The Year They Fell

by David Kreizman

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.

  “Oh, Jack.”

  * * *

  It was raining hard when we walked out of the police station, but neither of us rushed. By the time we reached her car we were both wet and cold. But she stopped before getting inside.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. For everything. It was not supposed to happen. We didn’t plan it. I know that is what people always say, right? I just want to say it because you should know. You are a good person, Jack. You always have been. Your father, he was … I do not know the right word. He jumped into life. He expected a lot. That could be exciting to be around. Also hard to live with. He loved you. So much pride for his son. I don’t know.”

  I swiped at the rain in my eyes. “Were you guys in love?”

  “I don’t know. Does it even matter?”

  When I opened the car door, Dayana was sitting in the back wearing an oversize black sweatshirt and wool cap.

  “She insisted on coming along,” said Vanesa.

  “Couldn’t miss all the jailhouse excitement,” she said. Then, quieter: “You okay?”

  “I don’t know. But thanks for asking.”

  Vanesa turned on the ignition. She started to put the car in reverse, but stopped. “You two want to know a secret? Something I wish I knew when I was your age? You grow up. You have children. You become someone’s mami or papi. People, they say you are an adult now. But just because someone says it does not mean you are any less … cagada than you were as a teenager.”

  The rain was coming down even harder when we pulled into their driveway.

  “I will call Gary Grossman at the firm,” Vanesa said. “He won’t like being woken. But he loved your father. Go ahead inside. Dayana, please heat up some of the soup for Jack.”

  When we got inside, Dayana grabbed a dish towel and threw it to me. “Use this for now. I’ll get you a real-size towel to dry off. She took off her hat. Even in the dim kitchen light I could see she didn’t have on any makeup at all. It had been a long time since I’d seen her face like that. I’d almost forgotten about all the soft freckles around her nose.

  She gently touched my battered knuckles. “Those must hurt like a bastard.”

  I shrugged.

  “You Clays have a habit of coming here in the middle of the night,” she said.

  “Sorry if I woke you up.”

  “I was awake. Not sleeping much lately. I went cold turkey on the Ambien.”

  “That’s good.”

  Dayana opened the refrigerator. “So who was the guy?”

  “No one you know.”

  “Good. How about a beer to go with your soup?”

  I guess she saw surprise on my face.

  “You were just incarcerated. I don’t think Vanesa’s gonna flip about you drinking a light beer in her kitchen. And by the way, she’s in no position to be judging anyone.” She tossed me a can and I cracked it open. She opened another one for herself.

  “Is your dad sleeping?” I asked.

  She paused. “Yeah. Since about four in the afternoon. He, uh, didn’t get that job he was interviewing for. Sucks for us, huh?” She paused. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Okay.”

  “You called Vanesa to bail you out? That’s fucking weird.”

  “Your mom … She used to help me out when my dad was around, but wasn’t around. Which was pretty much always. She was. She’s … a cool person. I’m glad she’s still here. I mean not dead.”

  She changed the subject quickly. “Does Josie know? About the whole jail thing?”

  “No, and I want to keep it that way. She can’t find out about this. You have to promise me.”

  “Okay. So from that reaction I’m thinking whatever got you locked up and did this to your hands—it had something to do with Jo?”

  I took a long drink from the beer.

  “She’s lucky to have you,” Dayana said. “You look out for her. Always have.”

  “Not always,” I said. “Jo’s strong, but … not what everybody thinks.”

  “No,” said Dayana. “Not what everybody thinks. It can’t be easy though, being her twin.”

  “You mean being ‘the other one.’”

  Dayana nodded. “Helluva way to go through life.”

  I thought about that for a few seconds. “What does cah-gah-da mean?” I asked.

  “Cagada?”

  “In the car your mom said parents are just as ca-gada as teenagers.”

  Dayana smiled. “Cagada is a Spanish slang thing. I think it means fucked-up. Parents are fucked-up.”

