Behind the Falls

by Brenda Zalegowski

  “Wait…what? Max doesn’t drink,” I shake my head even as I realize that he did smell of booze. I just assumed it was the other people around us. The basement rec room had been full of drunken people.

  “Well he does tonight,” Tabitha says, “and he did last night. You wrecked him, Noah. He’s just trying to deal with it.”

  “He doesn’t seem too upset,” I say thinking of the way he kissed Mischa.

  “She’s a rebound, a distraction and to her he’s a conquest,” Tabitha explains. I know I broke his heart and I have no right to be jealous or hurt but he was just kissing me yesterday. I shake my head.

  “I want to get out of here. Can we go please?” I turn to Darcy. She gives me a hug and stands, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet.

  “You’ll make sure he gets home alright?” I ask Tabitha.

  “Of course I will. Elliot drove and he’s not drinking. I’m not sure if Mischa is or not but if she is we won’t let him leave with her, okay?” I nod. I follow Darcy to the car.

  “Are you okay?” she asks as she starts the car.

  “What’s okay?” I shrug. I don’t even know anymore.

  ****

  My parents ask how my evening was when I get home and I tell them it was fine. I can’t let them see how my heart is breaking. I can’t let them see how I just want it all to end already. I go straight to bed but I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see Max kissing Mischa. I see his arm around her pulling her close. I see his fingers entwined in her hair. I know I have no right to feel this way but it’s not like I can control it.

  On Sunday morning I’m awake before Mom brings me my morning dose of meds. She looks at me searchingly and I try to muster a smile. I don’t think it’s very convincing because she looks worried and doesn’t smile back at me.

  “I’m not depressed,” I tell her as she hands me the pill and a glass of water. “Have you ever lost your best friend?”

  “Noah, if you can’t talk to me and your dad can you please promise me that you’ll talk to Dr. Cooper? It might be easier to talk to him than to us. I want to understand what you’re going through but I can’t if you won’t be honest with me. Will you please be honest with someone?”

  “I AM being honest. You just don’t want to believe me,” I say as I take the pill and swallow some water. It’s like my throat closes and I can feel the pill stuck in there. I should take another drink of water but I don’t.

  “Come to breakfast now,” Mom says and I know she won’t let me say I’m not hungry this morning even though I’m really not. When she leaves the room I go to the bathroom and I swallow and I can still feel that damned pill in my throat.

  I have a moment where I know I can go either way. I can drink some more water and take my meds or…I cough sharply, deep in my throat. I cough again and the little blue caplet lands in the sink. I stare at it for a moment. I could pick it up and save it in case I need it. No, I don’t even want the temptation. I wash it down the drain. I feel a kind of relief.

  Later that day, when Mom gives me my evening dose, I tuck it under my tongue. I carefully swallow the water without dislodging the caplet. She doesn’t check anymore like she used to when I was younger. When she’s gone I spit it into the sink and wash it down.

  After the horrible night that was Saturday and moping around the house all day Sunday I’d all but forgotten my note leaving “friend”. True to form there’s a piece of paper in my locker door on Monday morning. I don’t bother to read this one and I toss it on the floor of my locker. I wonder if whoever is leaving them is watching me right now. Maybe the fact that I’m not reading their notes anymore will get them to stop. I almost don’t notice Max walking to his locker with Mischa. He’s sober now so there’s no excuse for why he’s got his arm around her.

  I still can’t believe Max was drunk last weekend. I still can’t believe he got in my face like that at Hannah’s. I really can’t believe he’s with Mischa already. Actually, that’s probably the one thing I DO believe. The closer it gets to fifth period the more anxious I get. I don’t know how I’m supposed to face him in chemistry class.

  By the time I’m on my way to chemistry I’ve gotten myself all worked up and my stomach is in knots. It’s not just about Saturday night. It’s also about Friday night and how I acted and how Max reacted. I can’t do this. Instead of going to chemistry I duck into the next boy’s lavatory that I see. It’s a pathetic place to cut class but that’s exactly what I do. When the bell rings to signal the end of class I head directly to the library.

