The Other Side(74)

“What’s your name?” His voice is raspy and low, his frame is tall but not imposing, and his eyes are harmlessly intense but filmed over with the hint of inebriation.

Without thinking, I give him my real name. “Tiffany.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m Toby,” he says and I believe him.

I like his voice and his face way too much. “I need to get a beer,” I blurt.

He nods. It’s not the permissive nod I’m used to from men I’ve been with, it’s simple agreement.

When I return, his glass is empty.

I empty mine.

Then I empty another.

And another.

I’m drunk, but not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m saying.

And I’m saying a lot.

Toby’s easy to talk to.

Surprisingly easy to talk to.

Dangerously easy to talk to.

He’s a good listener.

So good that I tell him things I’ve never told anyone.

Like how my boyfriend, Steve, slapped me last week because I burned his Hot Pocket. And last month because I didn’t have money to pay the electric bill and it got cut off.

He doesn’t look at me like I’m pathetic.

He doesn’t look at me like I’m a target.

He looks at me like I’m a human being worth more than I give myself credit for.

And he tells me so too.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be.

I think it’s the beer. But what if it’s me?

When the bartender announces last call it’s almost midnight. I need to go.

“Where to, Tiffany?” he asks, and it sounds like the most important question anyone has ever asked me. “Do you need a cab?”

Looking down at the tabletop, I think for a minute.

He doesn’t rush me.

“I need a cab.”

Without a word, Toby stands and walks to the bar. When he returns, he holds out his hand. “Dan’s calling for one. I’d like to ride with you only to make sure you get home safe, if that’s okay? I promise I don’t have any ulterior motives.”

I take his hand and I do something I haven’t done since I was young, I put my trust in someone else. My blind, but wholehearted, trust. “Okay.”

We don’t talk while we’re waiting out front on the sidewalk, but he never lets go of my hand. His fingers clasp firmly in the space between my forefinger and thumb. It’s a protective gesture that makes me feel brave.

By the time we slide into the back seat of the cab, I’m ready for change. I’m ready for more.

I give the cabbie the address and we ride in silence, still hand in hand.

He pays the cabbie a few minutes later when we pull up in front of a brick apartment building.

I hug Toby tight, knowing that I will never forget him. “Take care,” I whisper as I release him.

Stuffing his cold hands deep in the pockets of his sweatshirt, he nods. “You too. Go be you…for you.”

I smile but it’s distorted, because I’m on the verge of tears. Confusing tears that are happy and sad, and optimistic and terrified. “I don’t know how to do that.”

He tilts his head and his eyes go soft like he doesn’t know how to either. “Just because you haven’t done it, doesn’t mean it can’t be done. Good luck.”

And then he turns and walks away.

While I wonder if it was all a dream.

I walk up the stairs to my aunt’s apartment, knock on her door for the first time in over a year, and ask if I can stay with her for the night.





*



One night turns into two.





*



The third night I sleep in my childhood bed at my parents’ house in Rapid City, South Dakota. They drove down and picked me up after I called and asked them for help. We hadn’t talked in years.

All of this thanks to the stranger who asked the right questions and listened when I most needed to be heard.

He’ll never know he changed my life.

But he did.





Chapter Thirty-Nine





Past, 1986

Chantal



I can’t deny it anymore. I thought I could.

But I can’t.

The first month I missed my period I knew it was due to stress.

The second month I missed my period I hoped it was due to stress.

The third month I missed my period I prayed it was due to stress.

There are so many things I blame on the stress: my lack of patience, my short attention span, my inability to tolerate bullshit even in the smallest doses. I can no longer blame my missing periods on it too.

I’m pregnant.

I haven’t gone to a doctor.

I haven’t taken a test.

But I know.

I know.

I opened the door and let the revelation in this afternoon because I can’t ignore its incessant knocking anymore. I’ve been crying ever since. I told my grandma I needed to do our laundry and came down to the basement where I can be alone. No one in the building does laundry on Tuesday nights. During the past two hours, the roller coaster has taken me through a range of emotions, none of them helpful. All of them antagonistic and vengeful.

When I was twelve, my mom sat me down to have the dreaded birds and bees discussion. She made me promise that I would get my college degree, get married, and get pregnant in that order. She had dreams for me. I had dreams for me. I promised.