The Upside of Falling Down

by Rebekah Crane

  “I already knew that.” He stretches back in his seat, resting his hands behind is head. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “My turn for what?”

  “Tell me your problems, and your name.”

  “I don’t have any problems,” I lie.

  “Oh, you have problems. It’s written all over your face.” I grab my cheeks, and he smiles. “I knew it.”

  “I’m not telling you my problems.”

  “A girl with secrets. Even better.” He points at me. “The purple hair helps with the mystique.”

  “Lavender,” I say. He cocks his eyebrow at me. “The hair color is Lusty Lavender.”

  “Lusty Lavender. You just keep getting better.” He’s charming, in a slightly unpredictable way. “Well, Lusty Lavender, you’re the best thing I’ve seen on this trip. This whole island smells like manure.”

  “Maybe it’s not the island. It’s you. I think it’s lovely here.”

  “I think you’re lovely. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “It’s eleven in the morning.”

  “I won’t judge you”—he winks at me—“if you don’t judge me. Have you noticed how they tell time here? When someone says it’s half five, does that mean it’s five thirty or four thirty?”

  “Five thirty.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up for me. So how about that drink? Just don’t order wine. It comes in mini bottles. Like the shitty kind you get on airplanes, in coach. You really should go to Italy. Ditch this place.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’m OK.” I stand up to move to another computer.

  “I get it. I get it. My therapist says I need to be more self-aware, but if I can’t buy you a drink, can I at least get a picture with you?” I glare at him. “In truth, I just want to brag to my friends that I met a hot girl on this trip.”

  “You really are messed up,” I say.

  “I know.” Andy shrugs. “I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy to figure that out. But also, it turns out, we all are.”

  I can’t really argue with that. I might be a bigger mess than he is.

  “So what do you do . . . to clean up the mess?” I ask.

  “My therapist says it all starts with telling the truth.” Andy exhales. “So the truth is, if I get a picture with you, it will royally piss off my dad, who made me promise I would take this ‘father-son bonding trip’ seriously.” He holds up a camera. “Just one little photo to help out a messed-up guy?”

  “And you promise to leave me alone after that?”

  Andy crosses his finger in an X over his heart. “You have my word.”

  “Fine,” I say.

  Andy puts his arm around my shoulder, hastily snapping a picture of the two of us. He looks at the display screen and says, “Thanks. It’s perfect. I’ll leave you alone now.” He zips his lips closed.

  “Thanks.”

  I move to the other side of the café. I can’t have Andy over my shoulder when I search “Clementine Haas.” He may be nosier than Clive.

  The computer takes a few minutes to come to life, and after a lot of obnoxious noises, it finally connects to the internet. I check one more time to make sure Andy isn’t hanging over my shoulder, but he’s engrossed in his computer.

  I try to settle into my seat, but anxiety keeps my toes tapping against the floor. I bite my nails without trying to stop myself.

  I told Kieran I needed to email my parents before going to paint at Shannon’s. He apologized for not having a computer and held out his cell phone. “Would you like to call them?”

  I politely declined, claiming I didn’t want to run up his bill, and he pointed me in the direction of the café. I was partially relieved when he suggested it, but the other side of me wanted Kieran to give me a reason not to do this. My stomach sat high in my ribs, jumping and spinning, all morning.

  Google pulls up on the home screen. Clementine Haas, Cleveland, Ohio, is bound to bring something up. But my fingers can’t seem to type the words. My stomach lurches at the thought of what might appear . . . or what might not. The questions that plague me daily come to the surface again. What if I don’t remember? What if all I see are images of my life, but not a single memory surfaces? What if I do remember, and I don’t like what I see? What’s worse—blindly not remembering, or seeing your life in front of you, only to be disappointed?

  But the time for delaying is over. I said two weeks, and it’s been that long. My father is waiting for me. I gave myself a deadline because leaving him behind isn’t fair when I can take action. I type: Clementine Haas, Cleveland, Ohio. Then I change my mind and delete Clementine.

  Haas, Cleveland, Ohio.

