Girl on the Other Side

by Deborah Kerbel

  “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 st
ruggle 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!

  “Um … could you pass me some paper please?” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “I’m all out in here.”

  I hear the sound of rolling, then a short rip and then a thin, freckled hand appears under the stall with a wad of paper.

  “Here,” says the voice with a sniff.

  “Thanks.”

  I wipe my nose and frown. Even her hand is familiar. Who is this girl? Should I ask? Does she know who I am?

  “You don’t sound too happy, either,” says the voice softly. “Are you all right?

  She sounds concerned. For a moment I actually consider telling her some of my problems. After all, it sounds like she could probably understand. I lean my head up against the stall and try to figure out which part I should start with. My messed-up parents? The incriminating email I leaked? Being the most hated kid in school?

  But before I can do that, the first bell rings. I glance at my watch and see that it’s time to go back to class. With a final wipe of my eyes, I undo the lock and swing the door open at the exact same time as my cry-buddy does. We turn to face each other and my stomach does a somersault. I can’t help letting out a small scream of shock when I see who it is.

  Oh.

  My.

  God!

  Lora

  Oh my God!

  It’s Tabby Freeman! I’d been opening up my heart and soul to the head piranha! I hear my own pulse pounding in my ears as we stand there, staring at each other in astonishment. Predator facing prey. I swallow a hard lump in my throat, close my eyes and steel myself for the inevitable verbal attack.

  “Oh, um … hi,” she says.

  My eyes fly open.

  That’s it? Hi??

  I’m so stunned, I can’t even think of a reply. So I don’t say anything at all.

  “I didn’t know it was you … um, Lora,” she says.

  My face burns when I hear her say my name. We’ve known each other since kindergarten and that was definitely a first. I can tell from the hesitation in her words that she had to stop herself from saying Frog-face.

  “Well, um …” She shuffles her feet and looks wistfully at the door. It’s clear she wants to go. My skin itches with her desperation.

  “Are you going to be okay now?” she asks, looking back at me.

  I shrug and stare down at my feet.

  What do you care? I think. Just go!

  Suddenly Tabby’s hand is on my arm. The warmth of her touch slices through my shirt and burns the skin beneath. I look up and see her round cat’s eyes staring deeply into my own.

  “Are you?” she asks again. Her question is sincere.

  I shake my head and answer as honestly as I can.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She takes a long breath.

  “Listen, Lora, don’t let the bastards grind you down. Stand up for yourself. If they see that you’re a fighter, they won’t be so hard on you.”

  My chin drops down and smacks into my neck. I don’t know what’s shocked me more … having Tabby Freeman offer me advice or hearing her quote a line from a Margaret Atwood novel? The funny thing is that Madison’s been telling me the same thing for months now. But somehow, having one of my tormentors say it makes the point all that more clear.

  “So? Do you think you can you do that?” she asks.

  I shrug my shoulders and change the subject.

  “What about you?” I say. “Are you going to be okay?”

  She drops my arm and takes a small step back. For the briefest of moments, her face opens up and I can see her vulnerability fly across her features. And then it’s gone — like a tiny hole in a thick layer of cloud that flashes a glimpse of blue before sealing up the sky again.

  “Of course,” she says after a small pause. “I’ll land on my feet … I always do.”

  But she’s too late to convince me. I’ve already seen the doubt in her eyes.

  The words are still hanging in the air when the second bell goes off, ripping through the tiled bathroom with a piercing screech. This strange little confession-session is over.

  As Tabby turns to leave, I can see the tear-soaked, wadded-up toilet paper still clutched in her hand. I watch her walk away and I wonder where she learned how to lie so well.

  But then I remember about her parents.

  June 3

  tabby

  Sam is barking. Chasing rabbits in his dreams again.

  “Go back to sleep, boy,” I mumble, rolling over in my bed. It’s late. Or maybe it’s early … the room is too black to tell. Sam barks again and suddenly I smell the smoke. I lift my head and open my eyes. Even through the darkness, I can make out the thin, grey haze that is filling the room. Panic grips my chest as my dreams fall away and reality closes in.

