The Upside of Falling Down

by Rebekah Crane

  FISH AND CHIPS €5

  NO BUS OR COACH PARKING AND NO LOUD AMERICANS

  LIVE MUSIC NIGHTLY

  At the corner, a street sign points in multiple directions to cities and their distances.

  TRALEE 73 KM

  KILLARNEY 62 KM

  CORK 120 KM

  KILGARVAN 71 KM

  Limerick isn’t even listed, which makes me wonder: Can I ever go back after what I’ve done? Is that even possible? It has to be. I can’t allow an alternative.

  In the clothing store, most of the items are made of wool—wool hats, wool sweaters, wool skirts. Celtic crosses in all sizes hang on the wall for sale, and the music playing in the store is a mellow and bittersweet tune, all fiddle and fluttering flute. I browse alongside a handful of camera-toting tourists.

  A woman with short brown hair and a friendly demeanor approaches me and asks in a thick accent, slightly different from Kieran’s, “Can I help you, love?”

  “That would be lovely,” I say, thinking of Stephen for just a second before I push the thought away. “I’m looking for some shirts and pants.”

  “Do you have a specific style you’re looking for?”

  “A style?”

  “What kind of clothes do you like?”

  I should know this, and yet, as with everything else, my mind is a vast wasteland of nothing.

  “Let’s just go with plain.” I can’t keep the resignation out of my voice when I say it.

  The woman shows me the white T-shirts, then the jeans. I mention that I also need underwear, and she shows me to the back of the shop.

  “I don’t have the stuff young people wear,” she says, holding up a pack of granny panties, “but God likes you better in these.”

  I take them, content with anything. “Socks?”

  She rings up my items, making conversation by asking if I’m just in town visiting. I nod, handing her money.

  “Have you been in before?” She squints at me as she gives me my change. “You look familiar.”

  I shake my head. “It’s my first time in Ireland.” The first time I remember at least.

  She shrugs and hands me the bag. “You have a wonderful day now. The sun is out. It won’t be like this forever. The rain always comes. Enjoy it while you can.” She winks.

  Her reminder shifts my mood almost instantly. The sun is out. I should be happy I’m here. This is what I wanted. To stay in Limerick meant being trapped. No matter where I am, I can’t allow myself to fall so far down into my own hole that I can’t get out.

  “Thank you. I will,” I say with a determined voice. “Can you point me in the direction of a grocery store?”

  Her directions lead me to the center of town and the Centra Market. The aisles of organized food are strangely comforting, adding to my improved mood. I feel more capable in here than I did in the clothing store, which feels notable, so I write in my notebook, I like food more than clothes.

  There’s a sense of freedom in taking my time, picking out items for Kieran’s kitchen. Knowing that I’m being helpful on some level, my confidence swells.

  With flour, eggs, sugar, milk, butter, chocolate, bread, cheese, fruits, and vegetables in my cart, I check out.

  A book is on display at the register, A Rough Guide to Ireland’s Riches, which completes my purchases for the day. There must be information on the Ring of Kerry in here. A sense of pride fills me. I’ve accomplished multiple chores today.

  “Is that all for you, love?” the woman behind the counter asks. People are so nice in Ireland. Even her face is kind, covered in wrinkles that make her look like a sweet Irish grandma. I smile. Maybe I’m not as lost as I thought. Maybe Stephen is right—if you’re going to get lost, Ireland is the place to do it.

  “Yes.” I say it with confidence. All I needed was a little freedom to get myself together. I went with my gut, and it’s working. My memories are bound to come back quicker this way.

  The woman behind the counter examines me after I’ve paid.

  “Did I give you enough?” I ask, and then whisper, “I’m from America.”

  But she just keeps looking at me as she puts my food in a bag.

  “America? Have you been here before?”

  “No . . . Why?”

  “You just look so familiar,” she says, her eyes searching my face.

  The woman in the clothing store said the same thing. I pull down on Kieran’s hat, shielding my face some. I sense the clouds coming on.

  “I swear I know you,” the woman says. She dings the cash register loudly, the noise startling me.

