The Other Side(77)

He almost rolls his eyes but stops short. “You know what I mean. I’m not trying to…” he searches for the right word, “…insinuate myself into your life. I’m just trying to…help.”

I know, and my God, do I ever need help. My cheeks are mostly dry, but I mop my face off with my sleeve and sniff back my stuffy nose. “Can I think about it?” I ask him.

He nods, back to quiet Toby.

I wait until he goes to the locked storage room in the corner to grab a part and is walking back up the stairs before I say, “Thanks,” because I know it makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t respond, I don’t expect him to.





*



Two days later, I knocked on his door and accepted his offer to step in and keep my secret. I was raised with religion, though most days I don’t give it any thought. But today is the first day in my life that I’ve felt like guardian angels are real. And how lucky I am to have him as mine.





Chapter Forty





Past, 1986

Stephanie



It’s hard to focus when I’m flying like this.

I promised the last time that I was done.

That I was going to get clean.

Because I used to have dreams.

I still have dreams.

But then today happened.

And now I’m making the promise again.

Like I’ve done so many times before.

But still…

Still the promise, the dream, is gaining momentum and sometimes it feels like its pull is almost as powerful as the need to get high.

I want things to be different.

I want to change.

It’s just so hard.

When I look into his eyes, the realization dawns that I’m not just thinking the words, I’m saying them out loud. I knew leaving the house in this state was a mistake, but I needed to.

“I just had to leave, I couldn’t be there another minute,” I say as I stand, the skin on the back of my bare thighs slick with sweat from sitting on the vinyl chair for too long.

Straightening my shorts that are too short to be straightened, I look him in the eye again nervously, and though he looks like he’s trying to follow my free-flowing, disconnected discourse, I still feel like I need to escape.

“I should go,” I blurt.

His voice is calm like it’s been since he sat down. “Are you sure?” It’s the calm, not the words, that lures me back into the seat without giving it further thought. I like listening to him.

Once seated, I stare at the scratches in the wooden tabletop under the glass covering it. I fixate on the ones that read Frank was here while he asks, “When’s the last time you ate anything, Stephanie?”

I shrug. “This morning, I think.” I can’t say with one-hundred-percent certainty that’s true, but I think it is.

“I’ll be right back.” I don’t know how long he’s gone because time races and creeps at the same time and my perception of it is unreliable. “Here, eat these.” He slides a bowl of peanuts in front of me, and even though they aren’t my favorite I dig in, because bar peanuts always taste better than regular peanuts.

“What’s your dream?” he asks.

For a minute I think he’s psychic because I’ve been thinking about it nonstop all day, but then I remember that I basically shared every secret thought with him not so long ago.

“I want to work with animals. Like at a vet’s office. Or an animal shelter. I’ve always loved dogs.” My stare pries from the tabletop to him. “They’re easier than people,” I admit. People cause pain. It feels weird to tell him all of this because I’ve never told anyone.

He nods. “I’ve never had a dog, but I can relate to people being difficult. I’m not so great with people either.”

But you are, I want to say, but for some reason this is the one thought I don’t let escape. He’s listening. To me. People don’t do that. They usually ignore me, especially my family. They used to listen. But then I started using and for a while all they wanted to do was talk at me. Not to me, at me. They told me all the things I already knew. All the things I was doing wrong. And when I didn’t change—I didn’t do the things they wanted me to do—they gave up, discouraged and angry. It took a surprisingly short amount of time for that to happen. You think your family is there no matter what. But no matter what is conditional and it has a time limit. It’s like a messed up version of cry wolf—now that I want the help, their exhausted compassion won’t let them hear it. So I don’t bother.

“Have you applied for jobs at vet offices or animal shelters? You could even volunteer to get your foot in the door.”

I shake my head. “I know they’ll take one look at me and turn me away. That’s what most people do.” I didn’t mean to say that out loud either, but I can’t hold back.

“Don’t give up on yourself.”

People have said a variation on this sentiment many times before, but it’s always been more about them than me. Do you know what you giving up on yourself is doing to your father and me? Or It’s killing me watching you give up on yourself. That always made me feel worse, not better, because then it was crystal clear that I was hurting them more than I was hurting me. Which, by the way, is arguable because I feel like shit all the time.