Falling: A Love Story

by lesley,allyn

  My grip on the steering wheel tightens. Breathe, Dyllan. My heart’s beating too wildly, all erratic, and thumping to an unhealthy rhythm. As I navigate my car around potholes caused by disrepair or weather damage, all I can see are tall buildings with steel-colored, reinforced doors. Behind those doors is where you pray, especially if you call it your home, that the elevators aren’t broken. An oppressive heaviness invades my headspace as I drive through the neighborhood.

  “Stop,” she mumbles out, no longer slouching in the seat.

  I pull up behind a car that’s double parked. It’s just one in a long line of others parked illegally. In any other area, tickets would be sticking under the windshield blades, because a police officer would’ve cited the cars’ owners for their parking violation.

  But, not here.

  Not in the heart of one of the most concentrated areas of housing projects in the Bronx.

  Twisting my neck to the left then right to get the tension kinks out, I barely breathe above a whisper before wondering aloud, “Which one do you live in?”

  Caren turns to me, and I realize I have no idea who she is. A person who’s seen me naked. A person I’ve done intimate things with, and the fucked up truth is I know nothing of her, yet I stuck my dick inside her without hesitation. What the hell does that say about the man I am?

  “Sorry if it’s not up to your taste, Richie Rich.”

  Her cynical yet clear misconception of who I am, or who she thinks I am, along with my own embarrassment and self-disgust squeeze my vocal chords shut. I can’t reveal I once lived one block from where we are. A hell of a place called The Spry.

  I can hardly make out this particular building’s name, because of the mutilated sign that’s barely held up by the rusted metal frame. The exterior is overtaken by colorful graffiti, most likely announcing the different gangs living inside, while the windows are frosted over with some unknown permanent condensation I’ve only seen in project buildings.

  I find my voice after seeing that. “You—”

  “Whatever. Listen,” she interrupts me, but stops to look away from me and out the window. “You didn’t have to come get me. I called you on a whim anyway.”

  I did; I did have to come. The truth tramples my initial hesitancies and reawakens my conscience. “Look...” I begin just as her eyes connect back with mine. My heart softens. The niggling feeling in the pit of my gut tells me I need to treat her like a human, and not like the money-hungry pariah I’ve pegged her for. “Caren, I’m no one to tell you shit, but you obviously need help.” The last of my words comes out low, trying not to hurt her already fragile mental state or feelings.

  I can’t help sneaking another look her way, hoping to pick up on the source of what’s turned her into this vulnerable soul who willingly kills her body with whatever she’s abusing. My mother’s face pops up before me, and for the first time in my life, I feel something near sympathy for Jess Parker.

  A sniffing sound pulls me back. I focus on the woman to my right. The sexy, vital woman with a face like a doll who I’d met months ago is no longer here. And I’m not sure she was ever real. Maybe the old Doll Face was a figment of both our imaginations. Since I don’t know who she is or what’s going on in her life, I don’t want to be presumptions. But, if I’m being honest, what I really don’t want is the responsibility or the guilt that’s sure to come if anything I say pushes her toward another binge.

  My eyes land on the swell of her stomach. Maybe she sees or feels my stare. Her hand goes to it, rubbing her midsection. Right away, I imagine Juli, whose parents planned her conception and is surrounded by loved ones who’ll be there to teach her right from wrong. I don’t know if Caren’s child will be that fortunate. I’m not exactly sure why the sight of her hand resting over her unborn child brings these conflicting emotions that rush into my system.

  They make me dizzy and nauseous at the same time.

  Anger swells my throat, bitterness pumps through my heart, disappointment hangs my head, and finally, I’m curious. Some I feel toward myself and Caren, but most are for the child nestled inside her body.

  Her bony hand rises to the silver door handle, opening it so the cool November air drifts into the car’s warm interior. One of her feet drops on top of the gray, cracked sidewalk, but something makes her pause as she’s about to exit. She twists back toward me. I wonder if she’ll admit she needs help. Drug counseling, in-patient or whatever, but anything to nip this in the bud.