  I don’t know how I can finish this school year. I think I’m ready to give up and stop coming. It’s not like I even have to graduate this year. I shouldn’t be in twelfth grade anyway. There’s a note waiting for me in my locker when I go there after lunch. I toss it down with the others and I head to computer science. Sherrie asks if I’m okay and I tell her I’m fine.

  When I get to art class Max is already there sitting at a table in the back of the room. He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s working on through the entire class. I’m out the door the second class is over. Darcy tries to talk to me in sociology but I tell her I don’t want to talk and throw myself into my work.

  It’s a relief when I finally make it through the day. It’s just Mom and I for dinner tonight because Dad left for his meetings in New York this morning. I think he took a cab and then a train. Mom orders Thai food and we have a silent dinner. She tries to start a conversation I’m not contributing. I concentrate on homework for the rest of the evening. It’s really all I have left to occupy my time these days.

  I don’t take my evening meds. I didn’t take my morning meds. One more blue caplet is washed down the drain in my bathroom as soon as Mom is out of the room. Tuesday morning’s dose follows its brethren down the drain. I can’t say that I feel better after stopping my meds but I don’t feel worse.

  The school day starts like every other. I spend time in the library then I go to my locker, throw another note on the floor and gather my books. My timing sucks as always and I turn to go to homeroom in time to see Max and Mischa arrive. I lean against my locker and let my head fall back against the metal closing my eyes.

  “You did this,” Tabitha’s voice comes from my right. I open my eyes and look down at her from the corner of my eye.

  “What?”

  “You look at them like it’s killing you but you did this. You are NOT the victim here, Noah. You can stand there and look all destroyed and you can do that thing you do with your eyebrows that makes you look so sad and pathetic…yeah, that thing you’re doing now…but you are not the victim. Stop acting like one. Either make it right or cheer the fuck up.” She puts one arm around me and gives me a little squeeze to try to balance out the sting of her words and then she leaves me alone.

  I don’t agree with Tabitha. I may have started this by ending it with Max but he’s the one that refuses to be friends with me. He’s the one giving me the all or nothing attitude. He’s the one that hooked up with someone else a week after I supposedly broke his heart. I’m a victim too. I sleepwalk through the morning and I skip chemistry again. I wonder how long I can continue to skip class before my parents are notified. Have I already damaged that grade for myself and Max?

  I spend lunch hour at Sherrie’s table and Darcy even joins us. I make a pillow of my arms on the table and try to calm the shaking that started around fourth period. The shaking has been joined by a headache. I ache all over and wonder if I’m getting sick. The cafeteria is too loud today. When lunch is over and I stand to leave the table I fall into Darcy who barely manages to catch me. I’m so dizzy. I have to stop and close my eyes and try to stabilize.

  “Noah? Are you okay?” she asks. I nod and open my eyes slowly.

  “I just stood up too fast,” I tell her but it’s a lie because I’m still dizzy. I somehow make it to my locker, throw another note on the floor and stumble my way to computer science. This is usually one of my best classes but I can’t
seem to concentrate. I feel disconnected, like I’m not really here, like I’m not really in my body at all. Am I finally going crazy…honest to God breaking from reality crazy?

  The disconnected feeling follows me out of class as does the dizziness. It’s only after I have to rush to the bathroom and toss my cookies that I realize what’s happening. It’s the withdrawal that I should have expected as soon as I stopped taking my meds. It’s actually comforting to know that this is chemical and will pass and I’m not losing my mind.

  Mom has a meeting this afternoon and she told me this morning on the way to school that I will have to wait longer than usual or take the bus. I don’t think I can handle the bus so I tell her I’m going to run laps after school. She can find me at the track when she’s ready to leave.

  I change into sweats and I realize it’s stupid to try to run feeling like I feel but I need it. My hands shake as I tie my sneakers. I still feel slightly dizzy so I take my time warming up for the run. I’ll just do an easy jog, I tell myself. I’m not sure my knee is up to more than that anyway.

