Girl on the Other Side (10 page)

I hold my breath and wait for him to get angry, to start screaming and swearing at me. This
has
to make him angry now, doesn't it? But David shakes his head and holds up his hand.

“Please stop, Tabitha … I know all about the email and so does your mother. It's okay.”

It takes me a couple of seconds to process his words. Once I do, a rush of emotion comes over me. It's so powerful that it knocks the breath from my lungs. With a gasp, I lower my face into my pillow and begin to cry like a baby. This time, when I feel my father's arms around me, I don't push them away.

Lora

I know it's going to be a beautiful day even before I wake up this morning. I can see the sunlight shining through my eyelids, calling me away from my dreams. And the birds outside my window are singing a little bit louder than usual, as if they're trying to stir me out of bed. When I finally open my eyes, I see beams of warm, dusty sunlight pouring into my bedroom and I know that spring has finally arrived.

When I get downstairs to start breakfast, Daddy is standing in the kitchen tinkering with the coffee pot. I'm so shocked to see him that I let out a little scream.

“Daddy!” I gasp, clutching at my chest. “What are you doing here?”

He throws back his head and lets out a deep, throaty laugh.

“I thought I lived here. Good morning to you, too, Lora-loo.”

“No, what I mean is … why aren't you sleeping? Is something wrong?”

Daddy just came off a four-day shift at the fire station and normally he'd be asleep by now.

“No, nothing's wrong,” he replies, smiling as he takes a mug down from the top shelf of the cabinet above the microwave. He's so tall, he doesn't even have to reach. “It's just that the sun is shining and I wanted to spend a day with my family. So I decided to pump my body with some caffeine and stay awake. Sorry I scared you.”

With a sigh, I walk over to the pantry and pull out the morning's cereal selection. “That's okay, Daddy. But you really should get some sleep — we can all go to the park tomorrow.”

He chugs back a giant gulp of steaming, black coffee and shakes his head.

“No way! Tomorrow it might rain. You have to take your chances while you've got them. Come on, Lora, it's Saturday. Let's go to the park. We could all use a little fresh air and I can sleep later. I've got a few days off coming to me.”

Even though I know how badly he needs the sleep, I agree to the plans. As big a man as he is, my father exudes a quiet teddy-bear kind of charm. My whole life, I've never been able to resist him.

After we've all eaten breakfast, he picks up Mommy in his burly arms and places her gently into her wheelchair. My sisters and brother fly around the house with excitement when they hear the plans for the day. It's been an agonizingly long winter this year and they're dying to get outside and play. After we dig our spring coats out of the closet, we set off for the park.

Outside, the fresh air smells like mud pies and earthworms. I lead the way, holding the dogs' leashes in one hand and carrying a small bag filled with sand toys in the other. Daddy lets Allie help him push Mommy's wheelchair down the sidewalk, manoeuvering it carefully around the streams trickling from the last stubborn islands of melting snow. It doesn't take long for Chelsea and Cody to race ahead of the pack on their tricycles. They're energized by the warmth of the sun and excited to leave their hats and mittens at home and feel the breeze on their skin. The dogs bark at the small, spinning wheels of the trikes as they pass.

Mommy also looks like she's enjoying the outing. She sits with her face tilted toward the sky, like a sunflower following the light. Her eyes are closed and there's a little smile playing on her lips. I realize that this is one of the only times we've been anywhere together as a family this year.

When we arrive at the park, Chelsea and Cody dash straight to the swings and Daddy follows close behind to give under-dogs and rocket-ship rides. Freed from their leashes, the dogs chase each other around the grass, stopping only to sniff at the odd tree or rock. Allie starts digging a castle in the damp sand and I sit on the bench beside Mommy's wheelchair to keep her company.

From the toy bag, I pull out the pad of paper and pen I'd stashed before leaving home. There's a new homework assignment I'm hoping to work on today and I figure this is as good a time as any to get started.

“What are you doing, Lora?” I hear Mommy ask. Her words are clear and her voice is strong. Maybe it's the sun or maybe it's the fresh air, but whatever the reason, this is definitely sounding like a good day.

