Falling Under

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  Ha ha ha.

  As I laugh at my sad joke, as tears course down my face and the alcohol starts to hit, I realize even my house is not safe. The safety of the house is an illusion, has always been an illusion because the memories are still coming.

  Fine. Fuck the house.

  I put the stopper in the grappa and half-run, half limp out my front door, down the steps and onto the sidewalk. It’s December and I’m in my socks with no coat, but who cares? I’ve lost Hugo. Never had him. Doesn’t matter. Memory comes, my throat burns, pain twists in my gut.

  I go south to Gerrard Street and the nearest streetcar line. It takes a few minutes and as I walk, people’s eyes slide past me—I am someone they wish didn’t exist; drunk, crying and half dressed on the streets of Toronto.

  I start to run. I see the face of Lucas, hear his voice and race him, race the memories, all the way to the streetcar, to the tracks, to the middle of the road, with my feet slushy and frozen, my body on fire and the bottle gripped in my hand.

  I stand in the center of the tracks and hold my arms out.

  “I’m here!” I shout. “Come and get me you fucker!”

  I see it coming—the streetcar—its red and white colors bright against the night and the hum and whine of it so distinct.

  I stay where I am.

  Maybe this is what it is to stop running, to be brave. To stand swaying under the sky and let it come. Let it all come and roll over me and then see if I’m alive when it’s over.

  Everything starts to slow. The red and white comes closer.

  “Where are you Lucas?” I whisper, and then shout: “Come get me! Come and fucking get me!”

  I hold myself still and wait for a sign.

  I have a choice: to let it hit me...or to step in front of it at the last second when it the driver can’t see, can’t slow down...

  As Lucas did.

  I look down at the tracks and there he is, where he has been waiting for me all along, with his eyes open and fixed on me, his skull cracked open and his beautiful body bent in unnatural ways.

  And again, there he is moments before, knowing the truth, wrecked, furious, screaming and then, so fast, stepping out in front of it.

  And I am shouting, screaming a warning, not fast enough and he’s not listening to me anyway...

  And standing, watching it happen in sickening slow motion.

  I have been standing watching this happen for years, every second an effort of denial, a fight against this guilt, this grief.

  Part of me will be here forever.

  Unless I let it come for me. The street where I stand is dark and the driver might not see me in time...

  I watch it approach.

  I unscrew the cap on the grappa and its smell, pure alcohol, wafts up.

  It’s still coming. He didn’t have time to think like I do. Did he mean to do it? Does it matter? I lift the bottle to my lips, take a burning swig, watch the lights get bigger. Any second now...

  It comes. It comes and I am not afraid. My body has become part of the night, part of the air. I am standing with Lucas who looks up at me with his childish eyes and dares me.

  I return his gaze and then slowly shake my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and I step off the tracks...and walk away.

  ***

  On the way home, I nearly get hit by a car.

  Inside my house, as I’m peeling off my socks, I realize how funny that is and laugh until I’m sick. Then I sit in the dark and finish the entire, disgusting bottle of grappa, talk to God and eventually pass out on the bathroom floor.

  What else is there to do?

  Chapter 33

  I manage to side-step the rest of the drinking binge, but take a few days to schlep around in my pajamas and consciously revel in self-pity. I cry and write bad poetry and compose letters I will never send (particularly not to Lucas, ha ha). I order pizzas, eat dry cereal, refuse to shower and send Bernadette for five kinds of ice cream.

  We eat straight from the cartons and have a good, long talk about love, life, and the state of my bank account since the defection of Sal. She insists on loaning me five hundred dollars to get me through the month and gives me a lecture on the meaning of ‘best friend,’ highlighting issues like honesty, disclosure and trust.

  “I would have been there for you,” she says.

  “You’re here now.”

  She shakes her head and comes back the next morning with a more well-rounded bag of groceries, a pile of self-help books and garbage bags.

  “Time’s up,” she says. “Get in the shower.”

  I grumble about it, but the truth is, I didn’t die and I’m getting antsy. There are things I need to deal with and greasy hair and pajamas won’t make them any easier.

  By the time I’m dressed, Bernadette has cleaned up the garbage and has coffee on. I pour a cup and start thinking seriously about what I need to do.

  ***

  Saturday evening, Bernadette arrives at my door in full Christmas party regalia, Bernadette-style, which means gold tights, silver lace-up boots, and a gold knit mini-dress.

  “No,” I say before she even opens her mouth.

  “No what?”

  “No to whatever it is you want to drag me to.”

  “You have to,” she says. “I won’t lie, you’ll hate this, but you have to come.” She pulls her boots off, marches down the hallway to my bedroom and opens the closet.

  “What is it?”

  She rummages through my closet. “Minister English’s Holiday party,” she says, holding her fingers up in quotations at the word holiday. “I’m guessing heavy on Jesus, light on Santa and all other religions. I didn’t want to bug you, especially since you’re going through…what you’re going through but...”

  “But...?”

  “But I broke up with Faith over the whole in-the-closet issue.” Her eyes well up.