  Baby steps. Start small and work my way up. This is a big moment that I need to take in tiny increments. I click on the “Search” button before I can change my mind.

  It takes a few seconds for anything to appear. When the screen lights up with links, I lean in closer to the computer, protective, my stomach a mess.

  At first glance, every link is about the crash—article after article about what happened to me. The words bring up panic and disbelief, which scream at me that I am not ready to read about the worst moment in my life. I can’t even get up on a ladder.

  At the bottom of the page, one article gives me pause. It isn’t about me. I stare at the words, reading them over and over.

  Owner of the Local Bakery, Born and Bread, Killed in Drunk Driving Incident

  I click on the article, and seconds later, it appears on the screen.

  November 23, 2005. Lakewood, Ohio—Thirty-six-year-old Mary Haas was the victim of a hit and run early Monday morning on the corner of Detroit Road and Riverside Drive in the Cleveland suburb of Lakewood. She was taken to Fairview Hospital and died, due to complications from the incident, late Monday afternoon. Officers found the suspect and have confirmed that Roger Spiegel had been drinking prior to the incident.

  Mary Middleton Haas, known to most as Mimi, was the popular owner of the neighborhood bakery, Born and Bread, a Cleveland staple for over fifty years. Haas bought the bakery in 1995 when then owners, Ruth and Rex Benson, threatened to close. Haas reinvigorated Born and Bread, attracting people from all over the city to her popular sugar cookies.

  “She will be deeply missed,” said Stacy Partridge, a longtime patron. “Everyone who walked through the doors of Born and Bread felt her passion for that place.”

  Mary Haas leaves behind a husband, Paul, and a six-year-old daughter, Clementine. Funeral services are planned for later this week at St. James Cathedral, just blocks from the bakery and the site of the incident.

  After my tenth read, I’m still paralyzed. Numb. Disconnected from my entire body. My mom died because of a drunk driver. She owned a bakery. I say it so many times internally that I know I’ll never forget it, but . . . what happened next?

  Reading the article is like reading a book. I want to turn the page and let the story continue. Does the bakery shut down? Does the driver, Roger Spiegel, go to jail? Do thousands of people show up to the funeral? What happens to her family?

  But it’s not a book . . . It’s my life. Of all the memories, how can I not remember this one?

  I told Kieran my last name was Middleton. My brain must have picked it because it’s my mom’s maiden name. But even now as I say it, I don’t feel a connection.

  I’m filled to the brim with nothing. And nothing feels awful. I shut down the computer and stand up hastily from my seat. The chair squeaks, and Andy glances over at me.

  “Leaving, Lusty Lavender? Are you sure you don’t want a drink?”

  With my sunglasses hiding my tear-filled eyes, I run out of the café.

  When the hospital called my dad, he told them about my mom’s death. I read it on my chart, so this shouldn’t be a surprise. But a small note, scratched in Stephen’s handwriting, is different than an article with details—details a girl should know about her mom.

  I can’t recall the bakery at all. The article said she was known for her
sugar cookies. Is that why I have a knack for baking?

  A pack of tourists walks toward me in a clump, taking pictures and chatting, laughing—all as my world deteriorates. Surrounded by strangers, I stop on the sidewalk, unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch them pass by as I sob like a scared child. People watch, but I’m so tired of holding myself together. It takes too much energy to keep all the pieces in place.

  No amount of grasping, clenching, squeezing, or moving forward can fix this.

  “Are you OK, sweetheart?” An older woman carrying an umbrella touches my arm. Her hair is nearly black except for a thick streak of gray. Her hand has a diamond ring on one of the fingers. That ring holds a memory. A teardrop necklace dangles from her neck, and I’m sure she could tell me where she got it, who gave it to her, and the line of recollections she has about that one person.

  “Do you look like your mom or dad?” I ask her in between sobs.

  With a surprised expression, she answers, “My mum. Why?”

  I notice a scar on her chin and point to it. “And how’d you get that?”

  “I fell off my bike when I was little.” She cocks her head at me. “Can I help you in some way?”

