The Year They Fell

by David Kreizman

  Jack brought me food and changes of clothes, and I could hear how he was struggling. I know that when things go wrong for Jack, he sometimes does dangerous things. Destructive things. Like when he stole Daddy’s car and crashed it. I couldn’t let him do that. So I tried to resurface. For Jack.

  I’d been down here before. And I’d made it back up. But this time as I pulled and kicked, as much I reached for the light, there were weights on my ankles, dragging me down.

  Jack was out for another run when Grandma led Siobhan and Cody into my room. Siobhan had been my best friend since I chose to sit next to her in ninth-grade science. She was tall and popular and you did not want to get on her bad side. But she was loyal to me and she was willing to be mean so I didn’t have to. Cody was everything you could ask for in a boyfriend. Hot, sensitive. He was a surfer, so he had a great body and this amazing messy hair. And he never asked for more than I gave him. I watched from underwater as they arrived at my bedside. Siobhan was crying. She’d brought me flowers, and when I didn’t reach out for them, she set them across my legs.

  You should see your feed. It’s so full of love right now.

  Cody squeezed onto the bed next to me. I mean when the party ended like that, we didn’t really know what was happening, babe. And then Jack went apeshit and started throwing everyone out. If you guys had told us right away …

  Siobhan patted my hand like she was petting a scared dog. We wouldn’t have gotten so pissed. When you didn’t text back last night, I was freaking? Like, when do you not text back? And then I was like, what, am I not good enough to be with you when your parents die? Like, aren’t I supposed to be there for you and Jack? But then someone said you were, like, in a coma or whatever so we rallied? Wait. Can she even hear us? She moved to the other side of me. I think we should selfie this, just so everyone knows you’re okay.

  Is she okay? Cody whispered.

  Jack returned to find them squeezed into my bed as Siobhan tried to find the right camera angle. His voice was tight as he asked them to leave the room. I could hear him unloading on them once they got to the hallway. Don’t come back here without asking me first. I don’t care what my grandparents say. Just go!

  When Jack came back into my room, Grandpa Ralph and Grandma Nelly followed him. Why did you let them in here?!

  Grandma Nelly picked up my wrist to check my pulse. They love her, Jack. She can’t just stay in here by herself. What if I call over your friends? Archie and Harrison and the Calderón girl.

  They aren’t our friends.

  Of course they are. You share something. Josie needs that. She needs people.

  She needs me.

  Grandma Nelly cleared her throat twice and nodded at Grandpa. He blew his nose into a handkerchief. Jackie, your grandmother and I want to take Josie to see someone. A specialist.

  I let you march Dr. Mike in here to see her. He said she’s fine.

  He didn’t say she’s fine. He said give her another day and then bring her in. And Dr. Mike is an orthopedist, not a therapist. Your sister requires professional help.

  I’m helping her, Jack insisted. She’ll come out of it. She’s eating, right?

  Barely, said Grandpa Ralph. She’s barely breathing. I did a search on this. What she’s doing is called dissociating. It’s a symptom of post-traumatic stress. It’s serious. People come in here and look at her like she’s some kind of oddity—

  I don’t give a shit about those people. I don’t even know half of them. Let them come here and stare and eat the fifty-seven pounds of chicken salad you bought, but you’re not taking Jo anywhere.

  * * *

  Today’s the day, Jo. They’re calling it a memorial service instead of a funeral since the bodies … Unless you want Grandpa dropping you off at the hospital, I’m going to need you to stay with me. And if you don’t shower and get dressed, Grandma will do that for you. Your black dress, with the stuff on the shoulders, is hanging on the door. Be downstairs in twenty. What do you say before every party? “Game face on.”

  I turned my head to look at him.

  Jack stopped at the door. Jo—His voice caught in his throat. We’re gonna be okay, Jo. I mean, not okay-okay. Not for a long time. Maybe never again. If I said different, you’d know I was lying. But okay. I’m here when you’re ready. I’m heart. You’re soul.

  So I hauled myself off the bottom of the pool and got dressed for my parents’ memorial service. But I sank back down when Jack started to cry in the limo.

