Falling Under

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “Well, well. Excellent!” Dad says. “Come in then. Drink! Dance! Cha-cha-cha!”

  Bee and Faith wander off to get beer/umbrella mixes while Hugo follows me into the kitchen and watches me forage in the fridge for something non-alcoholic.

  “Listen,” I say, “I’m sure you want a beer, so go ahead and get one.”

  “You sure? I’ll come right back.”

  “Go,” I say, and then poke my head back into the fridge.

  Miraculously, I find a bottle of juice. I crack it open, shut the fridge, turn around and come face to face with Dad’s girlfriend, Shauna.

  “Oh! Hey,” I say.

  “Hello there, my dear,” she says.

  She pulls me toward her and I narrowly miss her customary kiss on the mouth before I’m crushed in a hug. “Lovely to see you.”

  “Mmhm,” I mumble, and disentangle myself. “You too.”

  As always, she looks good, but with a haziness in her wide blue eyes that makes people mistake her for ditzy, drunk, or both. Though her attachment to my dad might suggest otherwise, she is neither.

  “Your haircut is tres chic!” she chirps, changing the subject.

  I’m starting to think that the uglier a haircut is, the more chic people find it.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Have you seen your father yet?”

  “Yeah, on the way in.”

  Shauna does a quick swivel, checking over her shoulder and making her shiny brown curls bounce around her shoulders. “I think this time he’s really better,” she says. “He’s been good for weeks now, and the counselor says—” She breaks off as Dad enters the kitchen.

  “How do you like your old man’s moves?” he asks.

  “Interesting,” I say, “That’s, what, Mexican? South American?”

  “It’s a fusion.”

  “Ah ha,” I say, “Now I see.”

  When Hugo returns I’m so grateful I want to leap into his arms. Two cocktail umbrellas are lodged in his hair and I raise my eyebrows. He gives me a sheepish grin and points to the mime.

  Introductions are made and Shauna gives me very unsubtle, meaningful looks of approval and inquiry. As if I’d tell her anything.

  “So we’re moving to Puerto Vallarta!” Dad says.

  “Yeah, you mentioned that,” I say.

  “What are you moving for?” Hugo asks.

  I’m afraid to hear the answer.

  “To begin a new life!” Dad says.

  Right. New life #584.

  “New life, hunh?” I say. “Does the new life have a job attached to it?”

  “Let’s be positive, dear,” Shauna says.

  “Actually,” Dad says, puffing out his chest, “I’ve been offered a job at a posh resort.”

  “Sounds nice,” Hugo says. “What’s the position?”

  “Customer relations,” Dad says.

  “Bartending?” I ask, accustomed to my father’s euphemisms.

  Hugo looks from me to Dad and raises his eyebrows. He probably thinks I’m being a bitch, but I have ample reason to worry about Dad working in a bar. I have ample reason to worry about Dad, period.

  “Well, sweetheart, you’ll be happy to hear that I’ll be managing the bar,” he says.

  Ah ha.

  “And I’m going with him,” Shauna says. “While your father’s working, I’m finally going to finish my novel.”

  “She can write it on the beach!” Dad says.

  “Ah,” I say.

  Shauna has been working on this “novel” for the past five years. “Be happy for us!” Dad says. “It’s going to be great.”

  I hate when this happens. Hugo puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

  “Of course,” I say. “Excuse me, I need to get something to eat.”

  Hugo catches up with me at the food table and stops me as I’m about to eat one of the corn chips.

  “Shit! Gross!” I say, dropping the chip onto the table. “How could I forget? Typical.”

  Hugo puts a hand on my arm.

  “Sorry,” I say. “And thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. I actually tasted one earlier,” he says.

  “On purpose?”

  He grins. “Yeah, just to see.”

  “And?”

  He shakes his head and grimaces.

  “Not good,” he says. “Possibly life threatening.”

  I feel a smile cracking my lips.

  “So you owe me big time,” he says, then takes my hand and leads me over to Faith and Bernadette.

  We mingle, chat, pick at the food.

  Faith dazzles us all with her meringue.

  Dad corners Hugo while I’m getting the life story of the belly dancer, and I hope Hugo remembers our warnings.

  We’re getting ready to leave when Dad puts an arm around my shoulder and takes me aside.

  “Thanks for coming, sweetheart,” he says.

  “No problem, Dad.”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “What is it?”

  “Listen,” he says, and puts both hands on my shoulders. “I need you to be happy for me, kiddo.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  “I need your support. I haven’t told anyone else, but this job…well this job is just a stepping stone to what I’m really planning to do.”

  Oh oh.

  “Which is?”

  “I’m going to build an importing business. A huge business! We’ll have offices in Mexico and Canada—I’ll be a jet-setter! You see, I met this guy...”

  And it goes on. He talks right in my face, breathing sour tequila breath and staring at me with eyes that hardly blink.

  “Dad,” I say, finally managing to break in, “have you talked to Dr. Towers about this? Have you...Are you taking your pills?”

  He takes two deep breaths, in, out, in, out.

  “Have some faith,” he says when the breathing exercise is done. “For once could you have some faith!”

