but as I squeezed my way in, I found him slumped over against the back wall. His eyes were closed, his skin pasty white, and the needle remained in his arm. “Gabriel! Oh God, Gabe!” I slapped his face and cried out his name again. Shaking him by the shoulders, I held up his head, wiped the vomit from his mouth and cupped my hand over his mouth hoping to feel the warm sensation of his breath, but airflow had stopped completely. I yanked the needle from his arm and cringed as a small amount of blood leaked from the tiny puncture wound, I then pressed my ear against his chest. Nothing. I stumbled to the phone and called for an ambulance. It took about ten minutes for help to arrive. I administered CPR until I heard the sirens round the corner. His body lay limp in my arms as I choked on my tears and waited, watching his youthful and perfectly smooth face turn from white to gray to blue.

The paramedics administered naloxone, the lifesaving drug typically used for an opiate overdose. Michael and I used to keep it on hand, but I never restocked the supply after he overdosed three years ago at an after-show party. I used to always carry it on me all the time. The effects usually take about five minutes with the patient slowly awakening from unconsciousness. Gabriel had yet to respond to the medicine as they lifted him onto the gurney and carried him downstairs. They allowed me to ride up front in the ambulance where I prayed to a God I didn’t believe existed. The empty red balloon remained safely tucked away in my pocket as I bowed my head and wept into my hands.

I followed the paramedics into the emergency room, but Gabriel’s condition remained unchanged. An oxygen mask covered his face and his black canvas sneakers lay motionless pointing up toward the ceiling. I held his hand and ran my fingers through his dark, unkempt hair, but as I leaned in to kiss his forehead, a nurse pulled me away from the stretcher. I was then led through two double doors into the waiting room. Lightheaded and sick to my stomach, I slid down the wall and crouched on the floor until I was certain I wouldn’t pass out. The white textured walls came back into focus as I picked myself up and searched for a payphone.

Michael and Lisa’s answering machine picked up, and I left a quick barely audible message informing them of what happened. I called Billy next, but the moment I heard his voice answer with a long exaggerated “wuuzzz up?” I broke down. Unable to talk or even breathe, I felt the sickness rise in my stomach and raced to the nearest bathroom leaving the phone dangling off the hook. I barricaded myself in and barely made it to the toilet where last night’s contents came pouring out in uncontrollable waves of rebuke. After splashing water onto my swollen face and rinsing out my mouth, I returned to find Billy still on the line. He remained quiet while I explained the situation, and I almost thought I’d lost him until he cleared his throat and said he was on his way. I kept the phone to my ear and listened to the sound of the dial tone beep three times and go steady like the flatline on a heart monitor.

Emergency workers and hospital staff filed in and out of the waiting room as I paced across the floor and restrained myself from crashing through the double doors that read, EXIT ONLY. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t drink, couldn’t sit, and couldn’t watch the small muted television set high upon the wall. I wanted to chain-smoke outside but didn’t want to leave until I knew something. I didn’t want to know. I had to know. Surely they know something by now! As I turned on my heels and began retracing my steps across the room, Michael and Lisa appeared down the hallway. Lisa’s high-heeled shoes hit hard against the floor as they walked briskly through the corridor hand-in-hand. I braced myself as Michael sprinted ahead and enveloped me.

“Have you heard anything?” he asked. I shook my head and buried myself in his arms. Lisa stood beside us and greeted Billy as he arrived in a pair of green sweat pants and a hole-infested Grateful Dead tee-shirt. Gabriel would have laughed till he cried and called him a dirty old hippie. I collapsed into a chair and attempted to answer their questions.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “He came home from school, went upstairs to his room and overdosed. Wouldn’t even talk to me, wouldn’t even look at me, he just… I can’t…” I broke down again. Digging into my pocket, I pulled out the tiny red balloon. “I found this,” I said, holding it up for Michael to see. “I was doing laundry and found it in his pants pocket.”

Michael narrowed his eyes and took it from my hand. “I know where he got this,” he said, his eyes as red as the balloon. “I know who gave him the dose.” I searched his face waiting for an explanation. It never came. The doctor, however, appeared down the long corridor.

