Even If I Fall

by Abigail Johnson

  “Don’t you do that again, do you understand me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, quiet as a whisper, because it feels like a lie.

  The plates are shaking so much that she has to rest them on the edge of the table. “Promise me you won’t mention that boy or his family ever again.”

  I don’t know if the boy she means is Heath or Calvin—not that it matters. Both make it harder to deny where Jason is and why. I can’t find the words to explain myself or to tell her that just because I’m not slamming things or crying doesn’t mean I’m hurting any less; that I need us to talk about Jason just as much as they seemingly don’t. I stop searching for words, because Mom is pulled so tightly between Dad and Laura and Jason that I’m afraid she’ll snap if I try to tug her in another direction. And I don’t want to make any of them suffer more than they already are.

  “I promise,” I say, and then I help her clear the table. We don’t mention Jason again, or Heath. Or Calvin...the boy my brother confessed to killing last year.

  CHAPTER 4

  In the morning, no one mentions a thing about what I said last night. It’s like it didn’t happen.

  Mom is darting around the house with a phone cradled between her ear and shoulder, talking with people on the other side of the country who care only about how quickly their custom furniture pieces will be finished. Her skin is glistening with sweat, which means she’s already run who knows how many miles this morning and it’s barely 8:00 a.m. Dad is in the basement, the whirring sounds from his lathe the only noise I’ll hear from him until dinner. It doesn’t make sense that I miss him almost as much as I miss Jason—I see Dad more, even if it’s a fraction of the time we used to spend together.

  Mom may be the runner, but Dad was the one behind my skating from the very start. He’s the one who used to make the three-hour round-trip to Odessa with me five days a week so that I could skate with a top coach. He never once complained, even when I sometimes did. We had a routine; we’d hit the same gas station, buy the jumbo-size peanut butter M&M’s to share, and listen to the same Blackfoot album over and over again, laughing at the looks from passing drivers when we air-guitared the solo during “Highway Song.”

  Skating used to be my life, but right now, if I had to choose one thing to have back the way it was, I’d rather spend three hours in a car with a spotty A/C, tossing M&M’s in the air for Dad to catch, than compete for one more medal.

  Laura is outside on the porch, bending her head over her phone instead of looking at the green and glorious world waking up in front of her. Still in the T-shirt and shorts I slept in, I push open the screen door and pad barefoot to the empty rocking chair beside Laura. She doesn’t look up when I sit, not even when I say her name. She’s too busy reading a forum thread about whether Jack Kirby or Stan Lee created Marvel Comics. I’m tempted to tread into the debate since I know which side she holds even if I don’t really understand why it matters. I’ll get a response from her, I know, but arguing over comics never earns me more than a brief flare of anger, quickly snuffed out by the apathy she wraps around herself. Instead I tap her knee with my free hand. Her gaze lifts in my direction, but not her head. She makes no move to lower the volume of whatever she’s listening to. I return her stare, waiting. Finally, she removes an earbud. One. I ignore the heaviness in my chest.

  “Where’s Ducky?”

  “In his cage.”

  As if he heard his name through the open window of Laura’s room, he calls out, “I’m Batman.”

  I close my eyes slowly, letting a smile lift my lips. It took Laura a year to get him to say that. For a while she tried to teach him to say Hulk smash when she shifted from being DC obsessed to a Marvel fanatic, but Jason started playing a recording in her room while she was at school that repeated Jason’s so cool, and the poor bird got confused. Laura caught on when Ducky started saying Jason smash. My smile grows. Jason had to clean Ducky’s cage for a month after that. Ducky still says it sometimes. Jason smash. Though no one finds it funny anymore.

  Before she can replace her earbud, I switch topics. “I didn’t get to tell you but I finally tamed Daphne yesterday.”

  “Who?”

  I frown, the movement slight in comparison to the ache from Laura’s single-word response. “My car.” I gesture with my chin toward the Camaro parked in the carport. “Come on, Laur. You were here when I brought her home last week.” It was possible she’d been in the exact same spot. She rarely went anywhere besides the porch and her room these days.

