If I Fall

by Britt Morgan

  “Are you drunk?” she asked finally. I dropped the journal onto the couch, feeling the room start to spin.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” I said. My words sounded funny, like my tongue was swollen and too big for my mouth. “I have no answers. Carter has no answers.” I sat down shakily on the couch, only just realizing that tears were streaming down my face. Mrs. Dunham picked up a box of tissues and handed them to me before sitting back against her desk, watching. I wondered if it had been the wrong decision to come here, but it was too late now. I was here, and I was an utter mess.

  “What are you taking, Khloe?” she asked. “Are you on anything besides alcohol?” I nodded, realizing that I didn’t care anymore about what might come of it.

  “Since Carter’s been gone, I’ve…” I hesitated, almost unable to speak his name. “I’ve gone back to the pills. And—other stuff.”

  “He told me this might be a problem,” the counselor said. She folded her arms and stared me down, meeting my gaze when I looked up at her, surprised.

  “He told you?”

  “We spoke of you often,” she said. “He cared for you. Deeply.”

  “I don’t want to be like this.” I wiped my eyes, wondering if the tears would ever stop flowing. The nausea was coming and going in waves, bile rising in my throat threatening to explode. “This isn’t me. I’m not this person.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Dunham said. I looked up at her, meeting her eyes. Her expression was one of sympathy, understanding. Kindness. Despite my childish mistake in coming here, she hadn’t turned me away yet. I knew I looked like some drunken prostitute with mascara running down my face and my hair a rat’s nest, but I didn’t care.

  “I need help,” I whispered. “I—I can’t end up like him and Ava. Ava, she’s in the hospital. She OD’d. She could have died. I can’t keep doing this every day—every moment. If I do, I’ll die, too. Like Carter.”

  “You’re right,” Mrs. Dunham said. I knew she was agreeing with what I’d said but her admission stung like a slap. “There’s a good chance that if you continue this way you will end up killing yourself or someone else. Is that what you want?”

  “No. I—of course not.” A sob caught in my throat, and I felt an overwhelming urge to curl up in the fetal position and just—die. “How do I stop?”

  “With a lot of hard work,” she said. She pushed herself off the desk and crossed the room to turn off the light in the fish tank. “It will take a long time, Khloe,” she said. “And it will be hard. It will be very hard.”

  “I don’t know if I can do it.” I rested my head in my hands as a pounding sensation crept into my skull. With a migraine coming on, I knew the only thing that could stop it in its tracks was a bottle of booze. “I can’t survive this.”

  “Of course you can.” The counselor straightened up and crossed the room, putting one hand on my shoulder. Her grip was firm, yet encouraging “Not only can you survive this, but you will.”

  “Oh please.” I stood then, anger boiling in my chest. “Carter didn’t,” I said. “Carter didn’t survive any of this. If you can’t even help him, how in the hell do you think you can help me?”

  “Carter was different,” Mrs. Dunham said softly. She didn’t seem startled by my accusation. “He didn’t want to be here, Khloe. He never found what he was looking for in this life. But you? You want to be here. I can tell.”

  “Oh?” I took a step back, towards the door, wishing I had never come. “And what makes you think that?”

  “It’s simple,” the doctor said. She turned away from me and sat back down in her chair. “You haven’t killed yourself yet.”

  “Some days it’s hard not to,” I admitted, and Mrs. Dunham shrugged.

  “Life is hard,” she said. “Life is hard and it’s messy and it’s devastating. But do you know what else it is? Life is also beautiful, wonderful and fascinating. It just takes opening your eyes to see that, and letting go of old, dangerous demons.”

  “And you think you can help me see the light?” I asked, sarcastic. I started to head for the door, unwilling to listen to anymore of her bullshit. “You think you can help me?”

  “I’ll help you,” Mrs. Dunham said. “But only under one condition.” I turned to look at her, hesitating near the door. I was almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “What?” I said finally.

  “You let me.”

