If I Fall

by Amber Thielman

  Melanie pulled me into a bedroom I was all too familiar with—Carter’s room. A room that since he’d moved out of after graduation a few months ago had been turned into a guest room. There wasn’t a lot of it that was his anymore, aside from a few scattered drawings and paintings still hanging on the walls. Above the bed was a sketch of mine from middle school—a stupid, fat horse eating hay. Well, a stupid stick figure fat horse because I couldn’t draw shit, not then and not now. I’d shown it to Carter out of pure seriousness, and after he’d laughed and laughed and laughed, he tacked it on his wall.

  “We had to clean out his apartment,” Melanie said. “Most of it was donated, but some things we brought back here. I couldn’t bear to throw them out.” She took a breath to compose herself before leaning down to pick up a box with his name scribbled on the side with a black marker. She handed it to me with a sad smile, and my heart felt like it shattered into a million more tiny pieces. “We can’t keep much, and I knew it was only right to give his most precious things to you.”

  Sitting on top of the box was a silver-framed photo of Carter and me, taken in fifth grade outside on the jungle gym at our old elementary school. Carter was hanging upside down on the monkey bars, and I was standing on the ladder with my head poking through. Both of us were giggling, looking genuinely carefree and happy. Freckled face and stringy brown hair, I knew I looked the same now as I did then. Carter had grown up, though, never losing that cute charm he always had.

  “He had it hanging on the wall in his apartment,” Melanie said, noticing my gaze on the picture. “It was his favorite one.”

  “Thank you.” I ran my fingers over his face under the glass, feeling a lump in my throat. “It means a lot.”

  “Carter would have wanted you to have it.”

  “What does David think of me having it?” I asked. There was no need to be subtle as we all knew his feelings toward me. The older I got, the more David seemed to despise me.

  “Oh, well,” Melanie sighed. She folded one of Carter’s quilts before she laid it back down on the bed. I’d made it for him during a boring summer without him at Girl Scout camp. Green, his favorite color, laced with a ladybug pattern. He’d loved it, and he hadn’t even laughed first. “David will get over it, dear. His pain is severe right now.”

  “Does he think he’s the only one hurting?”

  Melanie averted her gaze to the floor, embarrassed, and I automatically felt bad. Carter had always disapproved of my sharp tongue which is probably one of the reasons David hated me so much, but it was Carter who’d been the peacekeeper, not me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It just hurts. It hurts a lot.” Melanie nodded and put her hand on my shoulder, squeezing.

  “You two were best friends,” she said. “I know that, Khloe. And I’m sorry.” She turned and left the room, presumably to let herself cry, and I hoisted the box into my arms to take it with me out to the car. As I approached the top of the stairs, there was a soft squeak of a bedroom door opening behind me.

  “Khloe?”

  The tiny, familiar voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned around, juggling the box full of Carter’s things in my arms. Gracie was standing at the threshold of her bedroom door, a ragged teddy bear under one arm and her tattered baby blanket in the other. She was looking at me with those rounded blue eyes, her blonde hair wild about her head. She looked so much like a young Carter that I had to fight the tears to keep from breaking down.

  “Hi, Gracie,” I said. “Are you okay?” She only stared at me at first, her fragile complexion looking pale and tired. I wondered how she was taking losing her big brother. What kind of things could go through a child’s mind at this age?

  “Come here,” she said. “Can you come here, please?” Caught off guard, I set the box down gently on the carpeted floor. Gracie reached out for me, her tiny, eight-year-old hand wrapping around the end of my fingertips. She tugged, and I followed her into her bedroom where she closed the door behind us and sat down on her princess-clad bed. She set down her baby blanket and teddy bear.

  “Gracie?” I said again. “Are you okay, honey?” I crossed the room and kneeled in front of her, taking her hands between mine. Her skin was cold like Carter’s had been.

