Falling Up

by Melody Carlson

  Of course, this made the old guys very happy, and this naturally called for another round of drinks. “And bring out the champagne,” Mr. Barclay called out. “We'll all make a toast.”

  I felt a little silly refusing their offer of champagne, but I knew it was right for me to do this. But Matthew accepted a glass, and I couldn't really blame him since it was his life they were toasting. I raised my water glass and echoed their well wishes, but all I wanted was to go home. And I have no idea why, but I really missed my mother right then. And I actually felt on the verge of tears, which seriously aggravated me. Why is that?

  Finally, it was time to leave. I thanked Matthew's grandparents for inviting me. And they were more gracious than they'd been all evening, thanking me for coming and thanking me for encouraging Matthew to follow in his grandfather's footsteps.

  “What did they mean by that?” I asked Matthew once we were back in his truck.

  “By what?”

  “Thanking me for helping you to make this decision.”

  “Oh, I told them that you thought it was a good idea for me to go there.”

  “I did?” I tried to remember exactly what I'd said. I thought I tried to see the positive side of both options. But perhaps I appeared to lean in this direction.

  “Yeah, you said it was a great opportunity, Kim. Don't you remember?”

  “I guess so. And it is a great opportunity. If that's what you want.”

  He didn't say anything.

  “Is that what you want?”

  He kind of shrugged. “Maybe I'm not entirely sure what I want. I mean, it's not like I can predict the future. But getting free tuition at such a prestigious college…well, I guess I wonder how I can go wrong with it.”

  “And your art?”

  “I can still pursue that.”

  “Will you?”

  “Of course.”

  Still, I'm not so sure. When I got home, I went online and did a little research on Matthews “college of choice,” and I wasn't all that surprised to see that they offered very little in the way of art degrees. The only thing I could find was “art and archaeology,” and it sounded like it had more to do with art history than anything else. But I'm sure Matthew knows all this. Besides, he could always change his mind after he spends a semester there. And maybe free tuition is more important to him that I realized.

  Even so, I feel sorry for him. Its as if he got cornered tonight, like all the big guns were pointing at him, and he threw up his hands and said, “I surrender.” Too bad he can't do that when it comes to God. That's where he really needs to surrender.

  Finally, I just couldn't stand to think about Matthew and his “future” anymore. So I decided to answer some column letters. I think it's my little escape hatch sometimes. My dad left a new batch in the familiar manila folder on my desk. One letter in particular caught my attention. It was a handwritten letter sealed in an envelope with “To Just Jamie” on the front.

  Apparently it was hand-delivered to the newspaper. But something about it looked familiar, so I dug in my box of old letters until I found one that looked just like it. It was the letter that Charlie Snow (owner of the newspaper) gave to my dad last fall. It was written by his daughter Casey. And the small, neat handwriting looked identical.

  Casey's first letter had to do with God, and it came at a time when I would have nothing to do with God, and consequently I had a hard time answering her questions. Of course, that has all changed, so now I'm thinking I ought to be able to handle another Casey letter. Besides that, she's also been on my prayer list since it seemed she was really searching for spiritual answers.

  Dear Jamie,

  I don't see why life has to he so hard. Sometimes I just feel like giving up completely. How do people keep going when it seems as if all they get is pain and heartache and sadness? Sometimes the idea of dying sounds like it could be a huge relief. Like just going to sleep and never having to wake up again. What would be wrong with that?

  Tired of Hurting

  Wow, it sounds like Casey is having a really hard time. And it makes me wonder what's going on in her life that would get her to such a low place. I'll have to ask Dad about this. In the meantime, I'll write a response and make sure it goes in the next edition.

  Dear Tired,

  You sound like you're really depressed. Depression can have lots of causes-from things as simple as messed-up relationships to eating the wrong foods. But you need to talk to someone about this now-whether its your family doctor, a counselor, a pastor, or a trusted and mature friend. You need to let someone know that you're feeling this blue. And then you need to get help (like counseling, therapy, medication…). When I feel discouraged, I find that it helps to pray, but sometimes that's not enough. Don't be afraid to admit that you have a problem-and to get help. We all go through dark times, but the truth is, they don't last forever. You need to make it to the other side so you can see all the good things life has to offer. I'm praying for you!

  Just Jamie

  I print out a copy of my response, along with Casey's letter, for my dad to see. I suspect he's gone to bed, since it's pretty late and the house was quiet when I got home. But when I go into his den to leave the letters, I'm surprised to see that he's in his chair. His head is leaned back and his eyes are closed, and for one freaky second, I think that he's dead! But then I hear him quietly snoring, and I realize that he's only asleep.

  I go over and gently nudge him. “Dad, don't you want to go to bed to sleep?”

  He jerks awake and looks at me with surprised eyes. “Oh, Km, you startled me.”

  “It's after eleven. I thought you were in bed.”

  “When did you get home?” he asks.

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Did you have a nice time?”

  “I guess so.” I'm not sure how much detail to go into since Dad really does look tired. He's got dark circles under his eyes.

  “What's that?” He glances at the papers in my hand.