  “Oh,” I said, finishing the beer. “I already knew that.”

  “Me too.”

  She rubbed her eyes and yawned. People were afraid of this girl, I thought. Because of the piercings and the clothes and the way she kept to herself. Afraid of her like they were afraid of me. She filled a bag with ice and set it on my hands. “What does it feel like?”

  “Hitting someone?”

  “Losing your parents. I mean, I know it sucks, but … what does it feel like for you? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want. It’s not any of my business.”

  I took a long time to think about that. Nobody had ever really asked me that question. What did it feel like?

  The answer was that the answer changed ten times a day. Sometimes it was sharp and intense. Sometimes it burned like a dull ache or sat like a weight on my whole body. Sometimes I was furious at Mom and Dad for the mistakes they made when they were here, how they’d let me and Josie down. Sometimes I was furious at them for being gone. I didn’t think about them every second, but I was never not thinking about them either. It felt … like being half-awake. You know how when you pull an all-nighter, the next day everything feels like it’s not real? The colors are all dull, and you can’t really hear or understand what people are saying. You’re just floating along, sort of removed. Like you could drive your car straight into a telephone pole and it wouldn’t hurt you because you’re already so numb. Saying all of that out loud felt like an impossible task.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I feel lost.”

  Dayana let that sink in. “Are you hungry? There’s no way they gave you anything good to eat in the Big House.”

  “Big House?”

  “I could try making you something. It’s basically morning. How about gallo pinto? It’s like rice and beans and eggs.”

  “I should be getting home. You go back to bed. You don’t have to do this for me.”

  She took my bruised hand and gently wiped it with the damp towel. “Hey, your dad was boning my mom. We’re basically family.”

  15

  HARRISON

  -Track down Michael Boddicker.

  -Demand latest progress on crash investigation.

  -Weekly status meeting with Archie (and Josie?)

  -Find a girlfriend.

  -Buy Pop a birthday present and plan his birthday dinner.

  -Confirm Harvard acceptance.

  The letter was waiting in the mailbox when I got home from school. Just an innocuous white envelope buried between catalogues, coupons, and real estate flyers. It was only when I set the stack down on the table that I spied a corner peeking out from underneath the Pottery Barn spring collection. There it was: the Harvard crest. I felt every drop of blood in my body rushing to my head. I steadied myself, put my thumb and middle finger together, and carefully fished the envelope out of the pile.

  I could have received my acceptance notification via email or by checking the college’s admission portal, but Mom didn’t believe in that. Our years of hard work deserved to be recognized in print on real paper. She always talked about that moment when we’d find it in the mailbox and open it together. So even though I knew the date had arrived, I didn’t visit the Harvard website. I didn’t check my inbox. I didn’t even open the envelope when I first found it. This was a moment fifteen years in the making and didn’t belong only to me. It belonged to Mom. She’s the one who sacrificed for The
Plan. She’s the one who nurtured it. She taught me what it meant to work hard and to sacrifice everything for a goal. The day you’re accepted to Harvard, we will celebrate with the biggest ice cream cone the world has ever seen.

  I carried the envelope up to Momb’s bedroom and gently set it down on her pillow. Her bed was unchanged. That’s how I kept it. Even after all this time the pillows were dented in the place her head had last rested on them. She could’ve been sleeping here last night. She wasn’t though. Half a year had gone by since she was in this bed. In this house. Six months. Six months since I’d seen her or heard her voice or felt the touch of her soft hand on my head when I wasn’t feeling well. I’d never missed her more than I did right then. I sat down on the bed and put her pillow up to my cheek. Without warning, a sob exploded from my chest. It was followed by another and then I lost control entirely. I didn’t even recognize the noises coming out of me. It went on so long I wasn’t certain I would ever stop. When it was finally over, I felt spent, but ready.

  “Thank you,” I whispered into her pillow. Then I slid my finger under the flap and opened the thin envelope.

