The Other Side(78)
My eyes are pulled back to him again, I think just to see if the look on his face matches the sincerity in his voice. It does. “I need to get clean.”
He nods. It’s merciful agreement that lacks pity. I like that. I like him. He’s quiet and compassionate. Not at all what I came in here looking for tonight. I came into Dan’s Tavern looking for a diversion, looking for someone who could help me forget who I am for a few hours. Instead, he found me and made me face who I am for a few hours.
“There are a few free programs in the city, or you can always go to Denver General Hospital—they can’t turn anyone away.”
I huff. It’s not unkind; it’s reflexive, ingrained doubt.
He tilts his head like he’s trying to figure me out. “What? You don’t think you can do it?”
I start to shake my head, but my dream screams at me from within to remind me it’s still there and wants to be in charge. I shrug instead. “I don’t know. I’ve been like this for so long it’s hard to remember what I was like when I didn’t need it.”
He nods. “I understand.” And it looks like he does. “But the thing is, you don’t have to go back to who you were before. Time passes. People change. You just have to decide who you want to be today, and if you’re not sure who that is, time and sobriety will help you decide.”
It makes sense. This guy makes sense. “That kind of takes the pressure off,” I say more to myself than to him.
He doesn’t react, he understands.
From somewhere in the distance I hear, “Last call!”
“I should go,” I say again, but it sounds different than it did before.
“Cab?” he asks.
I stall on the thought because my mind is still looping his words, People change, over and over in my mind. Distractedly, I answer, “No, I don’t live far. I can walk from here.”
“I’ll walk with you. You shouldn’t be walking around after dark by yourself in this neighborhood.”
Normally I would be skeptical, guys only want to go home with girls for one reason. In fact, that’s what I thought I was looking for tonight, so it’s ironic that this is playing out the way it is.
He stands and offers his hand for me to take. I hesitate, not because I don’t want to take it, but because no one’s ever done this for me. Guys like him don’t acknowledge girls like me. And they sure as hell don’t walk down the street holding my hand.
When I take his hand, he must be able to tell I’m freaked out because he squeezes it once gently.
We walk a few blocks in silence and when I get my bearings, I stop in front of an apartment building and point with my thumb over my shoulder. “This is me.”
He nods. “Good luck, Stephanie.”
“Thank you.” I don’t even remember his name. But guarantee I will never forget him.
I walk toward the front door and he continues on in the opposite direction.
When he turns the corner, I backtrack down the sidewalk and don’t stop walking until I step through the ER doors of Denver General Hospital.
And I tell them I need help.
*
Thirty days later, I walk out of a rehab facility. Clean. Program complete.
*
Six months later, I start a veterinarian technician program.
Forever thankful that I walked into Dan’s Tavern that night looking for an escape.
Because I finally did.
Escape.
All thanks to a stranger who will never know what his words helped me find.
Chapter Forty-One
Past, 1987
Cliff
There are things in life that have changed me.
Things I don’t talk to anybody about.
Because I can’t.
“Toughen up, boy,” my pops would tell me.
My friends would laugh. And call me a pussy. Or a loser. Or both.
When I was ten, my mom died. She’d been sick for a while and didn’t go to the doctor because she thought she would get better. She didn’t. Cancer doesn’t get better on its own. She was the nicest person I’ve ever known. I wish I would’ve told her that when she was alive. I wish I would’ve thanked her for making me grilled cheese every Friday night because it was my favorite; and holding me when I was little and scared but trying to pretend like I wasn’t; and asking how my day was when she got home from her job at the dry cleaners every night, even though I only ever told her, “It was fine.” She knew that was usually a lie. My mom always knew.
Losing her changed me. I was always kind of a brat when I was a kid, but losing her turned me into a dickhead. It’s not her fault. She was the best part of our family. It’s like taking the referee off the football field—the game turns into a free-for-all. My pops and I never got along, deep down I was a momma’s boy, but I looked up to him. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do and I thought I had to. I didn’t know I had a choice. He was the flashy one, the smooth talker, the tough guy. He hustled—begged, borrowed, and stole—while she prayed for him to change. Literally prayed on her knees every Wednesday night and Sunday morning at Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception near our apartment. I know because I went with her sometimes. Not because I thought he could be saved, or I could be saved, or even to confess my sins, I went because being close to her and her faith made me feel like maybe her good would rub off on me a little.