  So I sit down and quickly relay the contents of the letter and how I'm pretty sure its from Casey Snow. Then he reads it for himself and just sadly shakes his head.

  “She sounds so hopeless,” I say.

  “I wonder if Charlie knows… “

  “Is there some way you could let him know, without giving it away…1 mean, about the letter?”

  “I'll see what I can do.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, worried about how tired he looks.

  He removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I guess I'm as okay as I can be, Kim.” Then he sighs. “Its not easy, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Then we both just sit there in silence.

  “They have therapy groups,” I finally say, “to help you to deal with grief and loss.”

  He nods. “But Fm just not a therapy group kind of guy.”

  “You can talk to me… “

  He kind of smiles. “Thanks. And you can talk to me.”

  “But we don't…”

  He scratches his head. “I guess Fm not even sure what to say, Kim. Just that I miss her. I miss her so much.” And then his voice cracks, and he's starting to cry, and now I don't know what to do. So I stand up and go over and put my hand on his shoulder.

  “Me too, Dad.”

  But he doesn't say anything else. He just keeps crying, and I feel like my heart is being broken into lots of pieces—it just hurts so much to see him hurting. And I want to tell him about how I suddenly missed Mom at dinner tonight, but then it doesn't seem important. Especially compared to what he's feeling. Finally, he reaches in his pocket for a handkerchief, wipes his eyes, and blows his nose. “I think I'm okay now,” he mutters. “Thanks, Km.”

  “I guess it just takes time,” I say, knowing how lame that sounds.

  He nods. “I'm sure you're right, honey.”

  Then we say good night. And while I'm sure that we must Ve comforted each other, at least a little, I feel more upset now than I did
when I walked into his den. It's like my dad needs something, something deep and urgent and desperate, and I have no idea how to help him to get it. Maybe no one can. No one human, that is. And so I pray for my dad tonight. I pray that God will reach into those lonely places inside of him and make him well. And I believe that it can happen.

  Eight

  Sunday, May 26

  Between Nat's never-ending moodiness, Matthews growing conflict with his mother (after he informed her of his education decision), my dads silent and unshakable grief, Maya's increasingly disturbing e-mails about her moms addiction problems, and my own personal sadness—this has been a very long week indeed.

  But I got dressed up and tried to shove all that behind me as I went to graduation last night. Matthew s mother had invited me to sit with her, and I was well aware that she did not intend to sit with the grandparents. Fortunately, she got there in time to save us some fairly good seats, and it was easy to spot her from the floor since she was wearing this wild purple and gold outfit—I believe she said it came from Nepal.

  Normally, I think graduations are pretty boring, but as I considered that this would be me (next year), I found I was paying closer attention to the details. Okay, call me narcissistic, but its hard not to imagine what it'll be like, especially since I have a fairly good chance at valedictorian.

  But realizing that I was being fairly self-absorbed, I turned my focus to Matthew, appreciating once again how tall and handsome he is (some people think he looks like Äshton Kutcher), and I guess I felt a little proud knowing that he was my boyfriend. Okay, now I really sound shallow. But he did look awfully good as he walked across the platform to get his diploma. And his mom and I clapped and cheered for him like groupies.

  I was caught off guard seeing Chloe Miller getting her diploma too. I'd sort of forgotten that she was graduating early, since I still think of her as part of my class.

  “I'll still relate to our class,” she told me a week ago. “But this is just better for my music and my career. The opportunity was there, so I figured why not get it over with.”

  “And Fm sure it doesn't hurt that you're so smart,” I teased her.

  “You should talk,” she tossed back. “You could ve easily done the same.”

  And I know that I could've graduated a year early, if I'd wanted, but then I wouldn't have a chance at valedictorian. And for whatever reason, maybe because my mom was valedictorian of her senior class, this is still important to me. And I can almost imagine my mom watching me as I one day receive this honor, high up there from her front row seat in heaven. More than ever, I need to believe this.

  “What do you think of Matthews college choice?” his mom asked me in what I'm sure she hoped sounded like a somewhat nonchalant tone of voice, as if she wasn't as freaked over this recent turn of events as Matthew had been telling me. The grads were just starting to file out, with lively band music filling the gym as they happily paraded past. Thankfully, since it was getting hot in the gym, they were leaving much more quickly than they came.

  “I was a little surprised,” I admitted.

  “You and me both.” She used a tissue to blot perspiration from her forehead.

  “I think he's really talented,” I continued. “In art, I mean, well, and other things too. But I guess I thought he'd want to go to a school with a stronger art and design focus.”

  She nodded as we stood. “That's what I thought too.”

  We kicked the subject around a bit more as we slowly made our way down the steps, out of the crowded gym, and finally outside to where all the grads were in various stages of unzipping their gowns, tossing their hats, and generally making lots of we've-just-been-released-from-captivity kind of noises. We stood off to the sidelines, and I listened to her continuing to obsess over Matthew's life, his wasted talent, his disappointing college choice, his ill-planned future. But thankfully, as soon as he joined us, she discontinued her monologue, and we both offered our hearty congratulations.