  Chapter 22

  I didn’t hear from Ava for two days, but I knew she was still at the hospital, so I tried not to stress too hard about it. If she was in the hospital instead of somewhere on the streets, I could rest my mind. According to Jay, who had gone to visit twice, she was on suicide watch for a while, until the doctor decided she was no longer a threat to herself. I knew that for now I was not welcome there—not after the falling out we’d had about the drugs. So, I kept my distance and waited for her to come to me. With Ava in the hospital and Jay working at the auto shop every day, I spend most evenings lying in bed, a bottle of booze near the nightstand and Carter’s journal tucked under one arm.

  Business at the bar was slow, so I was losing hours and money—my mother’s life insurance had covered my ass so far, which was good, because being a bartender hadn’t. Despite Carter’s urges to put it away for college—a dream which I had at one point single-handedly flushed down the toilet—I continued to spend money on drugs and booze and all-around refuse responsibility. So instead of college, savings paid my rent and food—not that I was eating much lately, anyway—and I didn’t have to leave the house for any reason except to buy booze and the occasional bag of pills.

  A few times I considered going back to see Mrs. Dunham for a session, but each time I had decided against it. My little high escapade had humiliated me enough to stay away and hope she didn’t remember that night forever. Whatever Carter had told her about me was now ringing true. But, fuck it. I didn’t need her. I didn’t need anyone. So long as I stayed high or drunk, I had no reason to think about life.

  At six o’clock there was a knock on my front door. I was six shots in and feeling a nice buzz when I stumbled to answer it, feeling more social than usual. Had I been sober, I would have hidden under the couch blanket until the visitor left.

  “Khloe?” Frank stood at my door, his head down and a hat clutched between his fingers. When his eyes met mine, there was pain—a sadness and pain that I hadn’t seen in him since mom’s death.

  “What are you doing here?” I couldn’t tell if he was drunk—in fact, he looked almost sober for the first time in a long time. Either that or I was too strung out to tell.

  “I just needed to see you,” Frank said. “You’re my daughter.” There was black under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  “Now isn’t really a good time,” I said. “I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Drinking,” I said. Frank laughed then, but there was no humor in his tone.

  “Like father, like daughter,” I said, and that shut him up quickly.

  “I hoped.” He paused and then took one small step towards the open door. “I hoped we could talk,” he said. “I haven’t been very good to you, and I know that. Will you let me try again? I’m sober now.”

  “You’ve been sober before, for about four days,” I told him. “The next time you come to my door, make sure you’ve lasted longer than a week.”

  “Please, Khloe,” said Frank. “Just talk to me.”

  “You need to leave.” The liquid courage in the form of tequila made me step toward him, pushing him away from my front door. If it came to it, I was certain that in my drunken frame-of-mind I would be prepared to take a swing if I had to.

  “Khloe, please.”

  “Fuck off.” I slammed the door in his face and locked it, flipping the dead bolt over and pulling the curtains closed. I pressed my ear to the door, heart racing, listening as Frank started his truck and pulled away. As soon as I was certain he was gone, I made my way back to the couch for anothe
r drink. My hands shook as I poured myself a shot and took it, praying that he wouldn’t come back anytime soon. I was a natural basket case—I always had been. The added stress had never been for the better.

  At about ten, I was three sheets to the wind and passed out on the couch when my phone rang next to my head. I searched for my cell phone, only vaguely coherent, and put it to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Khloe? It’s me.”

  “Ava?” I sat up, rubbing my eyes, trying not to puke as the world began to spin in front of me. “I thought you weren’t talking to me.”

  “Shut up for a second,” Ava hissed. “I wasn’t going to bother calling you, but I have news.” I closed my mouth, waiting for her to continue. When she didn’t, I let out my breath in a long sigh.

  “Ava? I have things to do. Make it quick.” Okay, so I didn’t really have things to do, but I did have quickly fading patience.

