How I Fall (15 page)

I used to wish Nash could just be my dad. But he’s not, despite the fact that I once proposed to him on behalf of my mom when I was eight. I have no recollection of that. Apparently I invited the guy to have a sleep over with Mom and stay…well…forever.

Mom says Nash handled it with his typical, quiet class. She tells it that he simply smiled and thanked me. Then he apologized to both of us for being unable to accept my offer.

So the story goes, he admitted that night how he’d lost every last bit of his heart when his family died. Told us what he had left was too messed up and scrambled to ever try again, so it wouldn’t be fair if he took on another family. I guess Mom said something similar which let him off the hook. I know when my dad took off after my CP diagnosis and never really looked back except to send a few checks my way every year, my mom stopped trusting anyone but me and herself. Not with her heart, anyhow.

Apparently after all that, I just sighed at both of them like I was a really disappointed parent, and they were two, dumb kids, and then I stood and made us all do a random three-way handshake. That’s where we all swore to be permanent friends at the very least. Then I made us swear that we’d stick together no matter what.

My handshake worked and nothing’s really changed except the part where Mom does trust Nash now. Of course, like any girl who’s read too many fairy tales and has an obsession with Disney Princess movies, I’ve still got my hopes really high where he and Mom are concerned. It’s their lives, and because they never get in the way of mine, I never call them out on the fact that Nash lives in a big empty house nearby while Mom and I cozy up in our tiny, two bedroom. Every night, at least once, Mom wonders out loud something about what he’s doing, or I call him to come over and eat or watch a movie. One day—probably after I go off to college—they might wake up and realize how silly they’ve been all this time. Old people are slow, right?

I limp around to the mirrors and shake out my shower damp hair, then run my hands over the backs of the fancy cream colored, locker room couch cushions, leaning on them to make my way around to the front. They’re actually made of some super soft suede. It’s so extravagant to think of a couch like this—one that probably costs more than four months of our rent—is just stuffed into this fancy oversized bathroom under a real crystal chandelier so ladies can read magazines in comfort between their massages and personal trainer appointments. I’d kill to have enough money to buy my mom a couch just like this one someday.

My muscles are about to die from Nash’s workout, so I sprawl all over the fancy couch with a groan and sigh loudly like this is my own living room. Because I’m sure no one is around, I even risk flipping the channel away from The Cooking Network to MTV before I yank out the envelope stuffed full of Cam’s photos. I vow that as soon as the commercial comes for the Teen Wolf marathon that’s on right now, I mean to torture myself and go through Cam’s shots.

I grimace, thinking of them and then add to my vow: Unless it’s a
good
commercial, then I will look at the shots during the next commercial break.

I clear the magazines off the extra long, extra wide coffee table and stack them on the gold carpet along with the fresh floral arrangement taking up the entire table. I keep one eye on the six-packs flashing on MTV’s best show ever cast—ever.

*Sighs. Stiles and Isaac, I love you and I always will.* 

When the commercial comes on, I try to be strong and lay out Cam’s photos in two long lines, pretending I’m about to play Solitaire with them. And then, still in denial that I’m about to stare at whack loads of footballs
—ugh—
I sit back, close my eyes and sigh, groaning a bit as my bad shoulder tightens painfully when I stretch my arms over my head. The two mile elliptical walk, with those arm moving bars that Nash thought I should do to warm up, has taken its toll. I know my arms hurt partly because every time I thought of Cam I pumped them extra fast to make his face disappear from my head.

Sadly…it did not work one bit.

His darn eye crinkles and that navy blue line around his irises float in my imagination even now. Hateful, beautiful eyes. I shove my fists into my eyes before I start to ponder, yet again, which reference to the actual color of his eyes that I’d made today is more correct.

*Creates a ballot determined to vote for one: __Gray Felt __Soft Kitten Fur __Flannel __Storm Clouds __Fog __Moonlight __Other. Chooses: All of the above.*

“
No. Stop.
What is wrong with me?”

I open my eyes, even more annoyed and squint-glare at the football photos all lined up out of the corner of my eye until I make my eyes water. I hate being told by teachers what to do, what to study and, most of all, who to work with on group projects. I’m so tired and cranky right now all I want to do is curl up into a ball of self pity and hate his photographs. All while I reiterate just how much I hate group projects. Everyone knows they suck. Suck. SUCK. SUCK.

