Where We Fall: A Novel

by Rochelle B. Weinstein

  “I know exactly what would’ve happened,” she says, her arms falling away. “I would’ve been raising Juliana on my own.”

  “He’s always been pretty old-fashioned,” I hear myself say, as though I could pretend all of this didn’t kill me inside.

  “He loved you,” she relents. “Nobody came close.”

  “And now he loves you,” I say.

  But she is shaking her head. “I’m not sure about that. I’m not sure about much anymore. Being here is like turning back the clock. I’m visiting places in my head I’ve been too afraid to inspect. There’s a lot I don’t like. I’m sure he sees it too.”

  Her honesty is too much for me. I silence the part of me that wishes things could be different. “It’s good you’re getting the help you need.”

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” she asks, untucking her legs from beneath her and tilting her head in question. “Why did you let him think you’d vanished?”

  I had vanished. There were parts of me I would never find again. “I was stubborn,” I begin, my voice moving through a deep well of pain and landing on despair. “I thought you would tell him. But when word got back to me in London about the baby, I knew there was no point in contacting him, when we both knew Ryan would never abandon his child. Whether you told him or not, he had a baby on the way. I would’ve never forced him to choose. I not only lost the love of my life, Abby. I lost my best friend and the city I loved.” This part is awful to share with her. My emotions are teetering and I know she will see me cry. “Do you know how hard it is to cut a chunk of your life from memory and pretend it never happened? I thought our friendship mattered to you, that I mattered to you. And I sure as hell thought you cared about him enough to relieve him from all the unanswered questions, to explain my absence.”

  “I lived with your absence every day,” she whimpers. “We pranced around it for years, like some big vacuous hole we were going to fall through. I know what I lost when I betrayed you. Ryan and I never worked without you. I don’t work without you.”

  I had hated Abby for years. I had hated her with a flaming venom I could not tame. I hated knowing what she was capable of and how she had taken my future into her hands and balled it up like wastepaper. Hating someone you once loved is far worse than bitter dislike. The betrayal strips you of memories you once trusted. A snapshot of what used to be becomes a lie. And the anger mixes with the hurt. I will never forget the look in her eyes when she saw me. Those eyes haunted me all over the world.

  Today she reminds me of the characters in my books, and I’m sure some of the more evil ones were created with her mind. I observe Abby like I might one of my creations. It’s all too easy to make an assessment and an assumption without facts. Girl sleeps with best friend’s boyfriend: tramp, whore. Don’t I owe Abby the same courtesy I owe my fictional characters? I had grown to love these folks as though they were extensions of my family, my closest friends. I had breathed life into them. How could I not afford Abby the same regard?

  I ask her this: “Do you love him?”

  “You know I love him,” she says, her cheeks flushing. “I always loved him.”

  “I’m not talking college crush, Abby. I’m talking about pure, unselfish love—telling him I showed up, telling him I was there. So when I ask, ‘Do you love him?’ can you put his needs before your own?”

  Her body straightens, and she taps her nervous foot against the floor. “You didn’t put his needs before yours. You were the selfish one. If you had loved him, you would’ve never left him alone.”

  “Abby, tell him the truth. Tell him I was there, on that day.”

  My character is human and flawed. Her imperfections band together and, at times, eclipse her strengths. Like any of us. I feel bad for Abby. I am angry at Abby. But I am able to see all of Abby. I say to her before turning to leave, “When you love someone, Abby, really love someone, there’s nothing worse than secrets.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ABBY

  I am free floating. Falling. The picture is fuzzy. Grainy. Somewhere between back then and now. We were all getting high on the roof of the fraternity house. Lauren and Ryan were beside me, laughing and smiling at each other, cocooned in their impenetrable fog of bliss. I didn’t like smoking pot, but everyone was doing it, and I figured it might take the edge off the anxiety. It was dark and the rooftop was packed with kids. The music was loud, and I could feel the vibration beneath my feet. The drop was a dangerous distance. I puffed on the joint that had been passed back and forth, then covered my mouth from the flaming cough.

