Saving Toby

by Suzanne McKenna Link

  “Where to?”

  “He didn’t really seem to know,” she said, sounding slightly miffed. More calmly, she offered, “But don’t worry. You know him, he always lands on his feet.”

  “I suppose so,” I mumbled, looking out the large windows of the common area that overlooked my favorite studying spot. I was several hundreds of miles away from him. What would be the point of worrying? There was nothing I could do about it.

  Like a true friend, April sensed my apprehension and changed the subject. “How’re the guys out there?”

  Talking about guys was of little interest to me. I spent my first week in California at my mother’s apartment, nursing my broken heart and allowing myself to heal. I had decided that I would move on, make a point to talk to guys on campus, and possibly go out if asked. When school finally started, though, classes like the Psychology of Adult Development, Administrative Problems in Aging, and the Science of Adult Development, took up all my time. Not that I minded much—I was too engrossed in my studies. I told myself that eventually, when I had time for it, there would be other relationships—I would someday feel excited about getting close to someone, again. Right now, I just didn’t. And that was okay.

  I declared I had a ton of studying to do and ended the call with April.

  Although it was months later, talking to April about Toby reminded me of the ache I felt before. I pictured Toby off on his road trip with nothing holding him back. He was free to roam, unfettered by any commitments. I didn’t want to acknowledge how much it hurt, the idea of him out there—moving on, meeting other girls—knowing we would never move forward, and how those emotions, the ones I tried to keep buried, still twisted my heart.

  This news about Toby made me realize it was time to put my proverbial foot down. I needed to let go of that last tie—the one, until now, I was unaware I’d been holding onto. The hope of him contacting me. Wherever his journey was taking him, I was no longer a part of it.

  I resolved to stop checking my text messages so often and looking for him online. I put him out of my mind, and I concentrated on a life immersed in classes, term papers, study groups, and cleaning up after my roommate.

  Dad arranged for me to fly home for the Thanksgiving break. I complained about the expense and the little amount of time that I would actually have. He insisted, and I was secretly pleased about it. I spent the weekend before the holiday with Mom feeling a little guilty that I would be leaving her alone, but I think she felt she had won the bigger prize when we decided I would stay on the West Coast for Christmas and the New Year.

  On campus, the Sunday before Thanksgiving, I found a sunny spot outside and lay with my laptop, writing a paper due before I headed out for the holiday. My cell vibrated in my back pocket. I reached for it just as the familiar musical ring tone “Something,” started to play.

  I froze, almost too anxious to answer it, but I was too curious not to.

  “Claude?” The familiar deep voice crackled in my ear.

  “Toby. April told me you left Long Island.”

  “Did she tell you I flunked out of the Marine Corps, too?” Without waiting for me to reply, he added, “I have some hearing problem that messes with my equilibrium. Guess I took a crack to the head one too many times,” he sort of laughed. “I’m useless. Damaged goods.”

  “Have you seen your doctor?” I asked, quickly coming up with plausible explanations. “Tinnitus is a symptom of Ménière’s syndrome.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I’m done. The Marines plan is shot to shit. I can’t seem to get anything right.”

  I wasn’t about to feed into his downward spiral. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m in Wichita Falls, Texas.”

  “And what’s there?”

  He was quiet for a long pause before he said, “Who the hell knows. I heard about a job from a friend of a friend’s, but it didn’t work out. I needed to get out of that house—to leave all the crap behind. I figured once I got on the road, an opportunity was bound to come along and I’d be okay. But nothing feels right,” he sighed. “I still feel like shit.”

  “Maybe you aren’t meant to be there,” I said softly. “Go back home.”

  “No. There’s nothing left for me there, Claude,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t have a reason to be anywhere. That’s a fact. And, shit, it’s freaking brutal to know it. I honestly don’t know what the hell to do with myself.” He let out a quiet, sob-like moan, and it broke my heart.

  “Oh, Toby,” I whispered, feeling helpless.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn tired,” he mumbled. “I probably shouldn’t have called, but I’m feeling pretty fucking low. I needed to talk to someone, and all I could think of was you. I miss talking to you. I miss it a lot.”

  “I’m glad you called me,” I told him, wishing I could reach through the line and touch him. “I’ve missed talking to you, too.”

  The line went silent for a moment, and, detecting a little edge of hope, he asked, “Can I come see you? If I drive straight through, I can be there in a day or so.”

  “Don’t come here,” I countered quickly. I rubbed my thumb over the nail beds of my fingers in search of protruding cuticles until I found one.

  I heard him blow out. “Bad idea. I’m not thinking straight.”

  Hearing him so shattered broke down the little resistance I had. “No, no, it’s just that I’ll be back in New York on Tuesday,” I said, resisting the jutting cuticle. “Do you think you can get back home by then?”

  “Yeah, I guess.” He sounded hesitant, maybe even a little leery, but interested.

  I surged ahead. “All right, listen to me—go home. I’m going to make some plans for us, and when I get there, I’ll come get you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you in just a few days then.” I tried to be upbeat. “Drive safely, please?”

