While I'm Falling Part 8

"So did you?" I eased into my robe and wrapped the towel around my wet hair.

"Did I what?"

"Did you call Mom?"

"Hold on," she said. "ONE MOCHA GRANDE PLEASE. THREE SHOTS PLEASE." I heard static, movement. "Sorry. I'm at a drive-thru. I came in at six this morning. Six! I have no life. Anyway, yeah, I tried to call Mom. She didn't pick up."

"Hmm," I said.

"So what happened? How did you end up in Topeka?"

I tried to tell her the story as quickly as possible. But she liked to cross-examine, too.

"You skipped cla.s.s to take these people to the airport?"

"No."

"How did you wreck the car?"

"There was an ice storm, Elise. Lots of people wrecked their cars this morning."

"Okay. Don't get defensive. I didn't know about the ice. It's beautiful here. It's always beautiful." She clicked her tongue. "I wish I weren't wearing a suit. I have to wear hose. It's ridiculous."

I sat on my bed and pulled on a pair of wool socks. I could picture Elise in her Volkswagen, her hair pulled back in a twist, moving down a freeway with her mocha. Elise could drive in heavy traffic while talking on the phone, while drinking a hot beverage, no problem. If she didn't have a stick shift, she could probably type out a legal brief right there at the wheel. She didn't wreck cars. She never screwed up. Still, when I told her what had happened that morning, I gave her the full story.

"Oh my G.o.d," she said, real sympathy in her voice. "Honey. Did you tell the police?"

"Yeah. Too late, I think. But yeah."

"You must have been scared."

I closed my eyes, grateful for the understanding. I doubted the people who worked with Elise knew about her soft side. But it was there.

"I'm okay," I said, not too convincingly. I wasn't ready for the pity to stop. "That's not the worst thing, either. I called Mom from the Hardee's. She hung up on me."

Elise was quiet for a moment. "What do you mean she hung up?"

"She told me she couldn't give me a ride, and she hung up."

"What? On purpose?" I heard a seagull cry in the background. "Are you sure it was on purpose?"

"Yeah. I'm sure. She said she wasn't my chauffeur anymore, and she hung up." It felt good, this tattling. I had covered for her to my father, but I needed comfort, and my loyalty had limitations. I was gratified to hear my sister inhale, momentarily stunned into silence. I stood up and rested my forehead against my window. The gla.s.s was cold, though the sun was still shining. Melting ice dripped from the windowsills of the higher floors. Seven stories down, people got off a bus and trudged back up to the dorm's front door. They wore heavy coats and backpacks and, I imagined, the self-satisfied expressions of people who had made it to cla.s.s and completed their lab work on time.

"She's lost her mind," Elise finally said. She sounded sad, or maybe just tired. "I knew she was bad. I understand she's having some...midlife, middle-aged crisis. But that's completely unacceptable. You're her daughter. You needed her help."

I nodded. I felt a little better with this shared indignation. But not much.

"So what are you going to do?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you going to call her?"

"No."

"Veronica." The sympathy had left her voice. "Something is wrong with her. This isn't how she normally acts."

"Maybe she's got a new boyfriend," I said. "Maybe this one is only twenty."

"Stop."

I frowned. I'd liked it better when it was me Elise was worried about. "You call her," I said.

"I'm going to." Her voice changed again, her words quick and succinct. Now she sounded more like our father. "Believe me. I'm going to give her h.e.l.l."

After I hung up, I lay down on my bed for what I told myself would be just a moment, a quick rest for my eyes. And then I would call Tim. It would be difficult to tell him over the phone what had happened. I might not tell him until he got home. I only wanted to talk with him. It would be nice just to hear his voice.

But as soon as I closed my eyes, I slept. And I dreamed about my mother. I think I dreamed of her for some time, though only a series of flashes stayed in my memory: her face in profile, resigned, sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of her van. I knew it was her van. I was sitting in the back, behind the driver's seat, and I could clearly see her face. But when I looked out the window, I saw how very high up we were, and all at once, I simply evaporated. She was in the pa.s.senger seat of a semi, and there was no backseat, nowhere for me to sit.

