The Other Side(39)
*
Week eight with Ken:
Nina’s depression is a dictator. It changes her, molds her into what it wants her to be.
It also allows Ken to mold her into what he wants her to be.
*
Week nine with Ken:
Nina hasn’t talked to her friends in weeks. She hasn’t been out of the house for weeks.
*
Week twelve with Ken:
Nina has cried all day thinking about Toby. She hasn’t seen or talked to him since that night she took Ken to meet him. The night that everything changed.
When Ken walks in the door at seven o’clock, she’s still in bed in her pajamas. There will be hell to pay when dinner isn’t on the table, but she’s too tired of life to even care. I’m still chanting, Leave, leave, leave, leave, leave, but she tells me it doesn’t matter because it’s all going to end soon anyway.
By “it’s all going to end,” she means she’s going to end. I get that. I’ve been in this spot with her before. She’s not one to mess around with empty threats. The last time she filled her belly full of pain pills. The only reason she survived is because her mom found her and called 911. Stomach pumped inside out, she recovered under psychiatric evaluation and was released to her mother and Toby. She was seventeen. Toby was two. Her mother was a train wreck.
“Nina!” Ken yells from the living room. The sound deadens when his footfalls still on the hardwood inside their bedroom.
She looks at him through blurry eyes and before he can start in on her, we both notice how different his eyes look. They’re glazed over. He’s high, but he doesn’t smell like pot. She’s always known about the pot. This is something different. For weeks she’s chased away suspicions that he might be dealing drugs, but she didn’t realize he dipped into his supply.
She’s braced for the worst, the beatings are daily now. She’s covered in bruises.
So when he climbs in bed and pulls her into his chest, she stills rigidly like a frightened animal being stalked like prey.
Stroking her hair gently, he says, “I love you, Nina. You know that, right?” When she doesn’t answer, he doesn’t notice and goes on with his petting. “You’ve been so good lately, Nina. So good.” The only thing scarier than the cruel Ken Nina has come to expect, is nice Ken.
Different gets scarier every day. Ken is different.
Chapter Twenty-One
Present, April 1987
Toby
Johnny’s back.
He’s sitting on the wooden chair by the phone in the kitchen like a sentinel standing guard when I walk in the door from school. We exchange nods, and then I begin the covert assessment to try to determine where he’s been all week.
He looks different.
His eyes are clear, the constant ruddy cheeks are gone, and his skin has color. And he’s lost weight, or more than weight, he’s lost bloat. That puffy layer is gone.
When he clears his throat, I drop my eyes and walk to unlock the padlock on my room. Throat clearing by Johnny is usually followed by something he’d rather not have to say out loud. “I quit drinking.” I stop in my tracks. More throat clearing and I keep my eyes trained on the floor because I know Johnny well enough to know if he’s being this frank, he doesn’t want eye contact of any kind. “Thought I could do it cold turkey and ended up in the hospital sicker than a dog.” More throat clearing. “Spent the last three days at my sponsor’s house trying to get my head on straight before I came back here to you guys. I joined AA,” he says as an add-on to explain the “sponsor” comment, I guess.
I chew at my thumbnail for a moment before I ask, “So this was the shit that needed to be dealt with, getting sober?” referencing the note he left for me.
“Yeah,” he says grimly, his tone laced with shame. When I look up at him, there’s remorse in his eyes. “I’ve been fucked up for so long that I don’t know if I can do this or not.” He shrugs like it’s an apology for showing weakness. “But it’s either try or eventually die. I’m trying.”
I don’t know what to say. I was prepared to come home, listen to the messages, and get to work. I wasn’t prepared for soul-baring on Johnny’s part. Communication isn’t my strong suit, especially when feelings are involved. Johnny and I don’t talk about personal stuff, the line was drawn the day I moved into his apartment and we’ve never crossed it since. I don’t want to start now.
“That’s good,” I say because my silence is awkward. This whole situation is awkward. “Does Cliff know?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you first.”
I nod but feel slotted in the middle of a strange family dynamic. Shouldn’t he talk to his nephew before he spills his guts to his employee and tenant?
“He’s still alive? And a free man?” he asks in only a half-joking tone.
I start to unlock the padlock, sensing this conversation is thankfully coming to an end. “As of this morning he was. Give Cliff a few hours and anything’s possible, though.”
Johnny’s subdued sigh is audible. “You’re right about that.”