The Other Side(42)
Song after song the lights flash above me and the music reverberates through me, but I can’t take my eyes off of Alice. The shock receded and conceded to a smudge of a smile indicative of someone truly in the throes of wonder. And for the second time since I’ve known her, I’m struck breathless by her—her openness, her honesty, her beauty, and most of all, her unabashed willingness to feel intensely and not care if anyone’s watching.
When the room falls quiet and the house lights illuminate and cast the room in a lusterless, almost foggy glow, Alice turns in my direction and for the first time I notice tears streaking her cheeks. “There was light, Toby.” The wonder has slipped from her eyes into her voice.
“What could you see?” I ask hopefully.
She pauses like there’s so much she wants to say and doesn’t have the words. “There were faint flickers of light…” She pauses again and her eyes drift up like talking about the memory will recall it visually to life. “And they…they…” An errant tear escapes the corner of her eye and trails over her cheekbone to her earlobe where it pools before her chin drops and she finishes her thought. “They pulsed in time with the music. I felt like I was inside of the rib cage of the song, watching its heartbeat. It was—”
Her joy is interrupted by a timid employee adorned in all black, including the yeti-like bushy hair covering his face and scalp. “Hey, dude, sorry to interrupt, but I’m going to have to ask you guys to please—”
I side-eye him without moving my head and glare; it’s an effective deterrent. He walks away and stands near the door like he’s cowering. Gaze back on Alice, I prompt her to continue, “It was…”
“Incredible. I’ll never forget this.” She sighs and it’s pure contentment. “Thank you.” After a short pause, because she knows I won’t acknowledge the thank you, she says, “Let’s go back to my apartment, I’ll make you dinner.”
After the long walk back to the Victorian on Clarkson, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten all day. I was too nervous earlier. The apartment is empty and the solitude feels recklessly magnetic, like if I sit down and hand myself over to it, I won’t want to leave. Solitude and Alice are a dangerous combination; they lull me into serenity and make me believe things might be possible that aren’t.
Like happiness.
And girlfriends.
“Do you like turkey or ham?” Alice inquires as she opens the refrigerator door.
My mouth waters and I want to say, Both, but I go with, “Whatever you have the most of is fine,” because when it comes to food, I’ve never been picky. I guess that’s what happens growing up with a mom who forgot to buy food half the time because she was either drunk or gone.
She feels around inside the fridge and pulls out two plastic baggies, the kind you get from the deli counter at the grocery store. The kind that costs twice as much and tastes twice as good as the Oscar Mayer packages in the cold-cut section. After setting them on the counter, she goes back for the mayo jar in the door and a bottle of mustard.
“How do you know what’s what?” I ask, because I can’t fathom navigating the world in the dark.
“Taber buys condiments in different sizes and shapes so I know which is which without opening them. Mayo is the small jar, ketchup is the big bottle, mustard is the little bottle, and the salsa jar is shaped weird…if we have any. We usually run out though because Taber puts it on everything.”
I like that. I like that Taber goes out of his way to make his sister’s life accessible and as easy as possible, at least the little things like food.
The plates clank and rattle against each other when she takes two out of the cupboard. The noise is loud in the silence. As if everything she’s doing is amplified because my senses are so intently focused on her.
“I’ll grab the bread,” I say because I need something to do. Something to take my mind off the fact that her independence, her confidence, her disposition—everything about her—is attractive. I’ve never been the type of guy who’s attracted to women for typical reasons. It’s rarely about looks with me. My first crush was on our neighbor. I was nine, and she was in her twenties. She had frizzy brown hair that she never combed, political bumper stickers all over the back of her Volkswagen Beetle, and a smile that made you feel like she put it on just for you. I was always outside because I didn’t want to be inside with my mom, and when she came in or out of the apartment building she always said hi and asked how I was doing, or asked if I’d eaten anything lately, or asked to see my drawings and then told me how good they were. We only lived in that building for two months, and I don’t know what happened to her, but I’ll never forget her smile and how a few words could make me feel human.
I find myself taking my time making my sandwich. I can’t remember the last time I had ham or turkey, let alone both. And lettuce. And tomato. I haven’t eaten a vegetable in months. They’re too expensive and the convenience store I usually shop at doesn’t sell fresh produce unless you count brown bananas. This sandwich is a masterpiece.
“We can eat in my room,” Alice says.
I follow her in and two things strike me instantaneously: how at home I feel and how much I want to leave. Immediately. Comfort and discomfort are clashing inside my mind and my chest. My knee-jerk reaction is to make up an excuse to leave, so that’s what I do. “Hey, Alice, I need to check the answering machine. I’ve been gone for a few hours and Johnny’s probably gone, so…” I trail off because I don’t want to stretch this out into a full-on lie.