  “The captain has asked that you remain in your seats.”

  A flashback of the burned and crumpled plane I saw on TV pops in my head.

  “Eighteen-year-old Clementine Haas is the lone survivor of the plane crash that devastated the small town of Ballycalla.”

  I step back from the counter. No one knows me in Ireland, and yet two people think they do. Stephen said my picture wasn’t released to the public, but something is definitely off. A buzzing starts in my ears—like an engine. The woman behind the counter stares.

  “Thank you.” I grab my groceries and head speedily for the door, but my progress is halted when I come face-to-face with . . . myself.

  Irish tabloids are lined up on the newspaper stand in the corner of the store—the Irish Mirror, the Irish Daily Star, and The Irish Sun.

  My face is on the front page of each of them.

  I gape at the pictures in disbelief, like the girl on the covers might start talking, telling me about myself. It’s like gazing into a distorted mirror, the image clear and yet at the same time different than me.

  Lone Survivor Escapes Hospital, Whereabouts Unknown

  My finger touches one of the front pages, where my skin looks rosy, healthy. Then my hand reaches for my real face, and all I feel is a hollow cheek. I can’t believe that girl is actually me. She’s grinning, with long brown hair that’s curled in loose waves draped carefully over her shoulder. My dirty, haphazardly cut hair is a sharp contrast to the silkiness of the hair in the picture. The color doesn’t even match, though I have no memory of why or when I decided to go blonde.

  The girl in the picture wears precise makeup, lips a bright red, mascara accentuating her eyes. She appears younger than me, less . . . damaged. Looking at her, I’m intrigued about her life, interested in what the article says about her. I almost pick up the paper to read it.

  But she’s just another person on the cover of a newspaper. She’s not . . . me.

  I practically stumble onto the street. My legs move fast as I retrace my path back to Kieran’s cottage. One road. It’s impossible to get lost. But Clementine is lost.

  And now the whole of Ireland knows I went missing.

  Clouds have rolled in, and the rain is coming, like the woman at the clothing store said. I fix my eyes on the ground, my face shadowed by Kieran’s hat, until I’m back at the cottage.

  No one is home. Where is Kieran? Possible scenarios play vividly in my mind. What if he’s seen the papers? What if he recognized me and already called the authorities? He isn’t here because he’s in Limerick turning me in. My lies will be my downfall, and yet I knew this would happen.

  At least no one is here to see me crumble. I sink into a chair in the kitchen, the weight of it all too heavy to hold, wishing I had an emergency button I could press so that Stephen would come running. He must have been so angry when I didn’t come back. So scared. I broke my promise to him. I betrayed him.

  And my dad . . . I did this to spare him pain, but the truth is that whatever I do will be painful for him.

  My head rests in my hands, my hair falling around my face. The right decision is to go back to Limerick and end this. A good daughter would do that. A loving daughter. An honest person. But I can’t erase the lies I’ve already told. And I don’t know yet what kind of person I am.

  I find a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer and head straight to the bathroom. In the
mirror, Clementine Haas reflects back at me. I pause, only for a moment. I don’t know the kind of person I am, but I know I can’t go back yet. Escaping the hospital wasn’t enough. I need to escape Clementine, too.

  After the first snip, there’s no going back. I cut my hair short, to my chin, with jagged edges and blunt bangs across my forehead. Blonde hair falls in clumps on the ground. In the bathroom cabinet, a rainbow of color options is available. “Lusty Lavender” seems like a good color for my skin. The dye is cold on my head as I apply thick layers of color, the pungent smell tingling my nose.

  When my transformation is complete, one of Kieran’s white towels is soaked in purple dye. The girl in the mirror, with short lavender hair, is no longer Clementine Haas. No vague remnants of the person on the covers of the tabloids, other than my brown eyes.

  I shower, my fingers running clumsily through my hair, purple dye swirling at my feet. As good as the hot water feels, l can’t linger. My new clothes fit well, and once I’m done cleaning the mess in the bathroom, I throw a load of laundry into the washing machine. Moving is good. Thinking is the enemy.

