The Upside of Falling Down

by Crane, Rebekah

  A few tweaks to the ingredients, and this cake would be outstanding. I know it. But the food turns sour in my mouth as I shake my head and set down the plate. The truth is I don’t know why I like it or why I know what it’s made of. And I don’t know why I think I could make it better. The only chocolate cake I can remember is the one I’m in the process of eating right now.

  Stephen tries something else. He holds up a green sweatshirt with an Irish flag that says “Limerick” on it and a purple sweatshirt that says “When Irish eyes are smilin’, they’re usually up to something.”

  “Which one do you like?” he asks. “Green or purple?”

  Both are fine, but I do prefer one. “Purple.”

  “Clementine likes purple.” Stephen lays the sweatshirt down on the end of my bed as I write down I like purple.

  “How is this supposed to trigger my memory again?”

  Stephen’s sight line falls to his hands, and he smiles in a broken kind of way. “Well . . . this one isn’t. I just wanted to get you something. Everything you had was . . .”

  He doesn’t need to finish his sentence. He and I both know this. Everything I had burned in the plane crash. The clothes I was wearing were cut off me on the way to the hospital. I have no passport. No money. I literally have nothing. Not even memories.

  This purple sweatshirt is the only item of real clothing I own right now. I put it on over my hospital gown and try to keep the panic out of my voice. “Thank you, Stephen. I love it.”

  He looks like he doesn’t really believe me.

  “Wait here,” he says before disappearing out of the room. Alone, I fidget with my new sweatshirt and wonder how this is all going to end. Do stories like this even have happy endings?

  Stephen comes back into the room minutes later with his arms full of clothes. He lays them out on the end of my bed and gestures to the messy pile. “Pick some.”

  “Pardon?” I sit up quickly.

  “You can’t feel human when you’re dressed like a science experiment.”

  Shirts, pants, shoes, socks, bras, even a pack of new underwear are spread out before me. I sift through everything. “Where did you get all of this?”

  “The lost and found.”

  “Lost and found?” I say.

  “Well . . . not everyone who comes to the hospital is found, if you know what I mean.”

  I drop the shirt that was in my hand. “You mean these are clothes from dead people?”

  Stephen rolls his eyes. “Not all dead. You’d be amazed what people leave behind here.” He picks up a bra and holds it up to my chest. “Thirty-four C. That should fit.” I snatch the bra from his hands, my face heating as Stephen chuckles. “It’s better than a hospital gown.”

  He’s right.

  Minutes later when I come out of the bathroom dressed in a plain red T-shirt and a pair of jeans, my confidence has grown. The pair of black-and-white Converse even fit.

  “How did you know my bra size?” I ask.

  “I’m a nurse. It’s my job to know the body.” Stephen and I exchange grins. He hands me the purple sweatshirt. “For an American, I think you’ve got some of our Irish luck in you.”

  The word “luck” turns my brief positivity sour. I should be happy I’m alive. And I am. But I’m not sure how alive I actually am right now. Yes, I’m breathing. Yes, my limbs and my heart and my mind work, for the most part. But life should be about more than that, right? The story. The moments. And I’ve lost mine.

  A chill comes over me even though I’ve put on the purple sweatshirt once again.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Thank you for letting me help.” Stephen goes to leave, pushing his cart with him, but before he does, I show him what I just wrote down in my notebook.

  I like how Stephen says “tanks” instead of “thanks.” It’s lovely.

  “You know,” Stephen says, “the Irish accent is always ranked as the sexiest in the world.”

  “And as someone pointed out earlier . . . apparently, I like sex, so it makes sense I like your accent.”

  Stephen taps on the notebook. “I thought that might come in handy.”

  Even with all Stephen’s encouragement and help, the unease of amnesia makes it hard to move forward, no matter how much I fight to keep going. I know I should press on, determined, unbreakable. A stronger person would do that. She’d fight. But all I feel like doing is curling up and disappearing.

