Here's to Falling

  Four hours and two hundred dollars to three ten-year-olds was the same as hitting the lottery. We started at the rollercoaster and went on every ride—twice. We ate popcorn, corndogs, funnel cakes, cotton candy, and went back on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Joey puked. A lot. Then, we climbed up under the bottom of the Gravitron, and Jase pulled out a pack of cigarettes that he stole from his father and taught us how to smoke. Poor Joey puked again, but he didn’t care. He put the cigarette to his mouth once more.

  “You’re an idiot! Stop smoking it if you’re going to barf all over,” I laughed.

  Joey tried to blow smoke rings like Jase had taught him, but he was laughing too hard. Laughing and spitting up.

  God, sometimes boys were so gross.

  “Hey, Charlie,” Jase called to me as he expertly flicked his cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, “you don’t ever curse.”

  “Yeah, well my father would kill me if he heard me curse,” I said, pulling a tiny drag from my cigarette. My head started to spin.

  “Well, then don’t curse in front of him! Say shit,” Jase chuckled.

  “No way,” I shook my head.

  “Say asshole,” Joey giggled along with him.

  “Nuh uh.”

  “Say fuck,” Jase said, stalking toward me and pouncing, grasping me on my sides. “Come on, Joe, tickle her!”

  Laughing and screaming, I ran away from them. “Shit-asshole-nuts-stupid-fuck-shitpie-asshand-crapstack!”

  Joey froze in mid-run, laughing, “Asshand and shitpie? Coming from your mouth, Charlie, you make cursing all girly and pretty,”

  It was the first time I remember anyone ever putting the words ‘pretty’ and ‘Charlie’ in a sentence together, and I felt my face get all hot and sweaty.

  I immediately pretended it didn’t happen. Strangely, I wanted to hear that I was pretty and not just the words I said. I blinked away that awkward feeling.

  After almost three hours, a whole pack of cigarettes, winning a seven-foot tall giant, blue, stuffed giraffe, and a sudden thunderstorm, we ran to find my father at the front gates. We all fought over who would keep the monstrous giraffe; neither boy wanted to be seen carrying it, and personally I was glad, because I absolutely loved the ugly thing.

  At first my dad wasn’t where we left him, but within two minutes, he came walking from the parking lot and through the front gates. “Hey, did you guys have fun?” he asked, out of breath.

  “Yeah, but we wanted to ride the big coaster again before we left; it stinks that it’s raining,” I pouted.

  My father smirked and started walking toward the rollercoaster like he owned the park. We followed him wordlessly. He rapped his knuckles against the entrance of the rollercoaster line to get the attendant’s attention. “Excuse me, my daughter and her friends want one more ride, is that okay?” he called to the older man through the pouring rain.

  “Sorry, sir. We have to stop the rides during electrical storms.”

  We watched my dad reach into his side pants pocket and pull out his wallet. He handed the guy two fifty-dollar bills, “How about just one small, quick ride?”

  The rollercoaster man smiled, winked at me, and looked up at the sky. “Looks like it’s letting up a little anyway. It’s probably just a passing shower.”

  I tried to hand the giant giraffe to my dad, but he told me to take it on the ride. So I did. Joey and Jase sat behind me, while I sat next to my gargantuan blue stuffed giraffe in the first car of the rollercoaster while lightning lit up the sky.

  “Your dad is the coolest,” Joey screamed from behind me as we plunged into the first loop, screaming. Yeah, he was.

  My dad took us home after that; the entire ride was spent with him listening to us talk over each other about all the fun we had.

  He dropped Joey off at his house and then drove down the block and pulled his car into our driveway. Jase hopped out, thanked my father, and high-fived me across the hood of the car.

  “Charlotte, you feel like ordering a pizza with me?” my dad asked, unlocking the front door.

  My hand clenched the load of amusement park bricks swimming around in my belly, “Ugh. No thanks, Dad. I think I ate way too much at the park. I’m just gonna go out back and sketch some of the things I remember seeing today.”