  I pick through the groceries on the counter, methodically moving around the kitchen. I turn the oven on and fill a bowl with butter, vanilla, and eggs. In another I mix dry ingredients—flour, baking powder, salt, sugar.

  “And a dash of love,” I say to myself, the words coming from somewhere unreachable. “It holds everything together.” I’m not sure why baking cookies feels like the right thing to do momentarily, but putting the ingredients together, making something from nothing, seems right.

  As the cookies bake, I read the book I bought. If my charade is going to work, knowledge is key. Jane would know a few facts about this place.

  The Ring of Kerry is the scenic route around the Iveragh Peninsula in southwestern Ireland. It boasts the best and most amazing pastoral and coastal views in all Ireland.

  So it’s not an actual ring.

  The most popular area is the Dingle Peninsula with the finest traditional Irish music in the country and where many of the locals still speak Irish.

  Killarney has impressive lakes and mountains.

  In Cork, it’s popular to drink Murphy’s Irish Stout instead of the more popular Guinness brewed in Dublin.

  The oven buzzes—the cottage filled now with sugary smells. I set the cookies to cool and switch the laundry from the washer to the dryer. All the moving is working. My nerves have calmed. I might just avoid disaster.

  Then I hear the front door open. I freeze next to the dryer. Steps echo through the house, getting closer and closer to the kitchen. I take a deep breath, ready to face Kieran for the first time today and deal with the consequences.

  I step out from the laundry room into the kitchen.

  But it’s not Kieran.

  “For the love of God, please tell me he didn’t dare you to do that to your hair.”

  A gorgeous girl stands in the kitchen. Her long hair is hot pink. She’s dressed in a tight black dress with red polka-dot tights. Her arms are covered in tattoos—tattoos she probably loves. But the thing I notice most . . .

  She’s pregnant.

  CHAPTER 6

  It’s a stare-off. My mind spins for the right words to say to this stranger. After a moment of silence, she groans, setting her purse down on the counter with a thud. Then she picks up a fresh cookie from the plate and turns it around like it might be poison.

  “Did you bake?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I say in a weak voice.

  “Who the hell are you? Betty Crocker?”

  “No . . . I’m Jane.” I extend my hand, but she doesn’t take it.

  She runs a finger along the counter. “And you cleaned?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re Better Crocker and Snow Fucking White?”

  “No. I’m Jane.” I try again for the handshake, but to no avail.

  “I know who you are,” she says, like she’s not happy about it. “Do all Yanks lack an understanding of sarcasm, or is it just you?”

  “I don’t know.” My answer seems to annoy her further, but at least it’s honest.

  She opens the fridge and starts rummaging. With her head tucked inside, she says, “You bought groceries, too?”

  My throat is a desert. “I was trying to help.”

  She slams the fridge closed. “We don’t need your help.” She takes a cookie and starts eating it, talking more to herself than to me. “He never thinks before he jumps. Bloody idiot.” She shakes her head, chewing and not looking at me, which gives me time to take her in.

  Both her arms are covered in tattoos, but whereas my tattoo is utterly lame, hers fit her perfectly, their colorful designs swirling together brightly, like her hair. She has a level of cool that, even without any memories, I’m sure I don’t.

  “I could kill Kieran for this,” she says. “Some bloody payback I’m getting.”

  “It’s my fault,” I say. “I dared him to do it. Blame me.”

  “Don’t worry. I do blame you. Are you a Yankee leech? Hoping to get your claws into a rich guy so you can freeload all summer?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I didn’t even know he was—”

  She cuts me off. “Kieran never turns down a dare.”

  Her anger is palpable, but somehow it only makes her more beautiful, her blue eyes sparkling with rage.

  “Maybe we can start again,” I say. “I’m Jane.”

  “And I said I know who you are. Kieran told me everything.”

  “I’m glad he told you,” I mumble, mostly to myself.

  “Did he not tell you about me?” she scoffs and shakes her head. “That’s because he knew how I’d react. Typical male.”