Jimmy Liff was surprisingly calm when I told him about the car. "Yeah, well, s.h.i.t happens," he said. "It was the ice, right? Our flight was f.u.c.king delayed forever."

I shifted the phone to my other ear. He must not have heard me correctly. I had been scared to call.

"I had to have it towed," I said, though I had already told him this. I wanted him to understand that more than the fender had been damaged. "My dad's insurance will cover the repair, though. He's pretty sure it will."

Silence. I waited. My room was gray, almost dark, but outside, a sliver of the western sky was orange and pink, bright with the setting sun. It was almost six, and I was still wearing my robe. I had slept through lunch and dinner.

"Do you want the number for the garage?" I asked. "They said they would get to it sometime next week, but-"

"Yeah. We can deal with all that later." He sounded bored, or at least distracted. "We'll take a cab back from the airport on Sunday. Don't worry about it. We're just glad you're okay."

I was too surprised to speak. Jimmy Liff could give my mother a lesson in post-accident etiquette. I never would have guessed.

"But you've got to get over there to mist the plants." Now he sounded anxious. "Okay? I really don't want them to die."

Gretchen volunteered to drive me over, and she let me know from the start she wasn't going to just drop me off. She didn't think I should be alone; the truck driver story had creeped her out. "I don't care what you say," she said. "You're not going to study tonight." She was wearing a T-shirt with a picture of a kitten with enormous blue eyes that curiously resembled her. "I have a box of mac and cheese in my room. I'll bring it. I'll make you dinner." She pursed her lips. "You look really wound up, Veronica. Even for you, I mean."

I didn't argue. I needed the ride. And she was right: I was rattled. I kept thinking of the exact moment I'd lost control of the car, when I was spinning and careening forward on the ice, the wheel useless in my hand. I'd felt the same helplessness in the semi after we pa.s.sed the first exit; but it was worse, much worse, because the fear of it lasted so much longer. Even now, my hands felt like they were shaking, though when I looked down at them, they were still.

On the way to Jimmy's, Gretchen stopped at a liquor store. I did not protest. In fact, I gave her ten dollars. When we got to Jimmy's, she made margaritas while I misted the plants. She found pretty drinking gla.s.ses and even little umbrellas, and she told me to just sit at the counter and sip while she worked on the macaroni and cheese. Again, I did not argue. I liked the taste of the drink.

"Do you think we can use some of their milk?" she asked. "Or is that very expensive very expensive too?" too?"

She was referring to the note Jimmy had taped to the wine rack off the kitchen: ALL VERY EXPENSIVE, ALL VERY EXPENSIVE, it read. it read. DO NOT DRINK OR EVEN TOUCH. DO NOT DRINK OR EVEN TOUCH.

"We can buy more," I said. The counter was stainless steel, and I could see my reflection in it, blurry and warped. The alcohol burned into the cut on my lip, but inside, I felt a pleasantly numb sensation radiating out from my mouth. I knew I should probably hold off a bit until after we ate. I usually wasn't much of a drinker.

"Please." Gretchen took a carton of milk out of the fridge. "I think he could spare a bottle of wine. Look at this place. He's got some serious disposable income." Her gaze moved over the shiny appliances on the counter and up to the skylight, now dark, above our heads. "Does that Simone girl live here with him?"

"I think so," I said. I had not told even Gretchen that Simone's real name was Haylie, or that I'd known her from home. If the poor girl wants to be someone else, let her be someone else. If the poor girl wants to be someone else, let her be someone else. I took another long sip of my drink and looked around the big kitchen. This was where Haylie/Simone ate breakfast. It was strange that I should know this much about her new life as well as her old one. I wondered if even her mother or little brother or incarcerated father knew where or how she was living, or that she'd changed her name. I took another long sip of my drink and looked around the big kitchen. This was where Haylie/Simone ate breakfast. It was strange that I should know this much about her new life as well as her old one. I wondered if even her mother or little brother or incarcerated father knew where or how she was living, or that she'd changed her name.