“We just finished a session on Shakespeare in my English class,” I explain. “For our final assignment of the year, Miss Wall wants us to try writing some poetry of our own.”

“Shakespeare, eh?” she replies. “Are you going to write your poem in iambic pentameter, too?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Miss Wall said not to worry too much about meter or rhyme at this point. Just get our thoughts and feelings out.”

“Well, that sounds very interesting … what will you write about?”

“Um … I don't know yet,” I say with a shrug. “I think I'll wait for something to inspire me.”

Mommy nods and turns her head toward the swing set. Alone with my thoughts, I smooth out the paper, uncap my pen, and wait for the words to arrive. I'm excited about this assignment. I've never written a poem before, but because I've heard so much poetry lately, I figure there's a good chance that, like all things academic, it'll come naturally. The Sunday-night poetry readings at the coffee shop have been incredible. Madison's gone up to read a couple of her poems and has received some really good feedback. She's been urging me to read something, too. Maybe if I can work up the courage, I'll try it. I'd like to get my poem as perfect as possible before I hand it in to Miss Wall. A really good mark in English will keep my grade point average nice and high. All I have to do now is figure out what to write about.

“Poetry is all about feelings,” Miss Wall had written on the blackboard after she'd given out the assignment. “A poem is pure emotion on paper. Choose a subject that moves you and start to write.”

I watch the kids play and wait for something to move me. My thoughts travel back to the days when Mommy used to bring me to this same park. It's hard to believe that only a few years ago I was still young enough to forget my troubles in a playground. I look at the swings and remember the day when I was five years old and Mommy was trying so hard to teach me how to swing on my own. I couldn't understand the mechanics of it. When to push, when to pull, how to use my little body to propel that swing up into the sky. I remember getting frustrated very quickly and stomping away in a huff.

“I can't do it,” I whined. “Why can't you just push me like you always do?” But Mommy wouldn't let me give up.

“Sit with me, Lora,” she said, taking a seat on an empty swing and pulling me onto her lap. With her hands covering mine, we gripped the chains together. “Hold on tight now,” she whispered into my hair as she leaned back and began to swing. “I won't let you fall.”

And, although my body felt slippery on top of hers, I knew she wouldn't.

Up, down, push, pull — we moved slowly back and forth, as if to the lilt of a perfectly timed song. She under me, teaching me the rhythm with the sway of her own body. I sat on top of her, feeling her breath in my ear and her heart beating against my back as we swung higher and higher until our feet were kicking the sky in victory.

“Lora, are you okay?” I hear Mommy say. I turn my head toward her and for a moment I'm shocked at the sight of the frail woman beside me. Physically, she's aged three decades in the few short years since her diagnosis. Her body is so weak and tired and I sometimes marvel that it still performs the basic functions of living. How is it possible to have lost so much of my mother in such a short time?

She lifts a thin arm and reaches out to take my hand. My heart aches for those strong hands that gripped the chains over mine and for those healthy arms that once held me so tight as we raced through the air on that narrow rubber perch.

“I'm fine, Mommy,” I reply, forcing my voice not to quiver. I smile and give her hand a light squeeze. We've switched places in these past three years. Now I'm the strong one.

A shadow creeps across the ground. I look up and see that a thick layer of grey clouds has overtaken the sky. Without the sun's heat, this early spring day quickly turns chilly. It doesn't take long for the little ones to start complaining about their cold fingers and ears. We pack up our buckets and shovels, balls, and trikes to go home. The words of my poem come to me as we walk. I dash upstairs to write them down as soon as we get there.

I can't sleep that night, so I creep out of my room, walk down the hall and slip into bed with my parents. Daddy is passed right out and snoring loudly. He's always so tired when he comes off a shift, only the sound of a siren would wake him up. Mommy's taken her nighttime meds and is deeply asleep, too. She doesn't move a muscle when I crawl into bed, lay my head down on her shoulder, and curl my body around her — just like she did to me all those years ago on the swing.

“I love you, Mommy,” I whisper into her hair. She doesn't hear me, but it doesn't matter. Just being close to her is comforting enough. I snuggle into the reassuring warmth of her body and try not to let myself wonder how much more of my mother I have left to lose.

