The Other Side(80)

I think that blew my mind more than anything. More than taking the cigarettes from me, more than telling me to shut up and go home, more than seeing him in handcuffs—he didn’t tell Johnny. And now Johnny’s pissed and disappointed in him. He could fire him. He could throw him out. He could ruin his life.

But Toby took that risk.

For me.

I owe him.

Someday I’ll repay the favor.

Until then, I’m going to try to do better.

I’m going to try not being a dick for a while.

Fingers crossed, because I have no idea how to be anything else.





Note from the author:





I’m talking to you.

The one whose pain is unbearable.

The one drowning in hopelessness.

The one feeling completely unworthy of being loved.

The one who’s lonely, even in a crowded room surrounded by friends.

The one thinking that the world would be better if you didn’t exist.



I see you.



I’ve been you.



You are so loved.

You matter.

You make a difference in others’ lives in ways you’ll never know.

Just like Toby.

You fill a place in space and time that is yours and yours alone.

Because no other human being—past, present, or future—can be you.



You’ll get through this.

I promise.



Talk to someone.

Right now.

Please.



You can call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 24/7 (1-800-273-8255).

Or log-on to www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org to chat anytime.

Or send a text to 741-741.





Part Three





When The Other Side is introduced to reality,

lives change.





Chapter Forty-Two





Present, June 1987

Toby



When I open my eyes, it’s dark.

My clock reads 12:12 a.m.

It takes several seconds for me to adjust to wakefulness.

And to being alive.

I’m lying, fully clothed, on top of my sleeping bag.

My head is thumping like a bass drum and I’m still tired.

So damn tired.

I don’t know if it’s fatigue.

Or the desolation that fills me.

Eight hours ago, I literally held my own death in my hand. Thirty-one sleeping pills. I put them in my mouth.

Started crying.

And spit them out.

I couldn’t do it.

After all this time, I couldn’t do it.

All I could hear were Alice’s last words to me: You’re worth fighting for. You have no fucking idea how much I wish you realized it and started fighting for yourself. Suddenly, I wanted so badly to believe her. And to start fighting. For myself.

Feeling around for my lamp in the dark, I click it on. The pills and the pill bottle are gone. My backpack is gone. In its place is a paper plate with a ham and cheese sandwich, potato chips, and a glass of water. I drink the water first and then eat the food that I’m guessing Johnny left. When I’m done, my bladder is screaming. I don’t want to face anyone, but the apartment is so quiet I figure Johnny and Cliff are asleep and the coast is clear.

When I push open my door that wasn’t fully closed, I discover I’m wrong. The light spills out to find Johnny facing me. He’s sitting in the dark in the middle of the kitchen about four feet from my bedroom door on the uncomfortable, rickety chair that the answering machine is usually perched on. Stepping out, the first thing I see is the pill bottle in one hand, and the letter I left him in the other. My eyes climb slowly to meet his: they’re swollen, rimmed in red, and bloodshot like he’s been punishing them for days. Neither of us say anything when I move quickly into the bathroom. After I pee and wash my hands, I put the stopper in the sink and fill it with cold water, plunging my face under. Scrubbing at it underwater in the hopes that it will bring alertness or some semblance of clarity for the conversation that I know is about to unfold. The world’s two worst communicators are about to go head-to-head and I’m not looking forward to it. While I’m preparing myself, I hear Johnny ask Cliff to go wait out in the hall and give us some privacy. Which is considerate, but ineffective because the walls are thin. He’ll probably be able to hear just as much from the hallway as he would from his room. But whatever.

When I hear the door to the apartment open and shut, I walk out, pass Johnny, and go back into my room and shut the door.

“Please come out, Toby. I need to talk to you.” His voice is hoarser than normal.

Leaning my back against my side of the door, I slide down and pull my knees to my chest. “I can’t come out. Let’s talk like this,” I counter. I don’t sound defiant, I sound defeated.

“Why?” He sounds defeated too.

“Because I can’t take the disappointment in your eyes right now,” I tell him. I guess I’m going for all-out honesty tonight. No more hiding.

“Toby, I’m not disappointed in you. I’m disappointed in me.” It’s the same brutal, aching pain I saw in his eyes searing through his vocal cords. “I’d like to talk to you face-to-face, but if this makes it easier for you, that’s fine.”