The Upside of Falling Down

by Rebekah Crane

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say. I carry the paint bucket and brush with me as I climb to the top—Kieran holding the ladder still—and set the paint down on the tray at the top. Not so bad.

  “So what is it that scares you about heights?” I ask, examining the strip of pink paint on the house.

  “It’s the feeling I get.”

  “What’s the feeling?” I dip the brush.

  “The feeling like no matter what I do, I’m going to fall. Something will toss me over the edge. Instead of letting that happen, I make the decision myself. I get to decide when to jump.”

  “That’s actually really beautiful.” I remove the brush, forgetting to wipe the excess paint away, and watch as yellow droplets fall to the ground.

  Time moves in slow motion then—the falling paint, my body going numb, my hands gripping the side of the ladder until my fingers ache with pain. It’s panic in the most pure form—a sensation I’m well acquainted with—but this time, a new feeling emerges as I feel my body lose control.

  “The captain has asked that you remain in your seats. We are experiencing some unexpected bumps.”

  My body starts to shake.

  “All bumps are unexpected. If you knew they were coming, you’d avoid them completely.”

  I hold on to the ladder, but I don’t trust it. I can’t. Resentment overrides the panic. People walk through life feeling safe, taking risks because they believe everything will be OK. That ability was stolen from me along with my memories. Ripped from my hands. I will never feel safe again. This is all I’m capable of feeling. There is no “getting better” after you realize that everything and everyone can fail you.

  “Bunny . . .” Kieran’s voice breaks through the veil. “Bunny, why don’t you come down?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You’re just panicking a little. That’s OK. Just take it one step at a time. I’m right here at the bottom of the ladder. I won’t let anything happen.”

  I shake my head relentlessly. “You don’t know that.” If I open my eyes, I’ll see how high up I am. My legs will give out.

  “You’re right,” Kieran says gently. “But I know how you feel right now. This happens to me every time.”

  I swallow, trying to relieve my dry throat.

  “What do you do?” My voice is weak. When Kieran doesn’t answer for a moment, I plead. “Kieran.”

  “I’m here,” he says quickly.

  “Tell me what you do.”

  “You’re not going to like this, but . . . remember what I said about fear. If you conquer it, you find freedom.”

  “Yes.”

  “I live in the fear. I stop fighting it, and let it wash over me.”

  “You’re right. I don’t like that. It sounds horrible.”

  “It is at first. But then it’s not so bad. Fear wants you to stay scared, Bunny. But you don’t have to give in. You don’t have to let it control you.”

  I think for a brief instant that I might be strong enough to be OK. I have power over this. One step at a time, and I can get off this ladder. Not everything breaks. Not everything fails. But then the wind blows off the ocean, rattling the top of the ladder, and the panic is back. I grasp even harder.

  “Tell me something else,” I plead, squeezing my eyes shut. “Just keep talking.”

  “What do you want me to talk about?”

  “Anything.”

  “OK . . .” Kieran pauses. “There’s a moment bungee jumping, when you’re free-falling—”

  “Maybe not that.” Now my knuckles are turning white from gripping the ladder.

  “Just listen,” Kieran says. “The air actually feels thick. Almost like it’s keeping you afloat more than pushing you down. And you forget to be scared. You forget to be anything. You’re just . . . still and falling at the same time. At the end, when the bungee catches, you’re actually disappointed because it felt so good. It’s over too soon.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s the upside of falling down,” Kieran says. “It’s why you jump in the first place . . . for that moment.”

  I feel my hands loosen on the ladder, the blood coming back to my legs. “An upside?” It never occurred to me.

  “There’s always an upside, Bunny,” Kieran says.

  When he uses my nickname, I’m able to move again.

  “Just take it one step at a time.”

  Kieran coaches me, telling me which foot to move, and where each step is. I descend slowly, fear still gripping me, and along with the resentment comes added shame. I should be stronger than this—strong enough to do what Kieran says and let my fear go. I should be grateful to be alive. But I can’t seem to do that completely.

