The Truth About Falling

by H. M. Sholander

  I hold my breath as I watch his face, making sure the noise didn’t wake him. When he doesn’t stir, I exhale, my chest deflating.

  I slowly slip off the couch and sneak out the front door without making a peep. It’s pitch black outside, so I turn the flashlight on my cell phone on, using it to guide my way home. It’s not the smartest idea to be walking around in my neighborhood at five in the morning, but what other choice do I have?

  I freaking fell asleep at Hudson’s place. I stayed the whole night. That’s never happened to me before. I’m always at home to take care of my mom. I never stay out unless I’m working. I never have a life.

  I kick at a rock on the ground and watch roll down the narrow street, tumbling until it hits the dirt.

  Am I mad that I had time for myself, or am I mad that I never get to? It’s the latter. Because having the night off from life–everything–was a reprieve I didn’t know my body was dying for. Something was missing for way too long, and it’s something I don’t want to go without again. That’s why I’m mad–for being selfish and for never having a moment to myself. Double-edged sword.

  Life is a bitch, giving us the things we don’t want and never the things we desire the most. I never wanted my mom to be dying when I was twenty-one. I never wanted to be the sole provider of a household that has been falling apart for years, even before my mom was sick.

  My world is dull with clouds and dust, not rainbows and unicorns. I see rain where others see light seeping through the sky. I see fog where others see a beautiful mist coating the sky. And when people see fire and destruction, they weep, but I don’t. Death and destruction. Life and rebuilding. There are two different types of people in the world, and I’m not the one who sees the positive. And it all started with my dad. I was eleven when he turned into the villain of my story.

  I open the refrigerator door, searching for a snack before Mom makes dinner. She always tells me not to spoil my dinner when I get home from school, but today, she’s not in the kitchen like usual.

  I snatch a piece of raw cookie dough out of the open package sitting on the second shelf and shove it in my mouth, not wanting to get caught. I chew, enjoying the cold chocolate chip cookie dough melting in my mouth. If I could eat a whole package of cookie dough, I would, but Mom wouldn’t be too happy with me.

  I shut the refrigerator door and head toward the stairs. I take them two at a time and jump on the landing when I reach the top.

  I hear muffled voices coming from my parent’s room, so I creep toward the door, pressing my ear against it.

  “Why isn’t this shit done?” Dad yells.

  “I’ve been busy today,” Mom says.

  I can barely hear her, so I crack open the door, peering in. Two baskets of unfolded laundry sit at the foot of the bed. Is that why he’s yelling at her?

  “You get to stay home because you take care of this household,” Dad huffs, emptying one of the laundry baskets on the floor, the clothes landing at Mom’s feet. “I expect everything to be done when I walk in the door. Christ, Elizabeth, I’ve been working all day. What have you been doing?”

  There’s a pause before she answers. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry,” he shouts. “You should be.” He raises his hand and hits Mom across the face. I cover my mouth with my hand as she falls to the floor, her body landing with a loud thud.

  Blood rushes to my ears as Dad stands over her, his face hard. I want to run to her, but I’m too scared he’ll hit me, too. I grip the doorknob, keeping myself firmly in place.

  “Don’t let it happen again!” he shouts as he stalks toward the bathroom in their room and slams the door behind him.

  Shoving through the bedroom door, I run to her, collapsing to my knees next to her.

  “Mom,” I whimper, placing my hand gently on her head.

  Her lifeless eyes connect with mine. “Go to your room.”

  “But, Mom,” I argue.

  “Go, Jade.” Her eyes spark to life with worry. “Please.”

  Banging sounds from the bathroom, and I stand, not wanting to leave her.

  When the bathroom door begins to open, I dart out of their room, closing the door behind me, and spend the rest of the night hiding in my room.

  I try to force the memory away, but it replays in my mind, not allowing me a minute of sleep.

  A horn blares behind me, and I realize I’ve drifted to the middle of the road. I jog to the side as the car drives past me.