I refused to leave the hospital. Billy left with Lisa to pick up some food and pack an overnight bag for me. I didn’t want to leave just in case he woke up. I wanted to stay by his side. I wanted to be the first person he saw when he woke up, or as the doctor said, if he woke up. Gabriel had fallen into a coma, and the doctor explained that in these types of cases, the patient usually woke up within three days if they woke up at all. He gave him a 50/50 chance which meant he didn’t know. I couldn’t leave. I wouldn’t leave, not again. I wouldn’t fail him this time, and if he didn’t come out of the coma, I would join him. No way around that one. I refused to live with the pain of his death.

Michael and I sat on a bench in the crowded smoking section of the hospital. Doctors and nurses made up the bulk of the traffic, chain-smoking as if, they too, had a loved one close to death. My mind refused to fully accept what had happened and busied itself with lists, chores, loose-ends to tie and arrangements to make. I voiced aloud my need for someone to take care of fat cat, and without hesitation, Michael offered his services. I laughed in his face.

“You can’t even take care of yourself,” I said, “let alone a damn cat.”

He nodded and reached into his pocket, “You’re right,” he said, “Billy can watch fatty.” Lighting another cigarette off his current one, he snuffed out the old and exhaled a large puff of smoke into the stuffy air. “Last night,” he said, holding up the balloon, “your little masked friend was doling these out at the party.”

Irony drove a stake through my brain. I stared at Michael holding up the red balloon and felt certain the universe, at the very least, knew of my artistic endeavor. I had the same thought when I found the balloon in Gabriel’s pocket. Irony was out to get me, and my little masked friend would be wearing his death mask for Halloween if a connection actually existed.

“Only red ones,” Michael said, “that’s all he had. I know what you’re thinking and you’re wrong, this is no coincidence.” He pulled his knit hat tighter around his ears while his foot tapped the ground and his cigarette burned down to the filter. Dark circles hollowed out his dilated eyes and his complexion appeared gray and patchy. I figured we might as well stick him in a bed next to Gabriel.

“You look like shit,” I said. “Go home.”

Michael crushed out his smoke and stood from the bench. “I love him too,” he said, “Just as much you do. Something’s going on, Ash. They’re coming for us, and when Gabriel gets out of here…”

“If,” I said. “If Gabriel gets out of here.”

“When Gabriel gets out of here,” he continued, “we can’t let him out of our sight.”

I watched the nurses and doctors come and go, sucking down their cigarettes and barely acknowledging each other save for maybe a nod or two. Hospitals put me on guard and inspired the sudden need to take my vitamins, buy some fruits and veggies, and jog at least two miles every morning. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. I wish it were that easy. Michael smoked his cigarette and waited for my reply. My throat hurt, my head throbbed, and my empty stomach no longer craved food. I was in no mood to have this conversation, but Michael tended to shine during traumatic or life-threatening situations. Clarity seemed to find him no matter how drug-addled or strung out he was. I tended to panic, shutdown, and release my inner psycho. He emerged more than I’d like, and I felt him preparing for an encore performance.

“You’re unbelievable,” I said. “Let me get this straight, you’re telling me the guy you sucked off last night is responsible for this? Was the devil there too?”

Michael nodded.

“Perfect!” I exclaimed. “Mystery solved! Satanists drugged Gabriel! Who’d a thought?” I stood from the bench and bumped his shoulder as I exited the smoking area. He followed behind and attempted to explain the reasoning behind his suspicions, but I cut him off. “I can’t do this right now,” I said. “I just, I can’t deal with you right now.” Turning my back to him, I stormed inside the hospital and harassed the front desk. After ranting and raving and causing a scene, they agreed to make special arrangements and moved Gabriel into his own room.

The beige walls matched the color of the floor, and the dark brown curtains did little to brighten up the room. Medical equipment served as decorations and crowded the walls with cords, buttons, tubes and monitors. I sat next to Gabriel’s bed holding his hand and watching for the slightest twitch of his mouth or flutter of his eyes. The longer I stared the more convinced I became that he was coming out of the coma, but my eyes played tricks on my mind and vice versa. Michael and the others left for the night, and I had nothing else to distract me from the nightmare at hand. No lists, chores or loose ends to tie, no Michael, just myself to undertake the coldness of reality. Even as I sat holding his hand with needles and tubes poking in and out of his body, I halfway expected to wake up from the dream.

