The Year We Fell Down

by Sarina Bowen

  “You can’t stay there!” she laughed. “Not on Thanksgiving.”

  Dana pressed a bottle of wine into her hands. “Thanks so much for having us.”

  “You’re always welcome. But hang on, Adam. I didn’t realize Miss Callahan was a girl. She won’t want to bunk with you.”

  “Mom, all the ladies want to share my bed.”

  “Hartley!” I punched him in the arm, and his mother laughed.

  He turned to me. “The bed is the size of Massachusetts. I’m not kidding.” To his mom he said, “You’re not talking me onto that evil couch.” Hartley kissed her on the cheek. “How are you?”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Is there anything Bridger and I can help you with while we’re here?”

  She cocked her head to the side. “The car could use an oil change,” she said. “You could do that this weekend. Save me the forty bucks.”

  “Done,” he said.

  Theresa had already done most of the work on the Thanksgiving meal. The turkey was almost done, and two pies cooled on the counter.

  Even so, Hartley tied an apron around his waist and then poured a quart of heavy cream into a bowl. He took a whisk from a drawer and began whipping quick ovals through the bowl. “What’s the matter, Callahan? You’ve never seen a guy whip cream before?”

  I shook off my surprise. “I just wouldn’t expect you to cook, Hartley.”

  “I’m only the assistant.” He sped up the motion, the whisk a blur through the white surface. He picked up a cup of sugar and shook some of it into the mixture. Then he began whipping again.

  I dragged my eyes away from the mouthwatering sight of Hartley’s upper body hard at work. “So what can I do to help?” I asked. “I’m not, um, a cook. But I take direction well enough.”

  “We’ve got it covered,” Theresa said, although it seemed categorically impossible that at two p.m. on Thanksgiving there wasn’t something I could do.

  “Mom,” Hartley said, “Callahan gets cranky if she thinks you’re babying her. If you want peace in the kingdom, give her a job.”

  His mother laughed. “Sorry, Corey. It’s just that I’m not used to it. Not all of Hartley’s friends have such a positive attitude toward kitchen work.”

  “Nice, mom,” Hartley said. “Take a couple of shots at her even though she’s on another continent.”

  I pointed to a bag of potatoes on the counter. “Do these need peeling?”

  “They sure do,” Theresa said, opening a drawer to produce a peeler.

  I tucked the bag under my arm, and crutched over to the kitchen table. I heaved myself into a chair. Theresa watched as I unlocked my knees and swiveled to face the table. She brought me a newspaper for the peels, and a bowl for the finished spuds. The peeling was slow work, but I didn’t mind.

  “Adam, how’s the therapy going?” Theresa asked.

  “Tedious,” he said, still whisking. “Callahan and I have the same trainer. Pat the drill sergeant.”

  “I think therapists are like dentists,” I said. “Nobody is ever excited to see them. Or maybe you and I are just jerks.”

  “Or maybe it’s Pat,” Theresa suggested.

  “Nope!” I argued cheerfully. “I’ve pretty much disliked every therapist I’ve met. And there have been many.” I tossed another potato into the bowl. “Although, I might be mellowing with age. I’m not as ornery with Pat as I was with the others.”

  “Why?” Hartley asked.

  “Well, the first therapists I saw were teaching me to do things like put on my own socks, and transfer from the wheelchair to a bed. And I was so pissed off that I needed someone to teach me that, I couldn’t see straight.”

  “I can understand that,” Theresa said.

  “They know a lot of cool tricks, though. Once they show you something — like how to get from the floor back into your wheelchair without tipping over — it’s just so obvious how much you need their help. And that just makes it worse. You hate learning it, but you can’t afford not to.”

  “Sounds like a blast,” Hartley said.

  “You’d think, since I’d spent so many hours training for sports, that I would have been a model patient, but you’d be wrong,” I told them. “Okay, I’m going to stop whining now,” I said, tossing a potato into the bowl.

  “You’re not a whiner, Callahan,” Hartley said sweetly. “Except when you lose to me at RealStix.”

  “But that so rarely happens,” I said, and Theresa laughed.

