Where We Fall: A Novel

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  “Yes, Quinci.”

  “That’s how you greet me after you’ve dodged my last sixteen phone calls?” she scowls through the phone. “Welcome home.”

  I soften when she says the word home.

  “How are we doing with the book? Are you ready to shoot the last of the falls?”

  “Q, I just walked in the door. The plane from London was delayed three hours. I sat next to a screaming baby who stopped screaming only when her mom sang ‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’ to her. For seven straight hours. The traffic from the airport was gridlock, and a two-and-a-half-hour drive became five. Can we talk in the morning?”

  “I see you haven’t lost your cheery disposition.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, stepping into my room and switching on the lights. “I’m here, aren’t I?” The puffy red comforter beckons me, and I fall across the thick down. Quinci is talking to me, pleading actually, and I close my eyes, willing her away. I swear I can feel Ryan on the pillows. His arms are pinning me to the blanket, and he is teasing me with his eyes.

  “Are you listening to me, Lauren?”

  “Yes,” I lie. “It shouldn’t take me long here. I’ll have everything to you soon.” And then I hang up and fall back beside Ryan.

  I love you, Lauren.

  We lay in the bed after the Buckeye hike. Our coupling on that stretch of flowers and grass left a need in me that only he could satisfy. When I rolled over and faced him on the bed where I had had childhood dreams, his stare loosened a coil in me.

  I had wanted to attend the postgrad photography program long before Ryan showed up at my dorm and let it be known that his teasing in class was far more than casual flirtation. Ryan was innocent enough to believe that our feelings would make it impossible for me to leave.

  I stroked his face as he sulked about my leaving, and as the day got closer, I watched the shift in Ryan and the way his dark hair mimicked his moods. It was messy and thick when he was with me. He would run his fingers through it with an almost violent ferocity. I loved it that way, unkempt. I hated to abandon him too.

  We were stretched across my bed again. “I’m going to miss you so much,” he said.

  “It’s six months. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  He was a little more forceful this time when he kissed me. I closed my eyes and let him in. Ryan mixed with the breezy air that leaked through the open window. The scent would forever remind me of all that we had lost, all the potentially beautiful things we could have created together: promises, a life. They all shot through a tiny splinter in the window screen, billowing in the sky. I often wondered if it was my fault for leaving Ryan alone. How foolish of me to think we could sustain the time apart.

  That is why I haven’t been back. Only something painful could keep me from the land I love. I roll over and face the wall. The pictures have changed. The night table with its cinnamon candle sits quietly. Like me, it has not been lit up for a long time.

  Ryan’s face has been replaced with a photo of my brother. I’m sure it pained my mom to remove him from our home, but at least she was replacing him with someone who would never harm her child. I know the years I spent apart from her were tough, but as a free-spirited woman, she understood the need to journey out into the world.

  In my exhaustion, I don’t even bother to undress for bed. It is better this way, or else I will remember his skin against mine, feel his hands touching me beneath the covers. Making love to him is buried in my skin. And that was Ryan’s whole point. After, when he held me in his arms and smoothed my long hair with his fingers, he told me this: “No matter where you go, Lauren, you’re mine. Always mine.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ABBY

  Cold Creek is wedged into a picturesque mountaintop in Asheville. As you enter the compound, the narrow drive is bordered by maples and dogwoods, against an immaculate green lawn. The main house is an impressive white, with towering columns lining a stone patio. When you walk through the glass doors, high ceilings and windows frame the room with light and warmth.

  I am greeted by a line of friendly faces with no judgments. Everybody’s smiling, and it’s a welcome and refreshing change. Though it feels wrong to have separated myself so completely from my family, I slowly embrace the idea of healing. Not only for me, but also for those who are counting on me.

  My accommodations are on the west campus. My roommate is a pretty young woman named Rose. I am convinced early on her name isn’t really Rose, even if she is prickly enough to be one. I find myself calling out to her throughout the day, “Rose! Rose!” and most of the time she ignores me.

