The girl's got half her beer gone already, her shoulders hunched, her hair pulled over one shoulder. She's got her high heels and a small clutch purse sitting on the stool beside her. Her cheeks are streaked with black.
She glances at me, grabs the shot glass with her left hand and holds it up to me. "To Mom."
I clink with my own shot glass. "To Cheyenne."
We down the whiskey, Jack Daniel's I'm pretty sure.
"I'm Echo," the girl says, glancing at me.
"Ben." I'm a little impressed: she didn't make a face after downing the shot. Clearly she's no novice at shooting whiskey.
We drink our beer in silence for a few minutes and, strangely, it's not at all awkward. I'm loath to break the silence, to start a conversation, lest it turn into telling her how I knew her mother, why I was compelled to go to the funeral even though I'd only known her for a month. I'm sipping my beer, Echo is guzzling hers. She lifts a hand and the bartender--a wiry, greasy-haired old guy with an untrimmed goatee--silently pours another pair of Coors and sets them in front of us, and then goes back to staring at the TV.
"So. Ben. Let's try this again. How'd you know my mom?" Echo pivots on the stool, angled toward me.
I shrug. "I told you. I was her client."
"But out of all the clients she's had over the years, even the ones she was currently working with, why are you the only one at the funeral?"
I almost shrug again, but don't. I move my nearly empty pint glass in circles on the slick yet sticky wood of the bar top. "She was a friend when I needed one."
Echo nods. "That's Mom for you."
"Yeah, seems like it."
"You work with her for long?"
I shake my head. "No. Just over a month, not quite six weeks, I think."
"So you barely knew her."
"Guess so."
Echo wipes at her right eye with a finger and sniffs. "She made everyone she worked with feel like they were important. It was what made her so good at her job. You always had her full attention." She lifts the empty shot glass and the bartender refills it, and mine. "I can't believe she's gone." She knocks back the shot without warning, and I follow suit.
"She was patient," I say. "But she had this core of...I don't know. Hardness. She wouldn't give up. Like the priest said."
"Father Mike. I grew up calling him Uncle Mike, actually. He was one of Mom's first clients, and he was a friend before that. I think he was a little in love with her, to tell you the truth. I mean, he couldn't and wouldn't do anything about it, and didn't as far as I know, but the way he looked at her, I knew he always wanted to help her however he could."
I nod. "Sounded that way, the way he talked about her."
"It was hard not love my mom, though. She just had that way." Echo's voice breaks, and she puts her face in her hands and breathes deep several times, and then blows out a harsh breath and shakes her hands.
Watching her struggle with her emotions is hellish. "I'm sorry," I can't help saying.
She shakes her head. "Why? You didn't have anything to do with it."
Ouch. That cuts. Because I very much did, only...how do I say that? Answer is: I don't. I don't dare.
"I just mean--"
"I know what you meant," she interrupts, not looking at me. She lifts her shot glass again, and as soon as the whiskey fills the glass she tips it back. "I'm sorry if I'm being a bitch. I'm just...I don't know what to do...how to handle this."
"There isn't any way to handle it. And you're not being a bitch. It's fine." I need to get out of here, away from this girl. I stand up, leaning on the bar, and fish for my wallet in my back pocket. "I'll go. Let you--have your space, I guess."
A small hand--thin, elegant, strong fingers, unpainted but manicured nails--wraps around my wrist. "Don't. I don't want to be alone right now."
I settle back down onto my stool, feeling unstable emotionally and physically. I don't know how to interact with this girl. How to comfort her, how to keep up a conversation when all that runs through my head is I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's my fault!
"What's your story, Ben?"
I tip back the pint glass and finish it, and start on the second one. "Not much to tell. I was playing football; a tackle went wrong and took out my knee. Your mom was helping me get my mobility back."
Echo looks at me, eyes red-rimmed with sorrow and yet still piercing, knowing, sharp. "There's more than that to it. I can smell it on you. You don't go to the funeral of a woman you just met. You maybe stop by the visitation and pay your respects, but you don't show up at the burial. And you don't--" she waves at my face with her shot glass, which is somehow full again, and then shoots the whiskey, making a face as she swallows and keeps talking, "you don't have that look on your face for someone you just met."
