When We Fall

by Peter Giglio

  The whole situation made his head hurt.

  8

  Although Ben had been looking forward to Tuesday night for the better part of a week, when Aubrey showed up with Psycho and The Birds, as promised, he was only able to flash a brief and weary smile of gratitude.

  His parents gone, he and Aubrey sat on the orange sectional in the TV room. The clam-shell video rentals sat atop the Montgomery Ward VCR, untouched by Ben.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Aubrey asked.

  “I guess we should start watching the movies, huh?”

  “I thought you’d want to show me our film first.”

  “Oh, I’m not done with the effects yet, but you can watch it if you want to.”

  “If I want? Ben, I’m dying to see it!”

  “Aubrey, I have something to tell you, but I’m afraid you’re not going to believe me.”

  “You can tell me anything. Anything at all.” She smiled and put an arm around him. “I trust you, Ben. You’re not like other guys.”

  “Like Craig, you mean?”

  Her smile dissolved as she pulled away from him. “Please don’t mention his name ever again.”

  “What happened between you two? As far as I could tell, you were a happy couple all last school year, then—”

  “Really, Ben, I don’t want to talk about him. So stop!”

  He nodded as he got up from the couch, then cracked open the case for The Birds and studied the Universal label for a moment, only dimly aware that he was shifting from foot to foot, a nervous habit.

  “Please tell me that’s not what you wanted to talk about,” she said.

  “Well, no, there’s…something else.”

  “Spit it out,” she said, the angry edge now gone from her tone.

  “I think it’s better if I show you.”

  * * *

  When the film was finished, the last frame slapping the back of the projector, Aubrey said, “Oh my God, that was awesome.”

  He had managed to put in some of the effects that day, though he didn’t have the energy or interest to finish the job, but he had to admit, it was an incredible three minutes of amateur filmmaking.

  “You have a future, Mr. Spielberg,” she said. “Please tell me you’re going to film school. I’d hate to see your talent go to waste.”

  “Let’s watch it again,” he said. “There’s something you need to see that will help me explain why I’m in a bad mood.”

  The second time through the movie, he froze one of the four frames that had dominated his thoughts all day. “I can’t hold this for long or the bulb will melt the film,” he said.

  “Is this it?” Aubrey asked. “You’re upset about the way I jump?”

  Ben climbed on to his bed and pointed at Ryan’s face in the tree. “Do you see that?”

  Squinting, she stepped closer to the projected image. “It…it looks like a face.”

  “Look closer. Do you recognize it?”

  She studied the image for a moment, then looked away. And, as she seemed to stare blankly into space, Ben turned off the projector and told his story, beginning with his nightmares and ending with his trip to the park. Aware it was a sore spot for her, he left out the details involving Craig, but he told her everything about Ryan. When he finished talking, the moment of silence that followed was thick with tension. He was confused.

  Finally, she said, “I’m sorry, but I have to go home,” then started for the door.

  “But what about the movies?”

  “They’re one-week rentals. Just return them before Monday.”

  He followed her into the dining room. “But—”

  “Please, just let me go. I have to go home!”

  “But you’re supposed to be my sitter tonight.”

  “You’re a big boy now,” she said. “You don’t need me to keep an eye on you.”

  With that, she ran through the evening shade toward her house.

  * * *

  For the better part of the next hour, Ben did his best to respect her wishes. He even tried to watch The Birds, but he couldn’t concentrate on the movie. Worry soon got the best of him, and he tried to call Aubrey’s house. No answer. Roy was also at bowling league, making it easier for Aubrey to avoid phone calls.

  He had no choice but to go over there. But when he arrived, the front and back doors were locked, and the lights of the house were off. He scampered to her window and was glad to find it alight. He rapped on the glass a couple times, then, throwing out a silent prayer she’d forgotten to lock the window after his last visit, he planted his palms on the wooden frame and pushed upward.

  The window creaked open.

  “Aubrey,” he called through the opening. “C’mon, Aub, it’s me, Ben. You said you trusted me. Please tell me what’s wrong. Talk to me.”

  There was no response.

  Planting his foot on a slat of aluminum siding, gripping the frame of the window, he hoisted himself up and inside. This was the first time he’d been in her room, and he took a moment to look around. Above her bed, which was adorned in a pink comforter and frilly pillows, was a poster of Morrissey. The rest of her walls were owned by R.E.M and The Cure and The Clash. But what quickly captured Ben’s attention was the sound of running water from the bathroom.

  He tried to open the door. It was locked. This was clearly where Aubrey was hiding out. Knocking on the door, he said, “Come out, Aubrey.” Soon, his knocking escalated to pounding, and his voice rose to a shout. “Aubrey, please, talk to me! Say anything! Tell me to fuck off if you want to, but just say something!”

  Still, there was no response, and Ben felt tingles of numbness spreading up his spine, into his head. His eyes stung, and his breathing became shallow.

  There was nothing he could do. Something he’d said had triggered a rift. But what? He’d be up all night trying to make sense of the whole mess.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. But still there was no response. All he could do was hope everything would go back to normal in the morning. “Call me,” he whimpered. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

  Then, as he turned to leave, something caught his eye; pink water seeped under the bathroom door and bled into the carpet.

