We All Fall Down

  “True. Which is why we’re doing all this testing, right?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I’m doing it to pad my college résumé. You can’t tell me you’re not missing Chi-town at this point.”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then my work as tour guide is complete,” she says.

  In a way, she was my tour guide. It’s how we became friends. Chicago was totally overwhelming for me until she took charge. On our trip to Shedd Aquarium, I’d done nothing but gape at the seemingly endless stretch of tall, shiny buildings along Lake Michigan. Melanie squeezed in beside me on the charter bus. The whole drive, and every drive into the city after, she made it her mission to point out all the staples of her hometown. Buckingham Fountain, the new park along the lake with the climbing walls and the ice ribbon. The Bean.

  I had no idea how big a city could be until Chicago. Or how small a town like Portsville can look in comparison.

  “Sadly, not all your work is done,” I say, waggling the plastic case full of water sample kits.

  She nods, narrowing her eyes. “Right. We need to come up with an angle.”

  “How about we come up with more water first?”

  I edge closer to the river, donning neoprene gloves and looking for an easy place to descend the bank. It’s only thirty or forty feet high here, with walking paths that snake down for joggers and anglers.

  I make my way down a narrow dirt path that leads to the walking path, and then down another path from that to the water’s edge. I pop open the first of eight glass vials and start filling.

  It’s amazing how clear the water looks up close. It’s different from a distance. The Muskingum is a brown ribbon that curls through miles and miles of the Ohio Valley. Every one of those miles looks muddy, but every vial I cap looks pure.

  But we wouldn’t be here if that was true.

  “Did we schedule our next lab time yet?” Melanie asks.

  “Yes. I grabbed Monday from two to six.”

  “Then we’ve got to collect the other three samples by tomorrow morning. Which is good. I have my French speech at two, so I have to get back by then.”

  “We should have plenty of time.”

  We’ve collected samples from twenty assigned segments, and now we’re trying to determine four more sites on our own. This project culminates with a report justifying our independent site selection and evaluating our survey results.

  I’m hoping it comes with a recommendation letter too. Because I want more than this program—I want to go to this college. I want to spend four years rushing across this campus, sleeping on flat mattresses in dorm rooms, and complaining about cold showers and communal bathrooms. I want it more than anything.

  And my parents want me home just as badly.

  When we’re done here at the park—Melanie’s pick, in the hopes that picnic litter and additional waste from pets might have an impact—we’ll still have three to go.

  “I still think that area with the high banks is smart,” Melanie says, adjusting her sunglasses. “The chemical runoff could be significant.”

  It is smart. There’s a lawn-care service perched on the south bank, so the chance of some sort of herbicide or pesticide by-product is really high. It’s also tucked in a curve of the river with steep banks and virtually no easy access. Even thinking about trying to get down to that section of the river makes my stomach curl up tight.

  “Think about it,” Melanie says. “Since we have to take our samples from the shoreline, that’s going to be the most challenging place to do it. Everyone else will avoid the work.”

  “Maybe. But that lawn-care service is practically a neon sign.” I look around, wanting something else, something easier. The walking bridge is a possibility. The road bridge on the opposite side of town was on the assigned site list, but this one is older. There could be lead paint. Weird chemicals in the metal ballasts, maybe.

  But can I handle being near that bridge again? Or will it remind me of my last night with Theo at the party? I’ve hated that bridge for years. Feared it too.

  No. I’m done being the girl who runs from every scary thing.

  I cap my last two samples and bump my chin toward the bend in the river that leads to the south side of town. “What about the bend near the elementary school? Or the walking bridge?”

  Melanie wrinkles her nose. “The school is too accessible. It’s also close to the water treatment plant, so it’s probably been tested within an inch of its life. The walking bridge could be good.” She pauses, biting her lip. “Except I heard bad things happen there. It’s haunted.”