"What look?"
She shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, then takes a swallow of beer. "I don't know. But there's something. You look...distraught? Upset? I mean, me? She was my mom. My one and only parent. My best friend. So I get to be distraught. But you? No disrespect, dude, but you knew her a month. Why do you get to be upset?"
"I told you. She was a friend to me when I needed one." I blow out a breath, resigned to giving at least some of the truth. "The tackle that took out my knee, it ended my football career. I could've gone pro. Would have. There were scouts...but that's over, now. Permanently. And Cheyenne told me about how her dance career ended and I guess we...I don't know...bonded over it, to some degree. That's all."
But that's not all. Not even close. But I can't say any of that.
Echo nods. She's now on her third beer, and there's another full shot waiting for her, and I'm getting worried about her. She's starting to look like she's feeling the booze, and I'm wondering how far she's going to take this. She lost her mother, so I mean, god, she's got the right to this bender, but we're in a shithole bar on the outskirts of San Antonio. I don't have a car, and neither does she as far as I know, and she's on her way to shitfaced, and I'm responsible for her mother's death, and what the fuck am I supposed to do?
She knocks back the shot, and I've officially lost count of how many that is. Five? Six? Echo finishes her third beer, chugs it, drains it like pro, and then presses her knees together and spins on the stool, stands up.
"Gotta visit the girls' room. Be right back." But then after two steps she wobbles, stumbles, and has to catch herself on the bar. "Whoa. That caught up fast."
I stand up, snag my cane and limp to her side. Ignoring the screaming multitude of things in my heart and head and body--the pain in my knee, worry for this girl I just met, the undeniable attraction I feel to her because holy shit, she's even more beautiful than her mother, the guilt I feel over that very fact piled on top of the guilt already there--I put my arm under her shoulder, around her waist, support her and help her walk to the bathroom. I shove the door to the ladies' room open with my cane and help her through it, to a stall. She grabs the sides of the stall door.
"Thanks," she says, her voice small and wobbly.
"No problem," I tell her.
Seemingly oblivious or uncaring of my presence, she lifts her dress up around her hips, baring black panties and long strong pale legs. I feel myself blush and turn around, start toward the door.
"Just wait. I'll probably need your help again, so just wait." I hear the stall door bang closed and then the sound of her urinating, and then the flush of the toilet. My cheeks burn hotter.
I don't hear the stall door open; don't feel her approach behind me, so I'm startled when I feel her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers tighten in my trapezius muscles, and I turn to see her swaying on her bare feet, blinking, taking deep breaths.
"Okay?" I ask. God, what a stupid question.
She seems to think so too, because she snorts gently and shakes her head. "No. I'm not even remotely okay. But thanks." She peers at me, and her fingertips touch my cheek. My skin tingles where she made contact. "Oh my god. You're blushing. Jesus. What, have you never heard a girl ta
ke a piss before? So fucking cute. Lemme wash my hands and then we can get back to the drinking."
"Should you maybe slow down a bit? I mean, I don't really know you and I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but I just--" I don't know what else to say, so I leave it there.
Echo rinses her hands, dries them on a wad of paper towel, and then turns away from the sink, squaring her shoulders and trying gamely to walk a straight line on her own. And damn, she does, too. Slowly, carefully, but she does it. I follow her back to the bar, wait until she's perched on her stool and then take my own seat.
She takes a long pull off her beer, and then turns to me. "No, I don't think I should slow down. If I slow down, I'll have to start feeling shit, and I'm in no shape for that. It's not real yet, and I don't want it to be real. I want to drink myself into oblivion. Which is exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to drink until I pass out."
"Ah. I get that," I say. "Well, at least tell me where you're staying. Do you have a car here somewhere, or what?"
"Nope, no car. I took the bus here from school. I'm staying with Grandma and Grandpa, about an hour outside the city." She glances at me. "Is my drunk ass going to be a burden to you, Ben?"
I shake my head slowly. "No. Not at all."
So that's what happens. I sip my beer and we make small talk. She likes a wide variety of music, as do I, so music becomes the focus of our conversation.