I’ve never been big on hope, quit holding onto it years ago while living at the boys’ home. I don’t believe things happen for a reason, and I don’t believe in karma, but that night, it wasn’t about me. Gabriel always had hope. Gabriel believed things happened for a reason, and Gabriel believed in God. He was hopelessly optimistic, the complete opposite of me. In that respect, he took after Michael. No matter how bad things got, Michael saw a way out, anything was possible, and everything mattered, that’s what he instilled in Gabe whether he knew it or not. Gabriel idolized Michael, and I did too to an extent, but not as much as I idolized Gabriel. To me, he was more than just a fourteen-year-old boy. He was beyond gifted. He could transform rooms with his presence. It was too painful not to have hope, and I refused to prepare for the worst, so, I gave in and hoped for the best.

The steady hum from the medical equipment hiccupped and grew louder, the hum becoming a buzz, and a red light frantically beeping on a tall machine to my right. My heart raced. I jumped out of the chair and leaned over the bed as a heavyset nurse came striding into the room. I pleaded with her to help, my eyes swelling with tears and my body trembling. She patted me on the shoulder and moved me out of the way.

“It’s okay, baby, nothin’ but a fluid change. First time in a hospital?” She attached a plastic bag filled with a clear liquid to the tall machine and pushed some buttons on the wall monitor. “Sweet boy,” she said, “looks like an angel lying there. What’s his name?”

“Gabriel.”

“Fitting,” she smiled. “You his brother?”

I shook my head, “Father.”

“Woowee,” she exclaimed, placing her hand on her hip and winking. “Lookin’ good daddy’o. Gonna need a blanket and pillow. I’ll be right back.”

I nodded and sank down into the chair.

Michael named him. We had him for about twenty-four hours when Michael suggested we name the baby Gabriel. Before that, he’d been adamant about dropping it off at a hospital or church. After holding him in his arms for the first time, he gave him a name and vowed to protect him for the rest of his life. Neither of us thought we’d succeed, and maybe we were right all along, but I had to remain hopeful. As he lay in the bed hooked up to machines and lost in a state of unconsciousness, I visualized myself making arrangements for his funeral. I saw him lowered into the ground. Overcome with grief, I condemned those thoughts and clung to the reigns of hope with white knuckles.

The nurse entered the room and handed me a thick blanket and pillow. I thanked her but kept my eyes on Gabriel, on the machine above his head that assured me he was still alive, on the perfect arch of his eyebrows and the buttercup shape of his lips, on his slightly up-turned nose and the scar on his chin.

“You should talk to him,” the nurse said. “You never know, maybe he can hear you. No tellin’ what’s goin’ on in that head of his,” she smiled. Bidding me goodnight, she blew Gabriel a kiss and shut the door behind her. I leaned over in my seat and held his hand between mine, kissing it and stroking his fingers, his long slender fingers. Knowing Gabriel, he knew exactly what was going on around him. He never skipped a beat and was always ahead of the game. My throat hurt, and my mind strained to form sentences, but I forced myself to give it a try.

“I don’t know where you came from,” I said, my voice soft and raspy. “I don’t know if you were kidnapped from a loving family, or orphaned like me, but you ended up with me. Me and Michael, that’s your lot in life.” I kissed his hand again and continued, my voice stronger and more relaxed. “You did nothing wrong, didn’t ask for such a messed-up pair of degenerates to raise you, and look where it got you. This is on me, Gabe. You don’t deserve this. This one’s on me and Michael.” The corner of his mouth twitched, I was sure of it. This time, it wasn’t my tired eyes or wishful thinking. It was real. It had to be real. I held my breath and waited. Give me another twitch of the eye or jerk of the hand, but my angel slept. Undisturbed and far away, he slept as still and as peacefully as he ever had before. Even as a baby, Gabriel used to toss and turn all night long until the covers held him prisoner. I released his hand, kicked off my shoes and pulled the blanket around my shoulders. I then moved in closer and gently ran my fingers up and down his arm. A small bandage covered the needle mark.