  Thorny Rose and I sit on our balcony and witness the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. When I told Ryan I had a balcony, I could sense his immediate worry and reassured him. “There are only two floors in the guest facilities. No jumpers.” Our room is as simple and pleasant as an old hotel. It isn’t fancy, though it gives the impression that people really live here.

  The first day was tough. Ryan and I said our good-byes on the front porch, where he doled out one of his famous pep talks. “I’m proud of you,” he said, and then he held me long and hard so my body would remember his touch. When he turned away and drove off, I broke down and cried, shielding him from the tears as he waved his hand out the window.

  Jeannie Malone is my lead counselor. She’s a nondescript woman in her forties with straight brown shoulder-length hair that she parts down the middle. Her eyes are a pale brown that complement her olive skin. Jeannie dresses as though she has escaped Woodstock, in long skirts with tan and orange flower prints. She even wears Birkenstocks. Her listening without judging makes it easy for anyone to talk. But in those first few days, I still resisted.

  The trajectory of my stay was Jeannie’s call. She devised my very own personal wellness team, which covered most every aspect of my life, from exercise to talk therapy, group therapy, specialized activities, and diet. I’ve never missed a basket of bread more in my entire life. It sounds dreadful, but it occurs to me that Cold Creek is exactly where I need to be. Here I am free of the responsibilities of home and the pressure to conform. Only that same freedom opens me up to scrutiny and self-improvement, and that kind of scrutiny scares me.

  Seated in Jeannie’s office that first day, listening to her trace my medical history from twenty-seven different doctors over the course of a few years, with the finale being a splatter on the bathroom floor with a bag of blades and pills, I knew the path of most resistance would inevitably be the one I couldn’t resist. I was at my tipping point before I arrived.

  Hunkered down, I studied the intimate space, which felt like a living room with its oversized brown sofas, beige chenille throws, and a sign that reads “The Loving Room.”

  Jeanne introduced me to a game called “emotions,” in which I was supposed to write my dark feelings on index cards. I picked up the first card, and with the black Sharpie in my fingers, drew robust letters across the front: scared. After, it was followed by nervous and sad. I also felt angry. And though I didn’t want to write that emotion on paper, I knew I must. So there. I wrote it on the card in big, bold caps: ANGRY.

  Jeannie helped me sort out the words. She explained that for years, my body had taken over the natural expression of my emotions. As a small child, I might not have been allowed or able to articulate my feelings of sadness or rage, so they manifested themselves in physical symptoms. “We are going to say words aloud, own them, embrace them, and feel them,” she said. For someone who had spent the better part of her life avoiding such emotions, I was terrified.

  When we reached the card with the swirly strokes of scared, Jeannie and I began to decipher feelings that I had kept hidden inside irrational thoughts. She was right, the thoughts—however awful—protected me from the real pain.

  Studying the next card, ANGRY, I focused on the emotion associated with the word. My first thought was of the picture of Lauren and Ryan I found in his drawer. Asshole, I thought.

  “Which card is
that?” she asked.

  I turned the lined card with the big black letters in her direction and held it up for her to see.

  “What are you angry at?” she asked. “Is it a person? A situation? Let’s give it legs.”

  I saw Ryan looking through me. I saw the choices I had made. I asked myself, Can you ever forget your first love? That person who gives you someone to dream about? I wasn’t about to tell this stranger all the doubts screaming to come out. “I’m mad at a lot of things,” I said.

  “Begin wherever you want. But I want you to start by saying ‘I’m angry.’”

  “Okay,” I said, not really having to think it through, giving a string of thoughts a voice. “I’m angry because I know that I could have prevented this misery from dragging on as long as it has. I’m angry that my parents could have gotten me the help I needed but didn’t. I’m angry because my illness and its wicked temper have caused me to do things I will always regret.” This last one gripped me, and I had to pause. No matter how many years I attempted to cover up my mistakes, they snuck into my dreams and stabbed me in the gut when I was awake.