  “Oh, Bee...”

  “Yeah, it sucks. But then she called me this afternoon and begged me to come to her mom’s party—said she needed to show me something. I doubt it’ll change anything, but I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. Will you come?”

  The party is north of Toronto and it turns out to be a long drive. As we head north it begins to snow and the roads get icy. I start to feel anxious but then I imagine the streetcar coming for me and I remember the calm I felt right before I stepped off the tracks. Somehow it makes me feel better. Not perfect, but better.

  Mrs. English has taken over the second floor of a charming country inn for her event. We stomp the snow off our boots, check our coats, and head up the ribbon-festooned staircase.

  Bernadette’s outfit gets quite a few surprised-and-quickly-stifled glances, but she is too busy looking for Faith to notice. I keep a wary eye out for Mrs. English.

  Being taller, I spot Faith first.

  “There she is,” I say, and wave.

  She waves back and pushes through the crowd to get to us.

  “Thanks for coming,” she says and gives each of us a kiss on the cheek.

  “So,” Bernadette says, “what is it you wanted me to see?”

  “Just wait.”

  We don’t have to wait long.

  The music is turned down and Mrs. English steps onto a makeshift platform near the fireplace at the far side of the room. She is in a well-tailored burgundy suit and looks much more normal than she does in my high school memories.

  “Good evening, friends!” she says and launches into an account of the year’s accomplishments.

  Beside me, Bernadette is pursing her lips and re-tucking her hair behind her ear every few seconds. Next to Mrs. English, Faith stands with her hands clasped in front of her and her sheet of blonde hair falling across her face.

  The next section of the speech encompasses finance, family values and the need to fight corruption and moral disintegration. I fight hard not to glaze over.

  I glance at Bernadette and she rolls her eyes.

  “On a personal note,�
� Mrs. English continues, “though I will continue to be outspoken in my opposition to issues such as gay marriage and abortion...”

  Faith and Bernadette both go very still.

  “I intend to approach these issues with more...love in my heart and with the hope that prayer will work to guide those who are on the wrong path...back to where they belong. God loves all, and we should attempt to do the same. Bless you in the new year and thank you for coming.”

  While the crowd claps, the three of us turn to look at each other—that is, Bernadette and Faith stare at one another and I stare at them.

  “You...Did you tell her?” Bernadette asks.

  Faith nods. “My whole family.”

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  “Oh!” Bernadette says, and her hands fly to her face. “Oh, my God. How did it...Are you okay? What happened?”

  “It wasn’t particularly well received,” Faith says. “But, well, as you can see, slightly better than I expected.”

  “They’re praying for you to come back to the light?” I say.

  She grimaces. “Something like that. I haven’t been locked up or married off though, so that’s something.” She turns back to Bernadette. “I told them about you. I told them you were the reason, that I was going to lose you and I couldn’t—that I just couldn’t.”

  Suddenly they’re both crying. Bernadette reaches out to take Faith’s hands.

  This is where I should be discreetly stepping away, but instead I’m playing lookout, which turns out to be a good thing.

  “She’s coming,” I say to them in a low voice.

  Bernadette drops Faith’s hands.

  “Will she...Does she know it’s me?” Bernadette asks in a fast whisper.

  “Shh,” Faith says. “Hi, Mom. Good speech.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She takes a moment to check out Bernadette and then me.

  “Which one?” Mrs. English asks.

  Faith blushes.

  Bernadette reaches out her hand.

  “I’m Bernadette and this is my friend, Mara.”

  Mrs. English narrows her eyes and takes Bernadette’s hand.

  “It seems you are a person of influence over my daughter,” she says.

  “Ah...” Bernadette says, and darts a questioning gaze at Faith.

  “Mom,” Faith says, “you promised.”

  Mrs. English, still holding Bernadette’s hand, steps closer and smiles brightly while saying, “You will find that I, too, am a person of influence. I love my daughter.”

  “Ahem,” Bernadette says. “Well, I look forward to getting to know you and your family better. Faith is a wonderful person. You should be very proud of her.”

  “Humph,” Mrs. English says, and glances at Faith. “I said I’d try and I will.” She turns back to Bernadette. “I’ll be praying for you both.”

  And she walks off.

  I let out a long whistle of air.

  “Nice in-laws,” I say to Bernadette.

  Faith snorts.

  “I wish I’d worn a different outfit,” Bernadette says.

  “I wish you’d shut up and get us all out of here,” Faith says, and bats her eyelashes at Bernadette.

  With all the love in the car, I’m surprised we don’t levitate back to Toronto.

  Chapter 34

  Needless to say, I’ve never liked Christmas.

  Every year I spend Christmas Eve with Bernadette’s family and reject all invitations for Christmas Day.

  For years I was fought over, pressured, guilted by Dad and Mom, to choose between them. One would think they’d come to some kind of half-day-each agreement, but not my parents—why agree when you have the opportunity to wage war? Once I was old enough to choose, I stopped celebrating altogether.

  Usually I just paint.

  This year though, I go to my closet, take out the Lucas shoebox and bring it to the living room.