  Pushing the helpless feeling aside, hiding it, like I do everything else—that’s my only choice.

  Eventually, my foot finds the last rung, and then solid ground.

  “You can let go of the ladder,” Kieran says.

  I feel him next to me, his hand brushing my arm, waiting for me to reach out and grab it. I slowly peel one hand away from the ladder. Kieran’s hand wraps around mine, and I let go with my other hand, reaching for him. He finds me, his grip warm and strong. Relief comes at last, and he’s the one who offers it. But I couldn’t do it on my own, so even though the panic has eased, disappointment lingers.

  “You can open your eyes now.”

  Kieran stands in front of me. He exhales like he was holding his breath, and a warm wave of calm comes over me.

  “I guess you’re a little afraid of heights, too,” he says, his hands still holding mine, fastening me to the ground.

  But the relief is short lived. I step back quickly, releasing his hand. Kieran can’t be my anchor. He reminds me that my life can get better, that I will get better, but what am I giving him? And why can’t I do this on my own?

  “I thought I was over it,” I say, eyes on the ground. “I guess I’m not.”

  “We all have our flaws.”

  Clouds now cover the sun, and rain looks inevitable. The wind picks up.

  “I think we’re done for the day,” Kieran says. “Probably for the best.”

  As we drive back to the cottage, rain falls on the windshield. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, refusing to cry.

  I’ll just have to get used to the dull ache in my heart, like everything else. Forgetting the warm feeling of Kieran’s skin might be hard, but I can be willful when I need to. If I don’t . . . I fear I’ll get dangerously close to a line that, if crossed, I won’t come back from.

  I’ll be broken no matter how this story ends.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sleep eludes me. It’s dark outside. As I lie in bed, a gloom creeps inside me as well. I feel empty, and my heart aches, but for reasons I can’t understand.

  When I drifted to sleep earlier, I felt it again. I was reaching for someone. I could feel fingertips inches from mine and then in an instant, they were gone. It would be one thing to be alone in my dream. But to know something is there—something is just out of reach, and I can’t grab it—that’s torture.

  I tiptoe down the hallway to Kieran’s room. I raise my hand to the closed door, but I think better than to knock.

  Instead, I make a cup of tea in the kitchen, knowing I can’t go back to sleep for fear of the nightmare returning.

  When the silence in the cottage becomes too much, I find calm outside. The repetitive sound of the ocean blocks out the noise inside me. Waterville is fast asleep as I walk the streets, feeling a familiar loneliness. It’s better to walk than to lie in bed waiting to feel normal, and only be discouraged when it doesn’t happen.

  At the center of town, an ancient phone booth, rusted and seemingly unused, catches my attention. With no technology at the cottage, and Kieran’s and Siobhan’s cell phones always somewhere near or on them, my ability to contact the world outside of Waterville is extremely limited, which I appreciated . . . until now.

  I pick up the receiver and, surprisingly, hear a dial tone
. A sign at the top of the phone says, “For directory inquiries, please dial 11850.” Before I can think better of it, I punch in the numbers, and soon I’m connected to the hospital in Limerick.

  “I’d like to speak with Nurse Stephen,” I say.

  “Which Stephen?” the hospital operator says.

  “Um . . .” I don’t even know his last name. “He’s Jewish and gay.”

  The line goes quiet for a second, and then the operator says, “Hold, please.”

  The phone begins to ring again. A few seconds later, Stephen is on the other end.

  “Third-floor nurse’s station.”

  At the sound of his voice, I feel a rush of relief.

  “Stephen,” I whisper into the phone. “Can you hear me?”

  “Clementine? Is that you?” His voice sounds frantic.

  When he uses my old name—my real name—the hair on my arms raises, like the ghosts of my past just emerged to haunt me. Is it really me?

  “I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?” he asks.

  I hug the phone to my ear, tears threatening to spill down my cheeks for a second time today. “You don’t need to be worried. I’m OK.”

  “Why in God’s name did you leave the hospital?”