"So, Ben. Favorite song of all time." She's drunk as hell, but holding her liquor a lot better than I'd have ever thought a girl her size could.
I shrug. "A single favorite song of all time? I don't even know. I'm not sure I could pick one."
"Sure you can. Just close your eyes, clear your mind, and think of music, think of your favorite song. What's the first song to come to mind?"
I try it. The answer comes immediately, but it takes me a few beats to get the words out. "'Let Her Go' by Passenger."
She looks up at me, wobbly gaze speculative. "Ooh. I hear a story there."
I shrug. "An old story, and a long one."
"How 'bout you just say it's a story you don't want to tell?" She leans toward me and bumps me with her shoulder. "We've all got stories like that."
I laugh despite myself. "All right, then. It's a story I can't tell. Not now, anyway. Maybe another time." I glance at her. "You? Favorite song?"
Her answer is immediate. "'Better Dig Two', The Band Perry."
"Why?"
This time her answer is longer in coming. "You ever hear the song?" she finally asks.
I lift a shoulder. "A couple times, maybe, but not recently."
She reaches to the stool beside her, unzips her purse, and withdraws her phone. Taps at it, and then sets it on the bar between us. A familiar melody emerges from the phone, a banjo picking out a simple count. The bartender glances at us, and then mutes the TV. We listen to the song, and I pay attention to the lyrics. When it's over, I glance at Echo, who has a faraway expression on her face.
"So. Now you get it?"
"I guess."
She puts a forefinger on the screen of her phone and spins it in circles. "I guess it's like a vow, for me. A promise to myself. With what Mom went through and how that affected me, I just...it's like the song says, 'this is the first and last time I'll wear white.' You know?"
"I hear a story there," I say.
She shoots a grin and a sideways glance at me. "A story I don't feel like telling right now. Besides, not much new about it, but it's my story."
"Heard that," I say, sliding off my stool and grabbing my cane. "My turn for the bathroom."
She tosses back the shot she'd asked for and forgotten about, and then carefully lowers herself to her feet. "Me, too." And this time she grabs my elbow, her hand slipping around my arm easily. She leans into me for balance, and still manages to trip a few times. We both go into the men's room, and I make sure she's in a stall before heading for a urinal.
I'm washing my hands when I hear the stall door bang open. I turn to see Echo stumbling out, fumbling with the hem of her dress, which is caught in the waistband of her underwear. I laugh and try to keep my eyes in appropriate places, but it's a lost cause. She's got killer legs, long and strong and curvy. I tug the hem of her dress free and let it float down around her ankles once more, and look up to see that she's staring at me.
The tensions and the questions and the sorrow and the doubt and the desire and the heat and the intoxication all mix, hers and mine and both and neither, and I can't look away from her, those eyes, so many shades and colors all mixed together.
"Think I'm...think I'm done," Echo says, ripping her gaze from mine and lurching past me.
I follow her, and when she stumbles again, I grab her arm with my free hand and keep her upright. She snags her shoes and purse, withdraws a wallet and peers into it, sorting through what seems to be mostly fives and tens and a couple twenties.
"What's the damage, boss?" she asks the bartender. Without a word, the bartender prints out a ticket and sets it on the bar in front of Echo. I reach for it, but she slaps my hand. "No. I got it. You just get us a cab." She hands him a debit card, gets it back and signs the slip.
"To where?" I ask, glancing at the bartender, who is already on the phone, mumbling into it and hanging up.
"I dunno. Anywhere."
"What's your grandparents' address?" I ask.
Echo ignores me, weaving an unsteady line toward the door, and then she walks outside, blinking in the sunlight. It's late evening, the sunlight a golden-orange, the heat fading to something less oppressive. She leans against the wall beside the door, heels dangling from two fingers, purse tucked under her arm. She's staring at the street, watching cars pass but not seeing them, I don't think. I glance down. Her feet are bare, and the ground outside the bar is dirty, bits of glass and old cigarette butts and oil stains.
"Not going back there," she mumbles. "Can't. I can't--I can't handle Grandma and Grandpa right now. I just can't."
"Then where?"
"I don't care!" she yells. "I don't care. I don't fucking care."
