The Upside of Falling Down

by Rebekah Crane

  “They knocked me around and took everything—my purse, my bag. My dignity.”

  “You do scream ‘tourist’ in that sweatshirt.”

  “I told you it was a gift.”

  He assesses me from head to toe. I can’t tell if there’s sympathy in his eyes or skepticism. My story gets more complicated from here, but I stick to it—a woman saw the mugging. She made me come to the hospital to make sure I didn’t have a concussion.

  “Which I don’t,” I emphasize, knowing that if Kieran thinks something is wrong with me, he’s bound to say no. “But now, I have nothing.” This little nugget of honesty pushes me forward, a reminder of how much I need this.

  I tell him that I couldn’t give my insurance information because I’m on my parents’ plan, and they’d know something happened to me. It would cause them to totally freak out (this part isn’t so much of a lie, either). Now I owe the hospital money, but since all mine was stolen, I can’t pay.

  “But I will,” I ensure him. “As soon as I figure out how exactly.”

  “Are you asking me to pay your bill because—”

  “No,” I say emphatically. “I need something else.”

  Kieran takes in all that I’ve said. My story is strange, but the parts seem to fit together.

  “Why come to Ireland?” Another good question that lacks a good response.

  “Does it really matter why I came here? I did. And now I’m stuck.”

  “Why not just call your parents?”

  “Because I can’t,” I blurt out. “This trip was supposed to prove to them that I can make it on my own. I didn’t do so well my first year of college, and they’re threatening to make me move home. I can’t fail. My freedom depends on this trip.” The lies trip off my tongue. “I thought Limerick was a safe bet. It’s supposed to be the friendliest city in Ireland. I figured it was the safest place.”

  “And then you got mugged.”

  “Well, you guys are lying about leprechauns.”

  Kieran holds up his hands in defense. “Now don’t go judging the whole of the country on some arse.”

  “All I need is a few weeks and a place to stay,” I say. “To get myself together.”

  “Is that all?” he mocks.

  “In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing. I’ll stay out of your way. I’ll practically be invisible.”

  “Who says I have a place you can stay?”

  “You must know of some place,” I plead.

  Kieran sits tight lipped. Uncertainty creeps up on me. I can’t let my mind drift from my goal. That won’t help me. I need Kieran.

  He finally speaks. “Call your parents. It’s the sensible thing to do.”

  “This coming from the guy who dared me to eat pig and cow parts.”

  “I never said I was sensible.”

  “Look.” I keep my eyes locked on Kieran, pretending I have the energy for this, though I’m losing steam. “I need to do this. My life depends on it. It’s just a few weeks, maybe less. You said you came here today to help people. I’m people.”

  Forget the luxury of truth. Forget the deceit of lies. This is survival. Without this, I’m lost beyond words. Floundering. Falling.

  I reach across the table and grab his hands. Kieran can keep me steady. He can keep me from crashing.

  “Please.” I can’t keep eye contact for fear I’ll be disappointed. I wish I could do this on my own, but I can’t. “Please. From one human being to another. Please help me.”

  The silence between us lasts so long that if I wasn’t holding Kieran’s hands, I’d wonder if he was still sitting across from me.

  Finally, I hear him say, “You’re asking me to take you in for a few weeks, so your parents won’t think you’re a failure.”

  I peek out of one eye. “Technically, I’m daring you.”

  He shakes his head, mumbles something to himself that I can’t hear, and says, “I might know of a place you can stay.” I perk up, and we both realize simultaneously that I’m still holding his hands. He pulls away. “I have an extra room. But only for a few weeks.”

  I exhale for what feels like the first time in minutes. “I’ll take anything.”

  He stands up, leaving the book on the table. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re not going to take it with you?” I ask.

  “I have a feeling my life will be entertaining enough for a while.” He shakes his head and then readjusts his hat. “You’re gonna get me in trouble, Jane Middleton.”

  “You look like someone who isn’t afraid of a little mischief, Kieran O’Connell.”