  She makes it as breathy as a ghost story, but I laugh, because she’s right about bad things happening. She’s just wrong about which ones. “It’s not haunted.”

  Melanie shakes her head, dropping her voice low. “I’m serious. It’s haunted by all these kids who’ve jumped and died. You know that suicide forest in Japan? This bridge is like that. People jump off and slam into all the debris under the water. Old sheets of metal and iron beams. Industrial leftovers.”

  I frown. “Have there actually been any suicides on that bridge?”

  “That’s what everyone around here says.”

  “Well, then it must be true.”

  “You didn’t want to cross it. Remember the first day? We all wanted to eat at that diner?”

  “Anita’s,” I say, dragged right back to that bright afternoon, surrounded by kids from the program with panic crawling up my throat. “And trust me, that was more about the food than the bridge.”

  It’s a lie, but she grins, so I continue. “I don’t live too far from here, and I’ve never heard of anyone jumping.”

  “Fine, I give. But rumors don’t start for no reason. Something bad happened here.”

  Right again. But no one knows about the bad thing I’m thinking of. I’ve made sure of it.

  “You’ve got a point about the water there, though,” I say, looking a quarter of a mile downriver to where the bridge sits. “It’s old. Could have toxic paint or construction compounds.”

  Melanie narrows her eyes, pushing her sleek, black ponytail behind her shoulder. “I didn’t consider that. Most of the others are working at ecological imbalances due to the introduction of non-native species. If we go for chemicals—”

  “Then we’ll be doing something different.” Our smiles widen at the same time. “We could discuss the long-term effects of out-of-date maintenance and poor industrial practices. We could include three other factory sites.”

  “It’s a plan.” Melanie stands up. “Come on, let’s talk about tomorrow.”

  Fourth of July weekend. It’s never been my favorite holiday, but it’s a big deal for the Summer Experience program. After a day of festivities and fireworks on the water, family and friends are welcome to visit the campus the following day. Most of us are thrilled to see some familiar faces after five weeks away. I’m dreading it, because it’s the beginning of the end.

  Three weeks after Family Day, the term is over. I go home. And Mom and Dad will spend every moment of the next two months I’m back trying to convince me to commute from home for my first two years of college.

  My hands ball up tight at my sides. There’s no point in thinking about it now, so I keep walking. Ahead of me, the bridge stretches over the water. I see the glint of padlocks on the railing, and a single jogger making her way across to the Village. If she turns right off the bridge, she could go down the stairs like I did. She could stand on the docks where I lost my shoes. My teeth. Theo.

  “Paige?”

  I lurch and Melanie chuckles. “Wow, jumpy. Who are you bringing this weekend?”

  “What?” I shake my head. “Oh, no one. But I know Joseph will be here.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh God, have I been obnoxious? I have. I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re sweet. You
miss him. I get it. You’ve been dating for two years.”

  Her grin goes wide. “Fine, I do miss him. So, spill already. Who do you miss?”

  Theo. My tongue curls around his name, but I keep my mouth closed. Because I shouldn’t miss him. I shouldn’t wonder what movies he’s watched, or if he’s tried the new taco truck that visits campus on Fridays, or if he’s wearing sunblock. I shouldn’t think of him at all, unless I’m angry. And I am still angry.

  For two months after he hit me, I almost hated him. It’s easy to be hateful if you spend enough hours in doctors’ waiting rooms. I didn’t read or watch the TVs bolted above stacks of outdated magazines. I thought about Theo. Every time he made us late, or begged me to help him pull up a failing grade, or knocked over something at a restaurant on accident-purpose. I thought of dozens of reasons to hate him.

  It almost worked.

  “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” Melanie says, sounding a little hurt. We’re at the bridge, the shadow falling over us to leave us in a blissfully cool breeze.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It’s just hard.”

  “A breakup?” she guesses.