  “I just . . . I couldn’t do it, Stephen.”

  “Couldn’t do what, love?”

  “I couldn’t pretend I was her when I’m not. It’s not coming back to me, Stephen. My memories . . . they’re still gone.”

  I hear him exhale. “Just tell me where you are.”

  “I’m OK. Really. I don’t want you to worry about me.” Just hearing Stephen paints a picture in my head. The smell of disinfectant. The clinical, monochrome clothes. But here at the center of town, surrounded by colorful houses and a slight breeze of cool night air, I can hear the waves crashing and smell seawater.

  “Clementine?”

  “I’m here,” I say. “I need to know something.”

  “What is it, love?”

  “Is my dad . . . ?”

  “He’s here,” Stephen says. “He refuses to leave.”

  A piece of what’s weighing on me lightens. “Will you tell him I’m OK? Will you do that for me, Stephen?” But he doesn’t respond right away. Even now, after all the help Stephen has offered, I can’t give him Clementine back. Going back to Limerick wouldn’t solve anything. His loyalty is a gift I don’t deserve, but this is important. I beg him. “Please. Tell my dad I’m OK.”

  “OK,” he says finally. “Clementine, what’s that noise in the background?”

  “I’m by the ocean, Stephen.”

  “That doesn’t really help, love. Ireland is an island.”

  “I’m doing what you said. I’m adding to the list. You’re right about food. I know how to bake. And I dyed my hair purple. Purple! I have a friend named Clive, too. I think you’d really like him. He’s lovely.” I use the word on purpose, to sweeten the anger I’m sure Stephen feels. I wait for him to say something, but he’s quiet on the other end of the line, so I ask, “How is my dad?”

  Stephen chuckles into the phone. “He’s told me all there is to know about Cleveland. Apparently, you have the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame and a river that caught on fire once. Can you imagine? He also said that all good Clevelanders hate two things: the Pittsburg Steelers and Bill Belichick. Does any of that ring a bell?”

  “No . . . nothing.” I shake my head, not surprised. “Tell my dad that I promise the second I find myself, I’ll come back to him. Tell him to wait for me.”

  “Just come back, and we’ll get this sorted out.”

  “Promise me, Stephen,” I say emphatically. “Say the words.”

  He exhales into the phone. I’ll wait all night if I have to, but Stephen doesn’t make me do that. Reluctantly he says, “I promise.”

  “I haven’t forgotten how good you were to me.” Tears well in my eyes again, and this time a few escape down my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  I force myself to hang up, even though I wish I could stay on the phone with him all night, wrapped in his familiar voice.

  By the time I get back to the cottage, my body feels tired again, relaxed. Sleep seems possible, knowing my dad is still here, knowing Stephen still cares.

  I’ll give myself two more weeks in Waterville. If my memories don’t show up by then, I’ll be forced to take drastic measures. After all, the tabloids seem to know a lot about Clementine Haas. There are ways to make her come out of hiding. I just hope it doesn’t come to that.

  CHAPTER 12

  The plane crash becomes second-page news when a British pop icon marries an actor. Then scandal erupts within the British royal family, bumping the marriage to the inside covers, the crash lost somewhere in the back of the tabloids, with no pictures, next to the personal advertisements and weight-loss gimmicks. My fear of being noticed is almost gone. But that’s only one fear in the list of many that wake me at night.

  Shannon Walsh’s house slowly turns from pink to yellow. I deliver treats to Clive at the Secret Book and Record Store, and in return he takes me to the Beachfront Café for tea, mostly to avoid Siobhan. Her attitude toward me hasn’t changed.

  Kieran and I dance around each other as we paint, and every time we’re within close proximity, the dull ache creeps back into my heart. It’s become consistent, expected, a sort of comfort, if only it weren’t so frustrating. I’m starting to need him, which might be what frightens me most.

  The only solution is distance. I paint one side of the house. He works on the other. It’s the only way to save myself from the feelings I can’t seem to get rid of.

  And my memories . . . They aren’t coming back.