  Archie was right. This wasn’t the first time I’d almost let myself sink to the bottom when life on the surface got too ugly. I’d been down here before, when all that stuff happened with Coach Murph. When it got really bad.

  ’Course it wasn’t always like that. At the beginning it was great. He was the best softball coach I’d ever had.

  When I was ten, Coach taught me how to throw a windmill pitch. “You put a little action at the end and the ball will rise up right at the batter’s chin. She’ll be too afraid you’re gonna take her head off to even think about swinging. And, JC, you just give her that sweet smile and let her know you own her.”

  Coach Murph called me “his little machine,” and together we won three league championships, two AAU golds, and four all-star tournaments. I’d never had a coach who cared as much as he did. I’d never had an anyone who cared as much as he did. Daddy was always traveling and Mom was on fifteen charity boards, but Coach never missed a game. He even offered to drive me to practice and tournaments in the blue Mustang he called “Shirley.” On the road, he introduced me to his “old-guy music,” like Bruce Springsteen and Guns N’ Roses. For some reason, he really liked singers who screamed. He talked to me like a real person, not just a kid. He told me about life, how he’d wanted to be a pro baseball player but had to give it up when his elbow got shredded. How I should never lose sight of what I want because one day you could wake up and find you’re working at a car dealership and coaching girls AAU softball just to stay close to the game you love. Not that he didn’t find it rewarding.

  Daddy was in D.C. on business when we won states. I’d never seen Coach Murph so happy. After the game, he gave me the trophy and told me to keep it in my room because I deserved it. On the way home, Coach asked if I was hungry. I waited in the car while he picked up some sandwiches. He drove Shirley down near the beach and parked, but he left the key in the ignition so we could listen to the radio.

  He handed me my chicken sandwich, and then he pulled out a bottle of wine and a plastic cup. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”

  “Thanks.” I’d seen him have a couple of beers at a softball picnic, but he’d never had a drink in the car before.

  He poured himself a cup, drank it, and refilled. “It’s so wrong that your parents weren’t there to see what you did today. It’s the same thing with Christine. She doesn’t understand why I do this, why it means so much to me. To us.”

  Coach hardly ever talked about his wife in front of me. She’d never been to one of our games. “Christine doesn’t want you to coach softball?”

  “We were really young when we got married,” he said. “It’s different now. We’re different.” He reached down and lowered the radio.

  “Are you gonna get divorced?” I asked, in between bites of my sandwich. Coach held out his cup and offered me a sip of the wine. My heart sped up and I got a weird feeling in my stomach. I liked that he saw me as mature enough to drink with him. I liked how he talked to me; even how he looked at me.

  That’s how it was when it all started. We’d get together and just talk a lot. He really cared about what I had to say. Like he wanted my opinion on things. I told him about how Jack was always fighting with Dad over his grades and how he didn’t want Harrison to tutor him anymore because he was embarrassed that he needed help. I told him how it hurt that Dayana never invited me over to her new house. I even gave him one of my favorite drawings from Archie, the one of me in my softball uniform.

  Whenever
I wanted to see Coach, he was there. If I needed a ride, he’d leave work to pick me up. I could text him in the middle of the night about the dumbest things and he’d write back in like seconds.

  You awake?

  IM now

  Yankees won

  Yanks suk. Go Mets

  He didn’t need me to take care of him like Jack did. And he didn’t treat me like I needed to be taken care of either. Jack blamed Dad for always working and not being around. When he told me he hated that I relied on Coach to take me to games and practice, I accused Jack of being jealous. I said he liked it better when he was the only guy I could talk to. And all of that was before anything was even going on.

  I did feel bad that I wasn’t around for Jack. He was getting into even more trouble at school, ignoring his homework and not even studying for tests. He talked back to teachers and sometimes just walked out of class. Dad was on him all the time. There was so much yelling in the house. But that just made me love the days I spent with Coach even more. I loved the sound of Shirley’s engine pulling up the driveway, the shiny blue exterior and the smell of the leather seats. When Coach was driving, I’d rest my hand on top of his. We’d go out to the diner and our knees would secretly touch under the table. It was confusing, but it was exciting, too. I knew we were more than friends, but I told myself there was nothing wrong with it. We were just close. And that could happen at any age. He cared about me. I think I could’ve stayed like that forever.