"What's this?" Gretchen touched a few b.u.t.tons on the wall, and Latin music that was loud but not horrible swirled out from some invisible center of the room. "That's so cool." She picked up her drink and moved in a slow circle. "I don't even know where it's coming from."

She turned the volume even higher. I swung my legs to the drumbeat. I wasn't sure if I should be worried about the neighbors. Outside, the lawns were neatly trimmed, and all the cars were hidden away in garages. It didn't seem like the kind of street where you could blast music late at night. I took out my phone to check the time and saw that my mother had called.

Gretchen turned down the music. "What's the matter? Who was that?"

"No one," I said. I had not told her that my mother had hung up on me that morning. I had not mentioned my mother at all. I was too embarra.s.sed. Everything else that happened that morning was mostly bad luck and timing. But my mother's response, or lack thereof, seemed to point to something damaged in her, and maybe in me as well.

"It was Tim," I said. "Just Tim calling."

"Oh." She used a fork to take a piece of macaroni out of the boiling pot, but she continued to look at me. "Are you...are you in a fight or something?"

I shook my head, looking away. I wasn't a good liar when I was sober. And now I felt a little hazy all over. I held my gla.s.s with both hands. "He wants me to move in with him. Next year. He'll pay the rent, he said."

She blew steam off the piece of macaroni. "This is a problem?"

My phone beeped. I looked at the screen. My mother was calling again. I hit ignore. Too late! Too late for you! Too late! Too late for you! I took another drink. I took another drink.

Gretchen looked concerned. "Was that him again?"

"Yeah." I nodded, agreeing with myself. "Yeah. He's really, you know, he's really gung-ho about it. He keeps calling."

She wrinkled her nose. "To pressure you?"

"No. No." I put my hand over my mouth. I felt bad, making him look domineering, even crazy. He actually hadn't even called me since he left for Chicago. I needed to quit talking. "He just called to say hi."

She twisted around to turn off the boiler. She looked back at me, confused. "I don't understand. You seem upset that he called. You're upset that he wants you to move in with him?"

I nodded.

"You just said you were happy with him the other night. You went on and on about how happy you were."

"I did not go on and on."

"Fine. But your face was like..." She smiled. Her eyes suddenly looked vapid. "And you said you were so happy." She gave me a quick glance. "And you hate the dorm."

I sighed. She was the same as him. I was the only one who saw the problem. "Yeah, but what if we break up?" I raised my gla.s.s as if making a toast. "I won't have anyplace to go. I won't have my job anymore."

She nodded, pouring the pasta and water through a strainer. Steam rose to her face. "Okay. You're right."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you're right. Don't move in with him."

This was not what I wanted her to say. I put my elbows on the counter, my face in my hands. "But I want to," I said.

She started laughing again. I looked up, annoyed.

"Honestly?" She picked up her drink and took a sip. "I think you can sit here and torment yourself if you want, but I'm going to start looking for a new RA buddy. I bet anything you're living with him next year. You're not going to be at summer training. Why are you always so worried? It's okay. It's okay to do what you want."

I shook my head. Her voice was kind, and she was smiling, but I didn't like what she was saying. That's okay for somone like you. It's nice that you could find someone who wants to take care of you. You're not doing so well in school. That's okay for somone like you. It's nice that you could find someone who wants to take care of you. You're not doing so well in school. I waved my hand in front of my face. I was a little tipsy. I might be a little paranoid. I waved my hand in front of my face. I was a little tipsy. I might be a little paranoid.

"It would be one thing if you just wanted out of the dorm. But it's more than that, right?" She was stirring in the cheese. "You don't want to just live in his apartment. You want to live with him in his apartment."

I cleared my throat. I focused on my tingling lips, willing them to form words correctly. "Just because I want to doesn't mean I will," I said. "I'm trying not to be an idiot."

She shrugged.

I leaned back on the bar stool, my arms crossed. I heard what she was not saying. Apparently, I was as predictable as water, sure to seek the easiest route. My phone chimed in my pocket. My mother had left a message-a long one. All this time I'd been talking to Gretchen, my mother had been talking to my phone.