  He holds out his hand for me to shake, his eyes twinkling in the sunlight. “Consider this dare accepted.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The thing with amnesia is that waking up in a strange place isn’t actually strange. Doing it a second time should be less scary.

  As it turns out, getting out of the hospital is easier than I expected. We just walk out, past a slew of camera crews and reporters drinking coffee and chatting, some in trench coats like Stephen said. With my eyes on the ground, I act calmly and walk casually. Moments later, we’re at Kieran’s old, beat-up truck.

  I let myself take one more glance at the hospital.

  “Are you getting in?” Kieran asks.

  No more pausing. The goal now is to move forward. When this is all over, I’ll make everyone understand why I did it, but I can’t worry about that now. I’ll make them see my side of the story—that I didn’t want to pull them down with me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone with my pain.

  When the truck door closes, Jane Middleton sits in the passenger seat. My only reminder of Clementine is the tattoo on my foot. That’s the unfortunate reality with tattoos—they follow you everywhere.

  Much of the trip to Waterville is a blur of green patchwork countryside and winding roads. Kieran’s truck is so old, the radio comes through as static half the time. There’s no air conditioning, and the steering wheel is on the right instead of the left, which feels odd, even though I don’t ever recall driving on the other side of the car or road.

  The truck grumbles a weird noise. “Are you sure this thing is going to make it?” I ask.

  “She hasn’t let me down yet,” Kieran says, and runs his hands lovingly over the steering wheel.

  The road is twisty, and Kieran dodges gigantic tour buses, nearly hitting his side-view mirror on the hedges that line the road.

  “The Ring of Kerry,” he says. “You can’t avoid it.”

  “Sure.” A woozy feeling hits me as we go around another tight turn. “Of course.”

  The Ring of Kerry is a mystery to me. It wasn’t on Stephen’s map. For all I know, it’s an actual ring worn by someone named Kerry. Kieran tells me he’s spending the summer at his family’s cottage, away from Dublin and school. When I ask about his parents—I forgot to ask about them when I devised this plan—Kieran tells me they aren’t a factor.

  “A factor?”

  “My father won’t come near the place this summer.”

  “And your mom?”

  “Neither will she.” He shifts the conversation in a different direction. “Waterville isn’t a big city like Limerick, but your chances of getting mugged are slim.” He smirks. “Where are you from in America anyway?”

  “Cleveland,” I say, with false confidence. “It’s in Ohio. On Lake Erie.”

  “Lake Erie?”

  I change the subject. “Look, sheep!”

  After hours in the car, battling traffic and roads too narrow for two cars to pass each other safely, we reach Waterville. I’m exhausted.

  “It’s all just so green, Kieran O’Connell,” I say as we pull into the town.

  “Well, Ireland is kind of known for that.”

  “And the ocean.” I rest my forehead on the window. The sun is setting, glistening off the water in iridescent colors. It’s mesmerizing and beautiful and vast.

  “We are on an island.” Kieran teases.

  “With sheep. Lots
of sheep.”

  He pulls up a driveway to a large beige stucco house with white shutters, a sprawling, finely manicured lawn, and a large patio overlooking the ocean. Colorful flowers bloom everywhere.

  “This is where you live? I thought you said it was a cottage?”

  “It is,” he says. “It’s a really big cottage.”

  “But you drive this.” I touch the beat-up truck’s interior.

  “The outside doesn’t always match the inside.” Kieran shrugs. “Always remember the Jell-O, Jane.”

  “Your insides are made of money.”

  “No,” Kieran says with a laugh. “My dad’s insides are made of money. And not much else.”

  “Well . . . what are your insides made of?”

  Kieran comes around to open my door. “You’re tired. You’ve clearly been through an ordeal. Let’s get you set up inside.”

  “An ordeal. That sounds about right.”

  Kieran takes me inside and back to an empty bedroom. My mind tries to take in my surroundings—the living room and kitchen and all the fine decorations—but Kieran is right. I am more tired than I want to admit.

  The bed in the spare room appears soft, with fine white sheets. When I sit down, it’s like resting on a cloud.