  I shake my head. “No. My best friend. He…”

  My jaw blooms with a phantom ache, but I hold in the words. Confessing the truth of that night erases all the other truth about Theo. My parents spent an entire weekend listing dozens of reasons why my friendship with Theo was damaging and, ultimately, had to end. I know they were right. But I know they don’t see the truth about him either.

  “You can talk to me,” Melanie says. I know she means it, that we’re friends in a way.

  But what is there to say? How do I wrap words around what we were for someone like Melanie? It wouldn’t matter if I did, because it’s over. Theo-dectomy was the first of my surgeries. I removed the troubled boy. Then my broken teeth. Both were clinical procedures. Necessary.

  I draw my shoulders back and remind myself that I won’t miss him forever. It’s all progress toward healthiness. Talking about it might be progress too, so I will. Just a little.

  “My best friend and I aren’t friends anymore.” It feels both good and awful to say out loud.

  “What’s her name?”

  I shake my head. “Theo. His name is Theo.”

  She smiles, happy enough with this morsel. I’m pretty happy myself. It wasn’t a big deal, giving that small piece. I said his name, and I didn’t burst into tears or flames or bleed at the mouth. It’s nothing. And the soft ache in my chest is nothing too.

  I grin, and Melanie drops the pack, setting her iPod on top and turning it up. She starts filling out the paperwork, and I agree to collect the samples. The water is murky and cool in the shadow of the bridge. Yesterday’s storms stirred up the sediment, which might give us more interesting results.

  The docks are on the far side of the river and the other side of the bridge. Seeing that glimpse of wood, the white gleam of boats docked for the summer—I thought it might take me back, but I’m wrong. It’s like being able to say Theo’s name, another bit of proof that I’m better now.

  One by one I fill the vials, listening to the soft thump of people walking across the bridge. Melanie’s talking about what to wear tomorrow when the music switches. Cold sinks through me at the first beats. I want a different song, one I didn’t play for him that awful night.

  But it’s only a song. So, I slog my way through the rest of the vials and seal them with shaking fingers. I pack them in the kit and try to pretend it doesn’t matter.

  Everything’s changing, changing, changing.

  “Crap, I spilled one,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  Melanie meets me in the water, maybe for conversation or maybe for the cool relief of the current under the shadow of the bridge. I’ve been in this shadow before. I’ve bled here. I close my eyes for a second, trying to pull myself together.

  Something splashes in the water. I flinch.

  “What was that?” Melanie asks.

  My hand is at my chest, right over my pounding heart. “I don’t know. A bird’s nest?”

  “It looked like a bag. It’s right there! Did someone drop their purse?”

  I can see it now, bobbing in one of the still pools off the current. It is a bag of some sort, close to the first support, so probably not too deep to reach. The song is still playing, and a strange feeling is building in my belly. I need to get that bag. It is meant for me.

  Ridiculous.

  I pull in a hard breath. It’s probably trash. It doesn’t matter. But I step into the water, one foot in front of the other in my program-issued rubber boots. The water is cool and deep. It sloshes over the edges of my boots. Melanie laughs, rushing past me until she’s up to her thighs.

  I try to laugh too, but it’s a weird, hollow sound. She reaches for the bag, and everything in me goes still and tight. She scoops the bag from the water with a whoop and throws it.

  I catch it on instinct, gut heavy with dread. My fingers test the brown plastic—a snack bag, one that makes my breath go tight.

  Pain stabs through my jaw. Hard and fast. The song warbles on about everything changing, but it’s not. It’s all the same as that night. This song. That bridge. The fact that I’m holding a bag of pretzels exactly like the one Theo gave me.

  It’s a really awful coincidence, but it hurts like hell.

  Theo

  Denny and Bill are on their fourth beers, and I’m still nursing the piss-warm remnants of this morning’s Mountain Dew. I don’t know if it’s the heat, the smell of fish and sweat, or the soft rocking of the boat, but I’m queasy as hell.

  “You ready for a cold one yet?” Denny asks.

