Falling into Us

by Jasinda Wilder

I checked my parents’ room, which felt odd. I’d only been in there a handful of times in my life; their bedroom was a sanctuary, by unspoken rule. You just stayed out. My father’s slippers were, ridiculously enough, in the classic TV dad position at the side of the bed, neatly aligned. My mom’s blue terrycloth robe was slung over the back of her antique rocking chair. The rocker was a family heirloom shipped over from Lebanon for my mother’s fortieth birthday a few years ago.

  The last place to check, of course, was Ben’s room. My dread increased to a palpable sense of stomach-knotting fear, my heart hammering, my hands trembling, my breathing coming in ragged gasps. I put my hand on the cold silver knob, twisted, and pushed…

  The room was empty. It was also spotless, the bed neatly made, nothing out place, which was unlike Ben, who was a bit of slob. I don’t think his room had ever been this clean. Posters of rappers papered the walls, along with Sports Illustrated and Playboy centerfolds. A rack of CDs covered one entire wall, each jewel case aligned the same way, writing facing the left. It even smelled clean, and Ben’s room had always smelled, even through a closed door, of patchouli incense, which he used to cover the stench of his pot. The only sign of life was the open window I’d once escaped through to see Jason. A warm breeze blew, rippling the curtains.

  There was a single sheet of notebook paper aligned square on the top of his dresser. I shook my head at the paper, denying even before I’d read it.

  Becca,

  I’m guessing you’re the one who’ll find this. I’m sorry. You’re honestly the only reason I didn’t do this a long time ago. I didn’t want to let you down. You always believed in me when no else did. It’s just not enough anymore. I don’t have much to say to Mom and Dad, except I wish you’d tried harder with me. Loved me as I was, instead of judging me and trying to fix me, and then just giving up on me. I’m sorry to everyone. I’m sorry, most of all, to Kate. I don’t deserve her, I never did and never could. I let her down, time and again, and I just can’t keep failing her. She needs someone better than me. Now she can find him. I do love her, but it’s not enough.

  Goodbye.

  Benjamin

  P. S. Becca, you remember the tree? That’s where I’ll be.

  I touched the paper, and the ink smeared on my fingers. I felt a bolt of hope at the sight of the smeared ink. If the ink wasn’t dry yet, maybe there was still time. The tree. God, the tree. Our house was at the far edge of the subdivision and backed up to acres of open land, part forest, part scrub, part endless grass fields. About a mile from our back door was a mammoth pine tree with straight, low-hanging branches, the lowest one just out of reach. We used to play beneath that tree for hours. Then, when Ben got older and his bipolar mood swings took hold, he would go out to the tree and get away from everything. He claimed he could feel whatever he wanted beneath that tree, instead of feeling like his moods needed adjustment. That’s where he’d go when he wanted to get stoned, too, until he realized our parents were either oblivious or were playing blind.

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  I didn’t even think. I swung my legs out the window and scaled down to the ground at record speed. I stumbled through the bushes and into the scrub-covered hillside, fumbling my phone from my purse. I called Jason, because I was too overcome by panic to even think of anyone else.

  “What’s up, baby?” He sounded out of breath, and I heard the clink and rattle of weights in the background.

  “It’s b-Ben. I th-think he’s…he left a note, a suic—s-s-s—ide note. ” I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.

  “What? Are you serious? Did you find him?”

  “No, n-not y-yet. There’s a tree, be-h-hind our h-house. I think that’s w-where he is. ”

  “That huge granddaddy pine tree, I know it. Baby, listen, don’t go there by yourself. I’m less than five minutes away, okay? I’ll be there, wait for me, okay?”

  He was too late. I was already there. The tree was up a rise and down the other side. I could see the top of the pine tree swaying in the wind. Birds chirped cheerily, a harsh contrast to the terror in my gut. I was running as fast as I could, the phone forgotten, clutched in my hand. I could hear the tinny, distant sound of Jason’s voice calling my name. I crested the rise, stumbled, and fell, skidding down the steep, gravelly incline on my backside. I felt rocks gouging and scraping my bare thighs, my shorts too short to protect my legs.

  I righted myself and tripped around to the other side of the tree, where the lowest branch was. My eyes were closed, as if to block out what I feared I’d see if I opened them. Tears were already streaming down my face, and I heard Jason’s voice in the phone, or maybe it was in the distance. I forced my eyes open.

