The Other Side(18)

I want to ask him how long he’s been without a drink. Ask him if the war broke him like I suspect it did. Ask him if he thinks he’ll ever get over it. Ask him about his biggest regrets. But I don’t because giving our demons a voice, acknowledging them, isn’t something we do. I walk back around the house, in through the front door and into the basement, and try to ignore the tremor I saw in his hands and the fact that he’s sweating buckets.

The new bracket takes thirty minutes to make and when I return to the backyard and my vertical nemesis, I don’t expect that he’ll be there. I expect him to be gone, like he always is. Disappeared to Dan’s Tavern or wherever he goes these days to escape this old house. Cliff. Me. His life. Wherever he goes to still the tremors and sate his addiction’s need.

But he’s still standing in the same spot next to the ladder like he hasn’t moved. The closer I get, I hear it. The raised voices coming from up above. We’re both good at ignoring chaos; it’s part of living in this house. Sometimes tenants are quiet like Mrs. Bennett and Chantal. And sometimes tenants verbally spar like it’s their full-time job. We do our best to tune it out, unless it gets physical, then we call the cops and Johnny usually evicts them. He doesn’t tolerate violence.

Johnny isn’t looking up, but I can tell he’s eavesdropping, or trying to. When I’m up the ladder seven or eight feet, he steps into place and holds it with two hands as I ascend. The aggression seeping out of the house gets louder and thicker the higher I climb. Three distinct voices: One female bellowing self-righteously about knowing what’s right (Which makes me skeptical. If you’re right, you don’t yell about it until you’re red in the face and someone believes you. Volume doesn’t change minds, it closes them.), one male infuriatingly challenging that maybe she doesn’t (His is a tired, but fiery fight. It sounds a decade old, like it’s on a loop, defense more than offense.), and Alice (Louder than normal, a pleading roar to be heard. The passion is pure and distilled—her hope rivaling the bellowing cynicism.).

Cynicism doesn’t hear hope.

Cynicism doesn’t consider hope.

Cynicism just yells louder.

Because maybe if it yells loud enough, hope will fade away.

When I reach maximum height, I’m near a window in their apartment and the words are clear. It’s a distraction from my own fear, but I’d gladly trade it back for Alice’s sake. I hurriedly install the new bracket while I try to ignore the argument that I can’t.

“I’m happy here with Taber—why can’t you accept that?” Alice asks.

“Because I’m your mother, Alice. You need to come back home. I’m trying to be logical—why can’t anyone else do the same?” The self-righteous woman challenges angrily.

I have a feeling that for most of her life, people have gone along with what she wants. It sounds like she isn’t used to not getting her way and she’s livid about it.

“I hate to break this to you, Rachel, but sometimes what you consider logical isn’t. It’s tunnel vision and fixation and it makes everyone else around you miserable.” The male voice sounds like he’s at the end of his rope and is ready to explode.

“Someone has to be logical, Taber!” she screeches. “You want to live in your make-believe world of music and debauchery? Fine! But you’re not going to drag Alice into your disastrous life and brainwash her to follow you down the road to failure. You have no future and Alice’s isn’t in music.”

Judging by his reaction to the outburst, he’s heard this assessment one hundred times before, possibly verbatim. “Alice is so damn talented. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you support that?” he pleads, defending Alice but not himself, even though Alice’s mom’s words were scathing. And as much as I don’t like him, I admire him for it.

Alice butts in before her mom can counter, and she sounds steely. “Taber gets me to school every day. I’m doing well in all of my classes. We’ve written three new songs this week. We have a gig next weekend that will pay next month’s rent and put groceries in the fridge for a few weeks. This is my dream. If you can’t support it, fine, but let me live it in peace, please.”

“Dreams are folly, they’re the things children chase and believe in. You want to be treated like an adult, then start acting like one. Being in a band isn’t a viable future.” It’s not cruelly said, which is the saddest part. It’s her mom’s absolute. Her logic. It’s obvious her mom’s never had a dream.

Thank God I’m almost done because I don’t know much about Alice, but I’m pretty sure her mom is seconds away from delivering an oblivious fatal blow. Alice is about to have her spirit crushed! Don’t let that happen, Taber! I want to yell.

“What is that supposed to mean?” The steel is gone, but Alice isn’t letting her mom see the hurt. Yet.

But I can feel it coming.

“Ignore her,” Taber reassures, even though he knows she can’t. Not with it all blasting at her.

“I guess I have to play bad cop, be the reasonable one. Be the adult,” she spits the word. That was for Taber. They all have roles to play, apparently. “You should be at home, Alice. You shouldn’t be focused on music; we should be focused on finding another doctor—”

“You promised, Mom.” Alice cuts her off on an angry, wobbly, threatening breath like she’s been punched in the stomach.