  She saunters over to me with a swagger that screams confidence. It only depletes mine. She’s stolen my conviction for herself. I shrink away.

  “I’m Kieran’s twin sister. Siobhan.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Siobhan.” I force a grin, but she comes at me with more aggression.

  “Let me be clear. I don’t want you here. I don’t trust you. I already don’t like you. As far as I’m concerned, you’re taking advantage of a nice guy, and if Kieran won’t watch his back, I’ll watch it for him. Got it, Yank?”

  “Got it.” The words barely make it out, though I want to say so much more. She needs to know how grateful I am, how nice it is for them to open their cottage to me. I never intended to make anyone mad. I’ll help out and earn my keep. But instead, I blurt out, “I used a bottle of your hair dye.”

  Siobhan scoffs again, taking another cookie. “So you are a bloody leech.” She leaves her red heels in the middle of the kitchen. “Stay out of my stuff, Yank. I’m going to bed.”

  But I stop her before she leaves the kitchen.

  “Do you know where Kieran is?”

  She squares herself to me. “Our life is none of your business. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a fly in my cottage that I have to put up with. Nothing more. So be a fly and buzz off.”

  Siobhan stomps down the hallway, but before her door closes, she yells, “Your hair looks atrocious!”

  I slump back against the wall, stunned, and stay there until the dryer buzzes. Siobhan doesn’t come out of her room, and Kieran doesn’t show up. When the kitchen is clean and my clothes are folded neatly, my eyes grow too heavy, and the bed calls.

  I sleep in the sweatshirt Stephen gave me and a pair of my new granny panties that look more like little shorts than underwear. I’m exhausted, but sleep doesn’t come easily. My introduction to Siobhan replays over and over, making me cringe, my desire for a redo pressing. She can’t dislike me so immediately.

  Outside, the green fields are amplified as the sun moves closer to the horizon and changes from yellow to a rich orange. And Kieran still isn’t back. Awake, I stew on all that I should have said to Siobhan to make her understand. Tomorrow, I’ll rectify our first meeting. I’ll make her like me. It’s that simple. Kieran likes me. She can, too. I�
�ll show her I’m not a Yankee leech. I can be helpful.

  The moment before the sun sets, a lavender hue that perfectly matches my hair flashes in the sky. I run my fingers along the bottom of my uneven haircut. Siobhan is right—it’s atrocious.

  The bright spot in our awkward meeting is that she didn’t recognize me. That I can be happy about, even if the rest was a disaster.

  Eventually sleep comes. I drift off with my notebook on my stomach, but a loud thud startles me awake in the complete darkness. And then another. Without thinking, I get out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway to see where the sounds came from.

  Kieran stands in the living room, rubbing his head.

  “Shite. Bleeding door.”

  He’s dressed in a black suit with a pressed white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a crooked red tie. His attire is formal and crisp, a stark contrast to yesterday’s worn-out jeans and baseball hat. The only similarity is Kieran’s shaggy black hair.

  And I am dressed in only a sweatshirt and granny panties.

  Before I can back away, he sees me standing in the hallway. A grin pulls on his face.

  “That sweatshirt is awful,” he says, stumbling, grabbing the doorframe for support. “But you’ve improved it.”

  I pull down on the sweatshirt, hoping I can get it to cover more of me, but it’s helpless. Kieran falls to the side, catching himself on the chair and nearly knocking over a lamp, and I rush toward him to hold him up. He glances down at me with glossy eyes. When he speaks, his breath washes over me in a cascade of alcohol. “What in God’s name did you do to your hair?”

  I struggle under his weight and the utter embarrassment of being half-naked. I walk him through the living room toward his bedroom, feeling that I can’t desert him now, even if I want to crawl into a hole.

  “I needed a new look. Something less . . . innocent. What do you think? Do I look like a badass?”

  “Your purple sweatshirt matches your hair. You look like a painted Easter egg.” Kieran grabs the ends of my hair to examine it. “But I like it. Change is good.”

  Kieran’s head and arms flop as we walk. He moves like a marionette, making it hard to keep his body upright.