Free Falling

by Ana Simons

  ‘What kind of question is that?’ But that’s exactly what’s happening, she’s here the whole time already. Why can’t we just be practical and leave the grand gestures for later? Besides, that’s also the question of a desperate man, who cares deeply for her, but hasn’t slept straight for I don’t know how many nights and would do anything to make her feel better.

  “But is this normal? I mean, it’s week 14 already and she’s still feeling miserable, she can barely keep anything down.”

  “Not even those crackers?”

  “Listen, when it hits her, it hits her really bad. She cannot even pass by the food cabinet, let alone eat anything out of it.

  “But do tell me, what was I supposed to say when she informs me she’s staying home this weekend—and by home, she means at Evie’s—because our schedules don’t match and I need to rest? Thank you for being so generous to me? Yeah, go and stay somewhere else? Works for me just fine? What a load of rubbish! For crap’s sake, her home is here, with me.”

  “Then forget about next week. Go and tell her that now.”

  “What? Like, right now? You’re telling me to go to the Clinic?”

  “Yes.”

  “You serious?” No, she can’t be.

  “Course I am. Her life is far from being a perfect bliss, I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture. You should go and sweep her off her feet!”

  I can’t contain the mocking chuckle. “And then what? I bend on my knee in front of everyone?”

  Her silence somehow lets me know she’s nodding ‘yes’.

  I give another good laugh. “You’re crazy! And you should stop watching that totally unrealistic crap they’re using to brainwash your heads. This is real life, not some film, and those ridiculous expectations you women create are just absurd. For Christ’s sake, Pretty Woman was a prostitute! That guy in the Notebook, a total moron. Sweetie, we’re not in fantasy land!”

  “Screw you, you’re an idiot.”

  I know it wasn’t the most brilliant thing, to say it like that, as if it were not a big deal, because it is. But now it’s done and I can’t take it back. And at this point I might as well stick to the initial plan: I’ll wait another week, take her there and ask her to marry me... properly. Like Sue said.

  It’s all settled already. I’m taking her to Surrey, to spend a few days at the family cottage. And hopefully there’ll be some snow and I’ll take her to the exact place where it all started before. And this time I won’t ask if I can kiss her, I’ll ask if I can marry her.

  What’s wrong with my plan? Not grand enough? I’ve already gotten her the ring, over a month ago now, why would I rush and make it seem it’s some sort of damage control scheme?

  “Hey, if she’s on the graveyard shift this weekend, why don’t you come over and grab a beer?” Sue asks, her tone calmer now.

  Looking outside through the window at the street below, I consider the invitation. It’s dark already and there are Christmas lights twinkling and glowing all around. It looks nice, really nice. It reminds me of how much I’ve always loved Christmas, probably because my parents always made sure it was indeed one of the most special times of the year. Being my birthday on the 24th, my father convinced me that I was a very special kid—everyone has a birth-day, I had an entire birth-season, how cool was that?

  This year Christmas sure feels a whole lot different, I acknowledge as I look back inside. There’s a Christmas tree by the fireplace. I’d never put up one before. And there are some Christmas decorations too and even a few presents under the tree. For the babies.

  “You know I have a Christmas tree?” I smile.

  “Hey, congratulations!” she says with a faint ironic cheer. “Are you coming over or not?”

  “Remember when you used to be mad at me? Because I always managed to drag Dad outside to hang the lights earlier than everyone else? That I was rushing Christmas, you used to say.”

  “Yeah, you were already a prick at the time! You’re not coming, are you?”

  No, I wasn’t coming. I thought Olivia might not feel well and might need me. Besides, I still had some work to do. I had to catch up with some emails from work and check on the status of two ongoing projects before I could call it a week.

  And I still wanted to return to my special project.

  *

  Saturday, December 12 | 1:05

  Feeling ok? Still working on my special mission here. Luv U.

  Liv | Saturday, December 12 | 1:10

  It’s dragons spitting fire, isn’t? Oh God ;-) Luv U too.

  Saturday, December 12 | 1:11

  Nope.

  Liv | Saturday, December 12 | 1:12

  Drunken chickens?

  I just can’t stop laughing. It’s two weeks now since I’ve started drawing this huge elephant sitting on a rope tree swing on one of the nursery walls. Her curiosity is nearly killing her, it’s so funny, but she can’t see it until it’s finished. I’m almost done anyway, she won’t have to suffer much longer.

  Before I can reply, another text comes in. With a smile of anticipation spread across my face, I quickly rush to check what’s her wild guess this time.

  Mary | Saturday, December 12 | 1:17

  U up?

  38 Dilemmas

  Before I can even blink twice, my mind is already spinning off in a thousand directions, racing like a derailed train. What the eff is this now? What does she want? At these late hours? Someone died?

  They’d better have.

  Should I even reply?

  Shit no, you run from it. As fast as you can.

  Mary | Saturday, December 12 | 1:20

  Your lights on. U up fo a drink?

  Sod, she’s here...

