Midnight Whispers
QAF Brian and Justin Fanfiction

I don’t think I was quite prepared for the sense of finality I felt as we stood gathered around Debbie’s closed casket, just our little family now. I looked over at Brian, who was sitting to my left, staring straight ahead at the scene before him, much like he had when we’d first seen Debbie’s body at the visitation. His eyes were dark, and I could see him blinking back the wetness in them. I reached over and rested my hand on his upper back in silent support as I blinked away tears of my own. Ben was holding Michael close alongside him, and I was wishing I could do the same with Brian, but I was doing the best that I could. Times like these were when I really wished Brian wasn’t in a wheelchair -- the times when I wanted to be close, to have my arm around his waist and tuck myself into his side -- and I couldn’t.

The rain was dripping off the edges of the tent we were under, spattering on the ground, making small puddles on the edges of the dark green indoor-outdoor carpet that had been laid out for our group. Debbie was to be laid to rest between Carl, her beloved, and Vic, whose funeral service I still remembered clearly, although the memory of it and the things Brian had said immediately afterward had taken on a much different connotation once I found out Brian had cancer. Brian had been facing not only Vic’s mortality, but his own, all those years ago. Now, he was facing the death of the only true mother he’d ever known.

Even though Brian hadn’t been a member of the Novotny family by blood, he certainly had been a significant part of it. This was maternal mourning for Brian as much as it was for Michael, and the expressions of sadness and disbelief on each of their faces told that story very clearly. Brian reached up and took Michael’s hand, and I saw Michael squeeze Brian’s fingers as he gave Brian a sad smile.

They were getting through it together -- supporting each other.

I watched the raindrops fall from the sky outside the tent, a little lighter than they had been earlier, bouncing off of the gravestones around us and soaking into the ground while Father Tom read Bible verses and said a prayer. Then, it was time. We were each invited to say a few words and share a personal remembrance as we each laid a single red rose on the casket.

One by one, each person stepped forward to say goodbye. Thanking her again for everything she’d done. Wondering what we were all going to do without her -- the head of our family, the matriarch. The one who made everyone feel welcomed, accepted, and most of all, loved.

“I love you,” I said, as I laid my own rose down on the surface of the mahogany-colored casket. “Thanks for everything.”

Brian and Michael were the last to lay down their roses, but neither of them said a word. And that was okay. They didn't have to. We all knew.

Then, one by one, people started to walk away, saying goodbye to each other with hugs and promises that we’d all see one another later that afternoon at the diner, for the informal gathering that Brian, my mother, and I had planned, with a little help from Rob and Adam and even the girls. My mom gave both Brian and me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and told us she loved us and she’d see us later. Father Tom closed his Bible and offered his condolences to the few of us who remained, then opened his umbrella and walked to his car, leaving Michael, Ben, Brian, and myself standing alone under the tent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see one of the cemetery’s employees standing close by, waiting for us to leave so they could do what they needed to do to finish Debbie’s burial -- something I really didn’t want to think about and I knew neither Michael nor Brian did either. Brian closed his eyes for a moment, then reached for my hand and looked up at me.

“I need a minute,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “If you want to go to the car, I’ll be right there.”

I didn’t really want to leave him, but I knew that was my cue.

Michael nodded to Ben, and Ben walked over to me, leading the way as we walked toward our cars, which were parked along the narrow road that wound its way through the cemetery’s lush greenery, leaving both of our husbands to bid a private final farewell to their mother.

The rain had lightened up quite a bit as the graveside service had ended, and by the time we got to the cars, it was barely a sprinkle, with the sun just starting to peek through a break in the clouds. Its rays gradually illuminated Brian and Michael at the edge of the tent as it made its way out from behind the cloud and shone down upon them. Michael had pulled a chair up next to Brian, and they were sitting there together, holding each other, as brothers.

I could see them speaking to each other, comforting each other, tear tracks glistening on their faces as they embraced. When they let go, Michael stood, then placed a hand on the casket and said a few words that I was too far away to hear. Brian did the same, and they emerged from the tent together, bathed in sunlight as the clouds slowly began to clear, while I imagined Debbie smiling down on both of them, surrounding them with love.

I drove both of us back to the house in silence, thankful that the rain had stopped and the clouds were gradually moving out, giving way to a clear, blue sky. In a way, it was symbolic -- like the rain had reflected how we all felt as we’d said goodbye to Debbie, and now it was being replaced with bright sunlight as we transitioned out of the deepest part of our mourning and stepped into a world that would go on without her physical body, but never without her radiant spirit.

When we arrived back at our house and went into the living room, Rob and Adam were sitting on the couch, watching television, their arms and hands intertwined. Esme and Sophia sat on the floor, surrounded by paper hearts in a rainbow of colors. Esme carefully cut out another, then added it to the stack in front of her.

“What’s all this?” I asked as I shrugged out of my suit jacket, ready to change into something more comfortable and a bit more “me.”

Esme smiled shyly, looking back and forth between Brian and me. “We wanted to do something to remember her,” she said, her voice soft like it usually was. “This way, people can write down things they loved about her on these hearts, and I thought maybe we could tape them on the wall of the diner.”

“Like a memorial,” I said, bending down to pick up a red heart.

She nodded and bit her lip, suddenly looking very unsure of her idea.

A smile spread across Brian’s face as he got closer, holding his hand out for Esme to grasp. She took it, and he pulled her up to her feet and into a hug.

“I love it,” he said quietly, into her ear. “I know she’d love it too.”

“Papa said it was a good idea,” she said, her voice slightly more confident. “He and Dad took us to get the stuff so we could do it.”