  The day I saw my dad hit my mom was the day the happy bubble around me popped, ceasing to exist. It’s also the day fairytales died. It’s when I realized life is a lot darker than people want to make it out to be–not everything is perfect.

  Mom and I never spoke of that day. In fact, she pretended everything was fine the next morning as she handed me my lunch and sent me to school.

  I shove open the front door of my house and step inside, noticing my dad wide awake, watching television in the living room in his ratty recliner. I switch the light off on my phone as I close the door behind me.

  “Where were you? Out partying?” Dad asks, clearing his throat.

  “Where were you?” I backfire. “Sitting in the same spot all night, ignoring your wife?”

  “I was the one here, not you,” he sneers.

  “Being here and being here for Mom are two different things.”

  “You should pull out whatever crawled up your ass,” he murmurs, watching the television, not daring to look at me.

  I move to stand in front of him, blocking his view of whatever is holding his attention, and stare him down. “Do you ever think that maybe you’re the problem?”

  He huffs, ignoring me. He hasn’t cared in a long time, and I often wonder what pushed him over the edge. What made him the man he is? But I know he won’t ever change, he never will.

  I walk off to shower before I have to leave for the day. A long, hot shower that will punish me with its beating water and scalding temperature, and I’ll welcome it like always.

  Some days are worse than others–like today. But I knew when I woke up on Hudson’s shoulder, stiff as a board, that today would be terrible. An ominous feeling ran through me faster than a chill snaking its way through my body. It’s a feeling, and I never ignore a feeling because when everyone else has failed me, my emotions never have. Weird how most people avoid their feelings, but I run headlong into them.

  After my shower, I throw on a pair of shorts and white tank top. I leave my hair down, letting it air dry as I apply my mascara and eyeliner. When my makeup is done, I step back, staring at my reflection. My skin is blotchy from the hot shower, and my hazel eyes appear defeated and heavy.

  I quickly turn away from the mirror, not wanting to see who I really am.

  I head toward Mom’s room and sneak inside. I let out a long sigh, seeing her in bed. Sometimes just the sight of her makes me feel better.

  I place two fingers on her neck, feeling her pulse. I know she’s here with me, even if she’s sleeping.

  I push her hair away from her face, my fingers lingering down her arm until I reach her wrist. My thumb sweeps across her skin as I watch over her.

  She’s everything I’ve ever wanted to be, and I don’t know if I can express how much she means to me. She’s always had my back and been my voice of reason. I just wish I was enough for her to keep going.

  I blink my eyes, keeping the tears at bay.

  I stand frozen when she stirs, but she quickly settles back to sleep.

  “I love you,” I whisper before placing a kiss on her forehead.

  I slip out of her room, closing the door behind and walk out of the house.

  Grabbing my bike from the side of the trailer, I push it forward out of the dirt and onto the paved road before I hop on and pedal to work.

  I peer over my shoulder at the sad place I call home and see several toys strewn across the front yard. I growl as I look forward, trying to leave everything behind me. Dad. Mom. Hudson. I try to let i
t all go, but it’s not that easy.

  Anger for a useless father. Grief for a dying mother. Longing for Hudson to be something more and scolding myself for being selfish to want to bring him into my life. Wanting to kick and break every one of those toys in our yard because they represent my battles. The struggles that no matter how hard I try come right back because nothing can truly be fixed.

  The front wheel of my bike catches on a rock the size of my fist, causing the bike to jerk to the right, making me lose my balance. I yelp as the bike tilts to the right, taking me down with it, skidding across the asphalt several feet before I come to a stop with the bike on top of me.

  I groan loudly in frustration as my leg and arm sting from the friction.

  Irritated, I throw the bike off me, pushing it away like it tried to kill me on purpose. Lifting from the ground, I wipe the dirt off my clothes and notice a huge, angry, red scrape down my arm and leg. There isn’t any blood, but my shirt is torn, leaving me looking like the hot mess I am, the inside reflected on the outside.