  All of these prompt me to repeat, “Get some help. I’ll pay for it.” The last leaves my lips fast, because I can’t believe what I’m offering. But as the offer settles out there, I know it’s the right thing to do. She’s doing serious damage to herself, and in turn to her unborn child. She needs help, and I’ll provide it.

  “Why?” Her answer, snide and filled with self-importance, hardens my shell and reminds me what a fool I am. “You finally worried about a kid you believe isn’t yours?” she asks gruffly, throwing up the air-quoting fingers at the end of her question. And with that parting shot and a slam of the door, Caren’s out of the car, huddling into her bulky jacket and dragging herself toward the building.

  Can’t win for fucking losing.

  I peel my car away from the parked spot.

  A day later, the television is randomly set to a channel showing scenes from the Thanksgiving Day Parade. However, all my focus is on the can of beer in my hand. Some would judge the time of day as too early to consume the drink I’m nursing. But I don’t give two fucks about what they’d think.

  My e-ticket sits on my ottoman, near my stretched out feet, mocking me. Had I boarded the flight yesterday, the sun-drenched island of St. Thomas would’ve been my destination so I could pay my ‘friend’ a surprise visit, tell her to be with me, and then kick her date’s ass. On the day I should’ve left, I’d stared at my packed suitcase filled with a bunch of shit I’d thrown in after I’d left Caren at the curb. I’d been zapped of all my energy, and had been looking forward to the vacation, even if things between Chels and me are fuzzy.

  But, something stopped me.

  The more I mulled over everything, I decided not to go. Speaking to Ma and Chuck before they left for their trip hadn’t convinced me to change my mind about going with Emma and JC. It’s for the best, I’d told a blubbering Emma when we spoke.

  Last night, I tossed and turned. I felt Chels’s body molding into mine. At one point, it felt so real. I was inhaling her smell, tickling her sides, and wondering how I got so lucky. When I woke up, it was to my hard-on crushed into a pillow.

  I glance at the time on my cable box, wondering if they were up and enjoying breakfast, or if Chels was bummed I never made the trip. Putting the can to my lips, I finish off my beer, and think maybe she’s thinking of me.

  “Stop being an ass,” I tell myself, sinking into my couch’s cushions. Beside me, my phone beeps. My heart soars when Chels’s Skype avatar flashes across the screen. But, my heart crash lands onto cold, hard truths.

  Chels is dating. She doesn’t want a man who may have baby mama drama.

  With those truths in mind, I let her call go to voicemail. I never figured Chels for being so insistent. She calls back, over and over again. Off and on for the next hour. Just as my hand is about to pick up the call, the ringing stops.

  Like always, she gives up trying just as I’m about to cave. I don’t know how to take that.

  A buzzing sound tells me I have a text. A part of me wants to look at the screen, but a bigger part of me wants to smash the hell out of my phone. Standing, I do the next best thing: rip the ticket in two and drop it inside a garbage pail on my way to my bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The number I’d finally saved into my contacts, with her real name, appears on my cell’s screen. Seated in my car, Ma’s snow-covered garden is all I can see. I know I’m passive-aggressively telling the caller to go to hell, but it’s like she can’t take a hint, because she continues calling.

&n
bsp; “What?” I intend for my question to blister her ears, since I’m still fuming from the last time I did her a favor and was brushed off close to a month ago.

  “Heyit’sme,” she slurs, mashing her words together, even though I still make out what she said.

  “I know who it is, Caren.”

  “Right. Well... so the thing is. I’m taking your advice. I, um, it’s I-I just wanted you to know—” I hear cars honking and people shouting obscenities.

  “I can hardly hear you. Go somewhere else.” There’s a loud rumbling sound and train stop is called out. She’s either on the subway or underneath its tracks at a station.

  “Shit. Hold on,” she says. I hear more activity in the background then it’s quiet. Caren is silent for some time after. “The thing is... I don’t really have a problem, you know?”

  No, I don’t. Her laugh is cagey, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to call her out on her bullshit. But, I don’t know her or her story, so I wisely keep my opinion to myself.

