Saving Toby

by Suzanne McKenna Link

  “Go spend some time with your dad,” I told her.

  She hesitated to leave the Jeep.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I’m so full—I think I need to lie down.” I sighed and patted my distended stomach. “Or maybe throw up.”

  “Your stomach isn’t bottomless after all,” she said, laughing as she hopped out. “Try some peppermint tea.”

  A light flurry fell, and her long hair blew in the wind. Waving a mittened hand at me, she smiled. Her grin made me happy. As I watched her run to the house, I realized then that until just now, I hadn’t seen her smile in a long time. The thought made me feel guilty because I used to love making her laugh.

  I grabbed my guitar and went into Julia’s bedroom to lie on the bed. Joan had cleared the room of most of the personal items, but I still went there when I wanted to talk to Julia. I lay down for a few minutes and tried to feel her presence.

  “Ma,” I said out loud. “You said you’d see me through this. I could use some help right about now.”

  I thought about what Bob had asked me to do—picture my life, as I’d like it to be. Resting my guitar over my stomach, I plucked through chords as I thought about what would make me happy. What didn’t make me happy was working random jobs. And, being alone.

  Work wise, I wanted to do something that interested me, and like the Chiamettis and DeOros, one day I wanted to be surrounded by a family.

  Putting aside my guitar, I found a notepad and pen in Julia’s night table. As I lifted the pad out of the drawer, a photo fell out from between the pages. I was surprised to see it was one of Claudia and me, with little Dylan. I was holding her possessively around the waist. Each of us concentrated on the other, staring with intensity. The picture was taken only hours before we’d been together—our one perfect night.

  Flipping it over, I noticed Julia’s loopy handwriting on the back. She had written one word. Family.

  I turned it back over and stared at it—anyone looking at it might assume we were a young family. Warmth crept through me as I imagined what it might be like to set up a home, to have a family … with Claudia. Being able to touch her again and hold her every night. I remembered how it’d been to hold her that night we’d slept together in her bedroom, how her body fit so perfectly against mine. It was the closest I’d ever felt to someone. I missed that. I missed her.

  I choked back a wave of emotions as the now familiar burn of tears stung my eyes, but despite it, I laughed that I’d found this picture at this particular moment. It didn’t feel like a coincidence at all.

  “You left this for me, didn’t you, Ma?” I murmured. “You would have liked me to stay with Claudia,” I said quietly. “I was better with her.”

  Until these last few days, I’d forgotten a lot of the small things, like how amazing the sound of Claudia’s laughter made me feel. It didn’t matter how much I missed her, though. The way she’d been looking at me since she’d walked in the door the other day, I could tell she only saw me as a broken guy who needed her sympathy. I wasn’t someone who could take care of her. Hell, I was a freaking mess.

  I knew then what I wanted my life to be like—what would really make me happy. Feeling a little more optimistic, I tucked the picture under the strings of my guitar neck where I could see it and began to scribble out a rough draft of my homework assignment.

  44. Claudia

  I hadn’t been to Mrs. Faye’s gravesite since I’d left the East Coast. I wouldn’t have the opportunity again until the spring or summer since I was staying in California for Christmas. My mother always bought decorated pine branches to lay over the top of my grandparents’ grave at the holidays, so following tradition, I picked one up at the garden center before Toby drove me to his mother’s grave early Friday.

  Toby was wearing a black leather bomber jacket with the collar up against the cold while I was bundled in my winter coat, scarf, and mittens. He was quiet that morning, watching me from under his thick lashes as he squatted on the snow-dusted, cold ground. I leaned over the grave and cleared away some leaves before placing the fresh pine blanket in front of the headstone.

  “Julia Marie Faye, beloved wife, mother and sister,” it said next to, “Alfonse Faye, Sr., beloved husband and father.”

  “I know you’re at peace, but I miss our talks,” I spoke aloud to Mrs. Faye, as I often did when I visited my grandparents at the cemetery. I could see my breath in the cold air.

  “Do you want to say something?” I asked Toby, but he shook his head. I touched the frosty, smooth tombstone, and my eyes watered. “Merry Christmas in heaven.” Quietly, I prayed that she could somehow make her presence known to Toby so he wouldn’t feel so alone.

  He stood as I walked over to him. Taking off my red wooly scarf, I wrapped it around his neck.

  “I’m fine,” he protested.

  “Your mother said you need to wear it.”

  “Okay.” He smiled and let me tuck it under his collar.

  “She still watches over you,” I whispered, when I was done.

  He nodded and we started down the aisle.

  “She likes when you talk to her,” he said. “She told me last night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Smiling, I glanced at him sideways. “What else did she say?”

  “That you’re going to be terrific with a family some day.”

  The words caused me to misstep. Toby grabbed my arm, preventing me from tripping.

  I turned to face him. I remembered the day Mrs. Faye had spoken those words to me. He hadn’t been in the room. “You overheard your mother tell me that?”

  “No.” He looked at me and shook his head. A slow grin cut across his face. “I told you, we talked last night,” he repeated and took my hand in his.

  Bemused by this, I continued to let him hold my hand as we walked back to his Jeep.

