You, she said.
In the singular.
I’m completely alone.
I look at the list of documents: ID, proof of residence, social security card, and public health insurance card, which I have no idea how to get.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I try to spot a hint of compassion in her voice, but it’s an automatic question, simply protocol.
“We have to keep moving forward, right?” I smile, loudly repeating the plural we, reaffirming that I am not alone, and telling myself that I can’t start crying in front of her. “I hope it all works out.”
“It will,” she says encouragingly, smiling for the first time since she first laid her blue eyes on me. “If you need any support, you can go to our psychology department, or to social services. Here at the health center, you’ll get everything you need. And one of the great advantages is that here in Brazil, the public health system covers the entire treatment without much of a hassle, all of it for free. You’re in good hands.”
You, you, you.
She never fails to emphasize the singular.
I am all alone.
THE GUY WHO WAS AHEAD of me at the clinic leaves the therapist’s office, holding a folded piece of paper, his head down. His eyes aren’t swollen, and I didn’t hear any shouting while he was in there, but he walks by quickly without looking at anyone.
I’m sure the diagnosis wasn’t good. If it were, he’d be smiling from ear to ear.
The therapist walks out right after him and goes into the lab again, where she picks up another folded piece of paper and an ID.
“Victor Mendonça?” She seems tired when I get up and nod. Her eyes are pretty, a deep blue like the sky of an autumn afternoon. “Shall we?”
I follow her to the end of the hallway, the tips of my fingers aching. My nails are all but gone from my nervous nail biting, and I’m certain I’ll cry like a baby if the results come back positive.
Why did Henrique do this to me? Why did he wait until after we’d had sex to tell me that he was positive?
“Please have a seat.” She points to a wobbly chair with yellow foam peeking out of two rips in the corners, and I comply, feeling my legs tremble and my stomach churn.
When I seem at least minimally comfortable, she hands me the ID and asks, “Why did you decide to get tested, Victor?”
I consider it for a few seconds before I speak.
“I met a guy, Henrique, and he has always been a sweetheart to me. We started going out, and things got pretty intense between us. We talked all the time, went to the movies, made out, and all that. And then we had sex.” Before I realize it, the words tumble out of my mouth. “The next day—that is, two days ago—he sent me a text saying he was positive and asking if I still wanted to go out with him, the bastard! Then I got paranoid and searched for the closest testing center, and I found you.”
“Did you use protection?”
“Yes, of course, even for oral sex. He said it was absolutely necessary, and I even thought he was making a fuss, because, like, who uses a condom for oral sex, you know? And then everything started to make sense. I don’t know, at first I thought he was just being super cautious, not that he was sick. His text said he was something called ‘undetectable,’ I guess, so I looked it up. From what I can tell, it means he’s on medication and can’t transmit the virus. But I could still have caught it from him, right? Like, he had an obligation to tell me he was sick before I got into bed with him.”
“He had the option to tell you that he’s positive, Victor,” she corrects me, and the authority in her voice makes me want to swallow some of what I just said. “And he’s not sick; he simply has the virus in his system. His only obligation is to use protection, and he did. Most people I know who test positive say it’s not very easy to open up about this subject with others.”
I sit with her words in silence, unable to rebut them.
A while later, the therapist asks, “Was this guy the only one you’ve had sexual intercourse with recently? Did you have sex with another partner, with or without protection?”
What does this lady take me for? A slut?
“No,” I mutter in response, maybe a little offended by the question or the fact that she said Henrique didn’t have an obligation to tell me anything. Of course he did.
Then I feel my stomach turn to ice, because she still hasn’t unfolded the paper and she’s building all this suspense just to give me my results.
“Ma’am, can we just cut to the chase?”
She must find something funny, because she smiles before unfolding the paper and handing it to me.
“The tests came back negative,” she says.
I let out a sigh of relief. “So that’s it? Everything’s okay with me?”
“Yes. This partner of yours appears to have been very responsible for insisting on using a condom and, I have to admit, seems like a great guy for opening up to you about his status, even though he had no obligation to do so. Doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you just throw away.”
“He could have infected me!”
“The chances of transmission by someone who doesn’t know whether they’re infected are much higher than by those who are on treatment, and especially if they are undetectable—which it sounds like he is, meaning he can’t transmit the virus,” she explains, interlacing her fingers, and I notice a hint of impatience in her voice. “Well, I think we’re done here. I’m happy everything is fine with you, Victor, and I hope you and … Henrique, is it? I hope you two sort it out. In the meantime, you can go home.”
I feel the weight of the world lift from my shoulders when she hands me the paper without any Xs on it. Everything seems more colorful now, and all the apprehension I’ve felt the last couple of days seems to have disappeared in the blink of an eye.
“The other guy who was in here before me … did he test positive?” I ask, trying to start a conversation as I get up. “He didn’t look too happy.”
“I can’t discuss another patient’s test results,” she says, standing from her chair to open the door of the mildewy room. “Patient confidentiality.”
Looks like I won’t extract anything else from her. So I just nod, shove the piece of paper and ID in my pocket, and leave. All I know is that I never want to set foot in a testing center or hear another word about HIV again.
+
“Sandra?” The first person I call when I get to the bus station is my best friend. She’s probably waiting for a text (because while I was in the waiting room, we exchanged a million messages in which she tried to reassure me and I was in a state of despair). “It came back negative! Everything is fine!”
“I told you that you were being paranoid, Victor!” she answers on her end, but I notice that her voice sounds as relieved as mine. “I only met Henrique once, but he seems like a nice guy. I mean, he was super honest. You could give him a chance.”
He has a disease that can kill me, I think of saying. I don’t want anything to do with him anymore!
No, that would be too cruel and would get Sandra started on one of her politically correct rants about how we should embrace all differences. So I take the diplomatic approach.