Far from All Else

by Tom Lally

  “You’re all good to go,” she said and handed me my insurance card.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I turned back to Dougie.

  “Thank you for everything, Dougie. I really appreciate everything you did,” I said and stuck my hand out.

  “Drew, it was my pleasure. I hope I never see you again,” he said.

  “Me too,” I said. “Tell everyone I said goodbye.”

  “Will do. Take care, Drew,” Dougie said.

  I turned to the door that led out to the waiting room and opened it. Riley looked up from the book she was reading. Her eyes met mine and we both responded by smiling. She ran over to me while Brock followed behind her. She hugged me tightly, twirling me in circles as she laughed.

  When she let go, Brock gave me a handshake and a hug.

  “It’s good to be on this side,” I said.

  “It’s better to have you on this side,” Riley said.

  Chapter 18

  I hopped in the backseat of Brock’s Jeep. Everything from putting on a seatbelt to the smell of the car made me giggle.

  “This is bizarre,” I said.

  “What?” Riley asked as she sat in the front seat.

  “Everything feels new,” I said.

  “How’re you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, why?” I asked.

  “Dr. Phillips, is that her name?” she asked to which I responded with a head nod. “She told me one of your friends tried to kill himself.”

  Brock hopped in the front seat and ignited the car’s engine. He turned to me once he realized what we were talking about.

  “Yeah, but it’s okay,” I said.

  “No, really. How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m okay. He didn’t try to off himself,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “He said Dr. Phillips told him she felt he was making progress and would be able to leave soon, but he doesn’t wanna go,” I said.

  “Drew, he slashed his wrists open,” Riley said.

  I lifted the sleeves on my sweatshirt and showed Riley my left wrist. I dragged my finger across the skin as if I was measuring the diameter of my wrist and said, “Hospital.”

  I then drew my finger vertically along the scar that ran up to my forearm and said, “Morgue.” Riley nodded her head at me and grabbed my hand.

  “You wanna talk about it?” she asked.

  “No, not really. Let’s just get outta here,” I said.

  I didn’t want to tell Riley or Brock about Harlan or my fight with Jared. It seemed wrong to say anything. I thought it would’ve made things harder and I was glad to see Riley and Brock in better moods than I’d recently witnessed.

  “Okay,” she said to Brock and he started to drive. I looked out of the back window as we left the psychiatric hospital building. I heard ambulances circling quickly into the emergency entrance and I watched as the windows that were barred disappeared to the point where they just seemed like empty glass panes. The place I once called my residence slowly shrunk in the distance as we drove farther away. We crossed a bridge elevated above the train tracks below and I lost the sight of the hospital due to an office building obstructing my view.

  I turned back to the windshield and met Brock’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “All good back there?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” I said. “I’m good.”

  It took us an hour and fifteen minutes to reach their apartment on 72nd street between 2nd and 3rd. They parked on the street and I got out of the car, greeted by the smell of the city air, rife with cigarette smoke, gasoline, perfume, and sewage. I grabbed my bag from the trunk and followed Riley and Brock to the front door. We walked on the cracked sidewalk covered by scaffolding to the semi-circled driveway that led to a set of golden doors. A woman passed us with her poodle. Her large sunglasses sat on the top of her white hair as she played with her pearl necklace with her free hand. The dog barked as we walked past, slightly pulling her off balance. We approached a tall doorman who was smiling at us.

  “Mr. Mann. Ms. Thomas,” the man said with a thick sub-continental accent.

  “Hello, Anwar,” they both said.

  Anwar rubbed his thin goatee quickly, settling the stray hairs back into their square shape.

  “Anwar, this is my brother, Drew. He’s gonna be staying with us for a while,” Riley said.

  The pair split, opening a path for me to reach Anwar. I smiled shyly and shook his hand. His typical uniform, a three-piece suit, was neatly dry cleaned and his chauffeur’s hat was perfectly aligned on his bald head.

  “Nice to meet you, Drew. I’m Anwar,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said.

  I watched his eyes gaze down at the scars on my wrists and our handshake lasted a few seconds longer than it should have. I immediately pulled each sleeve down so they covered both of my hands entirely.

  “Well, great. Do you need anything?” he asked finally.

  “No, I, uh, I think we’re good,” Riley said. “Thank you though.”

  Anwar led us to the front door. He pulled the golden handle and held the glass frame open for us. We all said, “thank you,” as we passed. The floor turned to marble with one black tile for every white one. It looked like an expensive and slightly cheesy chessboard. The sound of Brock’s loafers clapping against the floor coupled with the high-heeled boots Riley wore over the bottom half of her jeans echoed throughout the building’s first level.