  We met April and Dario for lunch, and, conscientious student that I am, I begged off to follow-up on a few teacher emails and do some course reading before I spent the rest of the evening with Dad.

  On Saturday, I helped Dad do some early Christmas shopping for my aunt and cousins. Dad was silly, making me laugh as he picked out some hideous outfits, and again when he suggested boxing gloves to ward off the guys at USC since he couldn’t be there to keep them away. I made him try on hats in every store we entered. Some were rather ridiculous, but he was a good sport. We finished our expedition in the food court—we both secretly relished the sublimely bad food there. Our time together was easy, and it felt like old times before everything got so difficult between us.

  Since Dad had to work that night, I didn’t feel guilty about spending my last night with Toby, April, and Dario. Everyone came over to my house, and we made popcorn and watched a movie. It was a good night.

  Toby hesitated to go after April and Dario left.

  I stood up and handed him his jacket. “I’m sorry I have to ask you to go,” I told him. “I booked a 7 a.m. flight to get the cheaper airfare, and I need to get some sleep.”

  We stood at the door as he pulled on his coat. It had not been an easy few days. While I had been eager to help him, and I was so glad that he had finally let me, it was complicated to be around him again. At times, it was difficult to separate my compassion for him apart from my love for him. I was aware of every touch, even the most minute, and I tried to be careful not to let any contact between us linger.

  It would have been easier to move on and get over Toby Faye if only I stayed away from him. As things stood now, I couldn’t separate myself from him, not entirely. I would continue to do whatever I could to help him, not just for Mrs. Faye’s sake, but also because love didn’t just end.

  I was returning to California with a sense of relief. I had witnessed a shift in Toby’s mood and felt confident that he was doing better. He’d even made us laugh by cracking a few jokes. It was a good omen.

  “Oh, wait,” I held up a finger and grabbed my bag. I pulled out a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. “I want
to give you this now since I won’t see you for the holidays.”

  He took it from me and bowed his head. “I don’t have anything for you.”

  “Stop it,” I said. “It’s just a little something. I saw it and thought of you. Open it.”

  He removed the paper slowly, until finally he revealed a black velvet box. He flicked his eyes to me before pulling the hinged cover up to reveal the silver oval pendant inside. He seemed unsure.

  “St. Jude,” he read the stamped words over the figurehead. “Is this guy like a saint of lost causes or something?”

  Taking it from him, I smiled. “Sort of. St. Jude is the patron saint of lost hope,” I proclaimed clasping it around his neck.

  “Um, thanks,” he touched the pendant, now nestled against his tee shirt.

  “Please, don’t take it as an insult.”

  “How can I be insulted? It’s an accurate description. I’m pretty desperate,” he murmured.

  “I only meant to encourage you. And, really, you already seem so much better,” I told him. “I think you’re on the way to being your old self again. The guy I remember.”

  He looked at me, his expression deadpan. “That guy had a lot of issues.”

  I smiled. “No more cross country road trips?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, I think the therapist will be more than enough adventure for me.”

  “Toby,” I held his eyes. “You’re going to be okay. I can feel it.”

  He stepped closer and reached up to hold my face.

  “Claude…” He said my name in that achy way that made my pulse quicken.

  The touch of his warm hands on my skin, and the smell of his leather jacket swarmed my senses. It was the first advance he had made towards me since I’d been back. I stood still, frozen, as we looked at each other for a charged instant until I pulled his hands away. Shaking my head, I whispered, “Nooo, nooo. You can give me a hug. But that’s all.”

  Letting out a breath, he wrapped his arms around me and held me tight, rocking me gently. “Thank you for the present and, mostly, for taking care of me,” he said.

  I pressed my cheek to his, feeling the slight stubble of his beard. “I am so happy you finally let me.” Stepping back, I looked into his eyes so that he could see that I meant it.

  He cleared his throat. “Would it be okay if I call you every once in a while?”

  I knew how hard it was for him to ask.

  “You’d better,” I replied.

  45. Toby

  At my next meeting with Bob, I shared the vision of my life—a family, a great job and a life that included Claudia. While he listened attentively as I told him how I planned to improve myself and how I was going to win her back, Bob suggested that I let go of the Claudia-part of my vision for now and concentrate on other aspects of my life. He claimed that because Julia was gone, I was unconsciously placing my need for family onto Claudia.

  “Let her go,” he’d said. “We need to heal you and build you back up before you can fully love anyone else. You’ll never have a healthy relationship until you first love yourself and feel good about who you are.”

  This was the opposite of how I saw this going.

  “No, Bob,” I refused. “If I let her go, I’ll lose her. For good.”

  Bob was calm. “Toby, you want Claudia back for the wrong reasons.”

  I got what he was telling me, and I wanted to believe Bob knew what he was talking about. It felt like I’d just gotten her back, and now he was telling me to let her go. I was sure if I did, she would find someone else and be totally happy, forever—without me. I decided not to talk about Claudia to him anymore.

  Bob suggested I reach out to my aunt and even Al Junior.