  The house began to smell wonderful. Dana and Bridger set the table, swearing that they couldn’t use my help at just at that moment. So I sat on the living room couch, flipping pages in my economics textbook. Exams were coming up fast.

  Lucy appeared in front of me, a deck of cards in her hands. “Do you know how to play Uno?”

  “Well, sure,” I closed the book. “Want to play?”

  “Yeah! Do you know how to shuffle? I suck at shuffling.” She threw herself down on the living room floor and cut the deck in two.

  I unstrapped my braces and dropped them on the floor. Then, with no grace whatsoever, I slid off the sofa and butt-scooted over to Lucy. Using my hands, I arranged my legs in a straddle position and took the cards from her. As I shuffled and dealt, Lucy stretched out a hand and cautiously touched my toe.

  “Um, Callahan?” she looked at me with a question in her eyes. “Can you really not feel this?”

  I shook my head. “Can’t. Swear to God.” I watched as her finger traced the top of my sock. She might as well have been touching someone else’s foot, for all I could tell.

  “What does it feel like not to feel?” Lucy had a high little voice, clear and sweet. If someone else had asked me the question, I might have bristled. But there was a guileless curiosity shining in her face, and it was impossible to feel self-conscious.

  “Well, I can only say that it feels like nothing. If I were to reach over and pinch your ponytail, you might not notice. Or you might feel a little tug, but not in the place I’m pinching. Like that.”

  Lucy considered this explanation. “That’s a little creepy.”

  I laughed. “It is, honestly. Sometimes I stare at my feet and try to convince them to move. When I was in the hospital I did that all day long. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. I’d say, ‘come on feet! Everyone else is doing it.’”

  Lucy giggled. “Do you miss walking normal?”

  “Well, sure. But mostly I can get where I need to go. Stairs are a big problem, though. And what I really miss is skating.”

  Lucy frowned, her elfin face tilted up toward mine. “Skating is okay,” she said. “But I fall down a lot. Not like Bridger. He skates fast.”

  “Keep skating, and you’ll go fast too. Fast is amazing,” I told her. “It feels like flying. I still dream about skating. I think I dream about it every night.” I’d never admitted that out loud before. And Lucy’s mouth didn’t fall open with distress the way my parents’ would, if I’d said it to them.

  “I dream about riding horses,” Lucy said, fiddling with her cards. Then the little girl turned her chin toward the doorway. “What, Hartley? Did you want to play too?”

  I looked up quickly, but Hartley was already turning away. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there. “Dinner in fifteen minutes,” he said in a gruff voice as he walked away.

  There were six of us around the table, and Theresa lit candles as we passed around the dishes.

  “No green beans,” Lucy argued as her brother filled her plate.

  “Just eat three,” Bridger countered. “Hartley, guess what they outlawed from the training camp for next year?”

  “Let me think,” Hartley said, flipping a dollop of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “The climbing wall?”

  “Bingo,” Bridger said. “Isn’t that stupid? The insurance company is making them take it down.”

  Hartley passed the platter of turkey to his mother. “As long as they don’t outlaw hockey, we should be okay.”


  “Actually, I heard they’re talking about jacking the penalties again,” Bridger complained. “Which is stupid. You almost never see anyone get seriously hurt at the rink.”

  At that, I almost choked on the piece of turkey in my mouth.

  “Didn’t somebody break both his wrists last year?” Theresa asked.

  “That was really a freak accident,” Bridger said. “But seriously — look at football. Brain damage, anyone?”

  Dana cleared her throat. “This is just lovely, Theresa. Thank you so much for having us.” I felt my roommate’s eyes on me.

  “My pleasure, sweetie.”

  “I mean, a few broken bones is pretty tame by comparison,” Bridger continued, oblivious.

  The tension on Dana’s face drew Hartley’s attention. He looked from Dana to me to Bridger. And then understanding dawned on his face. “Bridge?” Hartley said, his voice edgy. “Can you grab the wine off the kitchen counter?”

  Lucy hopped out of her chair. “I’ll get it!”