  “I have something for you,” she said. I watched as she leaned over and lifted her Cinderella pillow into her lap. Then, moving hesitantly, she reached into the pillowcase and pulled out what looked like a fancy notebook, maybe a journal. She ran her hand over it, looking sad, and then handed it to me. “For you,” she said. I took the book from her, turning it over in my hands.

  “What’s this?” I asked. “Is it yours?”

  “No.” She picked up her teddy bear and clutched it to her chest as if protecting herself from something I couldn’t see. “Carter wanted me to give it to you.”

  I took the long route home, making every effort to avoid passing Carter’s empty apartment. It probably wasn’t a wise decision to push Missus Betty further than necessary, but I would have rather walked home than see such an empty place. I was tempted to call Ava, to ask her to come over so I wouldn’t be alone tonight, but I didn’t. Most likely, she was at some party basking in smugness as drunk guys with goatees and IQs below a hundred slobbered all over her.

  I pulled into the carport of my complex and turned the car off, sitting there in the silence for a moment listening to the raindrops bouncing off the roof of the carport. In the back seat, the box of Carter’s personal things challenged what little sanity I had left, silently mocking. Just thinking about it made me want to break down. I wanted to scream, cry, and curse him. Instead, I got out of the car, gathered the box in my arms, and went inside.

  I wasn’t a people-person, so the one-bedroom apartment I rented near campus was roommate-free and, for the first time, rather lonely. This was the first time my little home wasn’t graced with the presence of my best friend.

  I set the box of things down on the couch and turned on all the lights, too shaken up to sit in the dark. I made my way to the kitchen and poured a drink, imagining Carter hovering over my shoulder, tsk-tsking in his obnoxious, mother-hen way. I would pour the drink anyway and then offer him one, just to be an ass, and he would turn it down and reach for a soda instead. But that’s where it stopped. He wouldn’t push me too far, wouldn’t judge me for my choices, he’d merely stick around to make sure those choices didn’t hurt me. That’s who he was—a guardian angel of sorts.

  Thunder rumbled outside, and a moment after that, lightning lit up the sky. I stared out the kitchen window sipping on my vodka cranberry as the rain came down. I’d need a few stiff drinks to rummage through the box of his things. Had Carter been here, he would have scolded me for trying to drown my sorrows in booze. He’d been good at that, pointing out my flaws, but he never hated me for them

  A loud knock sounded on my front door, startling me. I wiped weakly at the red juice that spilled over the edge of my glass and soaked into my t-shirt, then shrugged. Whatever, it was tie-dye. Setting the glass down on the counter, I headed toward the door, and for another fleeting moment, I expected to see Carter when I opened it. I thought he would be standing there, soaked from the rain, his boyish blond hair plastered against his forehead. He’d be smiling, of course. He loved the rain.

  I pulled the door open, my smile melting as I came face to face with the guest on my doorstep.

  “Where in the fuck have you been?” he asked. I pushed open the door a bit wider, catching a glimpse of my father’s glassy brown eyes. On the step, he swayed where he stood. From my position, I could smell the whiskey on his breath even through the rain.

  “I’ve been here,” I said carefully. “This is where I live.” I flinched when he made a move forward, but then he stopped, placing one hand on the wall to steady himself. I prayed he wouldn’t fall because I wasn’t sure I could lift him by myself this time.

  “You didn’t feel like you should have stopped by after the funeral of that kid?” he asked. His to
ne was venomous and slurred, the result of six too many drinks. That kid he was referring to, Carter, had been a part of my family’s life for over fifteen years. Count on my dad to make him sound like a nobody.

  “I have to go,” I said. “I have company.” Of course, I didn’t, but having this conversation would get us nowhere. It was the same thing each time, a pattern that had occurred over the years—Frank would get drunk and come knocking, and eventually, the conversation would turn into a screaming match in the front yard. In a case like that, I had always called Carter each time. There was something about the way my best friend had spoken to people that made anyone—and I do mean anyone—stop what they were doing and listen. Melanie used to say that Carter could talk down an entire army, and she wasn’t kidding. But Carter wasn’t here anymore to have my back. And Frank knew it.