  I screamed.

  Ben hung from the lowest branch, swinging, legs kicking still. An orange Home Depot bucket was overturned beneath him, still rolling in circles. His eyes showed white in his face, his mouth wide, face going purple.

  I smelled shit.

  I lunged forward, screaming his name over and over again. I grabbed his legs in my arms and lifted with all my strength, sobbing. I got him lifted high enough that the tension was eased, and I heard a faint raspy choking noise, and then my legs gave out and his ankles slid out of my grasp. I fell to the ground beneath him. His toes drooped earthward, limp, swinging in tiny circles, no longer twitching.

  “BEN!” I heard my voice shrieking, shrill. “No, Ben, no, no no. ”

  I scrambled out from beneath him, struggled to my feet, and tried to lift him up, knowing he was gone, knowing it was too late. I felt something hot and sticky and putrid on my hands from where they grasped the back of his legs, and I knew what that was, too. I knew what happened to the bowels when someone was hung.

  I looked up at his body, twisting in my grip. His head was craned at an unnatural angle, his eyes rolled back, tongue lolling out.

  “Oh…fuck. ” I heard a voice behind me. Jason.

  I felt his arms around me, pulling me away. I fought him. I needed to help Ben. He was hurt. He needed me. He’d always needed me, and I wasn’t there. I was too late. I had to help him. I fought the pinioning arms, heard screaming go hoarse as vocal chords gave out, heard broken whispers in my ear, Jason begging me to turn away.

  Don’t look anymore, baby. He’s gone. He’s gone.

  NO! HE ISN’T GONE! My brother, my brother, my Ben. I fought even when my strength gave out and Jason was holding me. I wasn’t speaking anymore, I wasn’t intelligible, I was sobbing and gasping and babbling, straining for Benny. He twisted in the breeze, rope creaking.

  A crow cawed somewhere, announcing the arrival of Death. The ink-black creature hopped on a branch on a nearby tree, head tilted, eye glinting. It ruffled its wings, cocked its head to the other side and cawed again, directly at me.

  “NO! You can’t have him!” Those were the last words I would speak fluently for a very long time.

  I ripped free from Jason’s arms and scooped a rock from the ground at my feet, hurled it at the crow, who only ducked and cawed again, twice, harsh and mocking. Then, with a ruffle of feathers and a snap of wings, the crow was gone, and I fell, boneless, to the earth.

  I felt myself scooped up into strong arms, and I clawed helplessly at the iron chest, Jason’s sweat-scent in my nostrils all that kept me from dying in that moment. I clawed at him, scraping his chest with my fingernails. I’d just had a manicure the day before, and my nails were bright purple, perfectly painted and shaped. I watched with disconnected horror as my purple fingernails curled into Jason’s shirts and ripped it, then clawed again at the bare skin, dragging pink lines down his flesh. I couldn’t draw breath, felt stars speck in front of my eyes, my lungs burning. I couldn’t draw breath, because I was caught in an endless looping scream, soundless, shuddering.

  I was being carried away. I felt the hill beneath us. I fought, gasped, fought.

  “B-Ben! N-no! T-take me b-back! He-he-he needs m-m-me…plea
-please!”

  Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. I heard voices pass me, radios crackling, sirens in the distance. Red and blue lights bathed my eyelids. A door opened, closed. Stairs creaked. Another door opened. I felt cool porcelain beneath my thighs. Water sputtered and rushed, and soon steam enveloped me. Shit stank in my nostrils. One of my hands stung, and I glanced apathetically at the middle finger on my left hand, missing a fingernail and bleeding.

  Jason’s hands peeled away my shirt, unclasped my bra, lifted me to my feet, pushed away my shorts and panties. I felt his skin against me, and I wanted to burrow into his heat and forget everything. But he wouldn’t let me. I was so cold. He helped me over the wall of the tub and into the shower. Curtain rungs rasped against the metal rod, and then I was doused in scalding water, quickly adjusted to a more tolerable temperature. I didn’t care. The burn was fine.

  A pink and orange poofy loofah sponge crossed my shoulder, down my back, over my arm. He scrubbed me diligently, gently. He let me rest against his chest, my back to his front. He lathered my hair, rinsed it, massaged conditioner into it. Washed me again, rinsed my hair. I felt a brush scrape through the wet, tangled curls, gently, over and over again, tugging through knots until my hair was smooth.