  “Okay,” he repeated, his response wooden just before he choked and the sounds of a whimper came over the line before it went quiet.

  I had to close my eyes and take a steadying breath before I could continue. Once I regrouped, I knew exactly what I was going to do. I spent the next hour making phone calls putting my plan into action.

  42. Toby

  I drove home, the states on the way nothing but a blur in my mind, all the while wondering what Claudia meant by “plans for us.” I hoped that somehow, after hearing from me, she wanted me back. Made no sense, but I wanted to believe it. I was that damn desperate.

  I got home in the early morning hours of Tuesday. I left my stuff in the car and barely made it through the door before I crashed on the couch.

  I must have been dreaming because I was fighting off a faceless opponent. For some reason, I wasn’t able to punch back, and I was getting the shit knocked out of me. I took blow after angry blow. Cornered, I begged him to stop. He smiled, cruel and evil—my brother’s smile, one that said he knew I had no more fight left. But still, he came at me. With a grunt, I threw my arm out to deflect the blow and connected with him. The contact felt bizarre—physically real—and I was surprised by the soft, almost girlish gasp he emitted. I opened my eyes with a start. The house was dark, and I had no idea what time it was. I saw a small figure hunched back away from me on the floor.

  “What the hell?” I tried to sit up, but my head spun. I sank back down and closed my eyes until the spinning stopped.

  “It’s me,” Claudia’s voice came through the shadows.

  “Claudia? Oh, Jesus. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she puffed. “I was trying to wake you, and you swung at me. Caught me off guard.”

  Would I ever stop inflicting pain on this girl? I was dying to look at her, but I felt so damn embarrassed at the pathetic shape I was in. Still, I was relieved she was there, that she actually still cared about me. I pressed my palms into my eye sockets to stop the burning behind my eyeballs, fighting to keep myself together.

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t m
ean to hurt you,” I clamored.

  There was a shuffling sound as she came forward and touched my knee.

  “I know,” she whispered, her voice gentle. “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright.”

  Soon after, Dario and April showed up with sandwiches. I was extremely grateful. I was starving, and there was nothing in the house remotely edible. They hugged me and patted my back with concern in their eyes, then dropped into seats around the kitchen table as I wolfed down the food.

  “Tomorrow,” Claude said sternly from the seat next to me, “I’m taking you to meet with a counselor.”

  After she made this statement, I looked around at each of them. No one said a word.

  “No—” I started, but Claudia interrupted me.

  “You’ve tried it your way. It didn’t work out.” She looked me square in the eye. “The appointment is tomorrow morning. And I’m driving you. End of story.”

  I looked down at my last piece of sandwich thinking of a way out of it without pissing her off. I didn’t want to make her angry, but I wasn’t going to see some shrink.

  “Toby,” April said my name with a hint of Spanish accent, and laid her hand over mine. “You can’t run from what’s hurting you.”

  “We’ll get you through this, man,” Dario offered.

  Every eye was on me. My stomach turned. Pushing my food away, I dropped my head down onto my forearm.

  There was an awful tightness in my chest and a stabbing, burning pain behind my eyes. I wanted to get up. I wanted to run—but then Claudia leaned over me from behind, pressing her warm face against my back. That gentle pressure kept me in my seat.

  “We’re all here for you,” she whispered.

  43. Toby

  “This therapist came highly recommended, and he agreed to see you right away.” Claudia explained, as she drove me to the appointment the next day in her Camry.

  Last night April, Dario and she had all stayed the night with me, and I had felt calm then. Now as Claudia navigated the roads west through Oakdale into Islip, I had a difficult time sitting still in the car. It felt like a squirrel was gnawing at my insides. I opened the window for some fresh air.

  We pulled up in front of a private home in a nice neighborhood. The squirrel, now frantic, was trying to dig his way out. “What did you tell him about me—that I’m a sad sack of shit?” I muttered, staring down at my fisted hands.

  She grunted, exasperated. “I would never say anything like that about you.”

  I stole a quick look at her. No, she wouldn’t. Feeling ashamed, I said, “I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

  She bit her lip. “I know, but it’s going to be okay. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  She stayed in the waiting room while I met with Robert McCauley. His office was a converted garage in his home, and he was kind of a geek. Forty-ish, sweater vest, loafers and glasses with full beard—I almost expected him to take out a pipe and ask me, “Vat seems to be zee problem?”

  Instead, he said, “Call me Bob,” and motioned to a small leather couch below a window. “Have a seat.”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  “Okay, sitting is optional. As long as you’re comfortable.”

  I stood beside the couch and pressed my hands deep inside my jean pockets.

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t usually take appointments through any other person than a potential client, but Claudia was insistent and actually, quite persuasive. What’s your relationship with her?”

  Looking down at my feet, I said, “We dated, but we’re not together anymore. I messed up.” I glanced at him. “I get angry. She’s trying to help me. She thinks if I talk to you, I’ll get better.”

  I expected him to say more about her, but Bob only nodded thoughtfully and murmured, “Okay.” He took a few minutes to jot down some of my basic information, phone number and address, family members' names, and then he put his pen down and faced me. “Successful therapy is based solely on your desire to improve your life. Positive change doesn’t just ‘happen.’ You have to want it. And thusly, you need to make it happen.”