  My cheeks are wet, my sunglasses fogged.

  “I have a scar on my knee. I noticed it two days ago,” I say. “I don’t know what it’s from.”

  Her hazel eyes are kind, warm. I can tell she wants to help, but I know how this ends. She may not know it, but she is a walking story. And me . . . I’m full of scars with no stories.

  I push away from her, running through the crowd, at a loss for control. For two weeks, I’ve kept my pain to myself. I’ve walked around like I’m normal, but I’m not. I barely feel human.

  The false reality I’ve created crumbles, and anger and grief take its place. Pieces of hope don’t amount to much right now. They aren’t big enough to hold on to, to keep afloat. In all my efforts to shelter people from pain, it’s amounted to nothing. All of this—it’s useless.

  At least now I can let go of my lies. My fantasy of returning to my dad as Clementine is gone. When you have nothing, you’ll be anything. What do I have to lose? Clementine or Jane—the hospital is just another box in a plethora of boxes. If I can’t escape my mind, why does it matter where my body is?

  I can go back to Limerick, back to my dad, and do what I should have done in the beginning. I should have been strong enough to stay. Brave enough to face my life.

  Back at the cottage, I collect my clothes, but even they were bought with someone else’s money. They aren’t mine. They’re just fabric in the story I’ve weaved about a girl who doesn’t really exist.

  I leave the clothes. The only things I take with me are the clothes I’m wearing, my notebook, and sweatshirt. I am now just as I came.

  From the money Kieran has given me, I’ve taken just enough for the bus ride to Limerick. I said I didn’t want any more of his money, but I’m desperate. When it feels hard to leave, I swallow it down. This is final. Besides the hospital, Waterville is the only place in my memory, and I will never forget it. It wasn’t all bad here. But it was all just a ruse.

  Siobhan walks in the front door, startling me on my way out. She’s not the person I want to see right now. My face is painted in tears. Hers is a picture of made-up perfection.

  “Are you crying, Muppet?” Her voice holds no caring, and yet even her body, maybe more than others, holds her story. Colorful pictures ink her skin, and the child she’s carrying . . . it’s an extension of her story. It feels utterly unfair. “Don’t tell me Kieran finally came to his senses and kicked you out.”

  Two weeks of emotions flood out of me in a final, unfiltered burst. “I wanted to like you. I tried to be your friend. But you have no compassion for other people’s feelings. You only care about yourself and your problems. Did it ever occur to you that other people are hurting, too? That there are bigger problems than what you’re going through? At least your problem will result in love. You’re going to have a baby who will love you unconditionally. And Kieran and Clive, they support you. And you don’t deserve any of them.”

  I don’t wait for her to slam the door on me. I do it myself. She can tell Kieran exactly what I said. I’ll never see him again.

  Clouds roll into town as I walk away from the cottage. Siobhan was right about one thing—try as I might, I was destined to end up alone.

  CHAPTER 13

  The only way to Limerick is through Killarney, and the Killarney bus only comes once a day. As I wait, the rain begins. The bus stop is merely a bench, uncovered. One hour later, I’m soaked. The hood of my sweatshirt covers my head, but it does me little good. My jeans are heavy on my legs. Drops of water run down my cheeks, mixing with my tears from earlier.

  My eyes are the only dry part of my body. I have no tears left. Resentment has been replaced with apathy. Begrudging people their memories doesn’t help me, and losing my calm only sets me back. If this is the way I have to live, I better get used to it.

  At least I’m done lying. It’s time to face my truth.

  I focus on the ground, puddles collecting at my feet as I wait. Cars and tour buses pass by. Every few minutes, I look down the street for the bus to Killarney. The woman at the ticket office said to take the 279A to the Killarney Coach Park and get on line 300 straight to Limerick. It sounded easy enough with just one transfer, but the waiting and the rain are wearing on me. There’s too much time to think.

  I sit back on the bench, wrapping my arms around my waist, my head down. When a car slows in front of the stop, I look up quickly, hoping it’s the bus, but soon realize I’ve made a mistake.