  The lobby had a desk to our left where two men stared at a computer screen. Brock waved to one of them who returned the same gesture. As we walked past them, we reached the elevators. Four different shafts were stationed in the narrow corridor. Riley pressed the up arrow and an elevator chimed as its doors flung open. We walked in and Brock pressed the button designated ‘32’. The elevator moved quickly and the numbers rapidly increased on the digital dial, softly chiming each time we passed another floor. It stopped gracefully and the doors opened again.

  I walked out and followed Brock and Riley down the narrow hall. Doors were aligned with the ones parallel. We reached the end of the hall where a lonely door stood facing us. I heard Brock rattling his keys as he shoved one into the lock. He opened the door and I entered their apartment for the first time.

  The brown wood floor shone as the sunlight broke over the skyscrapers. I kicked my shoes off on the foyer mat and left them under the small black table that sat below an oval mirror. I entered and saw a doorframe without a door. It led into the kitchen, which had a beautiful granite counter top that converted to a bar on the other side. The cabinets were nicely constructed and colored white. The floor was covered in fake tiles that felt like pressurized rubber. On my left was a short hallway. I saw one door at the end of the hall and another on the right-hand side.

  “What do you think?” Riley asked.

  “It looks amazing,” I said.

  “Well, let’s show you around then,” she said.

  She walked past me and I followed behind. On the other side of the kitchen and past the hallway I’d been looking down, there sat the living room.

  “This is the living room and dining room,” she said.

  A black, leather couch sat at the top facing the mounted flat screen residing on the wall head-on. On each side of the couch, two leather chairs faced the television at off-centered angles. Behind the couch, nearest the wall on the other side of the room, sat an eight-person dining table. It was an elegantly crafted piece: the wood’s pigment held several slightly different colors that looked like a mixture of different peoples’ coffees combined.

  Walking past the table, Riley showed me through a door that led out to a small balcony with two chairs and a small table.

  “This is the balcony,” Riley said. “I love it here.”

  I looked out and could see over the city. Taxis honked at each other and one man swore his way through traffic, his tires braking quickly followed by a cringe-inducing s
craping sound. Birds flew overhead. I watched their wings effortlessly flap until they stopped and then simply glided like a plane. My vision wasn’t objected by prison bars or the feeling of confinement I felt in the recreation yard when birds or planes flew overhead.

  “This is awesome,” I said.

  “Yeah, it’s great. Come. I’ll show you your bedroom,” she said.

  I followed Riley back inside to the hallway I’d seen when I’d first come in. We walked to the door on the right-hand side. Riley turned the gold knob and flung it open. Sunlight poured in from the three, paneled windows to the left of the door. A bed rested with its post against the wall, facing the windows. A dresser was stationed against the wall across from the door. I looked at the windows and saw a television that looked familiar resting on a nightstand in front of them.

  “Is that my television from home?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We grabbed it when we went to pick up some more of your things. I put the other stuff in the closet for now,” she said and pointed to the sliding door to the right of the dresser.

  I went over and opened it. I looked down and saw a duffle bag sitting next to my record player. The records themselves were lined up standing on the floor, resting against the wall for support. The acoustic guitar I messed around with was leaning against the wall as well. I opened the duffle bag and found my laptop with the charger wrapped around it. I found dress shirts and the dinner jacket that I sometimes needed to wear for special occasions. Fresh pairs of socks, my dartboard, and the books I’d left on my bureau that I hadn’t finished reading yet were neatly tucked underneath everything. My mason jar filled with guitar picks was tucked in the side pocket. In the other side pocket was a plastic bag holding my journals. All of the loose pages of writing I’d kept since I was in high school were bound together by rubber bands and neatly placed on the floor. I turned around to Riley who was standing with Brock. I guessed he’d appeared while I was busy looking at all of the items they’d collected for me. I walked over to them and hugged Riley. She opened her arm and I did as well to let Brock in.

  “Thank you so much,” I said.

  “Anything for you,” they said. “Anything.”

  We all finally let go and chuckled with excitement.

  “Oh, Drew. There is one more thing,” she said and pointed with her finger.

  I hadn’t even noticed the desk and computer chair that sat to the immediate right of the door. I ran my eyes over it and saw a typewriter, a gray Royal, sitting next to a stack of blank papers. I walked over and ran my fingers across the keys. They felt fresh and untouched.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” I said.

  “Yes, we did,” she said.

  I walked back over to her and hugged her as tightly as I could.

  “Thank you for everything. You have no idea how much this helps,” I said.

  I felt tears welling in my eyes and closed them quickly. I hoped they wouldn’t dwell, but the moment seemed too beautiful to not have a reaction. Riley was my savior. I had stepped over the edge, but Riley helped me find my way back.