  “I’m angry because my husband is closer to our daughter than I’ll ever be. I’m angry because I can’t be with her, and I’m angry at him for always being so darn chipper, for living his life in a most ordinary way. I’m angry my daughter’s in a healthier relationship than mine with my husband.” I let her digest this while the truths chipped away at me. I folded my forehead into my hand and searched the floor. I whispered, “I’m angry he loved someone else first.”

  Jeannie didn’t say anything. I sat up again, fighting back the tears that were trying to escape. Anger felt so much better so I breathed the tears away. ANGRY stared back at me from the index card, and all the people and situations I was angry at, but Jeannie took the card from my hands and turned it in my direction.

  “This practice helps you unleash a lot of pent-up feelings and emotions. That’s what we do in here, clear a path for deeper introspection. There comes a point when you stop blaming others. Look at this card. It’s your mirror. Do you think you might be angry at yourself?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Abby, are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  But ANGRY stayed with me the rest of the day.

  Inhale. Exhale. There is a lovely woman leaning over me, and she is reciting a collection of words in my ears. Tamar is Cold Creek’s Reiki specialist, and according to my therapists, I am in need of her energy healing. I’m usually a skeptic when it comes to Eastern medicine, but when this petite woman with golden strands of hair told me she was going to free the negative energy from my body, who was I to refuse? If I could do what I did to the people I loved, perhaps there was hope for a stranger’s hands to dislodge the pollutants clinging to my core.

  I try to relish Tamar’s fingers on my stomach and the bubbling sounds emanating from my belly beneath her palm, which lead me to believe I have a lot of messed-up stuff in my system, but instead, I am awash in those stupid cards Jeannie made me write down. Tamar wants me to close my eyes and imagine the word thinking. It floats in front of my closed eyes, though intrusive thoughts chase it away and dispel any meditation.

  “Abby, I need you to take a few deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

  I am now facedown on Tamar’s table with my head pressed against a circle that allows for half a nostril to inhale. She has come up from beneath me and is shoving a bottle of oil in my face. It smells quite nice, citrusy, and I breathe it in as though it will chase away demons.

  “It’s bergamot,” she says. “It’ll help with the anxiety.”

  My brain refutes this information. She is being kind. It is likely a potion for very bad people. Tamar’s hands are resting across my shoulder blades. I have been massaged a dozen or more times in my life, but I have never fallen asleep during the act. Something about her touch eases me toward the drowsy hush of sleep.

  “I can help you,” she whispers. Her hands shift down to the curve of my back. “These are your adrenals. Yours are probably depleted.”

  I am dreamily content with her hands on my body, and the drugs that are fusing with the citrus oil she has waved under my nose.

  “Withholding your feelings is causing them to interfere with your body. You have to experience them. Rage, anger, guilt, sadness—they’ll make you a very sick woman.”

  There is little fight left in me. I would chuckle, but my defenses are worn down and I am sleepy.

  “Abby, you can learn a lot about yourself right now, if you take the time to work through this—really work through this. You don’t have to feel like this for the rest of your life. You just have to want change badly enough.”

  I don’t know what I want. I haven’t known what I want for a long time. I thought I wanted Ryan and this life, though upon closer inspection, this life resembles an illusion. My body falls under the spell of the fraudulent fantasy. I am submerged in her words, and the peacefulness tells me that what she’s saying might be true. I should be afraid, but the calm prevails. My eyes are closed and sleep is nearby, and the projector inside my head is spooling through memory. The images are checkered in black and white. They are moving so quickly I can barely pinpoint the faces of my childhood before I am in middle school and then high school and then Davidson. Snap. Everything slows down. The images halt. I feel Tamar’s palms on my feet. It is the first time they don’t jerk me into laughter. What’s left is a vision. Only now it is brightly colored. I need to shield my eyes from the glow. It is Lauren. She is staring me in the face. Her fair skin is a deep red, shades darker than her hair. She is inflamed. Her eyes wide, her lips broken apart. It is a face I have learned to forget, to hide in the place where people are trained to hold their shame. I am repulsed by what I have done. ANGRY.