  He smiled at me with what looked like pride and nodded his head. “Okay, but if you decide to sleep out there, remember to shut the window. I’m not running out there at six o’clock in the morning to kill another spider,” he chuckled.

  “I couldn’t help it! The spider was trying to kill me, and my sonic cry was part of my self-defense!”

  “Ah, you’ve been reading science-fiction lately, I see.”

  Nodding my answer, I skipped out the back door and headed to my tree house. Climbing up the rope ladder and pulling it in, so no kidnappers or horror movie characters could climb up to get me, I turned on my small drawing lamp and made myself comfortable on my beanbag chair. Propping my sketchpad against my knees, I closed my eyes and unconsciously wobbled my pencil between my fingers. Laying my head back, I listened to the just audible sounds of distant cars passing on the streets and a few crickets calling out to each other in the settling darkness.

  When I opened my eyes, my hands slid across the blank white paper and lines formed under my fingertips, dancing themselves into images of rollercoasters and lightning. My head cleared, not one thought passed through; just the feathery light grey lines of my imagination coming to life on the paper.

  A door slammed somewhere outside. Voices with harsh tones broke into my consciousness and my hand stopped drawing.

  “Where did you get the cigarettes from? What have I told you? And don’t lie to me and tell me you didn’t have a cigarette, you smell like an ashtray!” Mr. Delaney’s voice was harsh and unrelenting. “Stop shrugging at me like you don’t care! I’m not putting up with your immature antics anymore, Jase. I WILL put you in military school. You know what I want for your future; don’t be a screw-up!”

  Crawling over to the window, which of course I left open, I peeked my head up to see Jase and his father in their backyard. Mr. Delaney always took Jase outside to scream at him, so his wife wouldn’t get upset. Every night. Every night Jase was outside getting screamed at. And it sometimes ended with Jase getting smacked or shoved. I hated Mr. Delaney. My mother said that he screamed at Jase because he’s so young and doesn’t know how to handle a pre-teen, especially when his wife couldn’t help him at all. Jase’s parents had Jase when they were like sixteen or something, and his mom had to drop out of school and stuff. But his dad didn’t; he went to college and law school, and now he was this big hotshot lawyer. That’s what my mom said anyway. She also said Jase was so bad that he deserved to get spanked, but I didn’t see it. Then again, I’d heard my mom also say Mr. Delaney could spank her anytime, because he was so good looking. I didn’t get that either.

  My gut twisted as I watched Mr. Delaney raise his hand and shove it hard into Jase’s shoulder. “What? What is wrong with you? You’re crying like a baby now? If you don’t want to get punished, then don’t do stupid things!” His dad pushed him again and stormed into the house, leaving Jase all alone in the backyard.

  He leaned back heavily against the outside of the house and stared up into the night sky.

  “Psst,” I whispered down to him. I poked my head out and made a stupid face at him. “Get up here you shitpie!” I watched as he climbed his garage and jumped over, landing on the tree house with a loud thump.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, leaning back against soft material of the beanbag.

  Jase snorted and climbed through the open window. His brilliant blue eyes, reflecting the storm within, looked at me and he shook his head. He threw himself on the beanbag chair next to me and snorted again.

  “Did you forget I have a door here?” I giggled.

  “Yeah, but I never do what I’m supposed to do, haven’t you heard?”

  Reaching up to the shelf above my head, I gra
bbed a bag of barbeque potato chips, ripped open the bag, and handed it to him. Taking the bag, he set it down on his lap and met my eyes.

  “Can’t you tell someone what he says and does to you, Jase? Can’t you tell your mom?” I whispered, wanting desperately to help him.

  “It won’t change anything,” he said, eyes filling with hurt. “They both think he's God. Besides, my mother used to get it much worse than me; I’d rather it be me he takes his anger out on and not her.”

  “It’s just not fair. You’re nothing like what he says you are, and he’s your dad, Jase. Dads are supposed to protect their kids and take care of them. I just don’t get it. Why is he like that to you?” I felt the rage twisting deep in my belly, my heart aching for my best friend.