  “I just really started partying a few months ago. I have a few friends into that sort of thing.” Caren is vague in her explanation, but I’ve been around that ‘sort’ of element too. It’s easy for me fill in what she’s purposefully leaving out. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

  Why she would involve me in her day’s agenda, I don’t know, and right now, I really don’t give a shit. I can hear her agitated breathing through the phone. Our last conversation still stings, and I have to remind myself not to tell her to fuck off. Does she have amnesia? “You basically told me to mind my business last time.”

  I hear a familiar train stop called out. I can only imagine how busy it is there, with the after-work rush hour and people trying to get last minute holiday shopping done.

  When she returns to the conversation, her voice is lower and more urgent. “I just wanted you to know I’m on my way out of town to a center in Philly.”

  I’m not able to say anything else, because she disconnects our call. I focus on the big, fat snowflakes falling on my car, and not on the way I breathe a little easier at her news.

  To my right, the heavy front door opens, revealing a worried looking Ma. Sighing, I pocket my cell phone and head to the trunk to get the grocery items she asked me to bring over. With my hands overflowing with bags, Ma stops me at the doorway. The cold wind on my ass and the warmth of the home my parents bought five years ago beckon me forward. I take a step, but she won’t budge. I can hear Chuck, EC, and JC bickering over which Christmas ornament would be perfect on which limb. It’s our family tradition to put up the tree together on Christmas Eve. I hear Emma soothing Juli. Jill enters the hallway, but seeing Ma’s stiff back, she makes a beeline for the kitchen toward the back of the house. I place the bags on the floor. I can feel her stare boring into my back when I turn to close the door.

  With her arms crossed in front of her, she gets right down to business. “What’s wrong?”

  I look at the groceries in the foyer. “The ice cream will melt, Ma.”

  She pitches a brow. I’m back to being a teenager, even though I’m twenty-six years old. I know she won’t repeat her question, nor will she move. She’d rather the ice cream waste away and the milk sour before she gives up her relentless concern. So, right on the carpeted steps that lead up to the second floor, I spill my guts.

  I start from the first time I met Chels. I don’t hold back my feelings about bailing out Caren after she was arrested for having drug paraphernalia on her person during a police raid of a nightclub. I share my growing ambivalence toward this baby who could possibly be mine.

  “Hey, bro,” EC says before he and Jill discretely gather the groceries, never interrupting my conversation with Ma.

  “Will you still get a paternity test?”

  Hands on my knees and Ma’s hand rubbing my back, I feel more relaxed now that I’ve shared what’s been eating me up inside. “Should I?”

  “That’s a decision only you can make, son.”

  From somewhere near me, I hear the annoying buzzing sound. My bones tell me it’s too damn early, and I would tell whoever is calling just that if I planned on answering. I flip over on my side with a pillow over my head.

  Miraculously, the phone stops. Not more than five seconds pass and it’s ringing again. Groaning, my hand snaps it toward me. Maybe it’s Ma asking me to go to another damn store. I swear she already has everything for this evening’s dinner. That fleeting thought leaves as quickly as it came. She would’ve called my house line. I know it can’t be the garage, because last Friday I made the decision to close Sterling Autos for a month to celebrate the Christmas break.

  “Hello?” My voice is groggy from the late nights I’ve been pulling to help Ma and Chuck get their house ready for later on today.

  “May I speak with Dyllan Sterling?” The professional voice drags the last bit of sleepiness out of me.

  I clear my throat. “Who is this?”

  “Is this Mr. Sterling?”

  “Yes. This is he.” I sit up, trying to anticipate the direction of the caller’s conversation.

  “This is Montefiore Med—”

  The words aren’t all the way out of her mouth before I’m peppering her with questions she can’t answer fast enough and demanding the name of my loved one who’s at the hospital.

  “There’s been a horrific accident...”

  That’s when I fling my phone onto the bed and am dressed in under a minute. With my ear pressed back to the phone, she shares a name that makes me miss my step, stubbing my toe on one of the legs on the bed. I curse and hobble as pain shoots up my toe like a son of a bitch. “Damn, sorry. I-I’ll be right there.”