  The water ran lukewarm, and he shut it off. Wrapped a towel around me, rubbed me dry, then wrung my hair out, dabbed it dry, brushed it again. I shivered against him. He scooped me in his arms and carried me to my room, laid me on my bed, tugged the sheets and quilt from beneath me and covered me with them. I felt his absence for the briefest moment, and panic shot through me.

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  “No! C-come b-back!” I grasped air and twisted in the bed.

  He was there instantly, still naked, still wet. He slid into the bed with me and wrapped himself around me. “I’m here, my love. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. I’m here. ”

  “B-Ben…” I turned in his arms and pressed my face to his chest. “W-why? God, b-Benny…”

  “I don’t know, honey. I wish I knew. ” He smoothed my hair against my scalp, and his breath was on my ear.

  “Ben-Benny…” I sobbed, and couldn’t stop once I’d started. I heard hinges creak, and Jason’s weight shifted, then returned. A thought struck me. “K-Kate? I have to tell Kate. ”

  “She knows. She’s been told. ” He held me against him. “I’m so sorry, Becca. I’m so sorry. ”

  I sobbed until I slept, and then when I woke, I sobbed again until I passed out once more. I’d been dressed at some point, and Jason was gone when I woke a second time. Full dark hung thick beyond my window, sliced by a sliver of moon. I found him in the kitchen talking to my parents, a cup of coffee in his hands, dressed in track pants and a gray hoodie with his last name across the back.

  Father was the first to see me. He crossed the kitchen in two strides and clutched me against his chest. “Rebecca, I’m so sorry you saw that. God, figlia. I’m so sorry. ” His voice broke. “I failed him. I failed…”

  I couldn’t take the cloying scent of his cologne, the unfamiliar feel of his embrace. I pushed away from him and found Jason. He pulled me into his arms, and I broke down again. He sat down on the high bar chair and lifted me onto his lap, smoothed my hair away, held me.

  Mother was silent, but I felt her sorrow. I peered at her, saw her face streaked with tears, eyes red.

  I felt Father behind me. “Rebecca, I—”

  I didn’t blame him, wasn’t angry at him, but I couldn’t take his presence. I writhed away from his touch and twisted to look up at Jason. “I-I-I c-can’t be h-here. Take mmm-mmm—me away. Take me s-somew-w-w-where else. Anyw-w-w-where. ”

  He stood up with me in a fireman’s hold and carried me away. I heard a door open, and I smelled my mother’s scent. Cold, small fingers touched my forehead. I opened my eyes to see her brown eyes shimmering above me. She didn’t speak, just brushed my forehead, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.

  “He-he’s gone, M-mmm-Mom. ” I fisted Jason’s hoodie in my hand as I locked eyes with her. “He killed hims-s-self. Hung himself from a f-f-f-fucking t-t-t-tree!”

  “I know, I know. ” It was all she said.

  “W-w-why?”

  She shrugged, shaking her head. “I have not…any answers. ”

  Jason carried me out into the warm summer night, a gentle breeze riffling my hair, smelling of flowers and cut grass and nighttime. A frog croaked somewhere, and a cricket sang a shrill song. He set me on my feet, and I heard the creak of his truck door opening, the pale, dim yellow glow of the cab light familiar, the ding-ding-ding of the open-door alert chiming. I climbed into the truck, grateful for something familiar. He started the truck with a grumbling roar, and music began immediately: “To Travels and Trunks” by Hey Marseilles. My music, rather than Jason’s country.

  I felt Jason watching me, and he knew me well enough to leave the music on. “Rhythm of Love” by Plain White T’s came on next, and I let my eyes close. I could almost forget, nestled in the warm familiarity of Jason’s truck.

  “Where do you want to go, baby?” I felt the right turn out of the subdivision, and then the left onto the main road.

  “Anywhere. Just…drive. ”

  The Civil Wars played next, “Kingdom Come,” and I laid my head on Jason’s lap as he drove. I felt dirt and gravel rumble and plink under us, and Jason’s hand rested on my side.

  We drove, and we drove. I slept, and woke in Jason’s arms, my head against his chest, early morning cold frosting me, sunlight gleaming golden-red through the windshield. I saw the branches of our oak tree, each one familiar. I knew how many branches the tree had, knew the scar of an ax or saw on one side, the knot near the joining of the trunk and a low branch, the place where birds liked to nest near the top.