  “I do, but—”

  “I thought you’d be excited,” he says. “You of all people know the potential I have, the people skills and the business savvy! I’ve just never had the opportunity. And I’ve been sabotaged in the past. But this? This is going to be GREAT. It’s going to be HUGE!”

  “Okay, Dad, that’s good but—”

  “I thought you’d be proud,” he says. Eyes wide and forehead crumpled, he looks like he’s five and someone stole his lollipop.

  I put my arms around him and pull him into a hug so I don’t have to smell the alcohol on his breath, or look at him while I lie.

  “I am proud of you, Dad.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh good,” he says and sighs happily into my shoulder. “I knew you would be.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and hold him close.

  “Don’t forget,” he says, “it’s a secret.”

  “I know, I know.”

  I look around the room on my way out. The party is still going, but it doesn’t seem festive to me. None of these people, with the possible exception of Shauna, are true friends of my dad. They’re people he’s met in bars and then charmed and bullshitted. They think he’s on the brink of something big and that he’ll be bringing them along.

  They won’t be here tomorrow, next week or whenever it is that he admits to himself that his latest dream has no substance and he’s out of control. Again. They won’t be here, except those who show up looking for their “seed money.” And I will stand at the door and repel them one way or another, because the money will be gone.

  Even Shauna leaves him when it gets bad. She reasons, lectures, cries, then gives the ultimatum...and walks out.

  She calls it tough love.

  I call it abandonment.

  I will be here.

  I will be here and I will pour tequila down the sink and drag Dad back to treatment and shove pills down his throat and listen to the sad, sad story of his life, and feel mine drain out.

  Again.<
br />
  ***

  Out on the sidewalk, Bernadette and Faith hold hands. Some idiot pulls up beside us and asks them how much it would cost him to join in.

  Bernadette looks ready to surge forward and pummel him, and Hugo steps toward the car too, but Faith and I both say “No, thank you” at the same time and pull our angry dates backward.

  “Fucking freaks!” the guy hollers and roars away.

  “Limp-dick, pea-brain misogynist!” Bernadette shouts.

  “Bee,” I say, and grab her by the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  We make our way to Hugo’s car and I sigh with relief as he shuts the passenger door.

  We drop the still-fuming Bernadette and Faith off at Seven West, a three-story all-night bar and occasional lesbian haunt, where they will likely be necking in an attic corner until the wee hours.

  Once we’re alone, driving back to my house, Hugo says, “This is supposed to be a secret, but your dad says he’s going into importing.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I look at Hugo, who reaches out to squeeze my hand, eyes twinkling. I choose to laugh because, really, things could be a lot worse.

  In the car, outside my house, he says: “So really, was this a date?”

  “Maybe.” I smile and duck my head. “I mean, sure. Okay.”

  “Wow, so certain,” he says. “Next thing you know I’m going to be your boyfriend.”

  “Ha!” I say. It comes out more like a bark than a laugh.

  Hugo raises his eyebrows.

  “I mean, now that you’ve experienced my dad’s corn chips and seen that he’s the next Don Johnson I know I’m looking like a great catch but you know, don’t be too hasty.”

  He laughs and brushes his lips across mine.

  “You’re funny when you’re scared,” he says.

  “You think?”

  He smiles, kisses me again.

  Boyfriend. Uh oh.

  ***

  Alone inside, I find Erik’s number on the call display. Again, no message. An ache pulses in my gut, followed by a cold thread of worry. I pick up the phone.

  “Mara,” he says.

  “Erik. You all right?”

  A pause.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I say. “You busy?”

  “Very.”

  Which means he isn’t.

  “I’ll see you soon, then.”

  “I’ll get rid of the strippers and the crack-heads.”

  “Funny.”

  Of course, he is alone when I arrive. My throat feels tight and I wonder how I’ll manage to get out of here with my clothes still on, because that’s what I have to do. Regardless of my lack of official status with Hugo, this isn’t fair to him. And after what happened last time with Erik, I know it’s not fair to him either.

  Stalling for time, I walk to the window and look out at the fire escape.

  It would be easier if he could just go back to being an asshole.

  “You said something to me the other day,” I say after a long pause.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I turn around and lean on the windowsill. “ ‘Not running fast enough, are you?’ “

  “I remember.” He is in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, and I can’t help thinking how beautiful he is and how I will always want him, which shouldn’t be possible when I’m falling for someone else.

  “So, are you?” I ask.

  “Running fast enough?”

  I nod.

  He looks down, rocks back on his heals. “Sometimes.”

  “How?” This isn’t what I meant to ask, isn’t what I came to talk about, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  “I smoke a lot of pot. I keep busy,” he says and then moves towards me.

  “That’s it?” My voice comes out squeaky. He’s close and the smell of him hijacks my hormones.

  “No,” he says, even closer. “There’s this too.” His mouth collides with mine and before I know it I’m kissing him back, my arms are around his neck and my brain is making a run for the border. I try to form the thought, the word: Hugo. I try, but my hands are dragging Erik closer and his are on my bare skin.

  “Wait,” I finally manage to gasp. “Stop.”

