The Upside of Falling Down

by Rebekah Crane

  “Are you a patient here or something?”

  His focus is down as he eats, barely paying attention to me. “You know, it’s an urban myth that this stuff is made out of horse hooves.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s the bones and hides of pigs and cows.”

  “I’m not sure that’s any better.” When he takes another helping into his mouth, I say, “But you’re eating the Jell-O . . . Jelly . . . anyway.”

  He examines his half-eaten container. “You can’t be afraid of what’s inside. And it tastes good. That’s a life lesson.”

  “What?”

  “If something tastes good, don’t ask what it’s made of. You might be disappointed.”

  “But you know what it’s made of,” I say.

  “Never been good at taking my own advice.” He eats another full container of Jell-O, and I marvel as I watch him. Then he turns his attention to me. “So you’re American.”

  I nod, noticing again how blue his eyes are. They practically shimmer.

  “Tourist?” he asks.

  I nod again.

  “Well then, I should tell you that leprechauns aren’t real, and you’re more likely to get herpes than the gift of gab from kissing the Blarney Stone.” He points at my chest. “Nice sweatshirt, by the way.”

  “This was a gift.” I pull on the bottom.

  “And you accepted it?”

  I groan. “The grumpy old man looks lonely. Go bother him.”

  “Old people are depressing.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “But it’s the truth.” He takes a huge bite and then holds out his hand to me. “I’m Kieran, by the way.” His eyes are distracting and mesmerizing at the same time. I’m distracted in ogling their unnatural brightness. “And you are?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I told you my name. Now, you tell me yours.”

  That’s a really good question, and it only sparks more. With no answer to offer, my single option is to keep quiet. I don’t owe this random guy anything. Kieran seems to take my rejection in stride and goes back to eating.

  “So you’re not going to tell me your name,” he says.

  How can I claim to be a girl I don’t know? And if Kieran knows my real name—the girl-miracle from the plane crash—I’m pathetic all over again. Right now this conversation, which is odd on many levels, feels good . . . and normal.

  “No,” I say. “I barely know you.”

  He leans closer, his body taking up the space between us and causing me to back away from him. When I do, a cocky, intrigued expression pulls at his face. “Well, if you won’t tell me your name, answer this.”

  “Yes?” I try to sound confident.

  Kieran’s smile is as distracting as his eyes. “Truth or dare?”

  A momentary pause settles. “What?” I ask, confused.

  “Come on. You know the game. Pick one. You can tell a lot about a person by which one they choose.”

  “Really?” Now I’m intrigued.

  Kieran eggs me on. “Choose wisely.”

  With no past to go on and no idea of what kind of person I was, I’m stuck for an answer, and it feels awful.

  “Don’t think about it. Just go with your gut,” Kieran says.

  “Dare,” I say.

  “Dare,” Kieran repeats. “Interesting.”

  When his face lights up, so do I. The answer felt honest. For the first time, it’s actually plausible that I will be myself again. That living without my memories is temporary. This won’t last forever.

  Kieran pushes the last container of orange Jell-O across the table. “I dare you to eat the bones and hides of pigs and cows.”

  A laugh escapes my lips for the first time since I woke up in a strange room in a foreign place. Kieran rests on his elbows, waiting to see if I’ll take the dare. I eye the Jell-O. How can something orange and fruity be made of cow and pig parts?

  “Dare accepted.” I grab a spoon and dig it into the Jell-O. Kieran sits back, a satisfied expression on his face, as I hold the spoon inches from my mouth.

  But a split second before I can eat it, Stephen walks across the courtyard with another damn wheelchair. The spoon drops from my hand, and I stand.

  “I have to go.”

  “What about the dare?” Kieran asks, but I’m back to where I started, with no answer to offer. I wish I had one. “Now you have to tell me your name. It’s only right.”

  My name? Kieran doesn’t realize that I don’t know what I’m made of. The list in my notebook, presently, is small, less than one full page. On the outside, I’m orange and fruity, but maybe on the inside I’m pig and cow parts.