  “Keep adding to the list, and eventually you’ll find yourself, Clementine.” Stephen hands back the notebook. “And if that doesn’t work, turn on the telly and watch Coronation Street. It always makes me feel better to see I’m not the only person with problems. Tracy is always up to something.”

  “But I don’t know where I belong,” I say. “Have you ever felt like that?”

  “Love, I’m Jewish and gay. In Ireland. Story of my life.” Stephen touches my arm, as if he can hold me together. “Stick to the list,” he says again.

  I nod, mechanically.

  “I can tell you one thing, Clementine. If you’re going to be lost, there’s no friendlier place to get lost in than Ireland.”

  When he’s gone, I add another item to the list in my notebook.

  I hate tattoos.

  CHAPTER 2

  After Stephen leaves, I spend some time folding the clothes on my bed until they are stacked in a neat pile. The containers of cotton swabs and tongue depressors are now all turned the same way and organized from biggest to smallest. The bed is made with tight corners, the scratchy top blanket smooth with no bumps.

  I write down something else about myself.

  I like to organize. How lame.

  My gown is in the garbage can. I will only wear regular clothes from this moment forward. When I meet my dad, I won’t be a disaster. But a word hangs in my head at this thought, like a weight pushing me further into the ground, attempting to knock me to my knees.

  I am meeting my dad for the first time. His daughter survives a plane crash only to not recognize him. How utterly awful. I have no choice but to cling to one possibility—the doctor said there is always the potential that seeing him will jog my memory. Seeing my dad will end this nightmare. I believe this. What other choice do I have?

  When my room is tidy, and there’s nothing left for me to organize, I turn on the television and sit down on my neatly made bed. The “telly” as Stephen would say is perched in the corner of the room and pops with static as it comes on. I’m not sure what Coronation Street is, but focusing on someone else’s problems right now sounds like a good distraction.

  Waiting for my dad is like waiting for the future and the past all at the same time. A few moments of diversion don’t sound too bad, but unfortunately, that plan dissolves as the television comes to life.

  “Workers are still trying to clear debris from the fields around Ballycalla. Airplane parts are scattered in all directions. For now, the victims’ families remain silent as they cope with this horrific event.”

  I sit forward, biting my nails. The remnants of a black and burned airplane litter an emerald-green field.

  “Eighteen-year-old Clementine Haas is the lone survivor of the plane crash that devastated the small town of Ballycalla. She was taken to Mid-Western Regional Hospital, Limerick, two days ago.”

  The scene changes to a shot of the hospital.

  “Authorities have now confirmed that she is awake and talking. We’ll bring you more coverage as the details of this horrific accident and its only survivor unfold.”

  I turn off the television and run to the window. The hospital is surrounded by television crews. Reporters stand outside with microphones and coffee in their hands, and burly men and women with big cameras are just waiting for me to “shed some light on this horrific accident.”

  The room closes in around me. Stephen said the media was following the story, but as if being trapped by my mind isn’t bad enough, I’m also literally trapped in the hospital. There is no way out of this
nightmare.

  I sink to the ground, curling my knees up to my chest, my body rocking back and forth uncontrollably. Blonde hair hangs over my shoulders, and the smell of its burned ends makes me nauseous.

  I’m losing control. The items I’ve added to my list are pathetic. They don’t add up to a life. What is the point of cheating death if a life doesn’t exist when you wake up? I’m not strong enough for this.

  I crawl across the room to my bedside and press the emergency bell repeatedly. I might press it until it breaks, which makes me feel good. Then I won’t be the only broken thing in this room.

  Stephen rushes in a second later, alarmed to find me in a huddled mess on the floor. He races to my side. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

  I want to scream, but all I manage to whimper is, “I can’t stop biting my nails. I mean, look at these fingers. They’re mutilated. Not a speck of polish.”

  “Maybe you’re not a manicure kind of girl?” he asks, confused.

  “Do you know how infuriating it is to do something and have no idea why you do it?”

