Hanna Who Fell from the Sky

by Christopher Meades

  “Will you still visit after you’ve gone to live with Edwin?” Charliss said.

  At first, Hanna wasn’t certain whether he was making casual conversation or if he really was concerned about seeing her again. One look was all it took to see where his heart lay. Charliss was leaning against the chimney, gazing up at Hanna, a nervous apprehension in his eyes. Hanna wanted to reach out to comfort him, only they were too high on the rooftop, the shingles too uneven under their feet. “I suppose Edwin will have a say in what I do, whom I visit.”

  Charliss ran his hand along his brow, an involuntary action Hanna had seen countless times in Jotham. “Will you come by yourself? Or will Edwin come to the house with you?”

  Hanna shrugged, a simple lift and contraction of her shoulders, the slightest movement. Barely a fraction of Hanna’s weight shifted from one foot to the other. But it was enough. Hanna slipped. Her foot slid on the mossy rooftop. She felt herself about to tumble back the way they came and, in an act of desperation, she turned hard to her left. Hanna overcompensated. She grabbed for the chimney but found only empty air. Hanna fell straight backward, off the side of the house. Three stories to the ground.

  Hanna reached out, a wild, stabbing grasp for anything she could grab hold of: a tree branch, a stray shingle, Charliss’s hand. But there was nothing. She clawed at the air, falling fast toward the ground. A burst of shock and fear shot through her and then a flash of disbelief. Just seconds ago, her footing had been secure, her equilibrium stable, her feet attached to the spongy roof shingles. Now she was descending so quickly that she could barely think. A wild, uncontrolled hysteria seized her in its grasp. Above, the sky refused to move. Its picturesque clouds offered no help, staring back: cold and detached, utterly unresponsive. Falling between the heavens above and the ground below, Hanna didn’t see the side of Jotham’s house sailing by. She saw not her brother’s outstretched arm, nor the raised wings of the raven swooping nearby. She saw only endless, boundless space.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind surged. Time—that crushing weight—evaporated and the sensation of falling disappeared. Even as she plummeted to the ground, Hanna felt suspended in midair, as though she were lying still and the world and all its enormity was speeding toward her. Hanna’s dress fluttered around her and, for a split second, she thought she might float like a feather and the earth would envelop her in its gentle embrace. However, no squall would ever be enough. She continued to fall.

  A scream started in the base of Hanna’s throat. It roared to her mouth. Hanna was inches away from the ground and there was no last moment of peace. She unclenched her fists and then clasped them shut again. Hanna couldn’t relish the final sensation of the wind passing through her outstretched fingers. She couldn’t let go. Not yet.

  Hanna screamed—a jarring, terrified cry into the oblivion above.

  The world turned black.

  14

  “Hanna? Hanna?”

  She opened her eyes to see Charliss standing over her, his face red, his lips trembling. He pulled on her arm to help her stand, to make sure she was okay. Hanna held back a moment. She mumbled something—“One moment” or “I need to breathe”—she wasn’t quite sure. The soil and the prickly weeds lay damp underneath her. To one side was the fresh firewood Charliss had stacked that morning; to the other, a boulder, its surface veined in lines.

  Hanna lifted her neck. She felt her hair pull away from the earth and then her arms. Charliss offered his hand and Hanna stood to her feet. She looked up to the spot from where she’d fallen. The wild, white panic of moments ago was now a memory. Everything—the firewood, the sky, the concern etched in Charliss’s face—was coated in a pristine, pink glow. Hanna couldn’t believe what she was seeing. It was as though her entire life, her vision had been blurry, like she’d been squinting to see and now everything was crystal clear.

  “Are you okay?” Charliss said.

  Hanna pulled a piece of grass from her hair. “I think so.”

  Together they looked up at the chimney stack, at its height, the path from rooftop to ground Hanna’s body had just taken. Before either of them could say another word, Emily rounded the side of the house with two toddlers in tow.

  “Hanna, Father wants to see you,” she said.