  “It’s just the jet lag that’s making me tired. That’s all. And the mugging.” I take off my shoes and settle back. “I promise I won’t stay long. A week, maybe two. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  Kieran draws the curtains closed.

  I yawn, closing my eyes. “You’re my spare tire, Kieran.”

  “What was that?”

  Words come from somewhere deep in my brain, somewhere I haven’t been able to reach all day, except for a few moments. “You always need a spare tire in Cleveland. For the pot holes of life.”

  Those are the last words I remember before sleep takes over.

  When I wake up the next day, peeling my head off the plush pillow, light pours through the small crack between the curtains. I check the clock. It’s past one in the afternoon.

  My surroundings are still foreign to me. But the burden I felt yesterday has eased. I may not recognize this place, but it feels better than where I was. And I’ve accumulated one day’s worth of memories. That’s better than nothing.

  My brain knocks against my skull when I sit up, still fully dressed, and check for Kieran. The house sounds and feels empty. My suspicion is confirmed when I get up and holler down the hallway, and no one responds.

  The reality of what I’ve done hits me again. I ran away with a stranger to Waterville, Ireland, and I have no way of leaving. The weight of it is paralyzing. But the thought of going back . . . That’s worse.

  I owe Kieran my life. Jane’s life.

  It must be possible to push through the immensity of all of this toward freedom. I can’t worry about what I left behind. When Clementine is back, we can all move on from this disaster, my time hiding in Waterville a blip.

  A note sits on the bedside table, addressed to me, a stack of money next to it.

  Gone for the day. Here’s a little help for someone who’s broke.

  Kieran

  He’s left one hundred euros. Not only did Kieran get me out of the hospital, he’s now left me money. Somehow in all of this, he’s become a positive piece in this swarming mess. And what am I doing for him? Lying. About everything. And using him. Pretending to be yummy orange Jell-O when I’m really pig and cow parts. If I were more confident and capable, I would come clean before it goes too far. Even from the little I know about Kieran, he deserves that.

  But at any moment, my life can turn upside down. I’m as inconstant as the wind, wholly unsteady. If I told the truth, he would send me back where people want to control me, and I can’t go there yet.

  I make it my mission to find a way to repay Kieran for all of this, before my lies destroy everything.

  The cottage is one story, with fine furnishings, but quaint. It’s large and smells like the ocean and burned wood. Windows line every room, exposing a stunning view of the water across the street. The living room has a large stone fireplace and wooden beams. A grand bay window overlooks the rocky beach that leads down to the sea. The view showcases large emerald-green hills, some steep with stone walls that make the land seem like a patchwork quilt. It’s spectacular.

  Four bedrooms are tucked at the back of the house. I snoop in the first and find a king-size bed with sheets that appear untouched. A few items hang in the closet—sweaters, jackets—all men’s clothes. The taste is older and refined.

  The next bedroom is slightly smaller. A mirror hangs on the wall, and magazines are scattered all over the desk—Punk, Nylon, Dazed, Bazaar. High-heel shoes are strewn all over the floor—peekaboo-style, T-strap, pointed toe, platform. And on the dresser are glass jars full of multicolored sea glass. The sun hits the containers through the window and reflects the colors on the wall.

  In the attached bathroom, the mess gets worse. Toothpaste is caked in the sink. Towels cover the floor. The cabinet has a few packages of unopened toothpaste and toothbrushes and multiple boxes of hair dye in extravagant colors with names like “Magnetic Magenta,” “Vibrant Violet,” and “Lusty Lavender.” Kieran never mentioned a roommate, and when I asked about his parents, he clearly didn’t want to talk about them. I leave the bedroom, deciding it’s probably better not to linger.

  The kitchen is as messy as the bathroom. Used tea bags sit, staining the sink, and the counter is littered with crumbs and used plates and glasses. I realize the first chore I can do to help Kieran. This house needs to be cleaned.