  “Abby, are you all right? You just tensed up.”

  I slam my eyes shut tighter than before. I will Lauren away with each exhalation, and this time I am unable to block her all-encompassing presence. If what Tamar is saying is true, I fear for the feelings I have locked up, and if I let them out, how will I ever look Ryan in the eyes again?

  I tell Tamar that I’m fine, but I’m lying. Her hands have to sense the physical discomfort I am unable to fix. There were times as a child and young adolescent—before I could give words to my fears and inner threats—that I actually wished for calamity. If only that rottweiler had taken a bite out of my leg, an area that healed quickly and didn’t leave any long-term bruises. If only I had actually fainted, instead of always feeling faint. If only something truly terrible had happened to me, then my parents would have dragged me to a doctor and experts would have studied me to find out exactly what was wrong. Because I was sure there was something really broken in me.

  On my next meeting with Jeannie, I creep closer to Pandora’s box.

  “Have you ever had suicidal thoughts? Have you ever wanted to hurt yourself?”

  “No!” I shout, because it is vital that she believes me. “That’s just it. That’s the crux of it all. I’ve had anxiety, I’ve been depressed. But I have never wanted to die.” And a thought popped inside my head. Lauren’s face. And then me. A knife. My wrist.

  “Abby?”

  The picture is so strong it seems Jeannie should be able to see it for herself. I want to hand it off to her. I want to carve it out of me and plunk it at her feet.

  “Abby? Tell me what’s going on. I’m here to help you. You’re safe in here.”

  Minutes tick by and Jeannie waits. I push the thought down as far as it will go and compose myself, sitting up a little taller. “I’m worried our marriage won’t make it through this. I’m worried about Juliana.”

  Polluted thoughts are all over the room, covering the walls and landing near my feet. Ryan is standing by the window. I am running toward him, but Lauren stops me. She is tugging at my legs. “They scare me, these things I think about. I hate it.” Then I begin to gnaw at my fingernails. The f
ear is overwhelming and I cry. I want to tell her, but I can’t. The cauldron is on the fire and it is heating up inside.

  She tells me rather calmly that I’ll learn to accept this scary part of me.

  I shake my head. “I’ll never accept that ugliness. I want to get rid of it.”

  Jeannie straightens herself. “Then you’ll be getting rid of a piece of you. Do you think there’s a part of you that wants to destroy her?”

  I let it wrap around me. I’ve already destroyed her, but I know Jeannie isn’t talking about Lauren.

  “I’m not sure what I’ve done is forgivable. And I’m tired of talking about the same stuff over and over. It doesn’t change anything. Maybe I’m too messed up to fix.”

  Jeannie is writing and writing. I can hear the scratch of the pen against her pad. Then she places the pen behind her ear and begins: “I realize rehashing the past is tiring and repetitive for you, but it’s necessary. You’re stronger than you think.”

  I shuffle out of Jeannie’s office and return to my room to find Rose on the balcony. She’s wearing a sundress, despite the dipping temperatures. Goose bumps run up and down her arms, and it is the first time I notice they’re papery white. As I get closer, I see how the bumps stop at the scars that stain both her wrists. We all suffer in our own ways. Some more noticeably than others.

  People with psychological struggles know better than most the dangers of labeling, though it happens. There’s a secret hierarchy of sufferers and distinct methods of coping, some worse than others. A small part of me—very small—feels lucky that my problem isn’t more serious.

  Rose knows what my eyes are honing in on, and she doesn’t try to cover up her wrists. She has a closetful of jackets in our miniature closet, which could easily hide her scars. It’s the first time she enlists me in conversation, and the first time I notice the welts. “I don’t mean to scare you. When you spend your life avoiding bigger-than-you feelings, you get pretty good at hiding things, like slices across your wrists.”