  Hanna gaped openmouthed at her sister. Emily’s skin was tinted raspberry red. The curls dangling over her eyes appeared coral rather than muddy-brown: lush and silken and streaked red toward her roots. A luminous aura surrounded her and when Emily gazed down at the toddler to her side, her profile looked like a watercolor portrait come to life.

  Emily didn’t seem to notice Hanna gaping at her. She stepped closer. “Father really does want to see you,” she said. Then she turned back, the young ones toddling along after her.

  Hanna dusted off her dress. She ran her hands along her torso and down her thighs. There was no pain in her back. Nothing broken where she’d landed on her neck. Hanna didn’t feel injured. Only her vision had changed. Hanna meant to follow Emily. She meant to go see what Jotham wanted, but she was still astonished and amazed: astonished she’d fallen, amazed she wasn’t injured whatsoever.

  “You’re really not hurt?” Charliss asked, his voice tentative, shaky.

  Hanna didn’t know what to say, how to explain what had happened, what was real anymore. She was standing still, her mouth half-open, marveling at the radiant pink color all around when Charliss said, “Do you need me to come with you to see Father?”

  “Yes. I mean—no. I think I’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll attach the asphalt,” Charliss said. A long pause followed before Charliss put his hand on her arm. “Father’s waiting.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hanna put one foot in front of the other and walked around the house. She stepped through the back door, expecting to find Jotham sitting in his chair in the living room, waiting for her alone. It came as a surprise to see him standing beside Kara in the kitchen. Belinda was there as well, leaning against the far counter. Hanna’s gaze shifted to the deep bruise along Kara’s cheek, the one her mother had refused to talk about that morning. Kara’s and Jotham’s jaws were clenched, their eyes like stones.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “Where were you yesterday?” Kara asked.

  Hanna took a small step back. “Why do you ask?”

  “Makala called from the police station. Were you in a police car yesterday?” Kara said.

  Hanna looked from Kara to Belinda and then to Jotham. Her mind returned to the dirt road, the sour smell of Paul the Second alone in his car, her impromptu trip to Daniel’s pier. Hanna swallowed hard. Every muscle in her chest contracted, unsure how much her parents knew. The rosy-pink glow weakened.

  “You never should have gotten into that car,” Jotham said.

  “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” Kara said. “It’s those boys, those men, the deputies Paul.”

  Suddenly Hanna realized what was going on. They hadn’t learned about her visit to Daniel’s pier. They were upset with her for accepting a ride from the two most unscrupulous boors in town.

  “You’re angry at me because Brother Paul’s sons drove me home?”

  “We trust Brother Paul completely,” Jotham said. “His sons, that older one especially, are another matter.”

  Hanna looked to Kara in the hope her mother might come to her defense. Only, Kara’s arms were folded. There was nothing in her eyes, in the way she stood or held her shoulders to suggest Hanna could make her understand. Still, she tried. “How could I have said no?”

  “You just say no,” Kara said.

  “They came upon me in the middle of a deserted road. What did you expect me to do?”

  “Certainly not get in their car.”

  Hanna closed her eyes in frustration and again the pink glow diminished. Magenta di
ssolved into an ashen rouge.

  “But—”

  Jotham pointed a single finger and Hanna could see the veins pulse in his hand. “You find a way.”

  Deep in Hanna’s belly, a fire raged. If Brother Paul truly was the Creator’s conduit, as Jotham had insisted time and time again, then who were they to question his judgment? Clearly, it was flawed nepotism at its worst, Brother Paul endorsing his two sons—the vulgar bully and his dutiful follower—as the law in town. The hypocrisy was astonishing. The entire system was corrupt and Brother Paul was wrong. Shouldn’t the back seat of a police car be the safest place for her? The safest way for any young woman to travel?