“Damn you, Miss Brown,” I mutter, grabbing my phone to procrastinate the whole thing even more by texting Patrick so he can come to my pity party.
Where r u? Still at practice…? You will not BELIEVE whose photos I’m being forced to analyze right now. One guess…he’s on your team, and worse, he’s been assigned to be MY community service slave for the WOA project. And did I tell you? The WOA PROJECT IS A GROUP PROJECT.

I’m doomed, Patrick.

DOOMED.

Where are you?

Your latest crush…Laura London, the tiger girl? She’s also assigned to work with me. ON THE DOOMED GROUP PROJECT THAT MARKS THE END OF MY LIFE.

Where?

Are?

You?

No fun having this tantrum all by myself…

Send inspirational quotes.

Quick.

Waiting for Patrick to text back, I hear a sound out in the hallway and glance nervously at my laid out homework and the flowers on the floor. If someone comes in here I can only hope it’s not a snide, disapproving someone. Members take priority. If anyone is near me at the club, my mom has asked me to politely vacate the area until they have moved on. If they want to use a machine, I stop what I’m doing and move to the next one. If they want my lane at the pool, I quickly move on to a different work out in an attempt to give them the space they, in fact, own.

It makes Nash stressed when I do this, because he says I’ve got every right to be here after all this time; but I know I don’t. I’m not a member and Mom’s request saves me more than it annoys me. I don’t want to talk to any of the stuck-up club members, anyhow. I’ve always hated people from the club watching me work out. I’ve been coming here so long, the older members always talk to me as if I’m one of their own. Only not like I’m their own kid—but more like I’m a shared pet—or a baby they know can’t talk back.

They’re constantly reviewing my progress as if they all take some sort of ownership in how my Cerebral Palsy is doing. Making comments, like,
‘Looking pretty shaky on that bad leg, Ellen’,
or,
‘How’s that weak arm holding up—not so good? Only got the small weights today? You backsliding
?’ Then there are the ones I call the jolly-jokers:
‘You here again? Ellen Foster—heh-heh—you’re going to wear these machines out, little lady!’
I especially love when they mention how I should
‘put on some more weight’
.

I have no clue how to respond when people say,
‘how lucky I am that I’m at least pretty, or how lucky it is that they let me use the club’.
They also say I’m where I am in my life because I’m always such a
‘good, nice, girl’
. Only I often don’t feel good or nice when people are talking to me about my CP.

Most of all, I hate the line about how my mom is
‘such a hard worker for all of them’.
That one really makes me want to spit fire and throw rocks, because I know my mom would have taken a different job long ago if it weren’t for me and this club. She kept this almost
serf-level
job all because of her devotion and worries over me.

The one that makes me cringe is when someone says stuff about how they love giving out charity to a cause that actually has a real, live, local face on it. Because of course they somehow assume  I love being the real live face. Like I signed up to get CP just so they could feel good. My mom, of course, expects me to answer all comments with a:
‘thank you so much for all you’ve done for me’
type of remark and graciously walk away—which, as I get older has become really difficult because I do get the urge to be sarcastic or point out the ignorance and stupidity. But I was raised mom to believe that most people mean well. They just don’t understand CP or take the time to know me or the right things to say.

I’d never hurt or embarrass my mom, so for her I suck it up. I say
thank-you
with a smile. Every time. And every time, I know the people here mean well and every time it—and this whole place—feels like someone’s pouring salt into my eyes. Just like getting my mom that fancy couch some day, I am going to grow up to be someone who doesn’t have to hold back. I’ll take my mom out of this small town where we feel like we owe everyone something. Someday soon, I will be strong enough so she and I are out of this constant state of waiting and hoping for me to get better and stronger.

When it becomes obvious that Patrick is not going to answer, I shoot a fast text to Mom so she won’t worry:
Getting a ride from Nash. Tomato soup on the stove top, fresh bread in the bread maker. Don’t wait for me. I already ate some.

Mom texts back right away:
Thanks. Bread’s amazing.

My phone buzzes like it’s trying to grow wings and fly. I don’t even have to look because by the way the dings are firing in, I know it’s Patrick.

Finally.

Patrick:
Ellen.

ELLEN.

LOVE. LOVE. I’m so in love!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I reply:
So you say. So you say…can we please talk about ME not her?

He answers:
She’s the closest thing to perfection I’ve ever seen. This is love. The real love.

I sigh, but don’t text him back. After a long moment he goes on:

LOVE.

