Read Online The Other Side by Lacy M. Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lacy M. Johnson
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calls back again and Dad tells him that he is bringing me, along with his friend, The State Trooper, to get my things.
He isnât in the apartment when we arriveâme, Dad, and his friend, The State Trooperâor as we stuff the rest of my clothes and books into big black trash bags and toss them in the back of the car. On the way home, Dad pats my leg and asks how I am feeling. I donât hesitate to answer.
Free .
I get a haircut. I spend whole days writing in coffee shops with My Handsome Friend. I start an internship at theliterary magazine, reading submissions from the slush pile, helping to load content into the website. I get a job processing used books at a warehouse. I shop and walk in the street. I run errands and buy groceries. Occasionally,I look over my shoulder and see him walk into or out of a building a half block away. Sometimes I leave through the back exit to avoid him. Other times, I stay right where I am. He approaches me, or doesnât, or leaves a note on my car. Please come home . I crumple it up and throw it away. If he follows me, itâs always a few cars behind. I sign a lease on an apartment Iâll share with My Good Friend.
One night, before weâve moved in, My Good Friend drives me back to her place from a bar downtown, and we see a car, his white sedan, following close behind us as we trace the winding unlit road. She drives fast, turning and turning and turning, trying to lose him. We park on the street and run from the car into the house, where we crouch on the living room floor and peer through the blinds with all the lights out. The day I move in to the new apartment he corners me at the hardware store and says heâs bought two tickets to Venezuela. He would love to take me there, just to talk. Just one more trip. Just one last time . I owe him that much. I want to say, I donât owe you shit . But I say nothing. I pretend I havenât heard him. That heâs someone Iâve never met before. I turn my body and go.
Did you ever , My Newest Therapist finally asks, holding the one listâits intersecting pathsâin her hands, even once, tell anyone the truth about what was happening to you?
No, not ever , I say. I still donât understand it myself .
[seven]
Â
THE DAY BEFORE I am kidnapped and raped by The Man I Used to Live With, My Good Friend talks me into coming with her to a Fourth of July cookout. A chance to meet new people , I think.As if relief might flow from unfamiliarity. I have a good time at the cookout, but I catch this strange man watching me each time I toss my hair to the side and take a drag of my cigarette. I find it a little creepy, this staring, but slip him my phone number anyway, and only as I am leaving.
Three weeks later, after I return from My Older Sisterâs apartment, after I begin seeing The Therapist and The Psychiatrist, and after I begin taking three different kinds of psychotropic medication, The Strange Man calls to say heâs having people over for drinks. He knows what happened but doesnât say so. He doesnât need to. I need to have a beer, to laugh, and tell jokes with new friends. I need to pretend nothing happened. My family disagrees. My aunt invites us all to her house for a little partyâa cousinâs birthdayâwhere my aunts and uncles and grandparents hug me as if I am an ancient porcelain doll, as if their embrace might shatter me to pieces. This is the only way anyone will speakto me: the jowly cheek pressed against my cheek, the words clucked right into my ear: I love you . The whole thing makes me want to puke. I leave my auntâs party to go home and change: a skirt, a tank top, my favorite pair of flip-flops.
In the apartment of The Strange Man, I sit on the futon in the living room listening to music. When all the other guests leave after hours and hours of drinking, it is either very late or very early, and The Strange Man gets up to make breakfast while
He isnât in the apartment when we arriveâme, Dad, and his friend, The State Trooperâor as we stuff the rest of my clothes and books into big black trash bags and toss them in the back of the car. On the way home, Dad pats my leg and asks how I am feeling. I donât hesitate to answer.
Free .
I get a haircut. I spend whole days writing in coffee shops with My Handsome Friend. I start an internship at theliterary magazine, reading submissions from the slush pile, helping to load content into the website. I get a job processing used books at a warehouse. I shop and walk in the street. I run errands and buy groceries. Occasionally,I look over my shoulder and see him walk into or out of a building a half block away. Sometimes I leave through the back exit to avoid him. Other times, I stay right where I am. He approaches me, or doesnât, or leaves a note on my car. Please come home . I crumple it up and throw it away. If he follows me, itâs always a few cars behind. I sign a lease on an apartment Iâll share with My Good Friend.
One night, before weâve moved in, My Good Friend drives me back to her place from a bar downtown, and we see a car, his white sedan, following close behind us as we trace the winding unlit road. She drives fast, turning and turning and turning, trying to lose him. We park on the street and run from the car into the house, where we crouch on the living room floor and peer through the blinds with all the lights out. The day I move in to the new apartment he corners me at the hardware store and says heâs bought two tickets to Venezuela. He would love to take me there, just to talk. Just one more trip. Just one last time . I owe him that much. I want to say, I donât owe you shit . But I say nothing. I pretend I havenât heard him. That heâs someone Iâve never met before. I turn my body and go.
Did you ever , My Newest Therapist finally asks, holding the one listâits intersecting pathsâin her hands, even once, tell anyone the truth about what was happening to you?
No, not ever , I say. I still donât understand it myself .
[seven]
Â
THE DAY BEFORE I am kidnapped and raped by The Man I Used to Live With, My Good Friend talks me into coming with her to a Fourth of July cookout. A chance to meet new people , I think.As if relief might flow from unfamiliarity. I have a good time at the cookout, but I catch this strange man watching me each time I toss my hair to the side and take a drag of my cigarette. I find it a little creepy, this staring, but slip him my phone number anyway, and only as I am leaving.
Three weeks later, after I return from My Older Sisterâs apartment, after I begin seeing The Therapist and The Psychiatrist, and after I begin taking three different kinds of psychotropic medication, The Strange Man calls to say heâs having people over for drinks. He knows what happened but doesnât say so. He doesnât need to. I need to have a beer, to laugh, and tell jokes with new friends. I need to pretend nothing happened. My family disagrees. My aunt invites us all to her house for a little partyâa cousinâs birthdayâwhere my aunts and uncles and grandparents hug me as if I am an ancient porcelain doll, as if their embrace might shatter me to pieces. This is the only way anyone will speakto me: the jowly cheek pressed against my cheek, the words clucked right into my ear: I love you . The whole thing makes me want to puke. I leave my auntâs party to go home and change: a skirt, a tank top, my favorite pair of flip-flops.
In the apartment of The Strange Man, I sit on the futon in the living room listening to music. When all the other guests leave after hours and hours of drinking, it is either very late or very early, and The Strange Man gets up to make breakfast while
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