  “I get so sick of people saying hockey is only for bruisers,” Bridger continued. “It’s just not true.”

  “Dude,” Hartley said, exasperated. “Shut up already.”

  Bridger looked up at the faces around him. When his gaze landed on me, his mouth fell open. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

  Next to him, Hartley’s mom wore a look of undisguised horror.

  “I’m sorry…” Bridger shook his head, speechless. “No idea…”

  “There’s no need,” I said quickly. I really wasn’t going to talk about my accident on Thanksgiving.

  Just at that second, Lucy came bounding back into the room. “Here,” she said, handing Hartley a bottle of vinegar.

  He stared at it in his hand. “Um, thanks?” he set it down on the table.

  “Hey,” Lucy said. “We have to say what we’re thankful for.” She climbed back in her chair and looked at all of us expectantly.

  Theresa swallowed hard, and then her eyes went soft. “You’re right, Lucy. Do you want to start?”

  “Sure! I’m thankful for…” her little brow wrinkled in thought. “Ice cream, and no homework over Thanksgiving. And mom and Bridger. Oh — and all the Christmas specials start this weekend.”

  Bridger leaned back in his chair, his eyes made darker by the candlelight. “That’s a good list, kid,” he said gently. I got a lump in my throat as he put his big hand on her little shoulder. “If I’m next…” he looked around the table again. “Then I’m thankful for the whole crew here. Because you all put up with me,” his smile was shy.

  “Well you took mine,” Dana said. “So I’ll say how awesome it is to be back in America. This year so far has been just as great as I’d hoped it would be.”

  Then it was Hartley’s turn. “Well, I’m grateful for Advil, and beer, and elevators, and my mom putting up with me. And for good friends who drink beer and ride elevators and drive me places. And put up with me.”

  Theresa was next, holding her glass of wine in the candlelight. “I’m just happy to see all of your shining faces around my table tonight.” She beamed at each of us in turn. “Thank you for coming.”

  That left only me. And while I’d been enjoying hearing what nice things my friends had to say, the truth was that I couldn’t think of anything to add. Because I hadn’t been a very thankful person lately. “I’d like to say thanks to whichever computer makes the roommate assignment selections. And for getting to sit here with all of you tonight.”

  And that’s the best I could do. At least for right then.

  Chapter Ten: There's Always Custom

  — Corey

  “I’m no good at clearing the table,” I said, balancing my weight against the countertop. “But I can wash or dry.”

  Hartley tossed me a dish-towel, and Theresa handed me a wet serving bowl.

  Bridger walked past the doorway of the kitchen carrying Lucy piggyback style. “I read two chapters already,” he said. “Now you’re going to sleep.” I heard his footsteps on the stairs.

  “Why aren’t you going to sleep?” Lucy argued.

  “I will,” he said. “After I have a beer with Hartley.”

  “I’ll wait up for you,” she said.

  “If you wait with your eyes closed, that’s okay,” he said, chuckling. A half hour later¸ he came into the living room alone, bringing two six-packs with him.

  “You know why I invited you two?” Hartley asked Dana and I, taking a deck of cards out of a drawer in the coffee table.

  “Why?” Dana asked.

  “So that we could play euchre, of course.”

  I clapped my hands together. “Yes! Girls against the boys.”

  “Bring it.” Bridger cracked open a beer, offering it to Dana.

  “But I don’t know what euchre is,” she said, reaching for the bottle.

  “Fuck, really? And here I thought Japanese schools were superior.” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Hey, mom?”

  Teresa stuck her head in the room. “You rang?”

  “We need a fourth for euchre. Dana doesn’t know how.”

  “Ah,” she said, coming in. “The best game ever. Do you know anything about bridge? Euchre is like bridge for idiots. Once you watch a couple of hands, you’ll be good to go.” She took a seat, and the beer that Bridger offered her.

  Hartley ran through the rules for Dana. “And there’s one kind of cheating that’s legal.”

  “Wait,” Dana said. “If it’s legal, how is it cheating?”

  “Just go with it, Dana,” he said. “In euchre, you can steal the deal. If the dealer doesn’t realize it’s his turn, and you step in, you keep the advantage.”

