The Other Side(56)
Second-guessing her need to see him, she swipes at her eyes with her sweater sleeves pulled down over her palms, and evades his question with a question. “How did you find me?”
Which he answers with another question, this one tilted toward a plea. “Why are you hiding?”
“Why are you looking for me?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
The ping-pong inquiry provides telling information, which is strange given the complete disregard for actual direct answers on both sides.
When Nina revisits, “How did you find me?”
Toby finally loses it and shouts a demand. “Tell me what the hell is going on, Nina!”
She flinches again and it’s not lost on him. Toby’s always been gentle with Nina. Because their mother has never been. Mothers should safeguard their children’s fragile vulnerability; instead, theirs wields shame and guilt like a machete. Slicing through them with words meant to wound when she feels the need to reinstate her sense of absolute authority. Or when she’s jealous of something they’ve accomplished that she never could, she cuts them off at the knees in an attempt to make herself feel better. Toby has always been honest with Nina, but he’s never been cruel. Her flinching from him is like a physical slap to the face.
The tears are still trickling down her cheeks, leaking out of lifeless eyes. The incongruous combination all the more haunting when she pairs it with the words, “I’m waiting.” She holds back from tacking on more to spare Toby’s feelings.
I’m surprised by her filter because she’s started using again this week. Whatever Ken gives her. Falling out of sobriety was easy when depression felt like two giant hands pushing her face-first off the side of a cliff. I think Ken’s trying to numb her, placate her, keep her placid for the next part of his plan, whatever that is. He’s an idiot, but he’s smart enough to scheme and manipulate. And Nina is too tired and beat down to care.
While Toby’s deciphering that answer, he notices for the first time the bruises on Nina’s legs. He skips questions and goes with a declaration instead. “He’s hitting you.”
Nina shakes her head adamantly, as fear fights its way in again. “No. No, he’s not. I fell taking the trash out a few days ago.”
Toby calls her bluff. “I saw you at 7-Eleven yesterday and you didn’t have those bruises.”
The lightbulb goes off, though the heroin in her system has dulled it to a dim flicker, and she narrows her eyes. “You followed me.” It’s not accusatory; she says it like she’s just nimbly solved a riddle.
Toby narrows his eyes quizzically in return. “Are you high?”
“No,” she immediately, and ineffectively, denies.
He sighs in frustration. He’s seen her like this before. “Nina, you need to come home with me. I got a job washing dishes at The White Spot, and we can find an apartment. I’ll help with rent. We don’t have to live with Mom.”
Do it! I scream. But when I hear the words, “I belong here,” robotically spoken, like they’ve been rehearsed, I realize that Ken’s won. He made threats, not against her, but against Toby. One night two weeks ago, during a fight, she threatened to leave Ken in a fit of rage and rare courage. He threatened to kill Toby if that ever happened, because he knows Toby is the only chink in her armor. And then he proceeded to choke her until she passed out.
She’s trying to save Toby. I get it and I commend her because Ken is volatile enough to do it. Couple that with the fact that she’s already checked out—in her mind she’s living on borrowed time—and it’s a recipe for disaster.
Leave, leave, leave, leave, leaveleaveleaveleaveleave, is my incessant war cry again. Do I care about Toby? Of course I do. But I have to think about Nina first, she’s my priority. Not that I would offer Toby up like a sacrificial lamb, but there has to be a way to save them both.
“You don’t,” Toby responds with watery eyes as he wraps his arms around her motionless, slight body. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he adds and then turns and walks out the door without closing it behind him.
Relief floods Nina as she watches him step onto his skateboard and disappear down the street.
Fear floods me as I watch the same scene. Ken is different! I scream at Toby’s dissipating figure. It’s bloodcurdling. Ken is different!
Toby returns the following afternoon as promised.
He pleads with her to leave with him. He’s openly crying. “Please,” he repeats over and over. I’ve never seen him like this.
“I can’t,” she refuses over and over.
When he acquiesces and moves on, exhausted, to plan B, he unzips his backpack, pulls out a revolver, and hands it to her.
She shakes her head defiantly, just like she did yesterday, and refuses it. “No. Put it away.” It’s the knee-jerk reaction to danger.
“You need to protect yourself. Either you leave with me or you take this.” His eyes are a mixture of sadness, determination, and remorse. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t like guns, he never has. There isn’t a violent bone in his body; he’s an artist and was born to wield a drawing pencil not a weapon. But he’s squashed every impulse of right and wrong for Nina, to be her protector because she’s failing to do it herself. Sweat is trickling down his temples; this whole situation from start to finish is torturing him. Desperation has driven him to do something he would never do, to be recklessly reactionary, and it’s hard for me to watch. It’s also comforting from my perspective because I know she’s not alone, even if this is an extreme measure.