The Truth About Falling

by H. M. Sholander

  I slip off the bed, taking my stuff with me as I exit her room. I put my sketchpad and pencil in my room and close the door.

  Without saying a word to my dad as I walk past him, I step outside into the hot summer air, letting out a sigh.

  Outside our home, I don’t feel as constricted. I’m happy we have a place to live, but sometimes the close quarters suffocate me. My life inside those four walls trap me, binding me in place, never wanting me to break free. Outside, I can breathe.

  I walk down the steps to pick up the few toys in our yard and throw them over to the neighbors. If I wasn’t trying to escape my house, I would probably break the damn things.

  I trudge down road, moving farther away from my house. There isn’t much to our neighborhood. Cracked pavement, dirt, and a bunch of tin cans for houses. Only a few of the trailers have crappy cars in front of them. If you ask me, this isn’t a neighborhood; it’s just a trailer park. But people who live here don’t like to call it that.

  It’s comprised of people who were spit out by the real world. People who couldn’t make it for whatever reason. I have nothing against them. I am one of them, but they could put some effort in to their trailers.

  Half of the trailers are rusted and the rest have broken windows with trash scattered in the yards. There’s a reason trailer parks get a bad name, and it’s because the people who live there just don’t care. If I were a passerby, there is no way I would freely wander around, much less drive through here.

  “Do I have to go?” a small voice whines, drawing my attention.

  I peer over at the young boy standing next to a car with a teddy bear tucked under his arm.

  “Yes, you need to make more friends,” a familiar voice says.

  “I have you. I don’t need friends.”

  “I’m your dad. You need friends your own age.”

  Dad? Hudson? I blink several times to ensure I’m actually seeing him. No matter how many times I close and open my eyes, Hudson is still the one standing next to the little boy.

  Hudson pats his back pocket and scowls. “I forgot my wallet. I’ll be right back.” He turns around, heading back inside his trailer.

  Hudson has to be around the same age as me, so how can he have a son? Most importantly, where’s the boy’s mom?

  The little boy pouts as he struggles to open the back door of the car.

  I don’t know what compels me to do it, but I walk over to the boy and open the door for him. He smiles up at me as he hops in the car. He pulls the door closed on his own as footsteps sound behind me.

  “Jade?”

  There it is. The voice that soothes me. The sound of his voice has been playing like a top forty pop song in my head on repeat, but my mind hasn’t done it justice. If only I could record the sound, so I could play it on repeat when I’m on the verge of combusting.

  “What are you doing here?” Hudson asks as I stare up him.

  “I live here.” I shift on my feet, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Well, not here”–I point to his house–“because you obviously live here, but over there”–I hitch my thumb over my shoulder, indicating behind me–“I live back there.”

  He nods his head. “Small world.”

  “I’m gonna go.”

  “To work?” he questions, stepping closer to his car–to me.

  “Uh, no.”

  “So, you don’t always work then,” he says–a statement as opposed to a question. He opens the trunk and throws in a black bag before slamming it shut. “Told you I’d see you again.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I never thought it would be here, though.”

  I let out a small laugh. “Tell me about it.”

  “I gotta get going.” He jerks his head toward the car. “But at least I know another place to run in to you.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Guess you do.”

  “See ya,” he says as opens his car door and disappears inside. He drives away before I have a second to think about what just happened.

  Hudson has a kid. He has a freaking kid. Albeit a cute kid, but a kid none the less.

  I don’t have anything against kids, but if I thought getting involved with Hudson was a bad idea before, well, it’s a really, really bad idea now that I know he has a kid to take care of.

  I have enough on my plate to worry about without adding someone else’s baggage in my life. If I added more weight on my shoulders, I wouldn’t make it.

  I can’t afford to get lost in Hudson as much as my body wants me to, because every time I see him, my breath hitches in my throat, and my heart threatens to rip through my chest. Every time I see him, I want to lose myself in the mystery that is Hudson. I want to fall over the edge into oblivion with him.

  But I can’t because I feel like I would lose track of everything around me. My mom. My jobs. My life. I would throw everything away for him–for a feeling of peace, but I’m not lucky enough to have that. I’m not the girl who gets the happy ending. I lost that a long time ago. I lost that chance when Mom landed in the hospital three years ago.

  I kick at the dirt in front of his trailer with my Converse, defeated by the world, feeling utterly lost and confused.

  I’m still standing in front of Hudson’s trailer, so I walk over to the wooden steps and plop my happy ass down. I’m not waiting for him, but being here is better than being at home, and right now, I can’t go back. The weight of the world is crushing my chest like an elephant has taken it upon himself to sit on top of me, not caring that I’m already holding a stack of bricks on my shoulders.

  I rub at the black smudge of graphite pencil from my hand, scrubbing until it’s gone…just like everything else. I’m supposed to be at Savannah College of Art and Design. I should be mastering my drawing skills and learning new techniques, using textures and paint, but I’m not.

  Art is personal. It leaves you open to judgement and scrutiny of others. If art had a slogan, it would be Thick Skin Required, but I was ready to take the leap when I read my acceptance letter–to allow people to see what I saw as an artist.

