The Other Side(21)
“The most important time to listen is when words are missing, that’s when hearts cry out the loudest.” She smiles softly and then changes the subject. “I want you to show me your favorite album in this store and tell me a story about it.”
I hesitate, not because I don’t know, but because I don’t know if I want to share. I could easily make something up—there are plenty of bands I like—but I decide to go with the truth. “It’s over here.”
“I should go back for my cane before we move on. I got excited and left it on the last aisle,” she says.
“I have it,” I tell her, and when she reaches out, I place it in her grasp.
“Thanks,” she says before she holds out her left hand. “Show me.”
I slide my fingers between hers, moan internally, and walk us down the aisle, over two, and loop back to the spot where we began. Yes, we were, coincidentally, standing five feet from section L when she asked the question. But as soon as she offered me her hand, a longer route was necessary.
She smiles slyly when we come to a stop. “We just walked in a circle, Toby.”
“I forgot where it was,” I lie.
“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, a smile still in place.
I’m only mildly embarrassed until I look up and goth guy is giving me a mocking thumbs-up while mouthing the word, Smooth, and then I’m mortified. Annoyed, I shake my head at the taunter in black because I can’t tell him to shut up, and flick through the stack of vinyl until I find what I’m looking for.
“This is my favorite album, Physical Graffiti,” I say, freeing it from the others. I haven’t looked at this cover for years and my throat is suddenly closing off. Why did I do this?
“Can I hold it?” Alice asks. I see her lips move more than I hear her because she’s speaking so quietly.
When she outstretches her hand, I place it within reach and she takes it. Leaning her cane against the display, she runs her fingertips reverently over the cover. “How old were you the first time you heard it?”
I cough to try to find my voice, but it cracks on the only syllable I can force out. “Nine.” My sister, Nina, had just come to live with us again. She was in and out of our lives a lot. That time she’d overdosed and my mom insisted she come and live with us after she was released from the hospital. She said she was sick and it was an accident. I was too young to understand addiction and I believed her. I always believed her. I loved it when Nina was around, probably because it was an unexpected treat. She paid attention to me, made me laugh, taught me how to draw, watched cartoons with me on Saturday mornings, read me comics before I could read, and during that stay with us she played her Led Zeppelin album and unknowingly made me fall in love with music. All of this I don’t tell Alice, of course. I don’t talk about Nina with anyone. Ever.
She’s nodding her head, giving me time to compose myself because the emotion erupting is hard to conceal. And then she does something unexpected. She sets the record down on top of the others and she turns slightly, finds the sleeve of my arms crossed over my chest with her hand and tugs it gently, her other arm extended out in invitation.
That I step into. When her arms slide around my waist and mine rest on her shoulders and gather her in around her neck, I press my face into her hair and the inhalation of air that’s involuntarily dragged into my lungs is the precursor to a sob that I stifle with everything in me by clamping down my lips and biting down from the inside to keep it trapped.
I hold my breath.
The sob leaks from my eyes instead.
I do not cry in front of people. I save it for when I’m alone in my room, or in the shower, or in a bathroom stall at school if it’s a particularly shitty day. I feel like such a goddamn failure right now. No one is supposed to see this. It’s supposed to remain hidden. My sadness is mine and it shouldn’t bleed all over anyone else.
Holding me to her with one arm while running the other hand up and down my back, she presses her lips to my ear and the whisper of a kiss touches it before the whisper of the words do. “Breathe, Toby. Just breathe.”
I can’t.
Not yet.
Because it will be loud and tortured. It’s clawing fiercely to be let out.
“Breathe,” she repeats.
I bury my face in my elbow resting on her shoulder to muffle the embarrassing ugliness that escapes. I’m usually a silent crier—I can mute the sound and let the pain of encapsulating it burn me from the inside. Today is different, I guess. The ugly bursts out in the open before I’m able to sniff and clear my nose, and breathe deep as Alice coached. She’s still rubbing my back when I finally swallow down the lump in my throat and apologize into my elbow. “I’m so sorry.”
Her hand moves up to cradle the back of my head, holding it in place. It’s a comforting gesture and I can honestly say that no one has ever held me, touched me, cared for me like this. I wasn’t raised in a family that showed affection. We didn’t touch. I hugged Nina twice. In this moment, I don’t ever want Alice to let me go, because even though it still hurts like hell—it hurts a little less.
“Don’t be,” she whispers against my neck. “Just promise me that someday, when it doesn’t hurt so much to talk about, you’ll tell me the story. I want to hear it, Toby. I want to hear all of your stories.”
I lift my head and press the side of my cheek to the side of hers so she can feel my answering nod.