  “Bunny, what the hell are you doing?” Kieran yells out the window of his truck.

  I turn away from him. “Just keep driving.”

  “It’s pouring. Get in the car.”

  “No.” I can’t make eye contact with him. My mind is made up, and Kieran weakens my defenses.

  “Get in the car, Bunny.”

  “I’m leaving. You can’t stop me.”

  “I’m not looking to stop you,” he says. “I’m just trying to prevent pneumonia. Now get in the car. The bus won’t be here for another hour.”

  Another hour in the rain . . . Even my bones feel wet.

  “You can wait in the truck.”

  “You’re supposed to be painting,” I say.

  Kieran checks the sky. “Not in this weather. Come on, Bunny, just get in.” His voice is so welcoming, and he looks really dry. And just seeing him is comforting.

  But I promised myself I would be strong, be brave. Kieran weakens my determination. I’ll miss him. Painting Shannon’s house with him every day was the best part of my two weeks in Waterville. Even the discomfort was at times a . . . comfort. Something sparked between us. With him so near me now, the ache comes back to my chest.

  “No,” I say. “I’m fine. Drive on.”

  “No.” Kieran throws the truck into park. “I’m not leaving.”

  A small line of cars has accumulated behind his truck.

  “Yes, you are,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “You can’t boss me around. I’ll just have to sit here in this dry truck, waiting for the bus with you.”

  “You’re blocking traffic.”

  Kieran shrugs. “That will probably delay the bus even more.” He rests back in his seat and puts his hands behind his head. “I don’t think the rain is supposed to let up until later this afternoon, but no matter.”

  Someone lays on a horn.

  “People are getting mad,” I say.

  “You could spare them all that anger if you just got in the car.”

  Another horn honks. The sound is rattling. I can’t put up with this for another hour.

  I get in the front seat of Kieran’s truck and slam the door with all my might. My anger only makes him smirk more.

  “One hour and I’m getting on that bus,” I say.

  “Grand.”

  “Grand,” I
snark at him.

  Kieran pulls away from the bus stop, allowing traffic to move again. He parks along a side street but keeps the truck running with the heat turned up. I warm my fingers over the vent. For a while, he and I are quiet, eyes trained out the windshield.

  “What happened?” Kieran eventually asks.

  “Nothing. It’s just time I leave and do this on my own. I can’t stay here all summer.”

  “Is that it? Siobhan didn’t—”

  “No,” I state firmly. “I’m leaving because I want to.”

  “You want to leave?” Kieran sounds hurt, which I didn’t expect.

  “No,” I say hastily, turning to face him. “You’ve been wonderful.” When our eyes connect, I can feel the pull between us. But I need to let this go. “I just think it’s for the best.”

  “For you or for me?” Kieran asks. “Because if you’re leaving for me, don’t. If you’re leaving because it’s the best decision for you, then go. I won’t try and convince you otherwise.”

  I’m leaving because I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m leaving because I’m alone, and nothing can change that until I remember who I was. But with Kieran next to me, the loneliness seems to evaporate. Even now, I’m dreading getting out of this truck and boarding the bus—pulling away from this town, leaving Kieran behind. It will feel awful.

  “I lied to you!” I blurt it out.

  Silence hangs heavily between us. I’ve wanted to speak those words for two weeks, but even after they’re out, the relief I thought I’d feel doesn’t come. Even when I claim Clementine’s life, what is there? Other than a trail to the past with no feelings attached to it—the story is there, but the sentiment isn’t. But Kieran . . . I feel our connection as real as I feel my body. Why would I want to give that up?

  “OK . . . ,” Kieran finally says with a puzzled expression.

  “I didn’t come to Ireland for the summer to prove to my parents I could survive on my own. I ran away from my life. I just needed to get out. I felt boxed in, like my life was laid out for me—college, job, marriage, kids—one domino after another. But I had no say in any of it. So I cleared out my bank account and bought a one-way ticket to Ireland.” The story flows easily, the truth on some level, though laced with falsehoods, too. “Haven’t you ever just wanted to abandon everything and start over?”