  I wake with nightmares, jostling, grabbing at the air, a scream hurtling toward my lips, with just enough time to stuff a pillow into my mouth so no one hears me. My first instinct is to knock on Kieran’s door so he can make me feel better, but I resist the temptation. Going outside is my only reprieve. I don’t make my way into town again to call Stephen. That can only happen once. The next time I talk to him, Clementine will be back.

  Two weeks have passed with no improvement. My time has expired, and even though I’m dreading this, the truth can’t be ignored anymore. The longer I lie, the worse it gets. That’s the truth about lies—when they linger, they slowly trick you into believing they’re the truth. When it all falls apart, the pain is even worse, because it’s now a part of you. And my lies are beginning to feel like the truth. The line I thought was secure in my mind has blurred, along with everything else. Clementine is losing strength as Jane gains a life. But whatever life Jane has is false.

  The first tourist buses arrive for the day as I make my way into town. The air smells fresh and clean. Puddles pool on the cement. The sand on the beach is damp with the sudden rainstorm we had this morning, but the clouds have since departed, and the sun is out. It warms my back as I walk, my sunglasses shielding my eyes, but now I’m not so naïve as to think the rain is done for the day.

  Waterville’s one internet café is down an alley off the main street. A bell announces my arrival at the small shop lined with old computers. An older man with brown hair stands behind the counter, a grin plastered on his face. Only one other person is in the café. He glances over his shoulder at me as I walk up to the counter. I ask the man working how much it costs, and he points to the coin machine next to a computer.

  “You put money in,” he says. “Five euros. Twenty minutes.”

  I thank him and take a seat at the computer a few down from the only other patron. His strawberry hair swoops over his forehead. Freckles cover most of his exposed skin.

  “It’s dial-up,” he says in an American accent. “Dial-up. It’s like I time-traveled back to 1999.”

  “Were you even alive in 1999?” I ask. He doesn’t appear any older than me.

  “You’re American.” He perks up immediately. “You’re right. I was barely alive in 1999. But I’ve seen pictures. Awful time. Lots of pleather and crop tops.”<
br />
  Unfortunately, he doesn’t read my silence well.

  “And boy bands. I think 1999 was the height of the boy band epidemic. Nasty, contagious disease. But I think it’s finally worked its way out of American pop culture. Though I cannot say the same for Ireland. Have you listened to the radio here? They’re still playing Robbie Williams. Robbie. Williams. I can’t believe I gave up a summer in the Hamptons for this.” The guy gestures at his computer. “And my dad took my phone. Said I needed to experience the charm of Ireland without technology. ‘Charm’ is another word for ‘ancient shithole.’ They don’t even have sinks with hot and cold water running out of the same tap. That’s archaic.”

  “I think it’s charming.”

  He gives me a flirtatious eyebrow wiggle. “You’re kind of charming.”

  “What?”

  “Look, you’re the first pretty girl I’ve met on this gruesome trip my father calls a ‘father-son bonding adventure.’ I gotta know. What’s a beautiful girl like you doing in the middle of Ireland?”

  “We’re not in the middle of Ireland,” I say. “We’re in Southwest Ireland.”

  “Semantics. Seriously, what are you doing in no man’s land? You know it rains here all the time, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not go to Italy? It doesn’t rain nearly as much in Italy.”

  “I don’t mind the rain.” I start to move to a different computer, but before I can, he scoots his chair toward me.

  “Are you from Seattle or something?”

  “Cleveland,” I say.

  “A midwesterner. They breed masochists.”

  I cock my head at him. “Why don’t you go home if you don’t like it here?”

  “I wish I could,” he says, “but my father coerced me into taking this trip because he feels guilty for leaving me and my mom for a big house in the Hamptons and an even bigger set of breasts on my stepmom”—he puts up his finger—“who happens to be only five years older than me. My name’s Andy, by the way. My therapist says people need to be more honest with each other. So that’s my truth.”

  “Did your therapist also tell you that you’re kind of overwhelming?” I ask.