  “It’s your dad,” she said breathlessly. “He’s in the ER. I saw them wheel him in.” It took a moment for her words to sink in. I pushed the phone closer to my ear, wondering if I’d misheard her. “He was in an accident,” she said. “A car accident. You should probably come.”

  Chapter 23

  My heart seemed to stop. My breath caught. Only hours ago, he had been standing at my door, begging for forgiveness—and I’d slammed it in his face.

  Like a punch in the gut, a million memories flashed through my drunken mind: me, as a child, squealing as Frank tossed me in the air, my mother laughing, the video camera unstable in her hand as she tried to control her giggles. After that, years later, Frank teaching me how to drive, taking me on motorcycle rides around the neighborhood. And, a moment after that, I imagined him lately—drunk and high, pounding on my door, screaming in my face.

  “Is he alive?” I asked.

  “I think so,” Ava said. “But it looks bad.”

  “Okay.” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”

  “Why should I?”

  “He’s your father, Khloe. He still loves you.”

  “He’s a drunk and an addict and I don’t need it in my life,” I said, fighting to keep calm. I wanted so badly to yell at her. To scream. To cry. She had no idea the anger and hurt Frank had laid upon me since my mother’s death—none at all.

  “Really?” said Ava. Her voice had softened. “Look at us, novio. What’s the difference?”

  * * *

  Damn her. Ava was right, and I knew it. If something was terribly wrong and Frank died before I could see him, I knew I would regret it. It didn’t matter that we weren’t close anymore. At one time, he’d been a good father. Actually, he’d been a great one. It was something I found myself having to think about when making the decision over whether to see him. I was still his kid despite my reluctance, and he was still my father.

  I tried the best I could to sleep off the booze in my system, and when morning came, I dug for all my spare change before getting in the car and heading towards the hospital. Halfway there I stopped at a convenience store for two bouquets of flowers. If I couldn’t be nice to him, at least I could be decent.

  “Room 1406,” the receptionist told me. It was the same woman who’d been there the night Ava was admitted. She didn’t seem to recognize me. As I made my way down the desolate hallway towards Frank’s room, I suddenly wished I’d called Jay and had him come with me. Something about having him around put me at ease—made me feel like I could tackle anything just so long as he was by my side, pushing me on. Carter had made me feel like that—confident. Fearless.

  I stopped at Frank’s room and took a deep breath, wondering if it was too late to turn around and make a run for the exit. But I didn’t. I stayed put. Trying to gather my composure, I knocked lightly and stepped in.

  Frank was lying on the bed, barely awake. The skin on his face, the little bit that wasn’t covered by bruises and open cuts, was pale. One of his eyes was swollen shut, a result presumably from the force of the steering wheel against his face. His leg, I noticed, was in a cast, as was his arm.

  “Hi,” I said carefully. I set the bouquet of flowers in an empty vase of water, letting my fingers flutter over the silky petals of the roses. Clearing my throat, I turned to look at him, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

  “I didn’t think you were going to come,” Frank said. His voice was raw and scratchy, like he was coming down from a bad cold.

  “You look like shit,” I said and for the first time in a long time he smiled slightly.

  “You don’t look too fancy yourself,” he said. I crossed my arms over my chest, choosing to ignore the comment, and gazed around the room. Aside from the bouquet I’d brought, there was only one other card. I picked it up. It was from Melanie Drake.

  “I still look better than you,” I said, putting the card back down on the table. I leaned up against the wall, my eyes on him, wondering how much of a mistake it had been to come here.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Frank noted. “I didn’t pay attention last night. Are you using again?”

  “Count on you for a backhanded compliment.” I pushed myself off the wall and crossed the room, feeling uncomfortable, and out of place. “How drunk were you when you hit that pole?”

  “Not drunk enough, apparently,” said Frank. I cleared my throat and turned to look out the window, unable to keep looking at him. I didn’t know what I was more afraid of—breaking down or getting angry.

  “I just figured I’d stop by and drop those off,” I said, tilting my head toward the vase of flowers. “But I should probably go now.”