   HARVARD COLLEGE

   Admissions and Financial Aid

  Harrison Rebkin

  5 Fairway Lane

  River Bank, NJ

  Dear Mr. Rebkin,

  The Committee on Admissions has completed its Regular Decision meetings, and I am very sorry to inform you that we cannot offer you admission to the Harvard College incoming class for 2020. I wish that a different decision had been possible, but I hope that receiving our final decision now will be helpful to you as you make your college plans.

  … Very sorry?… cannot offer?!… final decision?!! No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t possible. I rifled through the open envelope for more material, but there was only the letter, the one letter.

  I read it over and over again, searching for an explanation. Maybe it was sent to the wrong address. That could happen. I grabbed the phone beside the bed and called the admissions office in Cambridge. After putting me on hold for ten minutes, a nice woman named Julia confirmed that I had received the correct letter. I attempted to explain to Julia that a terrible mistake had occurred. You are special. Don’t let anyone ever make you believe otherwise. My grades were perfect; my SAT scores were nearly perfect. My application was impeccable. She explained to me that Harvard University receives hundreds of worthy applications for each slot in its incoming class. She wished me luck at one of my other choices. Other choices?! There were no other choices. I didn’t apply anywhere else. I was going to Harvard. It was The Plan. Early decision was The Plan. You missed the deadline. Yes, well, I was … I couldn’t. Not then. You had just …

  Rejected? This made no sense.

  I called back the admissions office, and this time I was forwarded to a voice messaging service. At the beep I identified myself and rattled off my grades and accomplishments. I had slipped to number two in my class thanks to all my absences, but that could be remedied. I could still catch Mackenzie Markowitz. It was just a matter of determination. I calmly (at first) explained that my mother and I had been working toward this moment most of my life and they were not going to take that away. Not from me and not from her.

  “Bud?” Pop walked into the room just as my heart started to beat out of control. “What’s going on?” He spotted the letter on the bed. He picked it up, scanned it, and whistled. “Okay, okay. I’m not gonna lie to you,” he said. “This is a kick in the balls. But here’s the thing.”

  I didn’t care about the thing. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would make this better. I wanted Mom. I wanted her here. My knees buckled, but he took me by the shoulders and held me up.

  “Look at me,” he said. “You’re better than this, Bud. You don’t need them.”

  “I … failed … her.”

  I tried to slip his grip, but he wouldn’t let go. “You’re coming with me.”

  “No, this is where I need to be. In her room. I need to be close to her.” This was not going to be solved by mini golf or a strip club or a hike in the woods. “Please. Let me go.”

  Instead, he drove us straight to the beach. He got out and opened my door.

  “It’s too cold to swim,” I told him.

  “We’re not here to ride waves,” he said. “I need you to hear something.” He walked across the sand and up onto the jetty. He waited there for me. I thought about making a run for it, but I knew he’d find me. I wandered onto the beach and up the rocks as the waves crashed over onto our feet.

  “This is a good thing,” he said. “I know it doesn’t feel that way right now.”

  “But … The Plan.”

  “The Plan was horseshit. I’m not trying to trash your mother. That woman loved you like crazy. But she had issues that she put on you and it’s time you understand that.”

  “Her issue was that you left.”

  “And I’ll never forgive myself for taking off on you. But after I went away, she made her whole life about you. And that’s not fair to do to a seven-year-old kid. The two of you in that house with The Plan. Have you even asked yourself if you wanted Harvard and med school and all the rest of it? No, because she didn’t let you. It was her plan, not yours. I know you miss your mom. I do, too. But this rejection is a gift. Now you get to decide. You’ve got nobody to answer to. No pressure to be anything but what you are. I’ll always be here for you, Bud, but I’ll never tell you what to do. Take a breath, man. Look around. College will always be there. Your life won’t. We can travel to Europe. Hit the road in an Airstream trailer. Live on the beach in Hawaii. We can dream big now.”