  During the winter of my eighth-grade year, stuff started changing. Coach said things were getting worse at home, that Christine was being really mean to him. Always criticizing everything he did or said. He’d pick me up and he’d already smell like beer or wine. He didn’t want to talk as much, but he was cutting practices short so that we could have more alone time before he dropped me off at home.

  In the car one day he watched me put on lip balm and he asked if he could try it. I started to hand it over, but instead he leaned over into me and pressed his lips against mine. I was scared. I knew it didn’t feel right, but he was my coach. He went in a second time, pressing his weight against me and this time using his tongue to open my mouth.

  After that, kissing became a part of the car rides. Then touching. By the spring he was whispering he loved me. He talked about what it would be like when I was older and we could be together for real. All I ever wanted was to make Coach Murph proud of me. So I kept getting in that blue Mustang, even after the sound of the engine made me want to cry and the smell of the leather seats made me sick to my stomach. I never told him to stop. Not when he reached under my shirt or undid my belt. Not when he took my hand and showed me what to do with it. Not at the overnight tournament in Maryland when he asked me to wait for the other girls to fall asleep so I could sneak into his hotel room. Not even when he took my hand and told me he couldn’t wait any longer to be with me.

  Everything in my body was screaming to get out of that hotel room. But the screams stayed inside as he led me over to the king-size bed and pulled back the dingy covers. And as Coach lay down on top of me I figured out how to sink to the bottom of the pool.

  * * *

  I worked hard every day to never again be that girl who had to go underwater because she felt helpless and afraid. And I did it all on my own. I didn’t ask for help. Not even from Daddy. I knew I could fight my way up again. Because I had to. So I forced myself to surface in the funeral home and I treaded water as hard as I could.

  I didn’t sink when Jack guided me out of the limo and into a sea of black. Even with all those people surrounding me, hugging me, touching me. When Cody came up from behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, I resisted the urge to scream and to push him away until Jack finally pried him off. When the service was over, I followed Jack into the small lobby, where too many people were crammed in. A man in a wrinkled suit with a bunch of little Band-Aids on his neck touched my arm. This set off Jack, who spun around to face him. It was Nelson, Dayana’s father. Dayana stood behind him, her purple hair covering most of her face.

  “Jack, Josie, I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Nelson said. “They were wonderful people, your parents. If I could have traded places with them—”

  “Papi!” Dayana looked like she was going to say something more, but I turned away. I turned away and that’s when I saw him.

  In the back corner of the lobby, reading a program, was Coach Murph. He’d grown a beard and his hair was shorter. I recognized the brown corduroy blazer he’d worn for every end-of-season softball awards night.

  “… And the MVP trophy goes to … Josie Clay. Shocker, huh? Come on up and grab another, JC.”

  Maybe Coach Murph felt me notice him, or maybe he was only pretending to read the program in the first place. He looked at me. Looked. At. Me. He put his hand on his heart, smiled sadly and mouthed, “Hi, JC.”

  Suddenly, I was sinking faster than I ever had, rocketing to the bottom, the breath flying from my lungs. I reached for Jack, for anything that might slow me down. I was drowning, watching the world disappear maybe forever this time. And just as I was about to crash, I felt a hand grab mine. It was smooth and clammy, so unlike Jack’s rough, beefy paws. I blinked and saw that the hand belonged to Archie.

  He leaned in, his breath smelling of mint. “You need to get outside?”

  “Yeah.”

  Behind his thick lenses, his eyes grew wide. “You said something.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  Archie wasn’t as good at opening holes in a crowd as Jack, but he made up for it with a complete willingness to knock into any man, woman, or child between us and the door. He used his sketchbook like a shield, battering people out of our way. He led me through group after group, with each step pulling me farther and farther away from Coach Murph.