  It’s not a lie if you don’t know the truth, right? Clementine Haas doesn’t exist. She died in a plane crash. I woke up in her body, and until I remember who she is, what she’s made of, I can’t claim her life. Instead, I go with my gut.

  “Jane. My name is Jane.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “You were right. The fresh air did you well,” Stephen says as he wheels me down the hallway. “You’re looking better. Lovely, really.”

  “I feel better,” I say, though I’m still slightly disappointed that I failed at completing my dare. Being outside felt good—the sunshine, the grass, the normal conversation without a roomful of people gawking at me and waiting for something to happen. Waiting is awful.

  But the clean hospital smell overshadows the freshness from outside, like a blanket of reality settling down on me again. The thought of sitting in my room and waiting for my dad to show up sounds miserable. I can’t lie in that bed anymore. How am I supposed to add to my list if I’m stuck there?

  “Can we go back outside just for a little longer?” I say.

  “No,” Stephen answers matter-of-factly. “You made a deal with me. Let’s not push it. Your dad should be here soon. There are . . . decisions to be made.”

  “Like what?”

  “Let’s just get you to your dad, and we’ll go from there.”

  Just as Stephen says “your dad,” we round the hallway corner. At this point, I should expect the unexpected at every turn. This is the path of my life right now—twisting, turning, utterly unpredictable—and yet it still seems to surprise me.

  My blood drops to my feet and paralyzes me in the chair. This is what I’ve been waiting for. My life depends on this.

  Paul Haas from Cleveland, Ohio, stands in the hallway just outside of my room, talking to my doctor. I know it’s my dad, like I know I’m in a hospital. By clues. Nurses. Doctors. Machines. Rooms filled with people hooked up to those machines. Uncomfortable gowns that open in back. All clues.

  Paul is dressed in a Cleveland Indians T-shirt. That’s my first clue. He appears tired, like a person who’s been awake for a few days straight. Second clue. He’s also listening to my doctor as he shakes his head and . . . bites his nails.

  I glance down at my pathetic, nibbled nails.

  “Stop,” I say to Stephen. It’s all I can manage to say.

  Stephen brings me to a halt. My dad is here to save me, to bring me back to my life. I was sure I’d see him, and it would all come back to me—all the memories that make up who I am. I was sure that I would see him and love him.

  Instead . . . I feel nothing.

  Nothing.

  When a girl sees her dad, she should be filled with emotion, right? She should feel a connection, because her blood is made of half of his blood, and nothing can ever change that. It’s palpable, like a heartbeat. Or I think it should be, though I don’t know for sure.

  But as I sit in my wheelchair, I’m empty. Utterly empty. The only thing between us is space. Nothing connects me to him. I know it’s my father based on the clues, but that’s all. The clues don’t fit together to make memories.

  When he sees me, he’ll know it. He’ll see it on my face, just like the doctors did. He’ll see that I don’t love him like I must have before. He’ll see that I’m vacant. He’ll want a connection I can’t
give him. He’ll want it so badly, and then I’ll break his heart. I can practically see him holding himself together as he tries to process all of this. I’ll shatter him again. How can I do that after everything he’s been through?

  “Bathroom,” I say to Stephen as I stand up from the wheelchair.

  “What?”

  “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Clementine, I think I see your dad.”

  I give him a glare. “That’s why I want to go to the bathroom. I just need a moment to . . . put myself together.”

  Stephen eyes me suspiciously.

  “Please. I don’t want him to see me a mess. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

  “Are you sure everything’s OK?”

  “I’m fine.” I can barely get the words out.

  Stephen’s brown hair curls around his ears, and the crinkles around his eyes are soft. I don’t know anything about him. How old is he? Does he have a family? A lover? Children he cares for more than anything? But I don’t have the luxury of time to get the answers. I’ll have to remember him just like this—kind and helpful.

  “I think you’re lovely, Stephen.”