  Not the first time he’s asked. Probably the third time I’ve shaken my head and looked across the Muskingum. Crumbling mansions dot one side of the river, set back from the water’s reach by long, well-tended lawns. Bill’s house is on the other side, behind a cobbled-together wooden dock and discarded fishing bobbers. The houses behind the docks are cozied up to one another, narrow alleys of weeds and grass parting one property from the next.

  Bill’s got a pole in. Denny and I aren’t even bothering. Here for the holiday is what Denny said, flicking his cigarette into the water. Maybe true for him, but I’m here because I’m going batshit crazy in the house, obsessing about that lock I found on the bridge.

  Did Paige leave that lock for me to find?

  Is it some messed-up way of trying to reach out to me?

  And why was I even up there? Chasing a dead cat noise that no one else could hear and I haven’t heard since? This place is making me crazy. Paige is making me crazy.

  I slide my phone out of my pocket and pull up her number for the four-billionth time in the last forty-eight hours. I don’t type anything, just stare at the string of three-month-old messages.

  Me: They took me inpatient for a week. No phone. I’m sorry. So sorry.

  Her: I know. I’m not mad. I know you didn’t mean it. But I can’t talk to you.

  Me: I just need you to know… That night, I was going to talk to you.

  Her: I know.

  Me: You know? You haven’t said anything.

  Her: Because I can’t say anything. Not anymore. Please understand.

  I did understand. Do understand. But that text message sucked half of the oxygen out of the sky.

  I close my phone and take a breath that tastes like rotting plants and beer.

  “You are a moody little shit these days,” Denny says with a laugh. “Need to cheer you up before you start getting everybody on the crew depressed.”

  “Ease up,” Bill says with a knowing nod at my phone. “Girl trouble?”

  “No trouble,” I say. No girl either, but I don’t mention that.

  “Hey, you get the weather on that thing?” Denny asks.

 
It’s going to be a long Fourth of July.

  An hour later, Bill reels in his line and mutters something about heading downriver. Nothing’s biting. Actually, plenty of shit is biting. My arms and legs are lined with little red welts to prove it, but I keep my mouth shut and lean back in the plastic seat.

  Bill’s boat moves at a decent clip, the engine whirring loud enough that nobody talks and the wind pushes my sticky hair off my forehead. It’s only a few minutes, but it’s perfect. I don’t think or fidget. We move up the river toward town, watching the trees and houses slip past.

  I expect Bill to take one of the bigger offshoots to the mouth of the river. There are a million inlets along them that make for good fishing, but he curves left instead. I chew my bottom lip as the boat slides to the west, right into town. The walking bridge stretches across the horizon, and my stomach goes heavy. The dock where I hurt Paige sits on the right.

  For one electrifying second, I feel the boat drift that way. Before I can protest or freak out, Bill steers hard to the left, pulling the boat right up to the walking path on the college side.

  “We need gas?” I guess when Bill cuts the engine. There’s a boat rental station that offers gas just past the bridge on this side of the river.

  “You need to walk the plank,” Denny says, reaching into his back pocket. He hands me a twenty and winks. “Go find somebody to hang out with. Should be plenty of girls on campus.”

  My laugh feels sharp enough to cut my tongue. “I told you, I’m cool here.”

  “Maybe we need a little old-man time,” Denny says, but I know what he’s trying. My expression must show it because he sighs. Adjusts his ball cap. “Look, you’ve got to snap out of this. Where’s the little hell-raiser who’s been a pain in my ass since he was three years old?”

  Currently? Dead and buried under a thick layer of stimulants and antidepressants. And he’ll stay that way. I’ll take every pill a doctor will give me to keep that part of me in check.

  Theo!

  Paige’s voice is so clear and sudden that I bolt to my feet, sending the boat rocking wildly. Denny swears and I’m looking around, looking up. Is she on the bridge? We’re too close, practically under the bridge, so I lean back, hoping to see the edge.