  Now I draw for me because that’s all I have left that makes me content, makes me feel at ease.

  I doodle things I’m feeling on my sketchpad: a bleeding heart, a crying girl, and things that instill anger. But it makes me feel better because it’s the only thing that’s just mine.

  With a heavy sigh, I stand from the creaky stairs that lead to Hudson’s home as the sun sets. Shit, how long have I been sitting here? The sun was shining when I left Mom’s side, but now the sky is changing to a dark blue.

  I focus my attention on Hudson’s trailer, my eyes roaming from one end to the other. His home doesn’t look like a drug dealer lives here. It’s spotless on the outside, painted in a light gray with a white metal roof. The stairs might not be in the best condition, but there is a pot of blue flowers by the front door near a black welcome mat. The blinds in the windows are white and in perfect condition, not broken or falling apart like most of the other trailers. It’s nice. It’s nicer than I would have expected.

  Although, I never expected him to live here in the first place.

  Life’s cruel way of throwing him in my path, not bothering to consult me first.

  MAY 2014

  I count the cash in my hand as the last piece of our furniture is hauled in to the back of a pickup truck. Everything is gone with the exception of the clothes hanging in each of our closets.

  I organized a garage sale today, haggling with every person who dropped by. My parents and I need cash, so I did everything in my power to sell every possession we owned.

  I count the last dollar bill, coming to a grand total of $1,347. It’s not much considering the amount of crap I sold, but it’s better than nothing.

  Mom wraps her arm around my shoulder, pulling me to her body. “I’m sorry about all this, honey”

  I fold myself around her, not wanting her to feel guilty. This isn’t her fault. It’s just life. “We’ll be fine, Mom”

  She
sighs, running her fingers through my long hair.

  Dad stalks past us to the car, shoving clothes in the trunk, completely ignoring what’s happening to our family. He hasn’t cared about us in a long time, not like he used to.

  I know he loves Mom, but he has a fucking terrible way of showing it.

  I unravel myself from Mom, and she heads in the house with Dad behind her. He grumbles something under his breath, and I resist the urge to yell at him.

  He’s gotten worse since we found out we were losing the house, but the only person he had to blame is himself. He’s the one who gave up on supporting his family.

  I wad up the cash, shoving it in my pocket as I trek up the driveway, through the garage, and into the house. It’s empty. My parents bought this house before I was born, so I’ve never seen it so bare.

  Our toaster and coffee pot aren’t sitting on the kitchen counter, and the fridge is void of all magnets and pictures.

  I lean against the kitchen counter, taking in the empty living room. Dents are in the carpet from where the couches and entertainment stand sat for as long as I can remember, and the dining room no longer holds the table where we had so many holiday meals.

  I sniffle, holding back the flood of emotions wanting to escape, and the sound echoes through the house.

  “Jade, get your clothes and put them in the car,” Dad hollers, coming down the stairs.

  Yesterday, I secured us a place to live that’s five miles down the road. I sunk every penny I had into the security deposit along with the first month’s rent.

  The money I made from the garage sale is going toward the bills my parents haven’t paid in three months. I’m single handedly trying to pull us out of the gutter while backing myself in a corner. Everything is caving in around me; the walls crushing me, the air choking me, and darkness taking over my every thought.

  “I’m going,” I say, trudging upstairs when Dad hits the last step.

  I take a moment looking around at the empty rooms, wishing I didn’t have to leave the only home I’ve ever known. My parents room, the office, and guestroom are empty, not even a piece of trash left behind.

  My bedroom seems foreign without my artwork taped to the walls. My bed is gone, providing comfort to someone else tonight, while I learn to sleep on a pile of blankets.

  I snatch all the clothes out of my closet, filling my arms, so I don’t have to make a second trip. Really, I don’t want to come back in here. I don’t want to stare at a room that I no longer recognize because I need to accept that it’s no longer mine. Another family will move in, and they’ll paint the walls, erasing the last trace of the Hart family.

  I rush down the stairs without stopping, keeping my head down.

  I walk out the front door as fast as I can, managing to close it behind me.

  I stuff my clothes in the packed car and slip in the back seat without a word.

  Dad drives away from our home, and I close my eyes, not wanting to watch it fade in the distance.

  I lean my head back on the seat, taking a deep breath.

  Everything is changing.

  And I’m powerless to stop it.

  I adjust the navy blue hat on my head, pushing the tassel out of my face as I stand at the bottom of the staircase.

  The guy in front of me walks up the stairs when they call his name, gliding across the stage with his head held high.

  My stomach twists in knots as I wring my hands together, waiting for my name to be announced through the speakers of the auditorium.

  I look out to the crowd and see my mom wiping tears from her eyes. I smile weakly, thinking about how our lives are so much different today.

  Our trailer is void of furniture, and yesterday we sold our car, so we could afford to eat. The life we knew no longer exists, and somehow, we have to cope with that. I have to keep moving, keep turning, even though I feel like falling to the ground.

  “Jade Hart,” my principal, Mr. Harris, says into the microphone, pulling me back to the loud auditorium.