  Through fire, Riley would be there and for that, I couldn’t help but tear in that moment. She meant everything to me when I thought of the word ‘family’. Brock understood the situation and smiled as he watched us. Riley and I finally let go of each other.

  “I never thought I’d see one of those in person,” I said.

  “It’s old school. I like it,” Riley said.

  “Thank you, guys, again,” I said.

  “You don’t have to thank us,” she said.

  “Any time, Drew,” Brock said. “Never hesitate to ask for anything.”

  ***

  I brought my bag into my room while Riley and Brock went to the kitchen to make breakfast. I quickly put my clothes away and didn’t even bother to put the strings back into my athletic shorts or my sweatshirt. I was too excited.

  I looked out of the windows to the street below and took in the aura of controlled chaos that was Manhattan. I went back to my bag and found my notebook. I laid it next to the typewriter, which I proceeded to stare at, looking to find every little piece of machinery involved and what it did. I’d never used one before. I’d only see them in movies or in pictures of famous writers from the Beat Generation. Something about typing on them seemed so pure. You watched ink get splattered onto the page in front of you as you created tangible work.

  I turned to my notebook I’d put on my desk and sat in the computer chair. Flipping through the pages, I found the poem Leighton had first read. At the top of the page in the heading, I saw her phone number circled with asterisks next to it that read, “For when we get out of this place.”

  I chuckled to myself and pulled out my phone from my jean pocket eagerly, but I set it down on the desk and swiveled in my chair while I thought about what to do next.

  I battled with my anxiety and wondered about the possible outcomes, writing premature scripts for the future, only to come to the conclusion that I couldn’t do that. The image of Leighton showing me her scars crawled through my brain. I couldn’t get over those. They made her seem perfect, more than she could have been without them. It’s not that we were healed, we were damaged.

  With that recognition, I couldn’t turn down someone who would understand the certain struggles we would face adapting back into reality. I hoped she felt the same. My fingers nervously dialed the number, shaking with every digit entered. I pressed the call button and tried to hold the phone steady against my ear. The ringing sounded before I heard a girl’s voice on the other end.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Leighton?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s Drew,” I said, holding my breath.

  “Drew. I’m glad you called,” she said.

  “I wasn’t gonna leave you hanging,” I said.

  “It’s good to hear you,” she said.

  “You too,” I said.

  The silence extended for a few seconds.

  “So what’s up?” she asked with a chuckle.

  “Nothing much, I just got home,” I said.

  “How’s your sister’s apartment?” she asked.

  “Pretty incredible,” I said. “She’s helping me out a lot right now.”

  “She sounds great,” Leighton said.

  “Yeah, she is,” I said. “What are you up to?”

  “Right now, I’m in Connecticut visiting my foster parents’ friends,” she said.

  “Nice, how is it?” I asked.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “But I’m happy to be heading back tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. I wanted to ask you, if you’re up for it tomorrow, maybe grabbing some food with me? Talk about art or something,” I asked nervously.

  “Talk about art?” she laughed. “Yeah, sure. I’d like that. Got any place in mind?”

  “Otis told me about this place, Oscar’s on 60th and Lexington. Said it was good. Does that work?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s great, I haven’t been to the Upper East Side in a while,” she said.

  “Should I bring some writing?” I asked.

  “How about you tell me why you’re living in the city and we’ll call it even,” she said.

  I thought about her words. My life with my dad was gone. I was no longer welcome into his or Pierce’s world. I belonged in a different one.

  “Okay, you still gonna bring some of your artwork though?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she laughed.

  “Okay, great. I’ll call you tomorrow. Does 1:00 sound good?” I asked.

  “Sounds perfect,” she said.

  “Great. See you then,” I said.

  “Bye,” she said.

  I hung up the phone and felt butterflies in my stomach, but they weren’t the kind that I usually had to fend off. They didn’t drop into the pit of my stomach and run rampant. It was nervous excitement, but the latter outweighed the former.

  I smiled at my
self before I looked at the blank pages stacked next to the typewriter. The keys of the typewriter seemed to beckon me forward.

  I heard Leighton’s voice asking to see more writing and Riley’s voice telling me to never second guess myself. Granted, I never thought of myself as talented. I just enjoyed writing. But then Dr. Phillips’s words came to mind and I looked back at my experience. A life rife with something that most people would never get to experience.

  I turned to the typewriter and slid a piece of paper in, awkwardly fumbling the dials until only the header protruded.

  “Drew, you want some food? Brock and I are making sandwiches,” Riley called out.

  “Sure, I’ll be there in a second,” I yelled back.

  I rose and stood over the desk, glancing at the typewriter and then back at my wrists where I could slightly see the scar sticking out from under the fabric of my sweatshirt sleeve.

  “It’s all fodder,” I heard Dr. Phillips say. “It’s all fodder.”