  The door to the last bedroom is closed. I casually push it open and turn on the lights. This room is relatively neat. The bed is made, and a pile of folded clothes is stacked on the dresser. A surfboard leans against the wall, and pictures are everywhere. There’s a shot of two people dressed in full hiking gear, standing at the top of a snowy mountain with an Irish flag. A picture of someone skydiving, another of a person skiing, white powder flying up around his body.

  Yet another sits framed on the dresser: a group of six boys, all dressed in school uniforms—blue sweaters, white button-downs, blue ties, dark slacks—huddled and laughing in front of a sign that says “Blackrock Preparatory School for Boys.” I spot Kieran immediately. With his blue eyes, he’s easy to find in the center of the picture. Judging by the mischievous expressions on the boys around him, Kieran isn’t the only daredevil of the bunch.

  My stomach turns sour as I set the frame down. This is Kieran’s bedroom, his life displayed in pictures. His memories. Here I stand in an empty house, surrounded by other people’s lives. And yet, I’m empty. It’s numbing. But what did I expect when I left the hospital? I’ve known from the beginning I had to do this alone. Stephen couldn’t help. My dad couldn’t help. Even Kieran. He’s given me moments when a life of some sort feels within my grasp, but even that hope is fleeting.

  I’m alone and I deserve it, because I made it so. But I’m starting to think maybe I don’t like being alone.

  To ignore the numbness, I clean. Between the disorganized bedroom, the messy bathrooms, and the unkempt kitchen, there’s a lot to occupy my time and distract me. And when the cottage is clean, I turn to myself. My teeth need brushing. My clothes are a day old, and I slept in them. I need an overhaul as badly as the cottage did.

  After a sandwich of bread and Nutella, two of the only ingredients in the house, and a cup of tea, I sit with my notebook in front of me and write out a to-do list for my new life.

  Figure out what the Ring of Kerry is.

  Buy some clothes and underwear.

  Get groceries.

  It’s painfully short, and the longer I sit alone in the kitchen, the more the paralyzing apathy threatens to come back. Kieran’s old baseball hat sits on the kitchen counter. I grab it before I leave. It’s a way to stay somewhat hidden in public, which I’ll gladly take over being inside. I’m unwilling to stay still anymore.

  Outside,
the humid sea air comes off the ocean. It washes over me, the smell of salt water and fresh air a relief, the sensation similar to yesterday when Stephen took me outside for the first time. I feel more . . . capable.

  The road is lined with hedgerows and stone walls on one side and the ocean on the other. Kieran mentioned during our drive that there’s only one road into town. He went so far as to claim that I couldn’t get lost if I tried. He doesn’t know how wrong he is.

  The green hedgerows are speckled with bright red flowers. Puddles glisten in the sunlight. The smell of earlier rain hangs in the air. Low, puffy clouds sit heavy in the sky, and the brisk wind feels good on my skin.

  I cross the street to walk along the ocean. The beach is rocky, and the water is more murky than clear, like the bottom of the sea has been tossed around and brought up to the surface. Out in the bay, there are large, green rocky islands that look almost angry, with jagged edges and rough terrain. I sit on the sand, prepared to take my shoes off and feel how cold the water is, but instinct stops me.

  My tattoo.

  I’m not sure what’s more frustrating: not wanting to see it, or not knowing why I hate it. My shoes stay on. I walk the beach, feeling the opposite of the mighty creature Stephen claimed I am. A tattoo shouldn’t knock someone over, and yet mine attempts to repeatedly.

  The small town of Waterville is decorated with multicolored houses and buildings—red, yellow, green, blue, pink. Tourists walk the streets, people carry grocery bags, moms and dads play with their kids.

  For a while, I sit on a bench and watch the tourists in tennis shoes with rain jackets tied around their waists and cameras in their hands—all ready to casually capture the next memory, with no regard to how special that is. Each moment passes without much notice from anyone—a laugh, a kiss, a hug—each so easily etched in his or her mind. Not so easy for me. I have to fight for mine, which feels unfair.

  With my notebook in hand, I leave the beach behind and head into town, checking out the shops and pubs. Each storefront is painted a different color, and signs out front advertise different specials.