  “Fire! Fire!” I shriek to no one in particular, bolting upright in bed. Desperately, I begin feeling around the covers for Sam. After a few seconds, I find him standing beside my bed, still whining and barking for me to get up. He hadn’t been dreaming about rabbits after all — the smell of smoke must have woken him up. I pull him into my arms and kiss his floppy ears.

  “Thank you, Sam, you smart dog! I’m awake now, it’s okay. We’ve got to get out of here, boy!” I say. Holding him by the collar, I slide out of bed, stagger to my bedroom door and grab the knob. The metal is hot.

  I yank the sleeve of my pajamas down over my hand like a mitt, turn the knob, and fling the door open. Immediately a big, grey cloud of smoke flies at my face, stinging my eyes and filling my mouth with the taste of burning house.

  Oh God! This is really bad! I think, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the smoke out. Dropping Sam’s collar, I cover my mouth with my hands to keep myself from breathing the toxic air that’s rushing into my bedroom. But it doesn’t work. A moment later I’m doubled over in a violent coughing fit. Scared, Sam crouches down onto the floor and starts to whine and bark again. He might be old and lazy, but he’s smart enough to know that something is terribly wrong. As I cough, I rack my panicked brain, trying to remember what I’d been taught to do in a fire.

  Stop, drop, and roll … is that right? No, that’s if your clothes are on fire. But wait … dropping sounds good. Doesn’t smoke rise? I look down at Sam who is flattening himself out on the floor beside me and covering his nose with his paws. I fall down to my stomach next to him and try to breathe. My coughing eases up a bit. Yes, the air is definitely a bit better down here.

  “Come on, boy, follow me,” I yell at Sam. On our tummies, we start making our way down the smoke-filled hallway. I crawl in front while Sam creeps behind. All the while, my mind is pounding with questions.

  How did this happen?

  Why aren’t the fire alarms going off?

  Where are my parents?

  Oh no … where’s Nanny?

  The air is so thick with smoke that I can’t see where I’m going. My eyes are burning and my lungs are screaming with every breath. Another coughing fit seizes my body and I curl up into a ball, gasping for air until it passes. I open my eyes and try to look through the haze, but I can’t see anything. I keep crawling toward my parents’ room, checking every couple of seconds to make sure Sam is still with me. My whole chest feels like it’s burning up. I cough so much, I have to stop again. I try to catch my breath, but it’s like fighting a losing battle. I struggle to get air into my lungs. I see the flames just as I reach the top of the stairs. They’re climbing up the living room curtains, licking at the ceiling, swallowing Catherine’s prize Biedermeier couches whole. Most of the main floor is on fire! How are we going to get out?

  Shutting my eyes to block the smoke, I blindly grope my way in the direction of my parents’ room. When I get to their door, I push it open and scream as loud as my smoke-filled lungs will allow:

  “Mom? Dad? Are you here?
The house is on fire!”

  Before the answer comes, I collapse into another coughing fit. This one is so bad, it feels like it will never stop. Sam grabs my pajamas between his teeth and pulls, trying to keep me going. But I’m drowning from the smoke. Every breath is a struggle.

  Giving up, Sam creeps over and licks my face. I reach up and stroke his ears. A cloud of little stars explodes in front of my eyes.

  Suddenly, I hear someone else coughing beside me and feel a pair of strong hands lift my body up from under my arms. I peer through the smoke and the stars to see who it is, but before I can make out a face everything suddenly goes black.

  Lora

  Daddy is waiting in the car when I come out of the mall. I wave to him sheepishly through the windshield, hoping he’s not upset. By the time we finished cleaning up the coffee shop after tonight’s poetry reading, it was way past midnight.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late,” I say, jumping into the front.

  “Aw, s’okay,” he replies, leaning his large frame toward me for a kiss. Without a word of reproach, he turns the key and we wait while the engine coughs and chokes like a cat working out a hairball.

  Our family car is a big, forest-green minivan with a dented front bumper. My parents bought it fifteen years ago when they found out they were expecting me. They always wanted a big family and their plan was to keep having kids until every seat in the car was filled. They almost got there, too … and then Mommy got sick.

  Daddy says that our old car is tougher than any of the new cars on the market today. But it shakes and rattles like there’s rocks under the hood and I know it’s only a matter of time before it conks out on us for good.