  “It doesn’t matter why someone does bad things. It’s not going to stop them if you understand the reasons or not. You're not like him, Charlie, so you can’t understand him,” he said in a soft voice. “Besides, I’ll take whatever he gives me as long as he leaves my mother alone. He’s done enough damage to her already.”

  “He’s the reason why your mom is in a wheelchair?”

  Jase crunched a few chips into his mouth, looked away, and shrugged. “The only thing I can honestly tell you about my parents is that I’m never going to become the monsters that they are, either of them,”

  He twisted his shoulders and looked back at me. When his shoulder softly touched mine, he looked down and stared at my drawing. “Charlie, you’re really good at that. You’re going to be a famous artist one day.”

  Bumping his shoulder with mine, I agreed with him, “Yeah, thanks. What do you think you want to be one day?”

  “I’m going to be a superhero,” he laughed.

  “You’re such a dork.”

  “I thought you said I was a shitpie,” he smiled at me.

  “A huge, dorky shitpie with a load of shitcream on top,” I giggled.

  “Hey, call Joey on the walkie-talkie and tell him to come over. Us shitpie superheroes need to protect our future famous artist from the tiny little legs of spiders.”

  The both of them always protected me from scary spiders. They also teased me mercilessly about my fear of them, but that’s what best friends do, don’t they?

  ∞

  Before I returned the picture to its spot on the shelf, I stared at it for a bit, tears stinging my eyes. Violet stood next to me waiting for me to explain the picture to her. I guess she just wanted something gossipy to take her mind off her breakup. What I hoped was her breakup, anyway. You never can predict what anyone was willing to put up to avoid being alone. “This is just a really old picture of my best friends and me when we were kids. I think we were ten.”

  “You don’t keep in touch with either of them anymore?”

  I swallowed the thick lump that knotted itself in my throat and placed the picture back on the shelf it came from, right next to the bulky album of letters that I never let anyone ever see. “Nah, sometimes the past is best left there, you know?”

  Violet shrugged her shoulders and took off the boxing gloves, “Thanks for…trying to make me feel better, girlie.”

  I took her in my arms and hugged her. “I promise you, you’ll be better off without him, Vi,” I whispered.

  Silently, she hung up the gloves and walked out of my studio. I felt horrible not having the right words to say to her that would make her feel better, but my words now aren’t going to help her heal. Only time away from Matt would help her recover and get on with her life without him. That much I knew for sure.

  Grabbing my own lollipop, I walked to the back of the shop and climbed up the stairs to my apartment. I barely got the little plastic wrapper off before I shoved the whole sucker in my mouth. Bitter sour apple burst onto my taste buds, making the bottom of my jaw ache all the way up to my ears while tears burned in my eyes. Quietly, with pursed lips, I tiptoed into my bedroom. My light was still on, and Bren was in the same exact position I left him in five hours ago. Five hours! I wanted to laugh, but I was too disgusted. Here’s my lesson to you: Don’t wish for a knight in shining armor. You’ll just end up spending most of your time doing lots of polishing. And that armor tarnishes faster than any other substance on earth; instead, spend that time on yourself.

  I jumped in the shower to get ready for work. I blew my hair dry, played some Avenged Sevenfold at about the same decibels as a space shuttle liftoff, and sang even louder. Bren still didn’t wake up. I bet if I opened a can of beer, that noise would get him up.

  Frustrated, I opened the shop and took my first appointment of the day, which was a very dear piece of art to me - the back of Michael Storkes. As soon as I saw the man’s determined smile, my frustrations melted away and calmness stole over my body. Michael and his wife had visited Stone Caresses for over ten years, maybe even more. When Auburn ran the shop, they would spend the day here, catching up and drinking together.

  Two months ago, after a painful six-month battle with Stage IV breast cancer, Michael’s wife, Susan, passed away. The day after he buried her, Michael came to the shop in tears, burst into my studio, collapsed on the small couch, and asked me to draw up a portrait of Susan to go on his back. With shaky fingers, he handed me an array of photos of her and got up to leave. But I gently placed my hand on his shoulder and pulled him back.