  I had a moment of peace, just the cold and Jason’s arms and the truck and the tree and the sun. And then I remembered, a waking nightmare flashing through my mind. I shuddered, choking back tears. Jason’s arms clutched me, and I knew he was awake.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much, and I’ll be here with you every single moment. ”

  I nodded against his chest. “I l-love you, t-too. ” I cringed at the stutter. “I’m s-sorry. ”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “I k-keep…keep stutter…r-r-ring. ” Mid-word stutters were the worst. I hadn’t stuttered in the middle of a word since junior high.

  He made a sound almost like a sob. “Never apologize. You know that. I love you. Always, forever, no matter what. ”

  “P-p-prom—promise?” I clutched him desperately.

  “On my soul. On my life. ”

  I needed him. I wasn’t afraid of admitting that, not ever. Especially then. I knew he was the only thing that would get me through this crushing sorrow, this haunting vision of Ben swinging and twisting in the air above me.

  He held me, and he didn’t let go.

  FOURTEEN: Elegy

  Jason

  Two days later

  I had to literally hold Becca upright as we entered the viewing room at the funeral parlor.

  Why is it a “parlor”? It seems like such a flighty, frivolous word. Parlors are for sipping tea and laughing at flat jokes, not mourning the loss of a loved one.

  I’d tried to call Nell to tell her, but she never answered, never returned my call. I didn’t leave a message, because how can you pass news like this via voicemail?

  Becca was…just broken. It crushed me to see her like this. She was always such a bright person, lively and lovely. Quiet in public, but still vibrant. Now? The sunlight had been leached from her smile, the sap sucked from her eyes. I held her against my side, pinning her there with my arm. She clutched my ribs tight enough to restrict my breathing. I half-carried her across the same carpeting with the fleur-de-lis pattern, past the same out-of-place paintings of old English foxhunt scenes as when Kyle died. Not the same room,
thank god. I don’t think I could have taken that. This one was subdued, with wood-paneled walls and pale charcoal carpeting and brass lamps, some ubiquitous hunt scene artwork and three rows of folding chairs.

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  And the casket. Mahogany or some other nut-brown wood, brass handles around the edges. The top half of the lid was open, and as I escorted Becca closer to it, I saw first Ben’s hair, black and shiny. Becca hiccuped as we approached and clung to me. I steeled myself as we took the last step. Then we were standing in front of the casket, and Becca had her face buried in my suit coat.

  “I d-d-don’t want to l-look,” she mumbled.

  “Then don’t,” I said. “You know who he was. ”

  She shuddered in my arms, and then slowly turned her face away from me, straightened, stood on her own. Her hands smoothed her shin-length black dress over her hips, and I watched her visibly steel herself. Her back went ramrod straight, her head tilted back, her hands clutched into fists, and her breathing went long and deep and fast. I stood beside her and forced my fingers into hers, and she grabbed at me as if for a lifeline, gripping hard enough to cause pain.

  I watched her. She opened her eyes and stared into the middle distance over the casket, and then, nearly hyperventilating, she forced her gaze down to the body of her brother. He was dressed in a plain black suit, white shirt, black tie. His hair was slicked back, and makeup had been so artfully applied that you could barely see the dark black bruise ringing his neck.

  “God, he w-w-would have hay-hated that s-s-suit,” she murmured, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Why do w-we d-d-do th-this? Why do we t-t-t-torture oursel—selves like-like this? That’s n-nnn-not Ben. ”

  I had no answer for that question. I just held her, my arm high around her waist.

  Mr. de Rosa came up beside Becca and rested his hand on her shoulder. She’d told me she didn’t blame him, late last night, but now she shook his hand off, moaning low in her throat.

  “D-d-don’t, Father. ” She pushed away from me, stumbling and almost knocking over the framed collage of photographs of Ben standing on an easel near the casket.

  He watched her go, sadness in his eyes. His gaze flickered to me and held a hint of accusation, as if I’d done something to alienate them. She said she didn’t blame Enzio de Rosa for her brother’s death, but her actions said otherwise. It was none of my business, so I did the only thing I could: I followed her, wrapped my arm around her waist, and pulled her to a chair near the back, by the door. She’d bolt again, I knew.