  Mary | Saturday, December 12 | 1:21

  Pls. Have nowhre else to go

  Granted, I’d rather sit and chat with a seven-foot neo-Nazi skinhead crack dealer than with this woman, but this is all very strange, to say the least. This is so not her. Something isn’t adding up here and that’s why I decide I’d better grab a jacket and go downstairs, just to check what the hell is going on.

  A couple of minutes later I find her sitting in the driver’s seat of a grey Volvo parked right across the street. Her head and arms are draped over the steering wheel, her hand holding a mobile, which she’s tapping against her forehead in a continuous, repetitive movement.

  I gaze at her for a moment, trying to make some sense of this, still pondering if I shouldn’t just walk away.

  After a while, Mary raises her head to check the mobile display and our eyes meet through the dim light and the heavy rain that’s pouring down. She stumbles out of the car clumsily, slamming the door shut with a loud clang, and then stops right there, on the pavement, staring at me.

  What-the-hell-is-happening, I ask her without actual words, just with a movement of my hands from under the building portico.

  She shrugs, looking helpless, and only then crosses the street, with staggering steps, sort of zigzagging towards the entrance door.

  Her clothes are completely soaked, her long blond hair flat, with a few wet strands straggling around her face, which is covered with little rivulets of water sliding down her skin and smudged with black makeup.

  When she comes closer, I get to see her eyes. They’re bloodshot and swollen from crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, completely dumbfounded at the miserable state she’s in.

  “J-just came to say hi.” Her breath hitches with a strangled sob.

  With her hand trembling, she shuffles through her purse before she manages to take a pack of cigarettes out. She fumbles a cigarette from the pack, puts it in her mouth, nervously, and begins a furious search for a lighter.

  “You smoke now?”

  “I-I can smoke if I waaant to,” she grits out in a cocky fashion, her speech slurred.

  A few seconds later a thin cloud of cigarette smoke rises above her and she takes another couple of uncoordinated steps towards me. There’s a strong stench of
alcohol emanating from her.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “And?”

  “And? You fucking crazy? How can you be driving like this? I’m putting you in a taxi and sending you home!”

  When I’m taking the mobile out of the jacket, she puts her hand on my shoulder to balance herself. “Don’t bother. That fu-fucking prick kicked me out.”

  I don’t care. “Where do you want to go then?”

  Her gaze is so vacant I don’t think she heard me at all.

  I grab her arms and shake her. “Hey? Listen to me! Where do you want to go?”

  She lets out a deep breath and shuts her eyes, trembling. “Here?”

  Fuck no, I’m not your plan B, your safety net, or your fucking ‘welcome’ rug at the front door. Forget about it.

  “I’m calling Rogers and sending you there. You’re his problem, not mine.”

  “He doesn’t w-want me there, not anymore.” She opens her eyes with difficulty. “I sma-ashed his windscreen, you know?” She shouts, then laughs. “Serves him right, that son of a b-bitch! And I-I should have made a b-bonfire of all his underwear too. So no, I-I don’t have anywhe-ere else to go.”

  She reaches out to stroke my face, but I recoil.

  What a huge sodding nightmare. I rub the back of my neck, trying to release the tension. How do I get out of this mess?

  “I-I thought it was a good o-opportunity for us to catch up a little.” She drags out her words, on her lips a sheepish smile.

  I hit pause and look at her, contemplating what to do or say next.

  So, if your ex suddenly knocks on your door one night… Mind you, not any ex, let’s highlight this. It’s that ex who cheated on you for several months and then left you after way too many years for a grumpy old git and the promise of a fancy, glamorous life.

  Let’s try this again.

  You’re not Mother Teresa, and your ex knocks on your door one night, totally shit-faced, saying she has no place to go. What do you do? You take her to the hospital and ask to get her evaluated because she must be losing it, right?

  “I-I’m not fee-feeling very well.”

  “No shit, Sherlock?” I ask absentmindedly, only focused on scrolling down my contacts list and trying to figure out which friend I could send her to at almost two in the fucking morning.

  “Brian?”

  “What now?” I raise my head and finally look at her.

  Oh no. No. No. You’ve got to be kidding me!

  She has just thrown up. Half in a flower pot, half all over herself.

  *

  “Would you keep it quiet?” I finish unbuttoning her fur coat and toss it to the ground with such boiling fury.

  She ignores me and sings even louder, with a high-pitched thin voice, snapping her fingers and twisting her body to the rhythm of Joe Cocker’s You Can Leave your Hat On.

  “Will you please shut the fuck up? You’re getting on my last nerve already! Kick off your shoes and just get in there!” I point at the shower. The tepid water is running.

  She ignores me again. Instead, she continues to sing the chorus lines into Olivia’s hairbrush in front of the mirror.

  “NOW dammit!”

  “But are you s-sloshed or what? Still g-got my clothes on!”

  “Yeah, it’s a brand-new washing program.” I jump in the shower myself, dragging her with me.

  She complies, giggling in a childish fashion, singing a few more lines.

  “Shut the hell up!” I hold her steady in position, under the running water, desperately hoping it helps to calm her down.

  She runs her hands over my chest, asking me to come over, still performing the same bloody song.

  I drag in a long breath, this is exasperating. I’ve never hit a woman before in my life, but I’m so fed up to the teeth right now, I’m losing it and seriously considering slapping this one a couple of times. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into her.