  “You’re just trying to butter me up.”

  “No,” I say fervently. “You’re lovely.”

  He relents at my compliment. I didn’t mean it as a manipulation, but it works that way nonetheless. “A few minutes,” he says. “Then it’s back to your room. Deal?”

  When we shake on our deal, I wish I could be the person Stephen sees. A mighty creature. A strong person. That girl wouldn’t do what I’m about to do. She would walk down the hallway and meet this challenge with bravery and confidence.

  I am not her.

  “Take it slowly,” Stephen says. I walk toward the bathroom without a hug or a look back. I just made a deal with the person who’s helped me the most, knowing I would break it. If I turn, I might falter.

  My composure cracks when I’m safely tucked in a stall in the bathroom. Everything shifts, my real need coming into focus, like a caged bird that knows it doesn’t want to live behind bars anymore.

  I need to get out of here.

  How can I see my dad and not love him? What is wrong with me? Everything I thought would happen hasn’t.

  I press my sweaty head against the cool stall door. I wish I could be who Stephen wants me to be, a fearless girl willing to fight through this. More importantly, I wish I could be who my dad wants me to be. Clementine Haas. But I can’t. To go home with him like this would mean that every day he’ll wake up and want Clementine there, and instead every day it will be me—whoever I am. We’ll both live in a constant state of disappointment.

  I can save him from that.

  I come out of the stall, focusing on myself in the mirror.

  “Jane,” I say to my reflection. “I’m Jane.”

  Stephen surely won’t help me get out of here. He wants to keep me safe in the hospital, which is still surrounded by camera crews and reporters. But there’s another way.

  The hallway is clear of my dad and Stephen when I poke my head out from the bathroom. My heart races as I walk swiftly away from my room and toward the staircase at the other end of the hall. Once the door closes behind me, and I’m safely tucked out of sight in the stairwell, a moment of relief comes, but it’s brief.

  The railing keeps me steady as I make my way down the steps and onto the first floor. My legs are weak, slow, but it’s not an option to stop at this point. Stop and I get caught. Move and I might find freedom.

  In the courtyard, Kieran sits at the table where I left him, his feet up on the bench, a book in his hands. I check out the cover. It’s clearly a romance novel.

  “You like romance novels, too,” I say. “We have something in common. Though I wouldn’t peg you as a romantic.”

  “I’m full of surprises.” He squints in the sunlight. “I’ve never understood why guys go for fast cars and guns when these books have fast women and sex.”

  “Honesty again. That’s a good thing.”

  Kieran dog-ears the page he’s on and closes the book, setting it down on the table. “You ran away from the dare.”

  “I didn’t run away.” I take back my seat. “I had to do something.”

  “What was that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m ready now.”

  “Are you sure, Jane?”

  Kieran is just full of good questions, but debating the answer with myself would take too much time.

  “Jane Middleton,” I say, holding out my hand. “That’s my last name.”

  “Very royal sounding.” He places his warm hand in mine and says, “Kieran O’Connell. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Very Irish sounding, Kieran O’Connell.”

  “Half-Irish, on my mother’s side.”

  “And your dad?” I ask.

  “Technically, he’s British, but he’s more asshole than anything.”

  “Honesty again.” I reach for the last container of Jell-O on his tray. “I’m ready for my dare. Spoon, please.”

  Kieran holds one up but doesn’t hand it over. “Are you sure you want to do this, Jane? It’s pig and cow parts.”

  This is so much more than Jell-O. This is my life he’s holding in front of me.

  “Where’s Waterville?” I ask, pointing to his hat.

  “South of here a few hours.”

  “Is it by Cork?” I ask, remembering the map and trying to sound like I know a thing or two.

  “Not exactly. A bit more west.”

  “Is that where you live?”

  “For the summer months.”

  I point to his T-shirt. “Then you go back to Trinity College?”

  “Yep.”

  “And where is that?”

  “It’s in Dublin.” Kieran looks at me oddly. “Have you not heard of Trinity College?”