  “That’s no way to speak to me, you little bitch,” he snapped. “I’m still your father.”

  “Since when?” I started to close the door on him, when Frank stuck one foot in, stopping me. I dug my weight into the floor to try to push him back just far enough to get it closed. If I could get it closed and the door locked, he would leave eventually. Maybe this time I wouldn’t have to call the police. “You haven’t been a father to me since Mom died.” Just as expected, that set him off. He shouldered his way into the frame like an angry bull, catching me off guard. I cried out as the door connected with my face, striking me right in the nose. I dropped both hands from the door to cover my face as the warm blood pooled into my hands and squeezed through the crevices of my fingers. Frank stopped where he was, eying me.

  “I… I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He took a step back, stumbling, running a hand through his hair as though confused by the events unraveling around him.

  “Piss off.” Taking this opportunity, I dropped my hands and gave him a hearty shove in the middle of his chest. Frank flailed backward, out the door, cursing. I slammed it behind him, careful to snap the bolt and chain into place. I tried to catch my breath as I listened to him pound on the door and shout outside of my apartment. I staggered back, shaking, and turned around, searching for my cell phone, needing desperately to call Carter. Carter could help. He always did.

  Carter. No. Carter couldn’t help today.

  Heart racing, I covered my nose again, hoping not to get blood on the carpet. Blood was a bitch to get out. I opened the freezer in the kitchen and pulled out an unused bag of frozen peas for my nose. Placing the bag gently on my face, I flinched as pain buzzed through me. My nose would be swollen and multicolored in the morning. I was sure of it.

  As soon as I was certain it had stopped bleeding, I washed my face in the kitchen sink, watching the water turn dark with blood. Frank’s pounding on the door had ceased. Either he had gone home, or he was passed out in the front yard. I didn’t know anymore, and I couldn’t bring myself to care. Every time I had to kick Frank to the curb for my safety, I had thoughts of my father wrapping his car around a tree, or worse, killing an innocent person. But despite my fears, I was too afraid to do anything about it, and even if I tried, I knew I couldn’t stop him. No one could stop Frank but Frank.

  I picked up the half-empty glass of cranberry juice with vodka and took a generous swig, hoping it would slow my racing heart and numb the sting in my face. From where I was standing in the kitchen, I could see the lone box of Carter’s things on my couch, taunting me. I tossed back the rest of the alcohol, refilled the glass, and headed toward the box. On top of it, sitting next to the photo frame was the journal Gracie had given to me in her bedroom. I picked it up and ran my fingers over the rich, brown cover, admiring the way the leather had started to fade over time with use. There was nothing written on the front of it, no name or signature or tacky, inspirational quote. It was just a cover.

  I opened the journal to the first page, skimming my eyes over the sloppy, yet familiar handwriting. Squinting, I struggled to make sense of the words on the page. The paper was thin. The scribbles at one time had been done with a pen pressed down with such force it had gone through multiple sheets. I closed my eyes, opened them again, and began to read.

  January 1, 2014

  So, here it is. My name is Carter Michael Drake, and I’m fifteen years old. This journal started after a bit of persuading from my counselor. Apparently, writing down your anger is a good way to come to terms with yourself. I think this is a terribly stupid idea, but here goes nothing…

  That’s all I have for now. More tomorrow.

  I let my eyes linger over the last word for a moment before I slammed the journal shut. A wallow of emotions slammed me in the gut. My fingers itched at the book, craving more, but I was unable to bring myself to do it. I was overwhelmed with the devastation of missing him, and I was definitely not drunk enough.

  For a moment, reading that stupid journal, I had nearly felt him standing next to me, reading over my shoulder, laughing.

  I dropped the journal onto the coffee table, reaching again for the glass of liquid courage. My hands shook as I took a sip, unable to tear my gaze from the book that held the last little bit of Carter on its pages. After Gracie had given it to me, she’d fallen silent, refusing to explain anything else. Despite my attempts to drag information out of her, she’d simply smiled sadly, looked away, and stroked the stuffed bear sitting in her lap—the bear her big brother had bought her. So, what was this? Some kind of sick joke? Carter wouldn’t do that to me, would he?

