“Older or younger?” Her voice is quieter, like she knows we’re heading into uncharted territory.
“Fifteen years older. We didn’t really grow up together because she wasn’t around a lot, but she’s the only person I’ve ever loved. She was great.” Now that I’m talking, I can’t seem to stop. “She had the best laugh. The kind of laugh that sounded like it bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, and once it started, she couldn’t stop it. Hearing her laugh always made me laugh when I was little. And she was an incredible artist. She could draw anything I asked her to draw. She also loved music. When I was nine, she brought home an album and played it for me and it was like someone flipped a switch inside me. I didn’t just hear the music, I felt it. It was like everything else in life blurred in comparison. Music was clear and precise and dauntless and honest, its message and soul intact despite everything else fading into oblivion. It made me feel connected to it. To her.”
Alice hasn’t missed the fact that I’m talking about Nina in the past tense, but her smile is warm. I think she likes that I’ve opened up and that I’m sharing myself with her. “Physical Graffiti?” she asks knowingly, remembering our first trip to Wax Trax.
“Yeah,” I answer, lost in all the good that was Nina, and for a moment, blocking out the rest.
“It sounds like you had the best big sister in the world.”
I nod. “I did.” She wasn’t perfect, nobody is. Her demons were many and she fought them daily: drug addiction and an abusive mother. On the good days, she won. And on the bad days, they won, but she tried to hide it. “Nina was one of those people who hid her hurt when you were around her and all you felt was the weight of her love instead. She put all of the attention on others, even if she never received it back in equal doses. She was great at asking questions and really listening to the answers. I loved that about her.” It’s one of my favorite things about Alice too.
“When did you lose her?” The words are support, pure and simple.
“Almost two years ago,” I whisper. I’m suddenly tired. So damn tired, like the past two years have caught up with me. Again.
Alice looks tired too, her eyelids are droopy.
I maneuver around on the bed so that I’m lying on my side behind her, my front pressed against her back. She’s wrapped up in my arms, and we’re both wrapped up in the quilt. “Who made the quilt?” I ask. It looks old and handmade.
Covering my hands on her belly with hers, she answers, “My grandma. It was a wedding gift to my parents. My mom threw it away after the divorce and I pulled it out of the trash and kept it because I liked it. And my grandma. She’s gone now.”
“I like it.” I do. It’s sewn by hand and the seams are crooked. It’s imperfect. Like everything in life. My eyes are getting heavy. I can’t fall asleep with her. I have no idea if I lash out when my nightmares come to terrorize and I don’t want her near them. “I should go, Alice.” The words are muffled even to my own ears.
She tightens her grip on my arms and whispers, “Just five more minutes, Toby. I don’t want you to leave yet.”
“You need to sleep.”
“I need a reason tolosesleep more,” she counters and her voice trails off.
I smile at her admission and relax because this feels so good being here with her.
She relaxes too.
“What have you always wanted more than anything else, Toby?” It sounds dreamlike and far away.
The answer is easy, but the words are hard for my sleepy mouth to form. “To be someone’s hero.” I don’t know if I only think the words or if they made it out in the open to her.
I wake several hours later,groggy and disoriented, but calm. No nightmares. And then I feel Alice in my arms and realize I did exactly what I intended not to do and fell asleep in her bed. Disentangling myself from her, I ease off the mattress, trying not to wake her. A quick read of the alarm clock on the nightstand tells me it’s 4:37 a.m. I grab the near-empty bottle of vodka and walk as quietly as I can to the front door and let myself out, making sure the door is locked behind me. I throw the bottle in the dumpster outside like she wanted and return to apartment 3A. It’s dark and silent except for the symphony of lumbering snores coming from behind both closed bedroom doors. After using the bathroom, I unlock my door, undress, and slide into my sleeping bag, thoughts of Alice, and deep restful sleep. No nightmares. Only Alice-induced calm.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Present,April 1987
Toby
“Cliff saidyou watch Joey on Tuesday nights while Chantal works,” Johnny says, his back to me while he butters a piece of toast to go with the cereal he’s eating for dinner.
“Yeah,” I answer quietly.
I assess my food situation in the fridge before closing it and by default reach for the loaf of bread on the counter and my go-to jar of peanut butter in the cabinet above the sink. I can feel his eyes on me as he turns, bowl in hand, and rests his back against the counter to dig into his Raisin Bran. I prepare two sandwiches in record time because though this is casual, it feels…inquisitive. Sober Johnny is chatty. I don’t think I like it. I stack the sandwiches, wrap them in a paper towel, and head for the door since my bedroom is already locked. My backpack is slung over my shoulder, prepared to sit in the corner of Mrs. Bennett’s living room, the homework inside ignored and put off until Chantal gets home around midnight and I come back up here to do it. I don’t know why I bring it with me anymore.
“How old is he now?” Johnny asks after crunching into his toast and talking through it, the crumbs dusting his beard and the front of his flannel shirt.
I’m distracted by how burned his toast is when I answer, “Seven months.” It must taste like ash though he doesn’t seem to notice.
He shakes his head like he can’t believe it. I guess being nonstop drunk makes the passage of time unreliable and indefinite. “Wow,” thankfully is all he says as my hand finds the doorknob on the door leading out to the hall.
Coincidentally, as I pull on it, someone else is pushing his way in. I hear Cliff before I see him.