  He pulls away, but his hands don’t stop.

  “What?” he says, and his fingers brush my over my breasts.

  “I...I wanted to talk. I just wanted to talk.”

  “Talk then,” he says.

  He knows exactly how to touch me. He does it, watches my face, and waits.

  “You called me,” I say.

  “So?”

  “I was worried.”

  “How sweet. I’m fine. Is that all?” He has my bra unhooked and I’m about to lose my shirt.

  “Yes.”

  Hugo.

  “I mean, no. We have to...we can’t...this isn’t good.”

  “Really?” His mouth on mine again, my fingers pressing into his back...

  It is good. It’s always good.

  Hugo...

  is not my boyfriend yet...

  but...

  “Wait, no. Erik. We have to stop this.” I slide away, stand and try to catch my breath. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “You want to stop,” he says. “As in, stop? Totally stop?”

  I nod.

  He shakes his head, doesn’t believe me.

  “We have to,” I say. “It’s not good for either of us.”

  “Fine, we’ll stop. We’ll just...stop.” He shrugs and looks away. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Liar.”

  His eyes whip back to mine. “Oh, I’m not the liar,” he says. “And I’m not the one who keeps coming back, either. But hey, you want it done, it’s done.”

  “Please,” I say. “Don’t...I didn’t want it to be like this. I want...”

  “What?” he snaps. “You want to have a nice goodbye? You want to be friends?”

  “No, but—”

  “Fuck you. Just go.”

  “No.”

  “What? Oh, now you’re going to stand there and cry?”

  I put my hand to my mouth, but I can’t stop.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not up for this,” he says. “Go. Go live your fucked up life and I’ll live mine. It’s not like I need my cock in your mouth to get through the day.”

  “You’re such an asshole.”

  “Isn’t that the point?”

  “No, it’s not the fucking point!” I surprise myself by shouting. “The point is that we can’t just keep doing this. There’s no future here, Erik.”

  “I know! I fucking know that. You want to go try and be happy or some bullshit, go ahead. Good luck. I really don’t care.”

  “Yes you do,” I say, and wipe tears off my face with the back of my hand. “And so do I.”

  “Go.” He strides to the door and flings it open.

  “Erik, please.” I walk over to him.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” he says, as I get closer.

  I reach a hand toward his face and he seizes it. I reach the other hand up and he does the same thing.

  “I. Said. Don’t.”

  Being the twisted slut I am, this turns me on. He grips my wrists and tries to stare me down but behind the anger I see ferocious pain and need—a match to my own.

  “I’m going,” I say, but my breath is short and my body is leaning into his.

  “I know you are,” he says. “But we’re not done.”

  In my mind, he grabs me, kicks the door shut and we are clawing our clothes off, then naked and fucking on the floor. Tears stream down our faces but we ignore them and crash together until we feel we will both rip open. We shift, roll, slow down, move deeper, our lips so close we breathe the same breath. Our hands, our tongues, our eyes, do everything one last time and then one more time, just to be sure.

  In my mind I dress slowly and leave us both peaceful and complete.

  In reality we have not moved and I’d like
to leave with some semblance of a clear conscience even though I’m on fire. Even if it means I leave this unfinished.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  I pull my arms from his and drag myself into the hallway and down the stairs.

  Chapter 20

  Living at Dad’s sucks in terms of getting to school. It takes two subways and a bus to get up to North York. Dad’s cool about it if you want to skip some days. He never liked school either.

  And ever since the Faith/Bernadette scandal, you don’t trust anyone—they’re all snobs and bitches underneath, even though everyone has pretended to forget. You and Bernadette grit your teeth and wait for summer.

  Since she kicked you out, Mom calls to fight about money with Dad, but doesn’t ever ask to speak to you.

  Screw her. You can wait her out.

  “Mar,” Bernadette says one day when you’re having a butt behind the bleachers, “you can’t keep cutting class. I know this place sucks, and not to sound like a nerd, but grades are important.”

  You sigh, take a long drag.

  “Besides, if you flunk out, your mom’ll win.”

  “You think?”

  “You want to show her you don’t need her?”

  You narrow your eyes. “Yeah, of course.”

  Bernadette looks at you with her bright, wise eyes. “Then succeed. Figure out what you want to do and then rock at it.”

  You feel a burn, a surge of energy. Despite the transparent reverse psychology, she’s right.

  “And if it’s too hard commuting, you can always crash at my house. You know my mom loves you.”

  You finish the year with a 90% average, and it feels good.

  Summer arrives and so does Bernadette’s driver’s license and a blue Miata.

  “Waaaaahoooo!” Bernadette hollers as you head downtown with The Cure blasting and the windows down.

  Music on Queen Street, vintage jeans from Kensington Market, sandalwood incense, vegetarian food, Doc Martens, Chinese restaurants where they don’t ask for ID...

  Art.

  Paintings, drawings, sculptures in galleries large and small! You ache from your toes to your solar plexus to make things—to paint, to capture something, to yank it from inside and put it onto paper, onto canvas, onto anything.

  Suddenly you know; this is it.