  Finally, we arrived at the twin poster boards near the entrance. The way the photos were placed, Mom and Daddy appeared to be looking at you as you walked in between them.

  Daddy flashed his half smile like he’d just told a joke. He told the best jokes. They always cheered me up when I was sad or upset, and when I laughed, he’d hug me and tell me I was his girl.

  Mom had this way of making a photo look as if she were caught in the middle of having the best time of her life. Her friends said she could always make the best of any situation. Her giant funeral headshot was no different. Can you believe our plane crashed? I mean, how crazy is that?!

  Archie must’ve sensed me falling into the vortex between the photos. He tugged hard on my hand, yanking me through the door and into the blinding sunlight. “You okay?” he asked. “Sorry, stupid question. Of course you’re not. But you’re talking again?”

  “I guess so.” I was as surprised as he was.

  He handed me a mint from his pocket. “How come?”

  “You talked to me and I wanted to answer.”

  “Is that the first thing you’ve said? Since the party?”

  I nodded. “I was sitting underwater. Even if I’d said something, even if I tried to yell, I don’t think it would’ve come out. Nobody would’ve heard it.”

  “Like Alien,” said Archie. “‘In space, no one can hear you scream.’” He took off his glasses and used his jacket to wipe away a bead of sweat as it rolled down his nose. His brown eyes had glints of yellow that bounced around in the light. Like the reflections of the sun at the bottom of the pool. “Josie? Just so you know … I would’ve heard it.”

  5

  HARRISON

  TO DO:

  -Finalize funeral arrangements with Schaeffer Funeral Home. Coffin? (No body) X

  -Write obituary. X

  -Submit obituary to the press. X

  -Choose reading for service. X

  -Practice reading in mirror so that it seems natural in cemetery. (Look up from cards, speak slowly and clearly.) X

  -Prepare Mom’s clothes for consignment. (Pickup scheduled for 10 A.M.)

  -File papers to have Bobby Rebkin (Pop)
declared my legal guardian.

  -Follow up with Jack. Will tutoring continue now that it’s no longer required by Mr. Clay?

  -Prepare notebooks and supplies for first day of school. X

  -Contact authorities about the crash. Why?

  “There’s nothing more satisfying than crossing off items on a to-do list,” my mother used to say, before she—before. Mom preached the gospel of the list. “Wake up each morning and decide what you’re doing today to achieve your goals, to work toward The Plan. Write it down in specific steps. Don’t go to bed until you’re satisfied that you’ve completed what you set out to do.” She’d be proud of all that I’ve accomplished in the days since her death. Without any assistance, I planned a respectful memorial service, burying an empty coffin in the plot Mom had pre-purchased years ago. I prepared the house for life without her, completed two college application essays, and filed a request to have my absentee father declared my legal guardian. I would’ve completed the third essay (“Please write page 164 of your autobiography”) if not for the arrival of a particularly difficult glitch.

  Since the party at Jack and Josie’s house, I’d suffered only three glitches, two of which were relatively minor. The last one, however, felt like it was never going to end. They’re unpredictable, these glitches. I never know when one will occur or how severe it will be. I only know it’s coming when the symptoms start, and by that time it’s too late. The room begins to feel warm, my palms perspire, my heart rate increases, and my hands tremble. From there, a glitch can take me down any number of different rabbit holes: numbness in the extremities, abdominal distress, chest pain, choking, absolute certainty that I am dying. I can’t remember when I had my first glitch experience. They have always just been a part of my life.

  Through the years, they’ve varied in frequency and intensity. I’ve learned to power through the minor episodes with a strategy I’ve dubbed “Pi in the Sky.” I find the nearest dark, quiet spot and imagine myself floating above the earth as I recite pi to as many decimal places as I can remember. I continue to soar and recite digits until my pulse returns to normal and I’m able to resume my life. My record is eighty-six, although I average about forty-three. I learned it by grouping the digits into bunches of four and memorizing it in chunks like a song. It sounds harder than it is.