  I cross the stage with a fake grin plastered across my face as unknown people clap in the background. I don’t know who they are. Parents? Grandparents? It doesn’t matter. I turn my head scanning the crowd, looking for the only person who does matter–my mom.

  I notice my dad first, nodding off like this is some boring kids party, but then my eyes connect with Mom. She’s standing on her feet, clapping and jumping around like she just won the lottery. Her wide grin and vibrant eyes focus on me, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I smile.

  “Congratulations, Jade,” Mr. Harris says as he hands me an empty certificate holder.

  I take the certificate holder from him and swiftly move off the stage, walking back to my seat.

  When my butt is in the uncomfortable metal chair, I blow out a breath, relieved I didn’t trip and fall on my face.

  I look at the certificate holder in my lap, gripping it in my hands.

  I did it. I graduated, and soon I get to leave.

  In a few months, I’ll be in college. It won’t matter that we sold everything we own to pay off my parent’s debt. I’ll be free while I’m at school, away from everything trying to drag me down.

  What’s even better is that I won the scholarship for the art show last week. I didn’t submit the piece I had been working on for five months because it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t personal enough, so I scrapped it. And I couldn’t be happier that I did. Mom and Dad don’t know I won yet because I told them I dropped out of the show. I didn’t want Mom to worry about anything other than herself, so I lied.

  When I leave this place, I’ll be living a dream and fulfilling something inside me that has been growing since I got my first sketchpad.

  I’m going to be more than this.

  I watch as each person in my graduating class crosses the stage, their families clapping for them as loud as they can.

  “This is a snooze fest,” the guy next to me says. “Too bad we can’t leave after our name is called.”

  “Yeah,” I say as someone a few rows behind me in the auditorium starts yelling.

  I assume it’s another proud parent, but when someone screams for 9-1-1, I know something is wrong.

  Please, please, don’t let it be Mom. I have a foreboding feeling, like a dark rain cloud just stopped over my head, and I’m waiting for the rain to wash me away.

  Everyone rises from their seat, including me, but I can’t see anything, so I carefully stand on my metal chair, catching my balance when it shifts under my weight.

  My eyes scan the room, and that’s when I see Mom’s shoes. Neon green flats stick out from the mob surrounding my mom, who’s lying on the ground five rows behind me. And my dad is standing over her, not doing a goddamn thing.

  I jump off the chair, my cap flying off my head as I push through my classmates.

  “Mom,” I yell, running down the aisle until I see her form on the ground.

  The person next to my mom is on the phone, talking to 9-1-1. I fall to my knees, not caring how hard I hit the floor as I place two fingers to her neck searching for a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there.

  “An ambulance is on the way,” the person who was on the phone informs me.

  I made fun of Mom before we left the house. I told her that her shoes resembled a highlighter. Now I would do anything to see her walking around in her hideous neon green shoes. I would tell her she looked beautiful everyday she wore them so long as she was living.

  I count each time her pulse beats against my fingertips. It’s all I can do to hold on until she makes it to the hospital, so I count…73,74,75.

  I count all the way to 427 until the paramedics arrive and place her on a gurney, my fingertips falling away from her neck as they cart her out of the auditorium.

  Dr. Collins steps in the bright, white room, looming over Mom, his face void of emotion. “Mrs. Hart, you need to have surgery. It’s been over three months since your first heart attack, and you’ve be
en here twice since then. We were hoping the stent would fix the issue, but it hasn’t. Surgery is risky, but if you don’t have it, you won’t make it,” he says.

  I move closer to Mom’s bed, gripping the railing of her bed and waiting for her to say yes.

  Waiting for her answer, my eyes scan the room for Dad, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and I pray Mom doesn’t notice his absence.

  “No,” Mom says, crossing her arms. “I’m not doing it.”

  I clench my jaw, grinding my teeth, wondering why she’s refusing to get better.

  “Mrs. Hart, I don’t know how long you’ll make it if you keep winding up in the hospital. At this rate, you’re looking at a year, maybe a year and a half.”

  “What if I’m fine? How long will I make it?” she asks.

  “Best case scenario, I’d say two to three years.”

  “I’ll take those odds,” she replies, her voice hard.

  “What?” I interject, my eyes wide, but they both ignore.

  “That’s not a guarantee. I can’t promise you that you’ll make it that long.” Dr. Collins steps forward. “You need this surgery.”

  Mom holds her hand up, stopping him. “I don’t care. I don’t want the surgery. I could die on that table. I’d rather have a couple months than none at all.”

  “But you could have a lifetime instead of a few years!” I exclaim. “I want you for a lifetime.”

  Mom barely glances at me before she gives her attention back to Dr. Collins.

  “You do realize the surgery could be successful, that in most cases it is successful, and you could live a long life,” he explains, attempting to reason with her.

  “No,” she deadpans.

  “Mom,” I plead, dropping my hand to her arm.

  She shakes her head, determination in her eyes. “It’s not up for discussion. I want more time, and I don’t want to bury you with the medical bills, especially since we just lost the house.”

  How could she even think I would care about the financial weight of her surgery?