Are these drunk emotions, or she-just-buried-her-mother emotions? Both, probably, and I don't know what to do, what to say. I don't know her. I barely knew her mother. So I don't say anything. We wait in silence until a white older model Dodge Caravan with the name of a taxi service printed across the side pulls up. I hobble past Echo and slide open the door, then extend my hand to her. She fits her palm in mine but doesn't look at me as she climbs in, slides to the seat on the far side. I hop in after her and close the door. The driver pulls out of the parking lot.
When he's waiting at a red light, he glances at me in the rear-view mirror. "Where to?"
I glance at Echo, but she's staring out the window, head against the glass. Her breath comes slowly, deeply, as if she's fighting for each breath. Holding back vomit, maybe, or holding back sobs. Can't tell which.
"Just drive for now," I tell him.
He nods, and turns up the radio. "Give Me Back My Hometown" by Eric Church comes on.
And, of course, it's followed by "What Hurts the Most" by Rascal Flatts.
"You've got to be kidding me," Echo says when Rascal Flatts comes on. "Mom loved this song." The driver moves to change it, but she shakes her head. "Leave it on. Just...leave it." Her voice sounds faint, distant.
I look over, and I see her eyes flutter, close once or twice, and then she's asleep. "Shit," I mumble. I glance at the reflection of the driver's eyes in the mirror. "Now what do I do?" I rub my forehead with the back of a knuckle, and then give him my address.
Her head wobbles and bobs with the turns and the bumps in the road. Even passed out, she looks troubled, eyebrows pinched and drawn.
Twenty minutes later, the cab squeals to a stop outside my apartment. I pay the driver, and then nudge Echo's shoulder with my hand. "Echo. Echo. Wake up."
She moans, and her eyes flutter, flicker open. "What? Where am I?"
"Come on. We're going in, okay?" I t
ell her.
She nods sloppily and sits up straighter. I get out of the cab and move around to the driver's side, open the sliding door, and she topples out, into me. I catch her; help her find her feet. She wraps an arm over my neck, clinging to me. I lean heavily on my cane and hobble carefully toward the door. I've been on my feet too much today, and my knee burns, throbs, and I know I can't make it much farther on my own, much less support Echo as well. But I don't have much choice, it seems. She's not even really awake or aware, more just holding onto me instinctively.
I refuse to acknowledge the press of her body against mine, or the feel of her breath on my neck. I'm an asshole for even thinking about it, for having to stop myself from dwelling on it.
I'm not sure how I make it to the door, or how I get it unlocked and open, but I do. Barely, though. I get her to the doorway to my room, and then my knee gives out, leaving me clinging to the doorway, an arm slung around Echo's waist holding her upright as I hop on one foot and fight for balance, gritting my teeth. She's groaning, head lolling, and I'm about to drop her.
"Echo. Can you stand up for me for a second?"
She murmurs something unintelligible, and then peers at me. "I know you. We just met. Hi."
"Hi there, yeah, you know me. I'm Ben, remember? I need you to stand up for me. Can you do that?"
She blinks, closes one eye and then the other, and then widens them both. "Maybe. Possibly." She grabs my arm and hauls herself upright. "There."
I let her go and get my foot under me, gingerly stepping on it and leaning on my cane. And then she sways and starts to fall backward, and I have to catch her, hobbling forward as she stumbles away from me as she tries to find her own balance. I grab her, catch her around the waist again, and then we're both falling, hitting the bed, thankfully.
"You caught me." She peers at me, grinning. "Good job, Benny. Benny. Is that short for Benjamin? Bennnnn...jamin..." She draws the middle sound of my name out, and then grins again. "Bennnnjaminnnn. Benj...amin. Benji? Benji. Maybe I'll call you Benji."
My heart lurches. Only one person ever called me Benji. "How about you just call me Ben?" I say.
She tries to wriggle onto the bed, turns onto her stomach and crawls army-style. And then she waves at me. "Come on. Up here. Come up here with me, Benji."
"Ben," I say through clenched teeth, my heart cracking as I force down the hurt and the thoughts and the memories I've tried to bury. "My name is Ben."
Falling Away Page 4