  I let out a loud, hysterical laugh, knowing I look like a complete lunatic. Tears pool in my eyes and stream down my face as my laughter booms louder through the air with no one around to hear.

  It’s really not funny. It’s more of “this is my life, this was bound to happen” kind of thing. I wipe my face with the part of my shirt that’s still intact, getting rid of half my makeup and all my tears.

  I pick up my bike from the ground, moving it forward so I can hop on and head to work. Funny thing is though, I notice my front tire is flat, and the frame is bent. Fucking fabulous.

  I let out a frustrated breath, trying to calm my racing pulse. If I’m not careful, my own heart might go out before my mom’s.

  I inhale and exhale through my mouth as I close my eyes.

  I open my eyes and push my bike next to me as I walk to work.

  An hour later, I’m drenched in sweat as the sun now shines high in the sky, torturing me. I can see the shop ahead, but it seems like a tiny dot, further away than it should be for how long I’ve been walking. It normally takes ten minutes for me to ride my bike to work, but with a bent wheel, it took more effort than I thought to push it here. It’s like I was trying to move a couch half a mile all on my own.

  This is why I don’t exercise. Sweating is disgusting, and this out of breath feeling like I’m going to keel over isn’t very pleasant.

  I stalk toward work using the bike to hold myself up, so I don’t fall over from exhaustion.

  Finally, I make it to the shop. I drop my bike on the ground, not caring if it breaks even more, and I lean against the side of the building, wiping the sheen of sweat on my forehead off with the back of my hand.

  I lean my head on the building, wanting to sink to the ground as a tear travels down my face. I look to the sky, squinting and cursing the ball of fire above me.

  “Jade?” Joey says, sounding concerned.

  I run the back of my hand over my eyes. “What?” I snap, lifting my head.

  His short blond hair is disheveled, and he shields his dark brown eyes from the sun with his hand.

  “You need some help?” He takes a step forward as I wipe my hands on my shorts.

  “What are you going to help me with?”

  “Um, your bike. I can fix your bike,” he explains, indicating the discarded pile of metal at my feet.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks,” I say, not offering an apology for snapping at him.

  I don’t have the willpower to apologize to anyone today. I barely have the patience to keep myself upright.

  He picks up my bike and wheels it away from me, disappearing into the garage faster than a scared cat.

  I push off the wall of the building and head inside the garage. Joey quietly works on my bike in the corner farthest from me. I don’t blame him. If I could run away from myself, I would.

  I pull my torn shirt over my head, not caring that I’m standing in my bra with three guys in the room. I slip on a t-shirt that says Harry’s Garage and toss my ripped shirt in the trash.

  “This isn’t a strip club, Jade. Did you forget what job you were working today?” Harry questions, looming behind me.

  I turn to him with my hands on my hips. “No,” I deadpan. Wow. I didn’t even bother to correct him that I’m not a stripper. I really have given up today.

  “Keep your clothes on,” he says as his eyes rake over me, his body language contradicting his words.

  “Will do, boss.” I salute him before I storm away to get to work.

  No fight. No energy. I have nothing to offer anyone today. Maybe people will like me today. Ha, that’s funny.

  Half of the day has flown by in blur, me in a constant state of nothingness as I move around the shop in a daze. It’s almost like someone has drugged me, numbing all my senses as I drag my body around, moving through the motions without realizing I’m doing anything.

  I’m currently working under a car, but not actually working. I’m just lying on the ground, looking at the underbelly of a car. This must be what it’s like to have no motivation to work. I wiggle on the cement ground, trying to slip out from under the car when all the sudden oil rains down on my stomach.

  “Shit,” I shout as I push out from under the car as fast as I can. I get to my feet and glance down at my clothes. My shorts and second shirt are ruined.

  “Ugh,” I groan, it echoing through the garage, catching the attention of everyone including the customers. I shrink into myself, cringing at my shirt and my outburst. That’s a first, too. When’s the last time I cared about what anyone thought?