  Wishing like crazy for a drink, I open the box.

  On top is a Polaroid of us at graduation. Our arms are flung around each other and we’re grinning like five-year-olds. So young.

  Lucas was fond of taking photos, so there are lots. One by one, I go through them. Interspersed with the pictures are Valentine cards, birthday cards, the occasional love note left on my pillow. My throat aches, but I force myself to read every word, take in every detail. I come across a Christmas poem he wrote me one year. It says:

  Mara, Mara, why so sad

  in the happy season?

  Trees and Santa make you mad

  I don’t know the reason.

  I say it out loud and laugh.

  Once the box has yielded up its painful treasures, the question is what to do with it all? Surely going through it isn’t enough—not even close.

  The phone rings.

  Usually I don’t answer the phone on Christmas Day, but today I do. It’s Mom. Maybe it’s just the state I’m in, but something in her voice touches me, forces me to remember I love her. The next thing I know I’m suggesting we have lunch tomorrow and we’re making plans to meet at a pub up the street from me.

  I take Dad and Shauna’s call too; it seems that capitulation is the theme of the day. Or one might call it change.

  I decide to organize the Lucas stuff. I start chronologically, making a pile for each semester and then create subcategories—photos, letters, notes, cards, etcetera. I plan to buy a better box, one with little files where all of it can go. Or maybe I’ll purge most of it. Some of it. But not yet.

  There are tiny sketches too, working drafts, and, finally, three sculptures from Lucas’s pre-tennis-ball-and-shellac phase that I’ve been keeping in a dark corner of the basement. Anything I like, I put on display in the house. Seeing it every day will be hard to get used to, but I think it would make him happy.

  I wander from room to room searching my soul for a way to integrate, to rehabilitate, to find someplace less painful for his memory to exist.

  And finally I go to my studio and paint until I cannot keep my eyes open or my fingers moving any longer.

  ***

  It’s been over a year since I’ve seen Mom, so I hardly notice the food at lunch.

  As always, I feel scruffy and freakish in my jeans and cotton sweater next to her in her beige wool suit, silk scarf and precarious-looking leather boots.

  Even the day after Christmas, she has her laptop, cell, and PDA.

  “How are you?” she says.

  I fiddle with my napkin. “Good. Really good.”

  She regales me with work stories and at the end of lunch hands me a gift bag.

  “Mom, you didn’t have to.”

  She pats my arm. “Open it.”

  I reach into the tissue and pull out a small box. Inside is a miniature artist’s palette made of crystal.

  I am speechless.

  Mom starts to shift in her chair. “If you don’t like it, I can exchange it.”

  “No, it’s beautiful.”

  “Well, I know I don’t get the whole art thing, but I thought you might like it.”

  “I do.”

  “Merry Christmas, honey.”

  I try not to cry on the walk home.

  ***

  After the moderate success of lunch, I decide to be really wild and drop in on Dad and Shauna in the evening.

  They invite me to dinner and I accept.

  Shauna gives me a pair of turquoise earrings from Mexico and Dad sits calmly on the couch watching “Six Feet Under” on DVD and asking the occasional question.

  “So,” he says. “What happened to your boyfriend...Hugo, wasn’t it?”

  “We broke up.”

  “How come?”

  I sigh. “It’s complicated.”

  Dad nods. “Relationships aren’t easy for you, huh?”

  “No, Dad,” I say. “They’re not.”

  He reaches out and pats my knee.

  “It’ll get easier someday,” he says, and smiles fondly at Shauna. “I promise.”

  ***
/>   New Year’s Eve, I find myself on Erik’s doorstep.

  He is alone. There a dark circles under his eyes and his skin is pale—he looks like hell.

  “Well, well...” he says.

  “You were right,” I say. “We’re not quite done.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not fucking you tonight, Mara.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You’re here.”

  I flush and he smirks.

  “Shouldn’t you be at some swanky party with your boyfriend?”

  “You know, that really doesn’t suit you. Erik.”

  “You’re right.” He sighs. “You’d better come in.”

  I slip past him and make my way to the couch, where I curl up in the corner. Erik gives me a quizzical look and sits down at the other end.

  “Hugo and I broke up,” I say. “And I went out and stood in traffic.”

  Erik frowns. “Seems a little over the top. How long have you known the guy?”

  “It wasn’t about him,” I say. “I stood on the streetcar tracks. I stood there and waited and I almost let one hit me. I considered it.”

  His eyes widen.

  “We have to talk about Lucas,” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “Erik.”

  “No.” He gets up and paces to the bedroom door and back.

  “You know you never answered my question that night,” I say.

  “What question? It was five fucking years ago.”

  ***

  Lucas is a sound sleeper, and there are things you need to know; things only Erik can tell you. You creep from the bed, grab some clothes, and tiptoe to the living room to put them on.

  The streetcar carries you across town to Erik’s place where you see red light glowing from the window behind the fire escape. You haven’t been here for weeks and planned never to come again. This is the last time and you’re here for answers, not sex.