Today …

Tuesday, May 23 — 12:21 p.m.

tabby

“I hate them … I hate them … I hate them … I hate them …” moans the voice in the toilet stall beside me.

Holy crap! The girl on the other side is freaking out! She sounds like a total wreck. She's wailing so loudly that my ears are hurting.

I prop my elbows onto my knees, lean forward on the toilet seat and wonder what on earth to do about the sob-fest going on just inches to my left.

Should I say something to her? If so, what? I raise my hand to knock on the stall, but lower it a second later. Maybe I should respect her privacy and let her cry alone? I mean, this girl is clearly in the middle of some kind of breakdown. I know that
I
like to be left alone when I'm crying my guts out — it's something I've done a lot of over these past few weeks. But what if this girl is different? What if she wants someone to hear her?

I don't know the answer to that question. And before I have the chance to figure it out, my thoughts are thrown off by a loud, honking nose blow.

I look at my watch and see that there's still twelve minutes left of the lunch period.
What should I do about this?
I bite my bottom lip and scratch my head in frustration.

This whole situation is awkward. All I wanted was a quiet place to hide out until lunch was over. I didn't ask to be thrown into the middle of a stranger's emotional breakdown. I'd like to walk away quietly and give this girl the privacy she needs. But that would mean leaving the bathroom and going back out
there
… and facing
them
. That's something I just can't bring myself to do.

“I hate them … I hate them … I hate them … I hate them …” I hear the girl moan again. The voice sounds familiar, but I can't place it. I probably know her if she goes to this school. I lean a bit farther down and look at her shoes again. She's wearing a pair of plain, beat-up black sneakers — definitely not designer. Definitely not expensive. Maybe I don't know her, after all. I mean, nobody I know wears shoes like that!

The moaning begins to quiet down a little until all I can hear is a muffled weeping. I look at my watch again and sigh. Eight minutes left. God! This is torture! I can't sit here listening anymore. I raise my hand and, against all my better judgment, tap against the side of the stall with my knuckle.

“Um … hello? You okay in there?” I whisper.

There's a pause and I hear the girl take a long, shuddery breath.

“No, I'm not,” she replies with a shaky, brittle voice. “Not at all.”

Her voice cracks open on the last word and I can hear the crying start up again. I stare at the green graffiti-scrawled wall and try to think of what to say.

“Um … do … do you need help?” I ask, not sure what else to do.

There's a small laugh. That must be a good sign, right? My heart rises a bit. Maybe she's feeling better. And then:

“I don't know … can you transfer me to another country?”

I laugh, too. Hey, anything to help lighten the mood a bit, right?

“Come on …” I coax, “… whatever happened, it can't be
that
bad!”

For some reason, I'm determined to help this girl feel better.

“Yes, it really is that bad,” comes the reply. “My life feels so hopeless. My mother has an awful disease and my father is never home and I never have any time for myself. And I don't have any friends. And then those boys go and treat me like that? Grabbing me and pushing me on the ground? What did I ever do to deserve that? I just hate them all so much!”

Damn it! The voice is so low now it's barely more than a breath. I'm losing her! Who is this girl, anyway?

“Who?” I urge, hoping to keep her talking. “Who's ‘them'?”

“Everyone!” she sobs. “This whole entire school! The things they say hurt so much. And those disgusting emails never stop. I mean, how can people be so cruel? I can't even get peace in my own home.”

I think about the wall posts I got last night on Facebook and tears spring to my eyes. The words were so vicious.

Phoney!

Bitch!

Thief!

Die!

You suck!

Burn in Hell!

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“Yeah … I know what you mean,” I say. “Maybe I can transfer to another country, too.” I can't bring myself to laugh this time. In fact, as much as I try to keep them in, more tears are coming. They slide down my cheeks in salty streams. Remembering my promise to myself, I struggle to swallow my sobs. No matter how bad it gets, I don't want anyone to catch me crying. My nose starts to run. I reach for some toilet paper to wipe it. Damn it — I chose the loser stall with no supplies!