  “What’s going on out here?” Harry bellows, stepping into the garage from his office.

  “I forgot to tell Jade the oil drain plug on that car was broken,” Joey pipes in, standing next to me.

  Harry grunts. “Keep it down.” He stalks backs to his office as he scratches his butt.

  I turn my nose up before I look to Joey. “What was that for?”

  “Just helping you out,” he says as he spins around.

  I stare at the back of his blond head, flabbergasted.

  I sigh, my shoulders slumping. Flipping around, I search for another shirt because there is no way I’m going to smell like oil all day. I dig through a plastic bin filled with tools and supplies and come up empty. Why was I expecting to find a shirt mixed in with tools?

  I head to the laundry basket sitting at the edge of the garage and sift through the clean rages. At the very bottom of the basket, I find a lone shirt. It’s identical to the one I’m wearing. I lift it up to my nose and sniff it. My nose is met with a hint of car fumes, but at least it’s cleaner than the shirt I’m wearing.

  I step outside, away from the customers inside, and into the heat. I rip the oil stained shirt over my head and throw it on the ground, wishing it felt pain so I could stomp on it and feel better.

  “What are you doing?” Hudson’s voice falls over me as the clean shirt I’m pulling on is caught around my head, exposing my chest to him. Just wonderful.

  I swiftly yank the shirt over my head, tugging it down to my waist. “Uh, nothing.”

  “Jade, what did I tell you about this not being a strip joint?” Harry yells from behind me.

  I turn to him with my face skewed. “I needed to change.”

  “Next time come inside and do that and not in front of the customers.”

  Hudson moves to stand next to me, his stance rigid as Harry scowls at him.

  “Why don’t you go home for the day and come back tomorrow when you’ve got your shit together.” He heads back inside, not giving me the chance to protest.

  Newsflash, it’s been a long time since I’ve had my shit together. But maybe tomorrow, I won’t feel like I’m living outside my body, watching myself act like a complete idiot.

  Hudson clears his throat, eliciting me to flip back to him. “That guy is an asshole.”

  I nod. “He is, but he’s the asshole who pays me, so I put up with it.” Ki
nd of.

  He grumbles something, but I don’t hear him.

  “Wait one second,” I say. I’m glad Harry told me to go home for the day. It’s not like I was any help anyway.

  I head back to the garage to pass off my current car to someone else, hoping they can fix the mess I made. I almost feel bad for leaving them with my work, but then I think about all the times I’ve done theirs. Yeah, not sorry at all.

  “Joey, did you fix my bike?” I ask as he pulls an old tire off the car he’s working on.

  “Yeah, it’s over there.” He nods his head to the back corner.

  I leave him to his work and find my bike propped against the back wall, fixed. I smile, appreciative that he fixed it for me, no questions asked. I might give him shit for not working, but he helped me out today–in more ways than one.

  “Thanks, Joey,” I call over to him as I walk out of the garage, pushing my bike next to me.

  I stop in front of Hudson and stare up at him, waiting for him to say something–to tell me why he’s here, but he doesn’t. He just looks down on me with a weird smile on his face, trying to figure me out.

  I wish I could figure me out.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally ask.

  “You left.”

  He’s talking about this morning. Is it bad that I don’t feel bad about leaving? Am I supposed to? I’m not sure. “I did.”

  “You could have woken me up to take you home,” he says, running his hand across his jaw, scratching the coarse hair.

  “I was fine. I had my phone.”

  “Okay, well, next time wake me.”

  “Next time?” I question, wondering if he really meant to say that.

  “I, uh, mean…not like there will be a next time, but if there is…” He trails off, and I find it hard not to smile at the fact that he’s flustered.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I told you…flexible hours.”

  “Can you take me home?” I ask, dreading having to ride my bike back after the day I’ve had.

  “Yeah, come on.” He turns to his car and pops the trunk, lifting it open.

  “I don’t know if my bike will fit,” I say, hesitant to put my dirty bike in his car.