  “This is so complicated,” Dana complained.

  Hartley shook his head. “It isn’t, not really. Because there’s only six cards in the game. You’ll see.”

  Theresa played a hand with us, and she and I quickly euchred Bridger and Hartley.

  “So that was, like, a practice hand,” Hartley said.

  “What?” I yelped. “No way. Two points for the women.”

  “Competitive, much?” Hartley asked.

  Theresa laughed. “Pot, I’d like to introduce you to the kettle.”

  “You should see them in front of that video game,” Dana said. “I have to leave the room.”

  “I can only imagine.” Theresa picked up the deck and began to shuffle. “Bridger, how’s your mom?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not great. But as long as she keeps her job, things will be okay. The work-week holds her together.”

  “It must be so hard for her,” Theresa said, shaking her head.

  “I used to say that too,” Bridger picked up his cards. “But at some point you just have to pull yourself together, and I don’t see that happening. Long weekends are the worst. That’s why I brought Lucy down here with me.”

  Theresa winced. “Bring her anytime.” Then she looked at her watch. “I’m going to go close my eyes for an hour before I have to go to work.”

  “Tonight?” I asked, incredulous.

  Hartley nodded. “It’s Black Friday. If mom doesn’t go in to work, then the people waiting in the parking lot outside Mega-Mart can’t get a hundred bucks off the latest cell phone.”

  “Ugh,” Dana said. “All night long?”

  Theresa just shrugged. “It’s no big deal. But, Corey? Before I go, I just want to say that my dear son would be happy to sleep on the sofa.”

  “Bullshit,” Hartley said.

  “It will be fine, Theresa,” I said. “I have crutches, and I’m not afraid to use them.”

  “She isn’t, Mom,” Hartley said, taking a swig of beer. “Trust me.”

  Hartley’s mom just shook her head as she left the room.

  Dana was a quick study, and our euchre game was soon tied at seven to seven. I dealt the next hand.

  “So, Hartley, what’s the countdown?” Bridger asked.

  “The countdown?”

  “When does the horniest man in
the Ivy League get his girlfriend back?”

  I flipped over a jack, and Dana gasped at our good fortune. But I was distracted by the conversation.

  “Pass,” Hartley muttered at the card. Then he looked at Bridger. “Two weeks or so, I think. She mentioned coming back before the Christmas Ball.”

  Before the Christmas Ball? That was December tenth — the same day as our economics final. Suddenly, I saw the demise of our evenings playing RealStix together. I’d always known that Hartley’s girlfriend would reappear next term. But that had always seemed so far off. And now she was two weeks away?

  At Dana’s bidding, I picked up the jack, and tried to look happy about it. But inside I was crushed by the news I was getting.

  “How is that fair?” Bridger said. “Her term started after ours and ends earlier? What a scam.”

  “Totally. And they only had classes Tuesday through Thursday,” Hartley added, throwing away a nine. “That left long weekends to travel around Europe. There are pictures on Stacia’s Facebook page from Lisbon to Prague.”

  “I saw those,” Bridger said, swigging his beer. “The architecture was not the most interesting thing in them.”

  Hartley shook his head. “Don’t go there, man.”

  “Does it really not interest you that the same skinny Italian guy is in every shot?”

  Across from me, Dana lifted her eyes to mine.

  “Like I said, there is such a thing as legalized cheating. We have an arrangement,” Hartley said, his voice dropped low. “Stacia thinks there’s no point in standing on the bridges of Paris without someone to kiss at sunset.”

  “I don’t see you taking advantage of this,” Bridger shot back.

  Hartley shrugged. “Not my style.”

  “And that,” Bridger said, laying down an ace to win the last trick, “is the reason I don’t do relationships.”

  “That’s your call,” Hartley said. “But I don’t see how it concerns me.”

  Quietly, Dana scooped up the cards and began to shuffle them together. I saw what she was doing, and busied myself with worrying the label on my beer.

  “How does it not concern you?” Bridger asked. “She could at least be subtle about it.”