  Blood!

  Without hesitation, he rammed the door with all his strength.

  A loud crack erupted like gunfire, the door swinging wide.

  And there was Aubrey.

  One arm hung above the dark water line of the tub, blood dripping from her fingers. Water cascaded across his sneakers as he approached, slipping through the fabric and drenching his feet. Standing above her, he faintly made out her head beneath the reflective surface of the crimson pool. No bubbles came from her mouth.

  Kneeling, he took her hand and felt for a pulse.

  Nothing.

  Numbness spread through Ben as he wept and shook. “Why?” he muttered. He repeated that word again and again.

  The rush of running water seemed to grow louder…louder…until it was deafening…and his mind flashed back to his last moment of innocence…in the pool…the majestic sundance on the water’s surface…like God smiling down…then, moments later, his introduction to…

  Death.

  Hopelessness.

  “No,” he shouted. Then, gaze frantic, he looked around the bathroom, sure there had to be some rational explanation. There had to be something he could do. A way to make this right.

  Two razor blades glinted from the edge of tub. On the toilet seat: a cordless phone and a book. Looking closer at the book, he realized what it was. Without reading the words inside, he flipped through the pages and recognized Aubrey’s flowery handwriting. Desperate for answers, he stuffed the diary into the back of his pants, then picked up the phone and dialed 911.

  “She’s dead,” he told the operator.

  “I’m sorry,” came a stern reply, “but who’s dead? We need more information.”

  “You…you shouldn’t apologize if…if you’re not really sorry,” Ben choked.
<
br />   “Give us your location, young man.”

  Sitting down on the toilet seat, he reported Aubrey’s address, his voice cold and detached. Then, as he clicked the off button, he was struck by something odd. His tears had stopped, and his heart rate had returned to almost normal. He reached across the tub and twisted the knobs until the water stopped.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He thought about how she ran to him when he’d fallen down hurt. How she’d thought fast to save him when she thought he was dying. Here he was, covered in her blood, and when he turned his wrist and looked at his thick purple scar, it paled by comparison.

  He tried to cry, but something was wrong. He’d fallen down. He was broken.

  There was only one thing he could do for now. He clutched the hand of the girl he loved and waited for the grown-ups to arrive. He doubted, however, they would do anything to help a broken boy.

  They’d already failed a broken girl.

  9

  From the diary of Aubrey Rose

  June 1, 1985

  Dear Diary,

  Today was the day I’ve been dreading for weeks, but Craig tells me this is the right thing.

  I don’t know what to think.

  He promised me I wouldn’t get pregnant, so what does he know?

  Nothing!

  I hate him. I wish he would have been the one to die and not the baby in my belly.

  Sorry, diary, I don’t know what else to write. I know I’m supposed to tell you what I’m feeling, and that’s supposed to help me in some way, but I think I just need to be alone for a while.

  I don’t want to talk to Craig anymore, even though I know it’s just as much my fault as his. He didn’t force me at gunpoint to “take care of our little problem.”

  That’s what he called it. A little problem. Can you believe his fucking nerve?

  I hurt all over.

  I’m going to bed.

  * * *

  July 12, 1985

  Dear Diary,

  I think I killed a kid tonight.

  Dad would be so mad if he knew I was telling you this, but I have to tell someone.

  The boy ran out in front of my car so fast that I couldn’t stop, and when his head smashed into the tree, I didn’t know what else to do, so I raced home and told Dad.

  Dad will take my car to a friend of his who does body work tomorrow. He made me pull it into the garage, in case the police drive past the house.

  I wanted to call the police, but I’m a little drunk, and Dad didn’t think that was such a good idea. I know he’s only trying to protect me, but I can’t believe what a world of shit my life has become.

  Tonight was supposed to be a good night. Callie Thompson’s big party, and Craig hadn’t been invited. It was supposed to be my chance to cut loose and forget about all my worries.

  Fuck my life!

  I hope that poor boy isn’t dead.

  * * *

  July 13, 1985

  Dear Diary,

  The boy’s name was Ryan Barnes, and he goes to my school.

  And he’s dead.

  That’s all I can write for now.

  * * *

  July 23, 1985

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve decided to help Ben, the boy who lives across the street. I have to get my mind off everything that’s happened to me, and Ben is a sweet kid. He lost his best friend last year, and he seems lost himself.

  Maybe if I help him, I can make things right.

  Craig calls sometimes, but I can’t hear what he’s saying. I know he’s sorry—he’s not a bad guy deep down. But I’m not ready to face him yet.

  Dad tells me we did the right thing, but I think he’s just saying that for my benefit. Losing my mother crushed him, and I’m all he has left.

  I don’t know how to tell him that what we’re doing is killing me deep inside. I’m so afraid to tell him that, because I know he loves me so much and is only trying to keep me safe.

  Helping Ben is all I can think to do.

  He’s such a sweet kid!