  I’m stretching out my calves against the back wall of the school. I think this wall is the back of the auditorium. There are no windows. It’s just a solid wall of brick. I brace my hands against the wall and bend one leg in front and stretch the other behind me and sink into it to stretch the muscles in my calf. I feel the resistance as my body complains over the week of inactivity.

  I’m getting ready to switch legs and I’m off balance when I’m slammed from behind flat against the brick wall. My cheek is pushed into the brick as a hand shoves my head and I feel a knee at the small of my back also shoving me into the back wall of the school.

  “Hey, faggot, I warned you I’d be coming for you,” growls a voice in my ear. I try to turn around to see his face but I can’t. He’s stronger than me. Even if I wasn’t half sick from drug withdrawal, even if I wasn’t weak from lack of eating he’d be stronger and taller than me. My heart pounds my fear and I try to catch my breath and then I feel the blow to my back as he gives me a powerful kidney shot.

  Another punch to the kidneys and then he stops pressing me against the wall and I fall to my knees gasping. I’m not down for long. He pulls me to my feet and spins me around shoving my back against the wall. He holds me in place with a strong hand around my throat and I don’t even get the satisfaction of seeing his face. He’s wearing a ski mask. I take in every detail that I can but there’s not much. His hair is covered by the hat. He wears a letterman’s jacket that is no different than any other jacket worn by the Lansing High jocks. The only thing that makes him an individual to me is his grayish blue eyes. I try to think if I know anyone with this eye color but really, how often do you notice anyone’s eyes?

  “You really make me sick,” he says as he punches me in the stomach. It makes me gag. If I had anything in my stomach it would probably be all over him by now. I know I’m in no shape to fight. I don’t even know HOW to fight but I can’t just let him beat me and take it. I swing and connect but I don’t think I cause any damage. I think I just pissed him off.

  He backhands me across the face and before I can recover he’s punching me in the guts again. My heart is pounding out of my chest. My every instinct is for flight but I know there’s no getting away from him. I swing again and miss, he swings again and connects. My hands are flailing at him, scratching, clawing and trying to push him away. He pushes me against the wall so hard that the back of my head bounces off the brick.

  “I bet you’re the bottom,” he says. I’m struggling to catch my breath and I know he thinks he has me beaten when he relaxes his hold. I swing again and this time I connect and I hope his face hurts as much as my hand. He stumbles back a few steps, hand going to his jaw and I try to make a break for it.

  “Oh no you don’t,” he hisses and grabs me by the hair. He kicks at my legs and the knee that still isn’t one hundred percent screams and I go down to my knees. He still has a fistful of my hair and he steps close to me and shoves my face into his crotch.

  “Do you like this?” he taunts me as the rough denim of his jeans scratches my nose. I can’t breathe at all now. Part of it is having my nose and mouth blocked but a lot of it is the memory of that night that I would rather forget. I swear to myself right then that if he pulls down his zipper I will use my teeth. I start to struggle and yell and this earns me a kick in the gut and I go down in a heap.

  I struggle to take a breath that won’t come. His kick was square in the diaphragm and my body won’t work. I’m panicked and I’m hurt and sick and dizzy and the breath just won’t come. I taste blood and I wonder if this is what Max felt like when he almost drowned.

  As my body starts working again and I can take a breath his foot connects with my stomach again. Before I can roll over or protect myself he’s kicking again, this time in the ribs. I see his black sneaker coming at me as he kicks yet again and I’m glad he’s not wearing boots or shoes. I finally manage to curl into a protective ball.

  Everything hurts and I wonder if this is how I’ll die. As soon as I have that thought I find a strange sort of calm. I realize I don’t care. Yes, the pain sucks. Yes, I’m hurt badly and I can’t do anything to protect myself but if I die right now I’m okay with that. I’m so done with all of this. He kicks me again and I just make a “woof” sound as the air is kicked out of me again but I don’t cry out this time.

  He crouches down next to me then. I think he believes I’m unconscious now because I’ve gone so quiet. My eyes were squeezed shut but now I open them. He grabs me by my collar and pulls me closer to his face.