  “I’m going to tell you now, looking inside one’s self can be extremely difficult, and at times, you might want to give up.” He leaned forward. “But, here’s the silver lining: I promise you, if you see this through—let me work with you and assist you in sorting out what’s going on in your mind—your therapy will help you understand why you’ve done the things you’ve done. You’ll learn how to avoid making the same mistakes over again and make better choices for yourself.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled back, realizing that without deciding to do so, I’d sat down.

  He sat across from me, and, with nothing separating us, asked about the events of my life and how I ended up here. I admit, I wanted to shock him so I threw it all out there. He listened, hands folded together with his index fingers straightened and pressed against his lips, never even blinking as I told him about the drinking, the fights, and the beatings I’d seen and endured, and Julia’s sickness and unexpected death. I even told him all about Velerio, Devlin, and the legal case that followed.

  “You’ve had a pretty rough time of it. Tell me how all of this makes you feel.”

  “I don’t like talking about my feelings,” I said.

  Hunching forward like we were discussing a football play, Bob said, “Growing up like you did, that’s not uncommon, but it’s important for you to open up. You’ve been holding onto your emotions. You have to let them out. Show them. Have a good cry.”

  I shot to my feet. “No. I won’t do that.”

  “Alright, then,” he leaned back. “Tell me how you feel, physically.”

  “Physically?” The question seemed safe enough. Considering my answer, I moved to the corner, away from him and briefly scanned over his framed credentials. I didn’t read them, only noticed that one was imprinted with Princeton University. I ran a hand through my hair and sighed. “I’m tired.”

  The words alone felt heavy. Too heavy. I knew Bob was looking at me, and though he didn’t ask me to, I could sense he knew I would need to say more. I had to release the weight.

  “I’m tired of everything. I’m tired of feeling like I should be somewhere but not knowing where that is. Tired of losing everyone who’s ever been important to me.” Abruptly I felt restless, and I strode back towards the couch. As I stood there, the steam left me, and I sunk back down into the cushions and bowed my head.

  “I’m tired of being alone.”

  It was then that I folded. A feeling so powerful crashed over me. The tears came forcefully, stealing my breath and strangling my words. I quaked under the weight, drowning in it, until finally, it began to subside and eventually, sputtering and winded, it released me.

  “That was a good healthy cry,” Bob nodded with approval as he handed me a box of tissues.

  He sounded so goddamned proud, that even though snot was running down my face and I had a headache the size of Texas, I felt like I’d gotten something right. And I felt … better.

  After I’d mopped my face with half a box of tissues, he gave me a homework assignment. I was to picture my life as I wanted it to be. He told me to spend the next week thinking about it and to write down some details so I would have a clear image of it in my head. We scheduled another meeting for the following week.

  My face must have looked like I’d been exposed to shrapnel when I walked out of Bob’s office, but Claudia didn’t mention it. Instead she took me grocery shopping. As we picked out food to restock my house, she kept a light conversation going, mostly by herself. I expected her to ask me about my time with Bob. She didn’t, and I was glad. I didn’t feel much like talking, but I also didn’t want to be alone.

  For Thanksgiving, Claudia invited Joan and me for dinner. Joan made my favorite sweet potato pie, and we joined Claudia and her father at the Chiametti house, along with several aunts, uncles, and cousins.

  El Capitán was in a generous mood. Joan’s and my presence was ea
sily accepted, and we felt welcomed at their family’s holiday. Claudia’s Italian relatives were an amusing bunch of characters, clashing one moment, laughing the next. Watching them interact was entertaining in itself.

  Claudia and her father buzzed around like a well-rehearsed team getting drinks and making sure everyone had what they needed. Before the food was served, we all sat and held hands around the table while Mr. Chiametti said a prayer for the meal.

  “And, I’m thankful for all of you who are sharing this meal with us today,” he said and glanced at everyone, his eyes coming to rest on me.

  Claudia, sitting beside me and holding my hand during the prayer, gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. I felt out of place, but I wanted very much to belong here.

  They put out a traditional spread, but that was after we’d run through a round of antipasto and a macaroni dish. All in all, way too much food, but after being on the road, everything tasted so good. I ate through every course.

  Not long after dinner, Claudia and I went to April’s house and met up with Dario for dessert with the DeOro family. Not such a different gathering from the Chiamettis, but if possible, the volume at the DeOros was even louder.

  “Eat,” April’s mother and aunts said as they pushed plates of food and desserts at me. Though I was full, I kept plugging away. Claudia sat beside me occasionally rubbing my back and smiling as she teased me about how much food I put away.

  As I’d done at Claudia’s house, I watched the large family interact—joking, hugging, and even arguing with each other. I’d never had a family holiday that was so loud, crazy and messy. And, man, was I envious.

  I drove Claudia home after we left April’s house.

  “Come in,” she said, inviting me back inside. It appeared that most of her extended family was still there, but I was feeling uncomfortably bloated and more emotional than I cared to admit.