“It’s a great idea,” Brian said. “Thank you.”

“I told you they were gonna like it,” Sophia said loudly, rolling her eyes as she worked on sorting the hearts by color, making it sound like she’d been reassuring Esme all afternoon. And, knowing Esme’s more reserved nature and Sophia’s unflappable self-assuredness, I was sure that she probably had.

It seemed like the perfect way to remember Debbie -- bright colors and memories of love -- and, in that moment, I was grateful for the innocence of children and the benefit of their perspective, bringing a little more lightness to a time when it would have been easy for everything to be dark and depressing.

We had enough time to eat something and take a little break to rest, before we’d make our way over to Liberty Avenue. I spent that time lying in bed alongside my husband, reading a book while he scrolled through email on his phone, occasionally grumbling about his employees and their lack of ability to do certain tasks without him or Cynthia holding their hand -- another sign that things were starting to get back to normal.

By the end of the week, we would be back home in New York. Going back to work. Getting back to our lives.

Life would go on, without Debbie. Without the phone calls to sing happy birthday, or the ones that were made just to check on us and see how we were doing or to lecture one of us about something she’d heard through the grapevine and didn’t like. Without surprise packages from Pittsburgh containing slightly worse-for-wear but still tasty lemon bars or cookies or brownies. Without the monthly family dinners, the lasagna, the baked rigatoni, and the gingerbread cookies that had been a Christmas tradition as long as I could remember. Without her loud voice and incredibly refreshing lack of sophistication in the middle of all of the pomp and circumstance of an art show opening. Without her smiling face behind the counter at the Liberty Diner, asking, “What’ll it be?” as she chomped her gum and tapped her pen on the pad of paper she always used to take everyone’s order. Without her hugs that were so tight that you could barely breathe, but that left you with no doubt that you were loved. That you were special. That you were important to her.

I’d realized over the last several days just how important she was to all of us as well -- much more so than I ever could have fathomed.

Moving on would be strange, especially at first, but I knew we’d be okay. She’d see to that, from wherever she was, watching over us. Probably still chomping that gum or poised and ready to send down a posthumous, metaphorical slap upside the head the moment one of us needed it.

Liberty Avenue was full of the ghosts of memories past. The night Brian and I first made eye contact under that street light in front of Babylon. Standing in the middle of the same street, both covered in soot, as Brian said, “I love you,” to me for the first time. Dancing with him at my first Pride. Celebrating Stockwell’s defeat with a raucous party that took over all of Liberty Avenue. Chasing him down the alley beside Babylon after I’d pushed him a little too hard toward getting back to “normal” after his accident. Wearing our wedding rings there for the first time after we’d finally gotten married. And that was just a handful of the memorable moments that had shaped our lives right there on that little street in Pittsburgh where no one had to be afraid to be themselves. We were all safe there, and Debbie Novotny had played a significant part in keeping it that way.

We sat at the diner, sharing a booth with my mom, Michael, and Ben, watching as Esme and Sophia distributed paper hearts and brightly colored markers to everyone who came in, inviting them to write down a memory of Debbie and post it on the wall. The memories were heart-warming for us too, helping solidify the impact we knew she’d had on so many who called this neighborhood their home.

“This is perfect, having everyone here, where so many of us first met her,” I said to Brian, pushing what was left of my lemon bar toward him, since he’d already eaten almost half of it. “I’m glad you thought of it.”

Brian nodded, and I watched as his eyes scanned the crowd, some of whom we knew, and some we didn’t. But we were all a part of the same community -- the same extended family that practically knew no bounds. The one headed up by Debbie Novotny.

People drifted in and out of the diner, writing their memories on paper hearts and ordering their favorite dishes. A couple of times, I could have sworn I heard Debbie’s voice ringing out over the chatter in the diner. But whether I had or whether it was a figment of my imagination didn’t really matter. Either way, it brought me comfort -- the knowledge that she would always be here, in one way or another.

Mel and Linds came in after a while, Gus and J.R. trailing behind them, pushing their way through the crowded diner and over to our table.

“We had a terrible time finding a place to park,” Lindsay said. “And you should see the street outside -- I bet there are more than two hundred people out there.”

I turned and looked over my shoulder toward the window and saw a huge crowd gathered on the street. I could see rainbow flags waving, and people smiling and laughing and dancing with each other to music that I could just barely hear over the chatter in the diner.

Our curiosity drew us all outside, leaving our table for some of the hungry patrons who had been waiting in line to get a seat -- a line that turned out to be much longer than we’d thought it was from inside. It stretched halfway down the block, and traffic seemed to have long ago ceased on the street itself, which was full of people. People who were celebrating Debbie’s life, simply by being themselves.

It reminded me of the celebration we’d all had once Stockwell lost the mayor’s race and we knew that Liberty Avenue would stay the diverse, pride-filled place it had always been. The place it hopefully always would be, thanks to people like Debbie, who had laid the foundation and helped fight to keep it that way.

“I keep expecting to see her come walking out of the diner at any moment, rainbow flag in-hand,” Brian said, looking up at me, his lips turning up into a small smile. “I’m going to miss that. I’m going to miss her.”

“I know. Me too.” I wrapped my arm around my husband’s shoulders and looked around at our chosen family gathered on either side of us, then out over the crowd, knowing that they were celebrating Debbie’s life in exactly the way she would have wanted -- with love and pride. “But we haven’t lost her. Not really. She’s all around us. Her spirit is right here. I think it always will be.”

Liberty Avenue -- and the pride within it -- was Debbie Novotny’s legacy, in a way. She was a part of it, and it was a part of her. And so long as it lived on, so would she.

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