“I was going to apologize,” I said. “I was going to tell you how sorry I was for leaving you alone and scaring you like that. I wanted you to know that everything would be okay, that I was going to be around more and not drink so much. I was going to tell you to stay the hell away from heroin. I was–” I sighed and leaned back in the chair. It was too much. It was all too much. The buzzing and beeping, the tubes, charts and monitors, the peaceful look on his face; I considered unhooking him from the machine and taking him home. He needed stimulation and familiar surroundings, the security of his bed, the smell of his room and comforting sounds like the purring of a very fat cat. He needed home. Kissing his forehead, I stuffed the pillow behind my head, closed my eyes and said another prayer to hope.

Michael arrived Thursday morning with a thermos of coffee, flavored creamer, and an assortment of bagels and cream cheese. I knew he was good for something. Lisa would drop by later with lunch and Billy was given the task of picking up some of Gabriel’s books from the house. I latched onto Michael and could have fallen asleep in his arms, my head content on his shoulder and my mind ready to relinquish control. He gently scratched my back and laughed when I apologized for being such an asshole yesterday.

“You had good reason,” he said, fixing my coffee exactly the way I liked it, a dark caramel color with no sugar and a dab of creamer. After my first two cups in the morning, I usually drank it black. His complexion looked better and his eyes were vibrant and clear. He informed me that I had a special delivery coming this morning. I smiled and went along with it, clueless as to what he meant and too tired and grief-stricken to care. I may have gotten in an hour of sleep last night, though even that would be an exaggeration. My eyes were closed, and my head was technically on a pillow, but that’s about as far as it went.

“Knock, knock,” the nurse from last night poked her head through the door and winked at Michael as she entered the room backwards. “Got something for you,” she said, dragging a canvas green cot inside and setting it up beside the bed. “Now, this is against the rules,” she said, wagging her finger at Michael, “so if anyone asks, I got nothin’ to do with it.” Michael nodded and offered her a bagel.

“Gotta watch my figure, baby,” she replied, running her hands down her thick thighs. She shimmied around to the other side of the bed and asked Gabriel how he was doing this morning, checking his tubes and fluids and replacing the small bandage on his arm. “I’ll tell you what angel,” she said, lowering her voice, “you blow both these guys outta the water.” Lifting his head, she fluffed up his pillow and whispered, “Time to wake up now, my angel.” I choked on my emotions and thanked her as she exited the room.

Michael threw the pillow and blanket onto the cot and patted his hand for me to lie down. “You didn’t sleep a wink last night,” he said. “Let me take over for a while.”

I climbed onto the cot and picked at a dry bagel while Michael coated his with a second layer of cream cheese. Setting mine aside, I leaned back a little further on the cot but refused to lie down completely. I felt guilty for even closing my eyes last night, but now that Michael was here, maybe it would be okay, maybe I could nap for an hour or two. Letting my head hit the pillow, I stretched out my legs, closed my eyes and listened as he talked to Gabriel. It wasn’t heartfelt. He didn’t confess anything or apologize, he just talked to him as if we were all hanging out, as if Gabriel were capable of replying.

“When you get out of here, Gabe, Ashley and I are taking you snow skiing. You’ll love it. I suck at it, so you’ll have fun laughing at me. I was thinking Colorado, but not Aspen, it’s too touristy. Where else do people ski?”

I didn’t know if he was asking me or Gabriel. Neither of us responded.

“How about Colorado Springs?” he asked. “Hey, you remember that road trip we took a few years back? Colorado Springs is where we saw that black bear.” He then proceeded to retell the bear story from a camping trip we’d made three years ago. I flipped sides and turned my back to them.