  He reached into his jacket and removed a sheet of paper from his pocket. It was the letter from Harvard. The rejection letter. He’d brought it with him.

  “What are you doing with that?” I asked.

  He pulled out a cigarette lighter and handed it to me. “Do it,” he said. “Let it burn.”

  “Even if I burn the letter, I still failed her.”

  “It’s not about this letter. It’s not even about being turned down by some elitist jagoffs in Boston. It’s about saying goodbye.”

  “To Harvard?”

  “To The Plan, Bud. It’s about letting go of your mother’s expectations for you. And maybe letting go of your mother, too.”

  An ice-cold wave came up on the rocks and splashed against my leg. He didn’t understand what he was asking. He couldn’t know what it was like when he disappeared and it was Mom and me alone in the house. Watching TV. Trading books. Talking about the future. Just the two of us. He didn’t know how it felt to catch her falling apart when she thought she was alone in her bedroom. Or to watch her suffer in silence after the cancer scare. The radiation. She took care of me. We took care of each other.

  And then one day, she was gone. No warning. No goodbye. I would never see her again. As much as she tried to prepare me, I had no Plan and no idea how I’d find a new one.

  The tide was rising, and the rocks we were standing on were becoming wet and slippery. I flicked the lighter and the flame popped up. But I stopped there. I couldn’t say goodbye.

  Pop grabbed my wrist. “This is something you need to do. For both of us.” He pulled my hand over to the paper. “Let go,” he said. “Let her go.” He brought the flame to the bottom of the letter.

  I wasn’t ready. I tried to pull away but he didn’t let me.

  The paper smoldered and then caught. He released my hand as the fire scorched the bottom of the paper, turning it to ash. The flame traveled up, blacking the page before making it disappear until it finally reached the Harvard logo at the top. Pop held on to the letter as long as he could before letting it fly in the wind.

  We watched the ball of fire flutter down into the ocean, where it dissolved with a puff of smoke. As the letter flamed out in the water, I couldn’t help but note that Mom’s Plan ended up exactly the same way she did.

  * * *

  I didn’t intend to lie
. I didn’t even know I was going to do it until the words escaped my mouth.

  Mackenzie Markowitz had attracted a small crowd near her locker. Several girls from our AP classes were embracing her and engaging in awkward high fives. From halfway down the hall, I could see that Mackenzie Markowitz was holding up a letter with a familiar crest in the upper left-hand corner. However, her letter from the Harvard admissions department did not look like mine. It was at least twice as long, and I knew what that meant. Mackenzie Markowitz, who had usurped me as number one in the senior class, and who claimed she wasn’t sure which school she wanted to attend, had been accepted. She’d taken my spot in the class of 2024. And now I was going to have to walk by her and her squealing friends on my way to calculus. I put my head down, hoping no one would notice me—and my rejection.

  “Harrison, hi!” Mackenzie Markowitz called out as I tried to slink past. I could already feel her twisting the knife. The tone in her voice dripped with superiority. Her green eyes sparkled. Even her hair seemed shinier than usual. “I did it,” she shrieked. “Harvard! I got in!” She held up the letter with two hands, flashing me the words I’d visualized so many times: “congratulations,” “delighted,” “invitation to attend.”

  I couldn’t let her win. After all these years, I couldn’t admit defeat. I answered Mackenzie Markowitz the only way I could, with two words of my own. “Me too.”

  Her smile widened. Objectively, it was a nice, even pretty smile. But I knew better. I knew that to be the smile of a killer, someone who for seven years had wanted nothing more than to grind me into the dirt en route to becoming valedictorian. She bounded over and gave me a big hug. My arms dangled by my sides as she squeezed. She’d never hugged me before. We weren’t even nice to each other. Feeling her body suddenly pressed against mine was … confusing. That was her intention, wasn’t it? She wanted me to feel things so I’d be thrown off my game. I was not going to confess. I would not give Mackenzie Markowitz the satisfaction.