LOVE.

LOVE.

LOVE.

I give in:
Stop! Where’s my motivational graphic that’s going to get me through this dumb homework?

Patrick sends a photo of a seed sprouting that says:
“Where there is love there is life…”

Me:
That’s about you, not me.

Patrick:
ELLEN, I FEEL SO ALIVE!

Cam’s face flashes into my head again and I suddenly want to ask Patrick if he’s reading my mind. I have the urge to text back the exact same phrase and start blabbing about Cam’s face, his eyes…what he did to keep me from falling on the bus, but I don’t.

Because unlike my idiot friend, I know I’m not in love this is more like longing. Craving.

I glance at the photos and then away as my stomach twists in knots. I get this same feeling every time I try to close the lid on a pint of Cherry Vanilla Ice Cream. It’s like I know I’ve had enough, but then I stare into the second half of the tub and see the little buried cherry edges peeking out of the pinkish vanilla ice cream. Staring makes me want to dig one out and take just one more bite. Only, when I do take that bite, behold! There is another cherry edge peeking up and winking at me.

That’s when I go insane and dig that cherry out, too.

It’s not love, it’s an obsessive compulsive impulse for more of something that is bad for you but perfectly made, and so delicious you can’t control yourself. I puff out a breath of air and shake my head, half laughing at myself because I’ve picture Cam’s face inside a tub of ice cream, winking up at me.

“No,” I mutter out loud, because I know exactly what happens next. I’ve taken that next bite, then the next. Finished off pint after pint when I should have stopped myself. And I know the results only brought major stomach pain, guilt and regrets.

My phone lights up again.

Patrick:
I LOVE LAURA. I. LOVE. LAURA!!!!!!

Me:
It’s not love.

He answers:
Love. Yes. LITTLE, LILTING, LAUGHING, LAURA LONDON, from Limerick…la la la…love.

Me, laughing:
STOP.

Him:
Her name is so cute.

  Her town is so cute.

  The glitter is so CUTE.

  Her Irish accent is like a song I didn’t know I needed to hear. AN IRISH SYMPHONY OF ADORABLE!!!!

He texts in a photo of a fluffy kitten wearing a ‘love’ sign.

I roll my eyes, laughing out loud. Me:
Do you want me to take a screen shot of this conversation and paste it in every girls’ bathroom at our school? I will. Not joking.

He responds after a long pause:
Okay. That last one was really bad, I’ll admit it.

  But I’m not joking about Laura London. I’m not. You have to help me. I want to…damn…IDK. I want to marry her. You will help me find a way to marry her, won’t you?

Me:
Uh…we’re in high school. How about trying to go one step at a time? Ask her to the Winter Ball after Christmas? Propose later. Like in a decade. Freak.

MTV goes to its second commercial. Unconsciously, my eyes have travelled to Cam’s photographs. I put down my phone and lean forward to examine the one closest to my knees. Every sound around me fades as I focus in, really focus in—not on the football—but on the whole shot. The football is positioned just off center with a stormy sky looming ominously overhead. He’s shot this at a really odd angle like he was lying down, or twisting the camera around somehow.

I get that he’s set it up in the frame to draw the eye up to the sky, then back down and stick right on the ball like they’re both part of each other. It’s all lights and shadows working together. The ball is clear, yet out of focus in all the right places. He’s made it look like an oval moon, a floating planet, a possible spaceship or a massive piece of hail that fell out of the storm above but hasn’t quite landed yet!

This looks like something pulled out of a photography magazine, and not at all a shot a high school kid would take. The gold framed cursive word,
Wilson,
is glowing so perfectly, it looks like it’s made out of 3-D lights. And he’s made the texture of the football look like skin and leather and orange peel and like a strange moonscape all at the same time!

The football underneath the lit logo actually looks like it’s completely organic. How did he do this…?

Patrick distracts me with a barrage of texts:
You are so right.

Good point about slowing down.

But not Winter Ball. I can’t dance.

I want to call her now. See her tomorrow as early as possible. Hear that voice again.

Laura London. Laura Love Laura.

Ellen?

Ellen?

ELLEN!

I look away to quickly type an answer because I know if I don’t, he will pout at me for days for leaving him in his time of need:
No. You need to stop. She’s got a boyfriend back in Ireland. It’s a bit early for this type of behavior. You’re acting crazy. Eat something. It’s probably post practice low blood sugar.