  An urge to yell billowed inside her. Hanna felt that same loss of control that came with the wind passing through her outstretched fingers, time evaporating, the unmovable sky. In front of her, Jotham lifted his chin, his face covered in a look of accomplishment. How dare he tell her what to do when he’d already sold her off to the highest bidder? How dare he give her that look of righteous indignation? And Jotham wasn’t alone in this. Hanna wanted to yell at her mother. How could Kara stand there beside him—devout, obedient and worse...complicit—when last night he’d struck her across the face, the bruise now pushing its way deep from her cheekbone to her skin?

  Hanna turned her gaze to Belinda and suddenly it was like she was falling all over again. Arms grasping. The gusting wind fluttering around her. Terror erupting, the feeling that it was too soon, that she wasn’t ready, that she’d never be ready. Hanna fought hard to restrain herself, but with one look at that coldhearted woman, the pristine pink glow faded into nothingness. All she wanted to do was scream and keep screaming, scream at Belinda to stop staring at her with those dead, black eyes, to stop being so incredibly hard—in her speech, in the way she moved her hands—hard on her children, on everyone. What was Belinda doing here? What were any of them doing in this small room in this small town when there was an entire world outside of Clearhaven where they could live vibrant and free?

  Just as her inner kettle reached full boil, Hanna stopped herself. For the first time, Hanna held her tongue not out of submission, but because there was a handsome young man waiting at the dock, dangling his feet over a sheet of purple ice, wondering when the Champagne Girl would come calling again. If she were to fly into a rage now, if her parents were to perceive Hanna as irrational or worse—disobedient—Jotham might lock her down in the house. He might insist Hanna go live with Edwin not in five days but tonight, her fiancé instituting a new, harsher set of rules. She had so little time left.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m very sorry.”

  Kara took Hanna by the wrists. “Don’t be sorry, angel,” she said. “Just be safe. That’s all we want—for you to be safe.”

  Hanna leaned her head against Kara’s shoulder and breathed in the smell of her mother’s powdery skin. Instantly, she regretted wanting to yell at her. How would Kara feel, being berated by her daughter the day after her husband struck her? Kara was resilient, but she had her limits.

  “What about the salad bowl?” Belinda said. “Makala told me you left it in the police car.”

  It was the first time Belinda had spoken during the entire conversation and it had nothing to do with Hanna’s safety or bad decision making or the louts with guns who’d driven her home. Hanna looked deep into Belinda’s eyes. Just moments ago, Hanna had fallen three stories to the ground. The fall could have killed her. It should have crippled her. And she’d walked away without a scratch. Yesterday, a young man had poured his soul into verse for Hanna, igniting inside her a feeling other than dread or dismay for the first time since she could remember. Hanna had finally awakened after what she could only describe as a stifling, uninvited slumber to realize she wasn’t meant to be paraded about in a white dress. That she wasn’t meant to be a Clearhaven bride, clinging to a middle-aged man’s arm.

  And now this woman wanted her bowl back.

  Hanna gritted her teeth. She steadied her tongue and held back the emotion in her voice. “I’ll retrieve it today,” she said.

  Belinda nodded curtly, her tongue pressed firmly against the side of her mouth. “Make sure you do,” she said and stepped out of the kitchen.

  15

  Hanna passed the marketplace at a distance. Much of the town was crowded around the booths, wives from the same families shopping together, their young children clustered about their feet. A shipment must have arrived from outside Clearhaven, bringing fresh fruits and vegetables, spices and grains made scarce by the long winter’s chill. Hanna held her jacket close to her chest and lowered her head, wary of making eye contact, lest some well-meaning woman approach and offer her congratulations on her upcoming nuptials, lest she draw attention from the butcher, the man who’d stepped forward with the others to claim her at church.

  She saw him now, his mutton-chop whiskers protruding from his face, his apron smeared with blood, shoulder raised, cleaver suspended in midair. A woman was waiting for her purchase with a brown paper bag already in hand while her young daughter splashed in the puddles nearby. The butcher sliced down into a meat shank and then flashed the little girl a comical glare. The girl squealed and the butcher unleashed a raucous laugh. Before she could run away, he softened his tone. The butcher called the little girl over to his table and spoke gently in her ear, offered her a piece of taffy from the bowl on his shelf. Hanna noticed the mother covering her mouth, her cheeks reddened, clearly enthralled by the butcher’s strong chin, his massive shoulders covered only by a T-shirt on this chilly late-winter day.