"Let's have people over," I said.

She thought I was kidding at first. She only pretended to reach for her phone. She didn't know me as well as she thought she did. I felt good about that.

I cannot fairly blame the decisions I made for the rest of that evening on alcohol. It is true I was not used to drinking, and that I had little experience with tequila. But I knew this. Before I even brought that first sip to my lips, there must have been something in me that had been shaken loose by the events of that morning, something that yearned for a sudden detour from the steady path I had long ago set for myself. My plan, I think, at least my subconscious plan, was to drink until I was wobbly enough to simply veer into a different direction.

It worked.

I was in an excellent mood when people started arriving. I only vaguely recognized some of them from the dorm, but I welcomed everyone, especially the people I didn't know at all, their stranger faces fresh slates on which I could impress my new, impulsive self. I ushered them into the living room with sweeping gestures. I thanked them for bringing more alcohol. I forgot all about being shy, and I also forgot about Jimmy, and Haylie, and the fact that we were in their house. I focused on being a good hostess. I nodded appreciatively when someone changed the music on the stereo and turned the volume way, way up. I took coats up the stairs to the master bedroom, laying each one out carefully on the enormous bed. I do remember the stairs becoming more difficult to climb as the evening wore on. I was wearing a black feather boa that someone had pulled out of Haylie's closet, and it kept catching beneath my feet.

I do not remember actually opening the door for Third Floor Clyde. Gretchen told me that I did. She specifically remembered the moment he arrived because, apparently, I let out a joyful whoop of recognition, moving past his friends to hug him before he even stepped inside. I do not know if the fact that I don't remember this moment makes it any more or less embarra.s.sing. She said I took the coats of all the newcomers, but that I insisted, quite loudly in front of everyone, that Clyde help me carry them up the stairs.

"I wasn't worried," she told me later. "You weren't slurring your words or anything. You were sort of just..." Here she leaned to one side and fluttered her eyelids so that she looked sort of stupid. "You were just...listing a little."

Still, I can hardly claim that Third Floor Clyde took advantage of the situation. I don't think he had the chance. I have a distinct memory of his startled expression as I took the boa from around my neck and wrapped it around his. I remember thinking that Becky Shoemaker was right: I really could could make things happen by just thinking about them. I had known Clyde would show up as soon as I decided to have a party, and now here he was. It was fate, or the antidote to it. We were up in Jimmy and Haylie's bedroom, by ourselves, standing beside the bed that was now piled high with coats. Or he was standing, I should say. I was actually dancing. Sort of. That's what I thought I was doing-moving gracefully and easily from foot to foot. Looking back, I think I was still just listing, and maybe vaguely aware that I had to pee. make things happen by just thinking about them. I had known Clyde would show up as soon as I decided to have a party, and now here he was. It was fate, or the antidote to it. We were up in Jimmy and Haylie's bedroom, by ourselves, standing beside the bed that was now piled high with coats. Or he was standing, I should say. I was actually dancing. Sort of. That's what I thought I was doing-moving gracefully and easily from foot to foot. Looking back, I think I was still just listing, and maybe vaguely aware that I had to pee.

His eyes moved from side to side as the boa settled around his shoulders. He said something, but I couldn't hear what. The music on the stereo downstairs had gotten very loud. He wasn't nearly as tall as Tim, and I remember that just this difference seemed appealing, physical proof that some small but permanent change in perspective was taking place in my mind. We were looking at each other closely, eyes level and bright with antic.i.p.ation. He brought his finger up to the cut in my lip, softly tracing the outline.

And that was all it took. I pressed my injured mouth against his. There was no exchange of witty dialogue. Maybe I just don't remember it, but I think I would have. To be honest, I wasn't that drunk. My coat was buried under all the others, and I clearly remember the m.u.f.fled beeping of my cell phone from the pocket. It could have been anyone's, I suppose, but I heard it as mine, and I remember feeling good about ignoring it.

7.