  “I’m going to finish you now,” he promises. “You worthless, fucking queer.” I almost recognize his voice but in a school this small that means very little. He could be someone I know or he could just be someone I’ve heard answer a question in class. It doesn’t really matter anymore.

  I’m trying to mentally prepare myself for how he plans to finish me when he shoves me hard and I fall against the pavement again and my head bounces off of the hard cement. As everything goes black I think I hear yelling and running feet and commotion but then everything is dark and silent.

  ****

  “Noah? Can you hear me?” Fingers pry my eye open and a bright light shines in and I try to close my eye again. This process is repeated with the other eye. Everything hurts. I try to mentally take inventory of my body and I don’t have an inch of me that doesn’t cry out in pain.

  “Pupils are responsive. Let’s get him on the backboard,” says the same voice. I feel hands supporting my head and neck and other hands get under my body and someone counts to three and I’m lifted. I’m not lifted very far. It’s more of a horizontal movement rather than vertical. I try to open my eyes but I can’t. Sounds are getting distant again.

  There’s another count of three and the board that I was moved to is lifted and the movement makes me sick. I start to retch and someone turns my head to the side but my stomach is empty. I groan as I’m being carried.

  “Noah?! Noah can you hear me?” Mom’s voice. “Please, may I ride with him?” she pleads. Someone says yes and the last sensation I have is my Mom taking my hand and then everything is dark again.

  The next time I open my eyes I’m gasping for air. The ambulance is moving but I don’t know if we’re five minutes from the school or halfway to the hospital. I try to think where the nearest hospital is but my train of thought is interrupted when I try to breathe again and am assaulted with pain.

  “Can’t breathe,” I manage to gasp. I know my mom is to my right because I can feel her holding my hand. I try to look at her but I can’t turn my head. I start to panic but Mom tries to calm me.

  “Stay still, Noah. You’re immobilized until they can rule out a neck injury,” she explains. I wince with pain again as I try to breathe. I feel like I need a deep breath but every time I try to expand my lungs there’s excruciating pain. One of the paramedics slips an oxygen mask over my face and after a few shallow breaths I
start to feel better. I don’t need to breathe as deeply to get oxygen into my lungs.

  Even though I don’t feel like I’m suffocating anymore I start to panic. It’s probably a delayed reaction to getting jumped. Maybe I’m just terrified that Mom will figure out the truth of why I was attacked. Maybe it’s just the faulty wiring in my brain. I can’t practice my breathing exercises because I can’t fill my lungs. I can feel my heart pounding and fluttering in my chest. The paramedic that is monitoring my vitals seems concerned.

  “Heart rate is one fifteen. We need to get this kid to the ER NOW,” he says.

  “My son has a panic disorder,” Mom tells him. “He’s having an attack. His heart rate will come back down as soon as he stops panicking.” It’s easier said than done and I’m still feeling panicked when the ambulance pulls up to the hospital.

  It’s a whirlwind of activity once the ambulance stops. They take me into the ER and Mom has to wait and I’m alone with the medical staff and I’m shaking and terrified and I still hurt and I feel sick but my stomach is empty. Hours pass while they take x-rays and cat scans and determine the extent of my injuries. At some point some doctor or other decides an MRI is necessary and that’s when I go all demented.

  Normally I feel better when I’m confined like in the little cubby in my bathroom at home but that’s not the case now. The machine terrifies me. I’m starting to panic again. I’m trying to flail and fight but my head and neck are still immobilized. Eventually the medical staff gives up fighting me and there’s a prick as I’m stuck with a needle. The sedative is fast-working.

  The sedative was strong. When I wake up again I’m in a hospital gown in a regular room and Mom is sitting by my bed. I can move my head again and that’s a relief. I try to sit up but everything still hurts a LOT and I groan which is when Mom realizes I’m awake.

  “Oh, Sweetie, are you okay? Do you need anything?” she asks.

  “Where am I?” I ask. I try to sit up and I cry out in pain and fall back against the pillows again.