  Ryan noticed first. “You all right, Abs?”

  Elbows and shoulders and bodies were bumping into us, swaying to the deafening music. I think that’s what he said, though I knew by the way he wrapped an arm around my shoulder that’s what he meant. His eyes were concerned. If they were water, I would have drowned in their faded green. I handed the blunt to him and he finished it off. At once I was insulated from very bad things. I closed my eyes and imagined scenarios I wasn’t allowed: Ryan’s arm remained around me, his lips reaching mine.

  From out of nowhere emerged Lauren. She hustled her way under Ryan’s other arm and the one that draped around me fell to his side as he leaned into her. My heart began to race. I was feeling dizzy. I couldn’t discern whether I was on the merry-go-round or whether my surroundings were moving. I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. The frigid wave passed through my chest and left me on the verge of something awful.

  They were kissing each other and swaying softly to the music. The blanket he momentarily wrapped me in had slipped away.

  The railing came into view and the distant sky merged with the dark ground. In one seismic rush of adrenaline, I was compelled to jump. The music faded, and all I could hear was the quickening of my breaths. I was rooted to the floor, fighting the urge to break free and leap. I had to get out of there. I had to get off that roof. My legs were my enemy. Could I will them to walk in the opposite direction or would they betray me and carry me toward death?

  Usually when I am having a dream steeped in terror, I can force myself to wake up. I can separate myself from the action and become acutely aware that what feels real is not. Rose’s silky voice is wrapping around my head. She is jostling me awake because I am crying out and shaking. What she doesn’t understand is that I am not asleep. This is no nightmare.

  After Lauren left, I was plagued with guilt and a long list of memories. Jeannie was the one who found me slumped against the cushions in the solarium.

  “Tell me in words,” she said.

  I was hysterical, wishing for curtains or blinds to hide the shame. “Can’t we just talk about this like two people?” I attack. “Can’t I just vent and not be psychoanalyzed? I’m scared. And I’m so incredibly sad.”

  “Let’s begin with the fear. What are you afraid of?”

  My body is trembling and the words shake out of me: “He’s going to leave me.”

  “What else?”

  “What else? What could be worse than that?”

  I am now strewn across the sofa so my hysteria is hidden from the outside world. Jeannie has stood up to lock the door for privacy. If this is going to happen here and now, this is where it has to be. I am crying into my hands, the tears filling my palms and making it impossible for me to stop. My defense mechanisms did a fine job. They erased Lauren from my life so I could build a crafty lie to keep my husband. Full disclosure returned her to my heart. I had never properly mourned the end of our friendship, and the wound was deep. I choke on the words as they fall from my mind and edge down my throat: “She won’t forgive me . . . How can I live like this? This is no life . . . Running from the truth has only exhausted and hardened me.” I search Jeannie’s face for the answer, for the how to do this prompt. But what I see staring back is my own solution. “Jeannie, I’m not willing to live the lie anymore,” I tell her.

  By allowing myself permission to feel the feelings, Jeannie said I was learning
to curtail the expression of anxiety. “Acknowledging that you fear you will lose your husband or that you have betrayed someone you loved is acknowledging an actual threat. Anxiety occurs from threats of the subconscious. Own the real threat. Share it. If you step on them or push them down, they will manifest in some other way.”

  “Please stop,” I tell her. “I know I’m on the couch, but I don’t want to be on the couch right now. I just need to cry. I just need to get this sadness out of me. If I don’t, I don’t know what will happen to me.” I’ve never spoken to Jeannie like this before. Always full of surprises, she doesn’t flinch. Instead she says, “I’m proud of you,” which after thirteen tissues begins to make sense.

  After I calm down, we go for a stroll around the facility.