He must have been so scared. When he injected the heroin, he probably knew something was wrong immediately. I’ve overdosed before. I knew what it was like. The sickness hit, quick and overwhelming, and I knew it was too much, but by then it was too late. It was instant, but I always knew, right before I lost consciousness, I knew I was overdosing. I couldn’t get the image of Gabriel out of my head, his slumped body and white eyes, the vomit on his chin and down his shirt, the needle poking out of his arm. It was every bit as terrifying as finding a butcher knife in his chest. Pulling the covers over my head, I buried my face in the pillow and wept until sleep provided relief.

The sound of music and laughter woke me two hours later. Limbo Diver played at a low level while Lisa, Billy, and Michael relived the past telling humorous and heartwarming stories. Even the room smelled light and happy. For a moment, I almost thought Gabriel had awakened from his coma. He must have, why else would they be so damn happy? I listened for his voice, his soft and breathy voice that I could pick out of any group of adolescent boys. But they would have woken me. I knew that. I knew he was still far away and unresponsive on that stiff hospital bed. I knew the tubes were still poking him. I knew his fluids still needed to be changed, but I listened. Perhaps they wanted to surprise me. I listened and hoped.

Bouquets of flowers decorated the room along with stacks of books and a small CD player. Michael and Lisa sat together in a chair while Billy sat on the other side of the bed. All three were eating sandwiches. They offered me lunch as I peeled myself off the cot and leaned over to smell a cheerful array of pink carnations and yellow tulips.

“Flowers?” I asked, looking around the room. “Why bother? It’s not like he can see them. The hell are we celebrating anyway?”

Michael stood from the chair and turned off the music. “We’re just trying to provide some stimulants,” he said. “Come on, go downstairs with me.” He kissed Lisa and stood by the door waiting for me to obey. I didn’t want to leave Gabriel, but the flowers made me nauseous, and Lisa’s perky voice grated on my nerves. The fresh air would do me some good. Maybe I could bottle it and bring it back with me for Gabriel to enjoy. Maybe it would be a nice stimulant for him. Maybe I could march around the room playing a trombone and stomping my feet to the beat of a Limbo Diver song, maybe that would bring him back around.

We bypassed the crowded smoking section and hid out in Billy’s van chain-smoking and drinking our coffee. Michael sat in the driver’s seat facing me with his feet pulled up and his back against the door. He wanted to say something. I saw steam billowing out of his ears as his brain struggled with how to word whatever it was he wanted to say. I beat him to the punch.

“Did you tell Gabriel how we found him?” I asked.

Michael contorted his face and stared at me with confused eyes, “Why are you bringing this up now?”

“Did you?” I asked again.

Taking a long drag off his cigarette, he turned his head and exhaled smoke through the cracked window. “He asked me for the truth,” he finally replied, “so, yes, I told him.”

“How did he respond?” I asked.

Michael sighed and fidgeted with the cuff of his sleeve, “Honestly, he acted like he already knew.”

I stared blankly at the console and let my ashes fall into my lap. Something lurked beyond the surface. Gabriel knew more than he let on, and I suspected that his explanation about the origin of the video tape had been a lie. He’d been searching for something, and I feared he might have found it. When I voiced all of this to Michael, he too, stared blankly at the outdated wood-paneled console complete with an 8-track player and a CB radio.

“When Gabe gets out of here,” he said, “we can’t let him out of our sight.”

“The hell’s going on, Michael?” I asked. “Who’s coming for us?”

Shaking his head, he claimed he didn’t know anything.

I would beat it out of him if I had to. Bandages still covered his wrists and the image of him holding up that red balloon weighed heavy on my mind. It was as though it held some sort of clue, as though the universe was trying to tell me something, but I was done playing guessing games. No more chasing shadows, limousines, and devils with canes. I’d had enough. My skin burned from the inside out and my tongue threatened to rip him apart at the seams, but I maintained my self-control and reminded myself of how much I loved him. I refused to lose them both.

“I need to know who the devil is,” I said through clenched teeth. “And I need to know what the hell you were doing at that party the other night.”

Fidgeting with his cuffs again, Michael kept his head down and pulled his legs closer to his chest. I feared he might clam up and digress into the childlike state that often overtook him when we broached the subject. I expected him to shrug, shake his head and change the subject, but his amber-green eyes looked up from the console and engaged me.

“He’s my dad. The devil is my dad.”