  Stephen sits down next to me. “I can’t begin to imagine.”

  “Don’t.” I point at him with my dismal fingers. “Don’t give me that pathetic voice.”

  I may not know who I am, but I cannot be pathetic. Being pathetic is just so . . . pathetic. I’m too angry for that.

  “And my hair,” I say. “It doesn’t matter how much you wash it, it smells like a bonfire. Look at the ends. They’re sizzled.”

  “We can fix your hair.” Stephen gets off the floor and pulls me up to meet him. The room spins beneath me as I grab his arms to steady myself.

  “I can’t breathe in this room, Stephen. I need to get out of here.” He shakes his head, unsure, but I bring his attention back with a jolt. “Please. Help me.”

  His answer doesn’t come promptly, but eventually Stephen’s stiff stance melts some, and he exhales. “Fine. I’ll help you with your hair. And then maybe, maybe, we can discuss leaving this room for a bit.”

  “As long as there’s a chance, I’ll take it.”

  Stephen retrieves a pair of surgical scissors. He pauses before snipping the ruined ends.

  “Go ahead,” I say firmly. “Cut it. I don’t remember the girl with this haircut anyway.”

  He trims my hair, slowly with care. “Love, don’t be so hard on yourself,” he says. “Most people your age do stuff and have no idea why they’re doing it. It’s called being young.”

  “I don’t feel young. I feel . . . lost.”

  He touches my cheek. “Well, at least you know that.”

  When he’s done, he dusts hair from my back and sweeps it up from the floor. I refuse to sit down. My feet itch to move and leave this bland, sterile place.

  “So . . . ,” I say, eyeing the window. “Please.”

  But Stephen just shakes his head.

  “The fresh air and sunshine might trigger something,” I insist.

  This seems to get Stephen’s attention.

  “You never know.” I shrug.

  Stephen thinks for a bit. “Well . . . maybe just a short trip to the courtyard. Five, ten minutes at most, then it’s back to bed with you.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  “And you have to ride in a wheelchair.”

  I roll my eyes, but say, “Deal.”

  By the time we make it down to the hospital courtyard, it feels like a different world. The day is mild and sunny. The fine weather eases my anger, though my nerves tingle as Stephen wheels me toward an empty stone table. I scan all the people around us, worrying someone might recognize me.

  “No one knows who you are,” Stephen assures me. “They haven’t released your picture to the media yet.”

  “What about my accent? I’m clearly American.”

  Stephen waves the thought away. “There are more Americans in Ireland in the summer than there are Irish. It’s tourist season. I’ve seen four Americans today already. Mostly hangovers and sheep bites.”

  “Sheep bites?”

  “They all want to pet the sheep.” Stephen rolls his eyes. “You should be safe as long as you’re on hospital grounds. The media can’t get to you in here. They’re not allowed inside.” He adds, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  I take a deep breath. Ireland smells like rain and sunshine blended together.

  After some negotiating, Stephen agrees to rid us of the wheelchair—which only reminds me of how broken I feel—and situates us at a table in the sun.

  “I’m sorry I lost it back there,” I say.

  “In truth, I’m surprised it took you so long.”

  The sky is crystal blue with only a few meandering clouds. People laugh and talk, their lives moving forward. Even the wind blows in a steady direction, but me . . .

  “It’s just . . .” Words are inadequate to explain how disorienting this feels—how the world is moving, but I’m stuck. And my head hurts. “Thank you.”

  Stephen turns his face up toward the sun. “Just don’t go talking to any weird strangers.”

  “Everyone is a stranger.”

  “Weird strangers. People carrying cameras and notepads and stuff.” Stephen settles back in his seat. “And trench coats. Flashers, CIA agents, and undercover reporters always wear trench coats. You don’t want to run in to any of them.”

  When everyone in the world is a stranger, who am I supposed to trust? For all I know, anyone could lie to me. The calm that I’d begun to feel slowly disappears as I realize how unsafe my life is now.