  “Oh.”

  Oh. Her eyes are already drifting back to her phone, but I halt her hand before she can lift her earbud again. I wasn’t expecting the same house-shaking shriek from her that heralded Jason’s first car, nor did I think she’d wrap herself around my legs like a monkey until I promised her the first ride, but something more than Oh. “I named her Daphne, you know, after Jack Lemon’s character in Some Like It Hot.” It was one of the few movies we both loved. The summer before Jason’s arrest, we watched it together almost every night. Watching a lot of movies is one of the side effects of living in a town where cattle outnumber people and me not being old enough to drive anywhere. I’d wanted to watch The Cutting Edge for the millionth time, and she’d wanted to watch the latest superhero flick. I’m still not sure how Some Like It Hot became a compromise between the two, but it did. It got to the point where neither of us could fall asleep unless it was on. I’ve suggested watching it a few times this summer, but she has yet to take me up on the offer. Her closed-off demeanor this morning means I know better than to ask again.

  “Anyway, I can drive her now,” I say. “I was thinking about going to Walmart. Wanna come?” Apparently, there are lots of Walmarts in Texas, but like Bigfoot and good gluten-free pizza, I have to take that on faith, because the only one I know of is an hour away down in Midland. It’s kind of a big deal to go to Walmart, so I dangle the prospect in front of my sister like the proverbial carrot I hope it is. It’s almost embarrassing how badly I want her to say yes. I don’t even try to hide the eagerness in my voice. It hurts all the more when she frees her hand from mine.

  “I’m good.” She puts her earbud back in place. I might not be there anymore for all the attention she pays me.

  My gaze bounces between her eyes. She’s not good—neither of us is. I hate this lifelessness between us when we used to have so much more. I don’t want to watch my sister withering away in a prison of her own making when Jason is the one truly locked up. I have to keep trying with her. I’m afraid of what might happen if I stop.

  “Then forget Walmart.” I scoot to the edge of my seat. “Let’s do something. Anything, you pick.” I glance at the superhero forum on her phone. “Find a Comic-Con within a hundred miles and we’ll go.” I am not about comic anything, but Laura is. I once told her I’d rather skate over my own fingers than go with her to a comic book convention—emphasis on the comics. I’d been only slightly exaggerating. That had always been her and Jason’s thing, not ours.

  I realize my mistake. I can see Laura’s thoughts following a similar path to mine—to Jason. I shift gears. “Or we can watch a movie or go skating or swimming or we can just drive. I’ll rob a bank with you right now if that’s what it takes to get you off this porch.” I try to laugh a little, a weak attempt to hide how scared I am for her, for us. How much I miss her.

  It’s too late though. Her eyes have settled on my azure T-shirt and the now-chipped blue polish on my nails. She’s gone again, even before she heads back inside.

  * * *

  I still go to Walmart. It would have been better with Laura, but just because she passed doesn’t mean I can. Knowing it’ll be another couple weeks or even a month before I can justify the gas to get there again, I spend way too long at the superstore. I wander the aisles and revel in the luxury of meeting a stranger’s gaze without bracing for the excruciating moment of recognition. These people
simply smile—or not—and move on.

  It’s afternoon by the time I leave, and I don’t rush the drive home. After crossing the Telford city line, I detour toward the garage on Main Street without stopping to consider why. I’m only going to pass by, assure myself that he’s not there. I almost believe myself until the garage comes into view. Cal’s red truck—Heath’s truck—is still there. I pull in and get out automatically, not needing a closer look to confirm it’s the same truck but taking one anyway.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  I turn and see a man in gray coveralls wiping his hands on a paisley-print orange handkerchief. His pleasant smile falters when he sees my face, and my stomach flutters uncomfortably. I don’t get recognized everywhere anymore, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this mechanic knows who I am considering how frequently Heath said Cal had his truck fixed here. Still, it’s possible there’s another reason for his flat expression. Straightening my back, I force a smile onto my face. “Yes, sir. I was just curious what’s wrong with this truck?”