  With tentative steps, Hanna approached the police station, a two-room trailer located behind the marketplace. The brothers’ police car wasn’t parked out front, but that didn’t mean Paul the Second wasn’t nearby, that he couldn’t force her into another car ride. It didn’t mean he couldn’t trade his graceless innuendo for actions. In the back of her mind, there was always the butcher. He’d known Hanna since she was a child. Were Paul the Second to accost her, Hanna could scream his name, compel the big, strong man to come running, cleaver in hand.

  Hanna opened the trailer door and was relieved to see Makala sitting at a desk all by herself, the clickety-clack of a typewriter filling the room. Makala was one of Brother Paul’s wives. Which number she was or where she stood in the pecking order, Hanna wasn’t sure, but he must have thought a lot of her to assign Makala an office job at the police station.

  Hanna stepped inside and was immediately struck by the curious aroma of fresh paint and perfume in the air. Above Makala, a faded tapestry depicted the town symbol: a collection of conjoined triangles converging into a central point. The lemon-green walls were illuminated by a single light bulb, partially shielded by a gold-pleated lampshade, while Makala’s desk featured all manner of knickknacks: little ceramic owls, crochet cats and a row of cherubic gnomes resting against a handmade birdhouse. It was a wonder the typewriter fit on her desk.

  The woman didn’t look up when Hanna entered. Hanna waited in silence, fidgeting with a loose thread on her sleeve, until she noticed a bell on the counter with a sign that read Ring for Service. Hanna rang the bell once, catching it with her fingers before the shrill noise resonated too loudly.

  Makala looked over. She held her reading glasses up to her face. “Yes?”

  “You called to say you have Belinda’s salad bowl.”

  Makala held her gaze. “Oh right,” she said. “The girl who takes rides from boys.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  Makala rolled her tongue along the inside of her mouth. “Mmm-hmm.”

  Hanna opened her mouth to defend herself but stopped short. The moment she engaged this woman in an argument, she would have already lost. She looked past Makala to the desk in the far corner. There, sitting on a plastic orange chair, was Belinda’s salad bowl. Makala had already filled it with random scraps of paper. Th
ough the bowl was only a few yards away, Hanna felt like she wasn’t allowed to walk over and pick it up herself. This office—its clutter, the pale light—was Makala’s domain. The place even smelled of her. Hanna would do herself more harm than good by defying her.

  “May I please have Belinda’s bowl?” she said. “She needs it. It’s her only one.”

  Makala made a great showing of inconvenience. She stood up slowly. The woman brushed the creases from her dress and moved a pile of file folders out of her way. Leisurely, she lifted each scrap of paper out of the bowl and found a new place for it amidst the clutter, before finally walking over to her desk with the bowl in her hands. Makala didn’t pass it to Hanna. Rather, she set it down in front of her, forcing Hanna to step forward and pick it up. The moment Hanna touched it, Makala grabbed the other end. They locked eyes and Makala’s expression turned from feigned inconvenience into something darker, something Hanna hadn’t expected.

  “You were all Paul the Second could talk about last night,” Makala said. “You must have done something to make him take such a shine to you.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Hanna said.

  “Is that so?” Makala’s eyes ran up and down Hanna’s body, the bowl still firmly in her grasp. “There’s something to be said for modesty in this day and age, young lady.”

  Hanna followed Makala’s gaze. Her jacket was open. Her breasts were pressing against her dress but otherwise the fabric dangled loosely from her shoulders. Her neckline was high, the garment’s hemline all the way to Hanna’s calves.

  “We’re wearing the same dress,” she said.

  The speed with which Hanna replied—the brief, combative disbelief in her voice—set something off inside Makala. The woman clenched her jaw. Makala’s whole body trembled as though, at any moment, she might erupt. All the while, her eyes burned slow like blackened beehives.