  When I’m silent for too long, Stephen grabs hold of my hand. “I told you. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

  “But how can I trust anyone?”

  Stephen gets a look of resolve on his face and says, “You lived through a plane crash. That speaks to how strong you are, whether or not you can remember exactly who you are. The past is the past, but presently you are a mighty creature. Write that down.”

  I write I am a mighty creature in my notebook, though I’m not sure I believe it.

  Stephen nods. “So start acting like it. Shoulders back. Thirty-four C chest out.”

  I sit up straight for Stephen’s sake, but it’s hard not to look at the people in the courtyard suspiciously. I am a stranger to myself, and the world is a stranger to me.

  “Tell me something good,” I say to Stephen.

  He seems surprised. “Like what?”

  “Something good about all of this.”

  Stephen thinks for a second and then lights up. “You’re a born-again virgin! You get to have sex for the first time all over again.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.”

  “Think of it this way. You get to have your first kiss again. And first love all over again.” Stephen gets a dreamy expression on his face.

  That hadn’t occurred to me.

  “Do you really think I’ve been in love before?” I say.

  Stephen thinks for a long while, like he’s trying to remember my life for me. His care is evident, which feels miraculous since we just met this morning. But when his face falls, for just a second, he looks at me like I’m a sad creature, not a mighty one. Even if I was in love in my past life, in this life I don’t even recognize my own name. And the heart tattoo on my foot isn’t a good sign.

  “Never mind,” I say and tap the notebook in my hand. “Keep adding to the list and eventually I’ll find myself. Right?”

  “Right,” Stephen says with a weak grin. A chill rolls through the air as a cloud covers the sun. Stephen glances up at the sky. “Time’s up. I need to take you back inside.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Just a few more minutes?” I plead.

  Stephen chews on the idea before explaining that he could go see one of his other patients for just a few minutes if I promise not to go anywhere. “But you have to promise.”

  “I promise.” I cross my heart.<
br />
  Stephen leaves. I settle back in my chair, closing my eyes, the sun sinking into my skin. I’m tired of thinking. My mind rolls and turns and doesn’t seem to lead me anywhere. I’ll let the wind do the moving and spinning for now, instead of me.

  It’s unnerving how much control I want and how little I actually have. Living in a state of chaos only makes a person want to hold on tighter. It’s been one day, and I’m exhausted. Imagining a lifetime of this—gripping at everything like it might save me, only to be disappointed—feels unfathomable.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” a voice says. My eyes open to find a guy standing in front of me with a tray of red and orange Jell-O. He has bright blue eyes, and his shaggy black hair pokes out from underneath his baseball cap. He’s a stranger among all the other strangers, but he’s talking to me when no one else is. He plops down in the seat across from me, casually opening a container of red Jell-O.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. With my mind already jumbled, riddled with the unexpected, I really didn’t expect this.

  He looks at me with a quizzical face. “Eating.”

  “Why?”

  He rests his forearms on the table, a spoon in his hand. “It’s a requirement for survival.”

  Stephen told me to be wary of people in trench coats, but this guy isn’t wearing one. With his ratty old hat—“Paudie’s Pub, Waterville, Ireland”—blue Trinity College T-shirt, and faded jeans, he doesn’t appear . . . media-like.

  “But why are you sitting here?” I ask.

  He glances at all the other full tables and points to an older, grumpy-looking man sitting alone across the yard. “It was between you or him. Quite honestly, you’re better looking.”

  He opens another container of red Jell-O and starts eating. His presence at my table is slightly disturbing, but he seems more interested in the Jell-O than in me.

  “Aren’t you a little old for Jell-O?” I ask.

  “I’m not that old. And here in Ireland, we call it Jelly. Just so you know.”

  “Well, how old are you?”

  “How old are you?” he counters.

  “Eighteen.”

  “Twenty,” he says, eating a heaping spoonful. “I win.”