  Every tattoo tells a story. Whether it’s a silly story from a drunken night that you’ll never remember or the story of the memory of the love of your life, there was always a story.

  I pulled up a chair next to my drafting table and asked him to sit down and tell me some of the best memories he had with his wife. Because that’s the story I wanted to capture and etch on his back, the love he had for her. He told me how they met at a dance in high school while he played in the high school band, and she danced with her date in front of him. He laughed as he told me she left her date at that dance and let him drive her home, instead. He reminisced about how they had an intense courtship and then he left to fight in Vietnam. He told me that right before he left, Susan looked at him and said, “True love always comes back.”

  By the end of his story, Susan Storkes looked up, breathtakingly beautiful, from my paper, surrounded by everything that was ever dear to her. “Oh, my God,” Michael whispered over my shoulder. “I haven’t seen her look that alive in such a long time. Sage, she’s exquisite. I knew. I knew you could bring her back to life for me.”

  Today, I finished her portrait on his back with a strange sense of triumph. Cancer would never affect her there; not in his memory, not in my picture. Screw you cancer, you don’t win everywhere.

  Michael hugged me tight as he thanked me. With his fatherly arms around me, I wondered what it would feel like to be loved like that. To feel a love that waits through a war for you, that loves you enough to want to marry you, a love that battles cancer with you, one that walks by your side without ever judging or trying to change you. A love unlike Matt’s, with his cheating and hitting, and definitely unlike Bren’s, with his indifference and resentments. Truthfully, I couldn’t believe I just coupled the words “love” and “Bren” in the same thought. We hardly even tolerated each other anymore.

  I knew real existed. I saw it in Michael’s eyes, and I’d also felt it, once, long ago. But, like I told Violet before, some things are best left in the past. Hidden deep alongside your secrets. And don’t tell me you don’t have secrets; everybody does. We just all have different levels of severity to them, and different ways we deal with them.

  When I looked up, Bren was just walking into the shop. He looked perfect in his dress shirt and designer pants. Only his hair looked disheveled, but Bren always pulled that look off like he’d just mussed it to death.

  He sauntered through the shop, saying hello to the girls and holding a half full bottle of water to spit in, a huge bulge of chewing tobacco wadded up under his lips. He walked over to me and squeezed my shoulder in a friendly-hey-buddy-how’s-it-going way. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” he m
urmured into my ear.

  I had about thirty minutes before my next appointment, so I followed him into my apartment. He walked me right into my bedroom.

  I must admit that I had a bit of the butterflies twirling around in my lower abdomen, thinking maybe I was going to get to whip out my girly parts and have some fun.

  When Bren and I first decided to try for a romantic relationship, we’d set a slow, lazy pace of intimacy that I thought was sweet and cute. There was never any crazy-lusty-passion, or angst, no slamming me up against a wall. Everything was just…nice. Easy. Safe.

  Right about then, I wanted to slam myself up against a wall and show him how it should be done.

  I practically threw myself on my bed, yanking off my clothes like I hadn’t had sex in four months. Oh, wait—I hadn’t. And looky there, I ripped my own damn shirt. Damn, I was good.

  Bren licked his lips.

  That was a damn good sign, wasn’t it?

  He crawled himself over me with a devilish smile, opened his pants, wrapped a condom on, pumped himself with his hand, and dove in.

  Yeah.

  Read it again. Go on.

  Dove right in.

  No nipple twists this time. No rubbing the spot two inches from my fun-button that might have eased my complete dryness. No. Nope. Nothing like that. The idiot just dove in.

  If I had one, I would have screamed my goddamn safe word then, because of the sheer pain. “Gah!” I yelped.

  “Oh, yeah, it feels real good, right?”

  What the hell parallel universe did he get sucked into?

  And then he was done.

  Done.

  Finished.

  Three pumps, an ‘ahh,’ and he was climbing off me.

  Holy crap. Four months. It’d been four months since I had sex. Four sexless months. And he gave me, literally, two seconds to have a chance at an orgasm.

  My girl parts were very angry and very neglected. Angry, neglected, and dry.