  “Of course, I have. I just forgot for a second. It’s in Dublin. Right.”

  “What about you?” he asks. “Are you on break from college as well?”

  The question throws me. I have no idea if Clementine is in college. But I’m also not sure it matters. The part of me that keeps searching for Clementine needs a break. Jane can be whoever she wants. “Yeah, sure,” I say.

  “What are you studying?”

  “Undecided,” I say quickly. “You?”

  Kieran rolls his eyes. “Business.”

  “You don’t sound happy about that.”

  “Not everything in life can be happy, Jane.”

  The spoon rests in Kieran’s hand. No, sometimes life beats you down. Sometimes life deserts you, and your only choice is to find another path. “Are you going to give me that spoon or what?”

  “You know, you don’t have to do this,” he says. His blue eyes hold mine. He knows this is more than just Jell-O, too. That’s what a dare does. It taunts you to take a different direction, to do something you never thought you could do, to jump, knowing that a million consequences could be on the other side of that dare, but that if you don’t do it, you’ll always wonder. And sometimes wondering is worse than consequences.

  “I’m doing it,” I say. And I shovel a spoonful of pig and cow parts into my mouth.

  Kieran sits back, a broad grin growing on his face. When I’ve eaten the container clean, he claps.

  “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

  I have to choke down the last bits of Jell-O, then I put my empty container on the tray with his, only partly satisfied.

  “Why are you here?” I ask. “It can’t possibly be for pig and cow parts.”

  “I come up to volunteer. Help out my fellow man and all. The food is just an added bonus.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “People need help,” Kieran says coolly. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “People do need help,” I agree. “And now it’s my turn.”

  “For what?”

  “Truth or dare?” I say.

  A glimmer comes to Kieran’s eyes. �
�That’s my line of questioning.”

  “It’s not fair that I answer the question and you don’t.”

  “Life isn’t fair, Jane. It’s all Jell-O, remember.”

  I lean across the table. “Are you chicken or something?”

  My confidence is surprising. Kieran seems to bring out something natural in me, or maybe he brings out more faith that the girl I was is still with me, just waiting to come out. Our eyes are fixed on each other’s. Kieran crosses his arms over his chest.

  The clucking starts first. Then I start to flap my arms like chicken wings. Kieran glances around at all the other tables, and then he starts to laugh.

  “OK. OK.” He holds up his hands in surrender.

  But as soon as the clucking stops, someone drops an entire tray of dishes onto the concrete sidewalk. They break with a loud crash. I startle, freezing in my seat. It chokes the breath right out of me. A head rush comes on so suddenly that I’m worried I’ll faint right in front of him. Blood sinks to my feet. My hands go clammy. I start to sweat.

  “Are you OK, Jane?”

  Kieran talks, but I can’t see him. My head rests in my hands. Sound reverberates through me, and an intense pain creeps up behind my eyes. For a second, I swear I feel someone grab my hand. I expect to see fingers intertwined with mine, but they’re gone, and I’m left with a horrible empty feeling inside my chest.

  “Are you OK?” Kieran asks again.

  “I’m fine.” If I faint, this is over. With ragged breath and shaking hands that he can’t see under the table, I say, “Truth or dare, Kieran?”

  “We don’t have to do this.”

  “Truth or dare?” I say again more forcefully.

  Kieran shakes his head. “It’s a Catch-22. Neither is easy. They both have consequences.”

  “Do I have to start clucking again?”

  He pauses for too long, and then he says, “Fine. Dare.”

  The blood returns to my hands and head. The sweat dries on my forehead. This time, my voice doesn’t shake as I speak.

  “I dare you to get me the hell out of here.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Pressure can make a truthful person into a liar, though I’m not sure whether I’m either. The line between truth and lies blurred the instant I woke up in the hospital.

  I make sure to sound convincing as I tell Kieran that I was traveling alone in Ireland for the summer when I got mugged and robbed in Limerick.