  The day is undecided, like me. Earlier the sun had blinded me in its brilliance, until it became a blink, then all but vanished behind the clouds. You couldn’t see the wind whipping the bare trees, but I could feel it wrapping my arms tighter around me. Jeannie has warned me about crossing my arms when we are in therapy. She says it suggests a guardedness about me. Cagey. It’s my internal security system, the way I protect myself from lurking doom. I do as she says and loosen my arms from my chest and let them fall by my sides. I have grown fond of the land surrounding Cold Creek. Maybe I am appreciating the world around me with renewed interest because my eyes are open outward instead of in.

  “You’re making great progress,” she says. “It took a long time for you to get to those emotions, but you did it. And you felt them. And you didn’t resort to the old familiar patterns to work through them. You didn’t panic, and you didn’t die.”

  I thank her, but the compliment comes with a price. I am emotionally and physically exhausted. “I’m going to tell him.”

  She doesn’t hesitate: “That’s a wise decision.”

  “Abby, are you sleeping?” Rose persists, tugging at my sleeve and inching closer to my face, plucking me away from the chilling thoughts of Ryan abandoning me. I look her straight in the eyes and say, “Yes, I’m sound asleep.”

  She laughs and elbows me. I laugh back.

  I have found an unexpected complacency to my days here. While I have had some gritty issues to work through, the pieces of my internal puzzle are slowly making their way toward one another. Things hurt. I’m afraid. But it’s remarkable how I’ve managed to handle the stressors. I know there’s no finish line, that this never ends. I’m learning how to fall, dust myself off, and take the next step. I’m also weeks into a really good antidepressant and a mild antianxiety medication. They definitely help. I will probably remain on these drugs for the rest of my life.

  Stigma is a terrible word in the world of quiet sufferers. Cold Creek, and its staff of professionals, has worked closely with patients and families to relieve them of the shame associated with mental illness. When a patient presents with symptoms of diabetes or heart disease, and the treatment is lifelong, the general population accepts the diagnosis as a matter of physical health. Unfortunately, diseases of the brain are classified and perceived differently than diseases of the body. Your brain forms your personality. Your behavior is the result of the disease, of the brain misfiring. It’s easier to separate blame and fault from an impaired kidney or a damaged aorta than from an obsessive, compulsive, phobic person.

  In here we talk regularly about normal, successful people with arsenals of hidden truths. I wish I didn’t compare myself to the mothers at school—the capable, bright spots in the car-pool line, the shiny leaders of the community—but I do. I look at Rose and her nubile beauty; Sybil, and her enviable success in business. One of the most helpful moments for me with Jeannie was ridding myself of expectations and embracing acceptance. We’re all part crazy inside. I know it was not a mistake to come here.

  “Were you having a bad dream?” Rose asks.

  “More like a bad awake,” I tell her.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asks.

  “Nope,” I reply. “I got myself into this mess, and I’m going to get myself out of it.”

  Rose rests her head beside mine and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “We’re here if you need us, Abigail,” she whispers into my hair.

  My name actually feels nice rolling off her tongue. It shows me how far I’ve come.

  Abigail.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  RYAN

  It’s our final week of practice before the championship game. We have had to adapt to E.J.’s absence and fill the gaps where needed. I do my best to steer the boys away from the press. They unknowingly give me the initiative to fight my inner battle.

  Juliana is in the stands waiting for me. I notice how she uses her jacket to shield herself from more than the cold. She’s been unusually skittish lately, and instead of going home after school, she has been driving over to Pine Ridge to watch practices. Sometimes we grab a bite before heading home. Other times she follows me as we take the short drive home. As her father, I was the last to know she and E.J. broke up.

  We are in the locker room, and the boys are goofing around when I overhear one of them talking about Jules. They say she’s waiting for E.J. to show up. They say she’s been stalking him for days. And here I thought my girl was feeling the impact of her mama being gone, and wanting some time with her daddy. She’s waiting outside, and I go to her.