  “That truck’s not for sale,” he says without a hint of his initial smile.

  I swallow down the splash of bile in my stomach. He knows exactly who I am. “No, sir, I’m not looking to buy it. I was only wondering why the owner hasn’t picked it up yet.”

  The mechanic takes a step toward me. “Not sure as how that’s any of your business.” His demeanor isn’t openly hostile, but it’s as far from welcoming as it can get. It isn’t wholly unexpected so instead of slinking away, I close my eyes and draw in a steadying breath before opening them again.

  “I dropped the owner off here yesterday. Are you waiting for a part to come in or something?”

  His expression goes blank, and I think I stunned him into answering. “It’s fixed. I agreed to hold it for a few days until he could pay for the repair.”

  I have a flash of Heath walking in heat and rain when he doesn’t have to do either, when he shouldn’t. “How much is it?”

  The mechanic hesitates, gaze flicking to my Camaro as if to confirm it was the car Heath got out of yesterday. I don’t know how well this guy knew Cal or knows Heath, but I can guess that he’s struggling to understand why Heath would have anything to do with me. Staring at Daphne, he tells me the repair cost. It’s slightly more than half of the paycheck I picked up the day before. More than I can comfortably part with, if I’m being honest.

  The mechanic is beyond words at this point, but he takes my money if not my guilt.

  CHAPTER 5

  I park the Zamboni—Bertha, as I call her—in the garage after my last pass on the ice for the night. The skaters are all gone, and apart from Jeff, the manager, I’m the only employee still working. It’s just after ten and even though weariness is tugging on my limbs, I stop and stare at the ice, now smooth and luminous as a moonlit lake. A smile lifts my mouth and my heart as I breathe in the clean, chilled air. Someone thought it’d be funny to flood the boys’ bathroom and pee everywhere except in the urinals, so the only ice time I got that day was driving Bertha back and forth across the rink every hour. She’s slow and lumbering and older than I am, but anything is preferable to scrubbing pee stains from grout. My knees are aching as I duck my head in the office to see Jeff.

  “I bleached every inch of the boys’ bathroom and the ice is ready for the morning. I was going to head out unless you need anything else.”

  “I need all the trash cans empt—” He cuts off when I heft up one of the two colossal trash bags I’m lugging for him to see.

  “Last ones,” I tell him. “I’ll drop them in the Dumpster on my way out.”

  Jeff leans back in his chair, considering. He has no idea how the bald spot on his crown catches the overhead light when he does that. My attempt to smother a laugh makes his eyes narrow on me. “That bathroom was a mess.”

  I refrain from saying that after the hours I spent in there, no one knows that better than me. I smell like I doused myself in eau de urinal cake. “Well, it’s clean enough to eat off now,” I say, knowing that my assurance means less than nothing.

  With a sigh, Jeff pushes himself up. “I better just give it a quick look-see.”

  I’m too tired to muster up more than a passing annoyance. I follow him to the bathroom and stand in the doorway watching him inspect every inch of the visibly gleaming bathroom as if the Pope is planning an imminent visit to the Polar Ice Rink.

  Jeff’s “quick look-see” takes ten minutes, after which he agrees—begrudgingly—that the bathroom’ll do before letting me leave. I’m halfway to the front door, lugging the trash bags in my wake, when his clucking tongue draws my attention to the wastebasket from the office, which he’s holding. There are two tiny pieces of paper inside. I raise my gaze from the wastebasket to meet his eyes, silently asking him if he’s serious. In response, he swings the basket slightly from side to side like a pendulum.

  “We don’t cut corners here, Brooke. Every trash receptacle, every night, regardless of how full. I don’t want to have to keep checking your work. It’s a waste of my time and, frankly, you shouldn’t need supervising after all this time.”