  Finding my keys by the door, I head out, regret accentuating each step I take toward the wintery outdoors and to my car. It even engulfs my ride to the hospital. Once I give my name, I’m shown the empty waiting area and told someone will be with me soon.

  Soon doesn’t come until hours later. I sit forever. No joke. But, I pass my time by pacing holes into the linoleum tiles and swallowing down the world’s worst cups of coffee. Finally, a tall figure walks toward me.

  “Follow me, sir.” He turns back the way he came, and I begin to do as he says, numb all over. He steps to the side, opening up a door.

  Once I step in, Caren lays on the bed, struggling to catch a breath and looking pretty banged up. There are cuts and scrapes on her face, one of her eyes is bandaged over, and I can see some blood seeping through. I dare not look lower.

  “Dy-Dy...”

  Rushing to her side, all I can do is stare. Do I touch her, hold her hand?

  “I’ll just leave you two,” the person says from behind. “You still don’t want a priest, Ms. Price?”

  Priest? Panic sets in. I look from the man at the door with his white lab coat and back to the woman on the bed. I don’t know if Caren hears him, but she does try to call my name again. This time, I follow my instinct and reach for her free hand that feels like a frozen tundra.

  “What happened?” I sputter, begging for answers. “You were on your way to fucking rehab.”

  “G-got hit. B-bus.” Then nothing.

  I pump her hand. I don’t know what the hell to do. “Caren. Caren?” Her whole body seems to shake. That does the trick, because what she tells me next comes out like one big whooshing sound, and stops my breathing.

  “N-no fah-fah-family.” I can hardly understand her, so I go closer and lower my ear to trembling mouth. I notice her pasty cheeks are now wet. “I sorry. Tr-tricked you.” She grips my hand so tight that I know a miracle is on its way. “H-he yours now,” Caren stammers out then her hand slips from mine.

  Then I hear it. The one sound you hear that you wish you could un-hear. She flat lines. After that, I don’t remember much, other than being pushed out the door and back into the waiting room. Not long after, a doctor comes out.

  “I’m sorry. We lost her.” His eyes brim with sympathy. “There was just too much blood loss.”


  Fuck whatever he’s spouting. I tell him that and much more. “She can’t be dead.” I just spoke to her, for God’s sake. Agitation brings me to my feet, and confusion forces my hand up to my hair, scratching it.

  The doctor never raises his voice or addresses my emotional outburst; he does reassure me that all measures were taken to save her life. “The accident should have killed her, but she held on long enough for the emergency C-section to save her son and talk with you.”

  And that is that.

  I know I have no rational reason to be mad at him, but I am. I’m mad she’s dead. I’m mad at myself for not giving two fucks when she hung up yesterday.

  “Sorry for going off,” I mumble out.

  He accepts my apology with a kind smile. “Do you want to see him?”

  Still reeling, I’m at a loss for who this ‘him’ is, but just like the last medical professional who led me to Caren’s room, I follow this doctor to the elevator. Silence surrounds us. I can feel him occasionally looking at my side profile, but the static-y noise whirring inside my head demands I give it all my attention than guess the reason for the doctor’s stare.

  The doors open with a ding. He steps out, saying, “He’s just this way.” He points forward. We end up walking down the corridor shoulder-to-shoulder. “You must have been very important in her life, because your number was the only one saved with a name in her contacts.”

  For whatever reason, my attention is drawn to the stark white of the hallway and the overpowering hospital scent. Sterility and too much cleaning products are what my nose picks up.

  “You’ll need these,” he informs me, handing me scrubs.

  Next, he tells me to sanitize my hands. The door swings open, and I’ve stepped back in time to when Juli spent a week in NICU because she had neonatal jaundice. My eyes land on mothers comforting their sleeping babies. There are nurses fixing tubes and other medical instruments and some are feeding infants. All in all, as I pass each see-through enclosure, each child looks healthy.