  The night sky is deep purple. Juliana is bundled up. The cold air pinches her skin, and she shivers. I wrap my arm around her as we walk to our cars. I didn’t want to get Juliana a car, afraid of accidents and how foolhardy kids can be, so she got her own—worked for three straight summers at the Y as a camp counselor and filled in at that bra store whenever they needed her. She earned enough to put a down payment on a used Jetta. She calls it Heisman, after the trophy.

  She leans in to me with her eyes locked on the ground.

  “Jules?” I ask, without really asking.

  The parking lot is empty, and the temperature has dropped too many degrees. She tells me very matter-of-factly, “E.J. and I broke up.” I act surprised. Until she adds, “I wanted to have sex with him and he dumped me.”

  I’m not sure what she’s more upset about: the refusal or the breakup. She doesn’t cry. She just stands there, waiting for my reaction.

  Juliana hasn’t had the most normal of upbringings. Early on, I knew much of the responsibility of rearing her would fall on my shoulders. And I didn’t mind. If I do one thing right in the world, it will be to make sure she grows up knowing she is loved.

  Our house was always teeming with boys from the field. Conversations, while inappropriate for a young girl, often centered on the rough and tumble of male companionship. “Gorilla speak,” I called it. Nothing surprised me when these boys were together. Jules was always at ease in their presence, and they treated her like their kid sister. Until she blossomed into someone they saw differently. Then the game of cat and mouse began, and with it, my heart escaped my chest.

  “You’re too young for sex,” I tell her.

  “I’m sixteen!” she shouts back in this ticked off, haughty way that makes her sound much older.

  “This is what’s bothering you? Of all the crap that’s landed on our doorstep, this is what you’re focusing on?”

  “I have needs,” she says.

  I laugh out loud.

  “I love E.J. He loves me.”

  “Yeah, well, that kind of stupid love makes babies and problems you’re too young to deal with.”

  “You taught me to be careful. All my life, Daddy. I know about protecting myself.”

  “Right now? We’re going to have this conversation right now?” I am pacing back and forth.

  “It’s different today than when you were growing up. No one has relationships anymore. Everyone just hooks up. At least I’m in a relationship.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Sex is about love. Love is about respect. Without that, you got nothing. I don’t care what th
ose hormones are telling you. Your generation sounds like a pack of fools.”

  “Marlee’s mom said she’ll take me to the gynecologist . . .”

  I may lose it on Marlee’s mom. “Why are we even having this conversation when you two have broken up?”

  This quiets her down. The last of the players leaves the parking lot, and it’s just me and my girl. I shake my head back and forth. “You don’t really think having sex with him is gonna make him come back?”

  Juliana is tapping her right foot ever so casually while her hands rest on her hips. It is a pose I have come to associate with most every teenage girl. I can infer annoyance and expectation in that one adolescent stance. I’m not sure how I’ve gotten so lucky with E.J. He actually turned this beautiful creature down. I’m relieved he’s out of my house, and if he were nearby, I would pat him on the back.

  A lone car enters the gates of the parking lot. It could be one of the players who left something behind, but it’s not. It’s Devon and Ellis. I bark out at Juliana, “Get inside!” but my headstrong daughter retreats, instead, to my side.

  Ellis is a tall, burly man whose eyes are full of mean. Devon is a few inches shorter and wider. The older man is angry, and he’s going to threaten everything I love. “Coach Holden,” he begins.

  “Ellis. Devon.” I extend my hand, not letting them see me flinch. The older man ignores my reach. Devon avoids my eyes, but his hand finds mine.

  “Coach, where’s my son?” Ellis asks.

  “That’s a good question. Shouldn’t you know where your son is?”

  Evil ricochets from Ellis’s eyes. “He owes me money.” Then he turns to Juliana and fear shoots through me.

  “Don’t you dare eye my daughter.”

  Juliana is shifting beside me. I hear her trying to quiet her breaths and the effort propels me into motion. I have had run-ins with fathers like Ellis Whittaker before, career criminals whose sons I have raised in their father’s absence, but none as dangerous as Ellis. Worse than their crimes is the legacy they leave behind.