  “You figured you’d stop by, or someone else told you to?” he asked.

  “Ava told me to,” I admitted. I couldn’t bring myself to feel bad about it, either. “Apparently parents mean something to her.” I turned and headed towards the door, more than ready to be gone. My good deed for the day was done. “It was good to see you, Frank. My work here is done.” I reached for the door handle and pulled.

  “I’m sorry about Carter,” he said quietly behind me. “He was a good kid.” I paused, an engulfing rise of emotion swelling in my chest.

  “He was,” I agreed. “And he’s gone now.”

  “Khloe?” I turned, fighting the urge to bolt, and looked at Frank. His face was sad, sympathetic. I wondered if he was being sincere or not. “I may not be much of a father to you, but you’re still my daughter.” He stopped, as if struggling to form the words. “Take care of yourself,” he said finally. “I don’t want you to join him.”

  “Don’t worry, Frank,” I said. “I’m nothing like you.”

  I closed the door behind me, feeling my heart racing in my chest. Down the hall, a nurse was watching me from her station. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was expecting me to make trouble for her, or something. I took a deep breath to compose myself and started for Ava’s floor. I was just about to ride the elevator up to the psych unit when the doors to the ER opened and two medics pushing a gurney rushed in. I looked over my shoulder, none too surprised to see Ty straddling the patient on the cot, pumping the man’s chest as his partner pumped air into his lungs. Ty looked over at the ER doc, said something I couldn’t make out, and then ceased compressions. The doctor nodded and glanced at his watch.

  “Always a bummer when that happens,” the nurse said to me. The same nurse had been glaring at me only moments ago. “But damn—I’d let that paramedic pump on my chest any day.” She wiggled her eyebrows at me, and I had to fight the urge to roll my eyes. The elevator beeped and the doors opened, but I was a second too late. Ty looked over, catching sight of me, and he said something to his partner before jogging across the ER floor to say hello.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” he said. I smiled politely at him and stepped into the elevator, hoping he’d take that as a conversation ender and leave me be. He didn’t. Instead, he stepped up next to me as the elevator doors closed behind us
. “What floor?”

  “Psych.”

  “For Ava?” he asked. I nodded, and the skin under my sweatshirt heated up as the seconds ticked by. Ty was standing next to me, his arm touching mine, and I was surprised to feel a zap of electricity travel through my body.

  “Sorry about that man,” I said awkwardly. “I’m sorry you couldn’t save him.”

  “Shit happens, I guess.” Ty leaned back against the elevator wall, closing his eyes. For some odd reason I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “I’m also sorry about the other night,” I said. I cleared my throat, flushing. “It wasn’t my intention to kiss you.”

  “Oh, I know.” He smiled, and a wave of relief washed over me. He had a cute smile—like, really cute. “That doesn’t mean you didn’t like it though.”

  “Excuse me?” I turned to face him, annoyed, but mostly because he’d called me out on it. “There was nothing about it that I liked. You kiss like a dog.”

  “Really?” Ty asked. “Because I’ve been told I kiss like a God.”

  “You must have misheard.” The elevator opened up on the sixth floor and I stepped out as quickly as I could, holding my breath so I wouldn’t have to inhale Ty’s sultry, manly scent. It didn’t matter, though, because he followed me anyway.

  “Do you make it a habit to follow women around the hospital?” I asked as we walked.

  “Only the cute ones,” Ty said, keeping up with my brisk pace.

  “You need to leave me alone,” I said over my shoulder. “I already told you—this isn’t going to work with us.”

  “I don’t like that answer.” Ty said. I was caught by surprise when he reached for my arm and pulled me to a stop in the middle of the hallway, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I want you to tell me the truth,” he said. “Can you stand there and look me in the eye and tell me with one hundred percent certainty that you don’t have feelings for me? That you are totally uninterested?” When I didn’t answer, he went on. “I don’t think this is about me, Khloe. I think it’s about you.”