  Joan, I knew, had lots of friends, but much like I’d not thought of Claudia and her pain, I hadn’t really thought about how losing Julia had affected my aunt, either. She had lost her husband years ago, and she had no children. She and Al Junior were all that were left of my faded and splintered family—an old widow and a convicted murderer. Certainly nothing to brag about, but they were mine.

  Bob assigned me more homework—visiting Joan and having dinner or doing something with her at least every other week. I was to keep in mind that she, too, was alone. He felt that by reaching out to her, I would be surprised how good it would feel to support someone else instead of focusing on my own problems.

  Joan was ecstatic when I called and asked if I could come to see her. She made a huge meal and fussed over me. Later, she wrapped up the leftovers for me to take home.

  She lived in old condominium that she obviously couldn’t keep up with. I made a mental list of the things that needed to be done, and the following Saturday I went back with supplies and some of Big Al’s tools. Over the next few weeks, I fixed a leaky faucet, patched a hole in a wall, changed light bulbs in her ceiling fixtures, and got her computer working again. Each time she made dinner and told me stories about Julia. It was through these stories that I came to understand how much Julia loved my father.

  “You must have the wrong woman,” I laughed when Joan told me Julia had asked my father to marry her.

  “Oh, yes, your mother, when she was younger, she was different. Before she immersed herself in faith, she drank socially and was an impulsive romantic.”

  My mother drank? My mother impulsive?

  “We all knew Al wasn’t the best choice, but your mother, how she loved that man,” Joan said. “She thought he would change. And he did try hard to make it work and keep her happy. I had such hope when, early on, he stopped drinking—even went to AA meetings. But the responsibility of being a parent and supporting a family proved to be more than he could handle. He turned back to the booze. And then that night happened.”

  Clenching my jaw, I remembered Julia crying. “Why the hell did he get behind the wheel of his truck in that condition?”

  “You probably didn’t understand how depressed he was.” My aunt pursed her lips, and a nauseous feeling started to build in the pit of my stomach.

  “It’s about time you knew the truth.” Joan sat down next to me with a soft grunt. “When your father took to turning the living room into a boxing ring, your mother gave him an ultimatum—sober up or get out. The accident was his way out.”

  I stared, unable to believe it.

  “Didn’t anyone try to stop him?”

  “Understanding the depths of depression isn’t easy. And Al Faye wasn’t open to letting people help him.”

  I closed my eyes and put my head in my hands. This was yet another thing to add to the list. Bob would be all over it. How was I supposed to keep up with all this crap?

  “How could my mother keep that from me?”

  “She thought you were too young. She tried to protect you from the truth.”

  Heat crept up my neck. “Protect me from the truth?” I snapped. “I started taking care of her, the house—everything, when I was twelve. But I was too young to know my own father killed himself?”

  Bob had made me understand that, despite my grief at losing Julia, deep down inside, I was angry with her for always needing my help, for relying on me at such a young age. We were working on it, but still the force of my anger overwhelmed me.

  Joan rested a hand on my shoulder. “My sister wasn’t perfect, but she tried hard to be a good mother. And though she never apologized for loving your father, she didn’t want you to be like him. She hoped that, by protecting you, it would give you a chance to become a man without the same weaknesses.”

  I went home that evening, grabbed a flashlight, and went out to the barn. The overhead light had burned out a while back, and no one had ever bothered to change it. I sat in the dark, aiming the beam of light over my father’s work area. Over the years, Al Junior and I had used some of his tools. Some were gone for good, others dotted the worktop, carelessly thrown without any regard for our father’s ordered system.

  I flipped through the years in my mind, trying to recall a few good m
emories of Big Al. Back when I was a kid, I liked being with him, following him around like a shadow, stoked by any attention he’d give me. I remember him patiently showing me how to use the tools in his workshop. He’d been so proud of his work, and I had tried very hard to mimic his motions. But always later, he would drink. With slurred snarls, he became someone else, someone mean. I remembered the last time he’d spoken to me. It was after Al Junior and he had battled. Things were broken, and Al had stormed off. For the first time, Julia had reamed my father behind closed doors. She was careful to keep their conversation private, but whatever she’d said had silenced him. He had left their room without a word and retreated to the barn. I waited a while and then went out there.

  Unless he granted permission, the barn was off limits to us as kids. It was the one place Big Al was fussy and meticulous about. The mix of sawdust and oily wood stain filled my nose. I loved the way it smelled in there.

  My father wasn’t working that night, though. I found him sitting in an old, decrepit lawn chair, staring vacantly at his workbench. He didn’t seem to notice me, but all of a sudden, he spoke.

  “Learn how to use these tools,” he’d said, without looking at me. I remember feeling proud that he had put the order to me. Somehow that meant he preferred me over my brother. Then, in a strange, disembodied voice, he told me to get out.

  Two weeks after that night in the barn, I woke up to Julia’s crying. The police were at the door. Big Al was dead.

  It hurt to think Julia thought I wasn’t strong enough to handle the truth, but she had also seen me get into fights, struggle through school, and plow through a pile of crummy jobs. I reinforced all her fears by running away and putting as much physical distance between us as I could, out there ‘looking for my place.’

  I avoided things that required too much effort or anything I had to invest myself in. She had been right when she told me I wouldn’t just stumble upon my happiness out on the road.