The Other Side(89)

The three of us eat two big pieces each. My teeth hurt when I’m done because it was so sweet, but I regret nothing. My first cake was the best cake I’ve ever eaten.

When we’re done, Johnny hands me a key. “Go take a look. See how you feel. No pressure.”

I hesitate like he’s handing off a live grenade, but then I take it.

I walk down two flights of stairs.

When I slide the key into the lock with a shaky hand, I can hear Marilyn’s voice screeching, He fucking killed my Nina!

Turning the key I don’t tune it out, I let her in. That little shit killed my daughter!

And the familiar self-talk begins. You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing.

It’s interrupted by Alice’s voice, You don’t scare me, Toby Page.

When I step inside, the voices quiet.

It smells like fresh paint.

And warmed-over, botched childhood.

All of the furniture is the same. Even the record player is still sitting on the metal TV tray in the corner with a milk crate of old albums beneath it. They’re Marilyn’s because Nina took hers when she moved out with Ken. Unless Johnny rearranged them, I can tell you what order they’re in because I looked through them so often: Three Dog Night, Fleetwood Mac, The Carpenters, and Jim Croce. There is a new-to-me, ancient console TV sitting directly across from the couch though. The rabbit ears sitting on top of it are wrapped in duct tape to keep them extended fully, and the tips are covered in aluminum foil to help with reception. I’ve never had a TV and it’s Sunday; Teletunes is on tonight.

My old room is empty except for the pine dresser against the wall by the window. The middle drawer hangs at an angle. It broke years ago.

The master bedroom is painted pale blue now. And the furniture is different, not just the mattress. The sheets and pillowcases and bedspread all match. They’re all blue like the walls. I know it’s no big deal, but I’ve never had sheets and pillowcases that match. Hell, I’ve never had sheets, I’ve always just used blankets or the sleeping bag I’ve had for the past two years. I touch the bedspread because I can’t resist. There are creases in it like it’s been recently unfolded. It’s new. I’ve never had new either.

Then the dresser catches my eye. There are a few small cans of paint, some paintbrushes, and a piece of paper. When I get closer, I find that the paper is folded in half and my name is on it. Johnny’s chicken scratch is inside.

Toby,

I hope you like blue. I don’t know your favorite color, so I took a guess and went with mine.

This place is yours. Give it life. Paint a mural on the wall. Get a roommate if you want one. Or a dog. But not a cat, I hate cats.

Happy graduation.

Johnny





It’s mine.

This bed.

These sheets.

This paint.

This life.

It’s mine.

If I want it.

Without hesitation, I open the cans of paint—black, white, red, and blue.

Replacing the lids on the red and blue, I work with white and black only.

Normally I draw comics, but I want something on my wall that I can look at every morning when I wake up and every night before I fall asleep that is…I don’t know…me.

You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing, the faint chant begins to remind me who’s in charge.

Without thinking, I dip the three-inch brush in the white paint and slash the letter I three feet tall and almost as wide. I return to the can, dip the brush again to load it with more white, and add a refined am underneath it. I take my time with the letters: flowing cursive, smooth edges. The words are equal in size and weight and presence, but vary in aggression. I look at the space beneath I am and switch out brushes. This one is wider by a half inch or so. When I dip it deep into the black paint, the voice chides, You’re nothing. You’re nothing. You’re nothing. I squat down and raise my hand, on autopilot ready to draw the n with the brush, but then I think about the people in my life who care about me. Really care about me. And I fight for myself.

I stand and paint a period behind am instead.

And I leave it at that. Because maybe I don’t need a declaration. Maybe just existing today is enough. I’m here.

I am.

I wash the brushes out in the kitchen sink. In my kitchen sink. After I take the paint and paintbrushes to the supply room in the basement, I go back up to apartment 3A and make three trips to move my stuff to my new apartment. Each time I walk through the door I hear Marilyn’s voice initially, but it gets a little quieter every time, and when I put Nina’s Physical Graffiti album on the turntable and touch the needle to vinyl, all I hear is her:

Laughing boisterously. It bounced around inside her rib cage before it expelled and always made me think that she felt it intensely because it had to be allowed to build before she could release it.

Teaching me how to draw. “Don’t strangle your pencil, Toby. Be gentle if you want it to cooperate with you.” “Always shade, it adds depth.” “There are no mistakes in art.” “Don’t be afraid to mess up, it’s the only way you learn and get better.”

Singing along to “Houses of the Holy.” Her voice wasn’t great, but she sang with conviction and that counts far more than perfection.

Reading aloud to herself in a whisper because she always said she understood the words better that way.