  But even as we were patting him on the back and commenting on how stuffy it was in the gym, his grandparents were pressing through the crowd to join us. Matthew, showing his usual good manners, included them in our little group, but his mother looked like she was about to explode. Wanting to avoid a bad scene, I asked her if she wanted me to get her some punch from the refreshment table.

  “I'll come with you,” she said in a tightly controlled voice.

  And that's how it went. Matthew's mom acting as if his college choice and his grandparents' involvement were both a personal affront to her. And I just tried to remain supportively neutral, or stay out of it altogether. Finally, the stress was getting to me, so I told Matthew I was heading home so I could change my clothes for the all-night party.

  “Pick you up around nine?” he said.

  “Yeah.” I waved and told the others good-bye.

  Fortunately, the all-night party was much less stressful, and we ended up spending a lot of time hanging with Chloe and Cesar (who had come as her “date but not a date”—they made this very clear). Anyway, the four of us were really having a lot of fun, although I was ready to call it a night by 2 AM. However, with the lockdown in place, we were forced to stick around until seven when they started serving breakfast.

  “Let's go to church,” Chloe said after we finished breakfast. “We've got just enough time to make it to early service.”

  To my surprise, Matthew didn't protest. And the four of us went to church together in Chloe's VW van. It was actually pretty cool.

  “Thanks for coming to the party with me,” Matthew told me as he dropped me at home later that morning. “I probably wouldn't have gone if you hadn't.”

  “It was fun,” I told him. “Exhausting, but fun.”

  “Yeah, I'll probably sleep all day now.”

  Then we kissed and said good-bye. But it was strange being dropped off at home after a date in the morning. I almost expected Dad to say something, although he knew what was going on, but he didn't appear to be home. I was hoping that meant he went to church. Although this would be a first for him since Mom died. Still, I've been praying for him to get back into it. Maybe that's where he is right now. Anyway, I know where I'm headed. My bed never looked so good!

  Wednesday, May 29

  I'm seriously worried about Nat. It's like she's trying to disappear off the face of the planet. I spoke to her last week, but I haven't actually seen her once this week. She hasn't wanted a ride to school. And I think she might've actually skipped some classes. Not that teachers are paying much attention since this is the last week of school, the seniors are gone, and everyone else is acting like summer vacation has already started.

  But back to Nat. It's like she's going off the deep end. And while I know she's not my personal responsibility, she is my best friend. Yes, best friend. I've decided that even though she's not acting anything like a best friend, I still need to remain loyal to her, and I will continue to consider myself her best friend.

  And I'm pretty sure she hasn't talked to anyone else about what's bugging her, specifically the Ben thing. According to her mom, who I even called at her workplace Monday since I was so concerned, Nat has not been to see a counselor and has no intention of doing so. Poor Mrs. McCabe has just about given up.

  “I don't know what's wrong with her,” she told me, clearly exasperated. “She's even been fighting with Krissy and Micah lately. And then she holes up in her room and refuses to talk to any of us. When I call her on it, she either blows up or threatens to run away. And I was so fed up last night that I told her to just go ahead. I know that was bad on my part, but I don't know what to do with her.” She sighed loudly. “Oh, by the way, Km, how are you and your dad doing these days?”

  Of course, I acted as if things were okay, like Dad and I were just fine, moving on, getting over it. Yeah, right. But I just didn't have it in me to toss more crud on her ever-growing pile.

  “I've been meaning to bring you guys a lasagna,” she said. “I know it's kin
d of late, but life's been so crazy with Nat and all. Besides, I figured you'd be overwhelmed with food…at first…”

  “That's so thoughtful of you, but don't worry about it. We're fine, really.”

  So then I tried to call Nat, but she was not picking up. I considered going over and barging in on her, but I didn't want to get her all mad at me. I figure it's better to stay on her good side, or else she might not have anyone to talk to. So I sent her an e-mail, just saying that I missed her and cared about what she was going through and wanted to talk.

  Then this afternoon as I was going through letters for the column, I picked up this envelope that looked freaky familiar—it's exactly like this juvenile set of Hello Kitty stationery that I got Natalie when we were like twelve. Of course, I'm sure Nat has either used it up or thrown it away by now. But as I looked at the writing on the envelope (careful all-capped block letters that almost looked as if they'd been written to cover up the real handwriting of the sender), I was curious. I opened the envelope to find that the letter was computer printed.

  Dear Jamie,

  I think I am pregnant, and I can't talk to anyone about it. I have always thought that abortion was wrong, but now I am actually considering it, because I know that being pregnant will ruin my life. It's already ruining my life. Sometimes I feel like I'm going crazy or that I might kill myself. I want to know two things. Do you think abortion is wrong? Do you think abortion is safe?

  2 Scared 2 Talk

  Oh, man! I have a really creepy feeling that Nat wrote this letter. It would explain everything. Its so tempting to call her right now, to ask her if she's pregnant, but that would blow my cover. And then what? The next column comes out in Friday's edition. If I make sure this letter makes it, I can act like I read the letter in the paper, and it made me wonder if she might possibly be worried about something like that. I know it sounds hokey, but I think it's my best plan. In the meantime, I am really going to be praying for Nat. And I'm praying that God will help me to answer this.