  On the coffee table, my phone lit up and began to buzz. I swiped my finger across the screen and put it to my ear, the glass of vodka still steady in my free hand. It was Ava.

  “How are you, doll?” she asked loudly. In the background, I could hear the pounding of music intertwined with the shouts and hoots of drunken college kids. I rolled my eyes. Ava was always at some stupid party, drunk and wild. I wasn’t as into it as she was. Drinking alone at home was much more satisfying than a party because there was never anyone around to judge me.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, debating on whether to make a liquor store run before they closed.

  “Have you had a good cry yet?” she shouted.

  “More times than I can count,” I admitted.

  “No, no,” said Ava. She laughed as if something was funny. “Did you cry yet? I’m talking about the big, nasty cry where you throw things against the wall, break shit, and sob your corazón out.”

  I pondered this for a moment, remembering breaking down at the service. Did that count?

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’m okay, really.”

  “I doubt that,” said Ava. She sounded distracted. “Come out tonight! I’m over at Tucker’s place on Washington Avenue.”

  “I think I’ll pass.” My eyes skirted over the leather-bound journal. “I need some sleep.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew it was a lost cause. Ava knew better. Hell, I knew better. If anything, my night would consist of another glass of booze, and then another, which would eventually lead to sobbing into Carter’s old jacket as I watched Friends reruns.

  “No,” she said. “We’ll see you in about twenty-five minutes, yeah?”

  “No, Ava,” I said. “I’m not coming out to—” Click. Frustrated, I tossed the phone away and shot back the rest of my drink. Maybe Ava was right. Getting out tonight would take my mind off things. Or, so I could hope.

  Just as expected, Ava was already three sheets to the wind by the time I arrived at the party. She was dressed in a mini leather skirt and a sequined tank top, a bottle of beer clutched between her red fingernails, black hair down and wild about her face. She swayed where she stood, almost face planting onto the beige carpet. I reached out a hand to steady her.

  “You came!” she yelled. I grabbed the beer from her and took a swig of it.

  “Sure did,” I muttered. “You can’t even let me take a break before I have to go back to work, can you?”

  “I work there, too,” Ava said. “So, let’s enjoy freedom. Ju
st for tonight.” She took the beer back from me and shook her head, waggling her finger in my face. “This won’t help you tonight, Hermosa. You’ll need something stronger.” She turned to scan the room, her chocolate-brown eyes flicking from person to person. “Jesse!” she yelled. Had the beer been in a cup instead of a bottle, I was certain she would have already sloshed it all over herself.

  “Ava, my princess,” said a tall, lanky guy with greasy, dark hair and tiny-loop earrings. He turned in our direction, scoping us out, and Ava pointed at me.

  “Can you get the lady a jungle juice?” she called. Jesse gave her thumbs up and vanished into the kitchen, practically having to swim through the mob of drunken, sweaty people.

  “Jesus Christ, Khloe,” Ava cried, her attention back on me. She got eye level to me, swaying slightly. I reached out to steady her, but she didn’t seem to notice. “What happened to your face?” She said it so loudly that three different people looked in our direction at the same time.

  “Frank,” I replied simply, and she nodded, understanding.

  “One day I’m going to have my boys shank that man.” She nodded to herself. “If that’s okay with you, of course.” Somehow, I didn’t doubt she had a group of punk-ass Mexican friends just ready to bow down at her feet and cut somebody. It didn’t make me feel better, but I smiled and agreed anyway.

  “Here you go,” said Jesse into my ear. He handed me a red cup of fruit punch topped with booze-soaked berries. Jungle juice—as college kids called it—was potent. Only the creators ever really knew what was mixed into it. I raised the cup to my lips and took a sip. I could taste the vodka, definitely. Vodka, peach schnapps, honey rum, and Everclear. I couldn’t pinpoint all of them, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.