  She continues her hysterical singing and dancing, jumping up and down giddily, and I boil over. I can’t take this crap anymore. I reach to the faucet, turn the cold water on and let it run over her head.

  “Ouch!” She complains and squirms, trying to release herself from my grip, but I force her down. It should jolt her awake and sober her up fast.

  Five minutes later she has gone from hysteria to a near catatonic state. She’s standing perfectly still and has her eyes directed into the void as I turn her around, to unzip her dress and let it fall to the ground, unhook her bra and take off her underwear.

  Afterwards, her eyes flutter shut and she begins to shiver, so violently her teeth chatter, and I yank a towel from the rack, and wrap it around her. She’s shuddering from the cold but also from whatever happened to her before as well. She’s just burst into tears and is sobbing uncontrollably.

  I run the towel over her wet body and dry it vigorously, as fast as I can, and pull Olivia’s robe off the back of the door to cover her up.

  “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, burying her head in my chest as I tie the robe belt around her waist.

  And it feels strange, inexplicable, to watch the woman who once busted my heart into a million pieces standing before me, a woman who has always been so strong and determined and now is here, torn into shreds, so vulnerable.

  I cradle her in my arms, waiting for her to calm down, letting the next moments pass in silence.

  “I’m really sorry,” she starts tentatively, her hand reaching out to touch my face, “for what I’ve done to you.”

  I draw back just in time and tell her sternly, “Come, you need to sleep it off.”

  “I was such an ungrateful bitch, wasn’t I?”

  She was, but I don’t respond. It’s too late for any of that now and I don’t really care anymore. Instead, I reach to take hold of her hand and lead her to my room.

  I sit on the bed next to her and fill the glass on the nightstand with water. Olivia’s water. The idea of how she’d feel if she saw any of this consumes me inside and out, making my stomach churn and the voice in my head scream in despair.

  “Here. Drink it and try to get some sleep.”

  I give her time to take a few sips. In the meantime, I drag a tense hand through my hair and rub my temples. My head is throbbing. And then my eyes fall over Olivia’s photo on the dresser, a close-up of her beautiful face and warm smile. My chest tightens and my throat nearly closes.

  A deep, pained breath leaves my lungs right before I get back to Mary. “Done?”

  She nods and when I extend my hand for the glass, she holds my wrist. “Stay with me.”

  I brush it off and get up. “Try to rest. You need to leave first thing in the morning.”

  “Please. Just lay with me, by my side.”

  “Good night, Mary.” I turn off the light.

  There’s a shiver of apprehension running up and down my spine as I stride along the corridor, my head is about to explode. This shit can’t be happening to me, is all I can think of. What am I supposed to do now?

  The conversation I had with my father a while ago, about the thin line between lying and protecting the ones you love, is revolving in my core like a bloody whirlpool sucking in everything around. How on earth am I going to explain this? Especially now, when all she needs is peace?

  Fuck.

  All these questions are burning through my insides, setting my mind into a frenzied convulsion and I feel I’m on the brink of madness. It’s so infuriating that for a moment, I can barely catch my breath.

  I reach for the hem of my damp shirt and yank it off. After tossing it to the floor, I throw myself on the couch, exhausted, completely battered, wishing this was just a stupid dream and tomorrow everything could be just fine again.

  *

  “Brian? Sweetheart?” A soft distant voice brushes my face and echoes gently in my head.

  I can’t come now. I’m so tired...

  “Sweetheart?”

  My body is still numb to the gentle voice.

  I can’t
...

  “Hey?”

  I hear another brief sigh. And feel another caress on my face.

  Who’s there?

  The morning light coming through the living-room windows hurts my eyes. I move my head side to side, trying to zoom in the blurry face that’s hovering over me.

  “Sweetheart, you fell asleep on the sofa, wake up. You’ll feel like you were run over by a car. Come to bed.”

  My eyes spring open.

  Oh, my God.

  “Olivia? What are you doing here?”

  “Hey, handsome.” Her fingers sweep up and down my arm, gently, her smile so warm. “You know, I left work this morning and… you’re right. I was wrong, I’m sorry. The truth is, after a shitty shift there’s nothing I want more than this, to come home, crawl back into our bed, snuggle up tight against you and stay there forever. You were right, this is my home. You are my home now,” she says, so sweetly, running her fingers across my face before she brushes a light kiss on my lips.

  39 Treasured memories

  “They usually send an L-wrench key, but we may still need a screwdriver. Where’s the tool case, Son?” My father flicks his eyes from one side to the other scanning the room as I help him put his legs up to rest on the cushioned footstool.

  “There, next to the other crib. Is it good so? Want me to get you a pillow?”

  “No, I’m fine. Where’s the white wooden box I bought you?”

  “Maybe you left it in the living-room. I’ll go check–”

  “No. It’s there! On the dresser, next to that bag. Give it to me.”

  Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you.

  Shannon L. Alder

  I give a quick read to the inscription on the lid. I know it’s meant for my children, that this box carries memories he would share with them himself if he’d been given the opportunity.