  10

  “I can’t believe she didn’t leave a note.”

  Those words were part of a whispered conversation Ben overheard, spoken by one of Aubrey’s cousins from Iowa or Ohio—some four-letter state.

  Four!

  The empty pit of Ben’s stomach lurched and burned. Slowly, he approached a table of soft drinks, sandwiches, and various pasta salads. He hadn’t eaten in days. Still wasn’t hungry. But he wondered if he’d feel better with something more than bile in his gut.

  Craig Winstead stood at the table when Ben arrived. The jock looked up from the plate he was fixing, and Ben recoiled from his angry glare. Craig was, to Ben’s thinking, complicit in Aubrey’s death. He’d wounded her first, setting the tragic chain of events in motion. But the look on Craig’s face said Ben was to blame.

  Ben had taken that a lot lately; from relatives of Aubrey he didn’t know, from Roy, and even from his own parents.

  He was the one who’d been with her. The charge was his. If only he’d been told he was supposed to watch her instead of the other way around.

  There had been no church service, only a small outdoor funeral followed by this bleak reception at Miller Funeral Home. Sweeping orchestral music hung faintly in the background. The air conditioner blasted. God in heaven, Ben had finally discovered the one place more joyless than church.

  “You really should eat something,” Ben’s father said. Plate in hand, he sat down next to his son. “You can’t go on starving yourself.”

  “I won’t,” Ben muttered. “I’ll be fine. I’ll eat.”

  “It was a nice service, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it was awful,” Ben droned. “There wasn’t one thing nice about it.” He gestured limply at the room of mourners. “There isn’t anything nice about this, either.”

  His father took a bite of his sandwich and looked away. “These people need closure, Ben. They need to understand what happened.”

  “And what, you think I can give them closure?”

  His dad nodded. “Maybe. I don’t know. Can you?”

  Ben didn’t answer the question; instead, he got up and trudged to the food table. Everything there still looked terrible.

  What would happen, Ben wondered, if he opened his mouth and told this room the ugly truth? He couldn’t see that ending well for anyone, most of all him. And if life, as Lori Chance had told him, was truly for the living, couldn’t it also be said that death was for the dead?

  Unlike Ryan Barnes, Aubrey knew, perhaps better than anyone, the reason for her demise. And as Ben looked across the room at Roy—who seemed alone despite the number of people gathered around him—he felt anger deep in his bones. Because Roy knew.

  Then he glanced at Craig, who smiled as he talked to one of Aubrey’s aunts. Though doing a better job of hiding it than Roy, he knew, too.

  Two different truths, but not in the minds of those who carried the singular burden. Roy knew he was to blame, and so did Craig. But that wasn’t stopping them from treating Ben as a scapegoat. Roy wasn’t saying “cut the boy some slack,” and Craig wasn’t saying “you’re all right, kid.” Not now. They were allowing suspicion to fester and spread about Ben, who had done nothing but love Aubrey. He still loved her, even though he knew he’d only been her special project, a last-ditch effort to make sense of the world.

  Ben strode toward the exit.

  “Where are you going?” his mother asked. She was standing by the alcove that led to the entryway.

  “I need some air,” Ben said.

  “Well, don’t go far.” She eyed him like a hawk.

  About to rush through the front door, Ben spun on his heel and stormed back to his mother. “Stop trying to save me,” he shouted.

  Startled, she dropped her sandwich and looked up, breathing heavily.

  “I know you love me, but you’re killing me! And for the fucking love of God, I’m not going to let you do this to me again. I’m not Johnny or R
yan or Aubrey! I’m alive, and I plan to go on living! So stop treating me like I’m some kind of time bomb!”

  Ben’s father rushed toward the scene and held his wife’s trembling hands, helping her into a chair. Then he turned to Ben and said, “How dare you talk to your mother that way?”

  “Fuck you, too, Dad!” Weeping, Ben couldn’t control the tremors vibrating through his body. He felt like he was falling, and everyone was staring at him. Some shook their heads with disapproval. No eyes gave quarter.

  But Roy stood his ground in the corner, and so did Craig. Maybe they suspected he knew the truth. Maybe that was the reason for their cold demeanor. Ben had, after all, been closer to Aubrey than anyone in her final days.

  He gritted his teeth, using all of his reserves not to step forward and spill Aubrey’s secrets. Taking a deep breath, he felt his tremors slowly subside.

  Head down, his mother wept. His father knelt by her side, whispering assurances. If a stranger had stumbled into the parlor at the moment, they would have assumed these were the grieving parents.

  Backing away from the stunned and silent gathering, Ben held up four fingers. “I’m not going to be number four,” he shouted. “I’m not number four!”

  Then he turned and ran from the funeral home.

  * * *

  The bells above the door jangled as Ben stepped into The Book Rack. This was the only place that made sense to him after running from the funeral home. The scent of old books, dank but familiar, calmed his nerves as he walked past the bargain table (“5 FOR $1!”).

  “Benjamin,” Lester said, “why are you all dressed up?” The bookseller’s mother sat beside him behind the counter. They were eating lunch.