  I know he’s considering making me show him every emptied trash can in the building, and honestly, I don’t trust myself not to lose my temper if he does. I’d gain a moment of satisfaction but at the cost of getting fired. Not to mention how ashamed of me my parents would be. They raised me better than that.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  He makes me wait several long seconds before bestowing the most condescending of nods on me. My teeth grind so hard that I’m afraid they’ll crack as I empty the basket and even return it to its spot beside the desk, but I hold my tongue and gather up the two trash bags, which are bigger than I am. I can feel Jeff watching as I head toward the double-door exit with my unwieldy load. He’s not about to offer to get the door, and I’d rather clean the bathroom again with my toothbrush than ask him. If being petty and double—sometimes triple—checking my work is the best he can do to try to get me to quit, I’ll outlast him. If this were any other job, I’d have been long gone, but until Telford opens up another ice rink, I need this one.

  I tie my jacket around my waist before shouldering my way outside. The muggy night air feels good on my refrigerated skin for about thirty seconds before stickiness sets in. This is one of those nights when it feels like I’m living inside a giant mouth, as though the earth itself were covered in a still, steaming breath from the recent rain. It’s as gross as it sounds and does nothing to improve my mood as I pile the trash bags I can barely see over into my arms and trace the path to the Dumpsters that I know by heart. I pass Jeff’s pristine red midlife crisis, and the temptation to leave the bags on his hood is a pleasant one. I’m not genuinely considering it, but thinking about it makes me feel better.

  My thoughts are a little too distracting, and my sneakered toe catches on a crack in the asphalt. I’m stumbling, trying to regain my balance, when one of the bags is lifted from my arms. I’m ready to utter a genuine if surprised thanks to Jeff for deciding to help me when I look up not into my manager’s face but into Heath’s.

  My brain can’t conceive of a reason for him to be there, so I gape at him for a good few seconds, taking in the height and breadth of him. He’s not huge or scrawny, but somewhere in between. Standing before him, I don’t feel dwarfed—which I often do at five foot four—or lumbering, which I also sometimes do since skating has added muscle to my otherwise petite frame. If I had my skates on we’d be nearly eye to eye; without them I have to look up just enough that it makes a flutter shiver through me despite the still, sultry night air. Until I take in his expression. His gray eyes are hard and there’s a tightness to his jaw that pulls all his features into harsh relief, like he’s both angry and trying not be at the same time. The effect is somewhat lost considering he just rescued me from face-planting into a tras
h bag.

  His gaze moves to the remaining bag I’m still holding. He doesn’t say anything but, unlike Jeff, he doesn’t hesitate before taking the other trash bag from my unprotesting arms. I’m suddenly struck by the conviction that Heath’s the type to open doors and pull out chairs, and I’ll bet he says ma’am and sir as easily as his brother did.

  He rounds the shadowy corner of the building and pitches both bags into the Dumpster a few yards away. He doesn’t immediately return or even look in my direction. And that’s when I start to sweat.

  If it was earlier and the rink was still open, I could try to convince myself that it’s pure happenstance, us running into each other again. But not when we’re closed and it’s this late, not when I remember how angry he’d been last time we saw each other. That last thought is the one that keeps me from taking more than a few steps after him so as to remain in illumination of the overhead parking lot lights.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I know the answer. The story I told him about his brother letting me drive his truck to work at this rink. It would have taken only a small gamble on his part to assume I still did. The question I should be asking is why he waited until after closing when I’m alone in a deserted parking lot to approach me.

  When he at last meets my gaze, I know from the renewed set to his jaw that he’s not here to thank me for his truck repairs—not that I expected him to. My pulse kicks up as he walks toward me, stalks really, and stops just shy of the parking lot light that feels less and less like it can protect me. He pulls something from his pocket and holds it out in a tight fist.

  Cash.

  CHAPTER 6

  “It’s all there,” Heath says, cool as the rink I just left. “Count it.”

  I swallow before responding, and my voice isn’t half so chilly. “You don’t need to pay me back.”