Slowly Falling

Chapter One

A single moment. That’s all it takes for your life to change. That’s what Mom says whenever an ambulance flies by. She also says a little prayer for the person inside the ambulance. And for their loved ones. But she never adds that none of those people in that fraction of time, in that millisecond, even know that life will never be the same. I think that’s the harder truth. The not knowing. It happened to me in a single heartbeat, in a heartbeat that wasn’t, and I didn’t have a clue until hours later.

I grip my pen and will myself to continue, but like every other time, it’s where I stop. My brain freezes, my hand aches, but no matter how long I stare at it, the pen doesn’t move. I promised Mom I wasn’t bottling up my feelings, that I was writing them down like the therapist suggested. It’s not that I’m not trying. I want words to fall out, to bleed onto the page, to smear my pain across the blue lines, but nothing comes out. Nothing.

Chloe.

I shove the journal under my pillow and jump off the bed before Mom opens the door.

Do you need a ride?

She asks every morning, and while I know the offer is genuine, it’s more about checking in on me one last time before she leaves.

No, I’m good.

You sure? I don’t mind.

Mom works across town and will be late. She’ll catch flak from her boss if I accept her offer, but she’s always willing to make the sacrifice. These days. She never used to worry about where I was going or how I was getting there. Now she worries about everything I do. Which makes me worry. I rub my forefinger against my thumb, trying to ease tension.

You okay? Bordered by the doorframe, she looks beautiful but sad, like one of those paintings in my Art History book.

Yeah, fine. I can tell she doesn’t believe me, can see concern darkening her eyes, but I don’t know how to lighten it.

All right. Call if you want a ride home.

She walks over to me, kisses my cheek, and then pats it tenderly. My eyes water and I fight the urge to cry. I look at my feet before she notices.

She sighs heavily. See you tonight.

My sport socks blur into a cloud of white. Her heels click on the laminate in the hallway, and I pant shallow breaths until the sound drifts away. I strain to hear more, but there is nothing but my breathing and the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Drive safely, I whisper. I roll my stress with my thumb and try to flick it away like a snot ball, but my heart beats faster and my palms grow sweaty.

I turn from the door. The dresser catches my eye and I shake my hands out, trying not to get all worked up about it. Mom must have come into my room when I took my shower. She knows I hate it when she touches things, so she tries to leave things right. But her right and my right are two different things. I shift the tissues to the corner, straightening them to a ninety-degree angle with the edge. The jewelry box on the other side is off. I adjust it to match the tissues. The perfume is at twelve o’clock. Perfect. And the dominoes. I run my hand over the battered box and touch the domino peeking out from a torn corner.

Suddenly, there’s no air left in the room. I gulp. Choke on a cry. I … can’t … breathe. I flap my arms against my thighs and then open them wide, trying to get air into my lungs. It works. I suck the oxygen until my lungs expand and become functional again.

I tap the exposed domino repeatedly before picking up the ratty vinyl case. Then I set it back down. Pick up. Set down. I do it over and over and start to cry. The crying hurts. The crying feels good. The therapist said crying is normal. I slide to the floor, holding the dominoes tightly to my chest. It’s me who’s not normal. I’ll never be again.

****

I splashed my face with cold water and lay on the bed with the wet cloth covering my eyes for ten minutes, but I know I’m still blotchy. Everyone can tell. They wonder what’s wrong with me, like maybe I have a disease or something. I put one foot in front of the other, trying not to look up. I don’t want to see any questioning looks, any concerned glances. Or worse—laughter. My spotted sneakers squeak loudly on the wet pavement. I try to lift them and set them back down gently, but nothing works. They screech with every step. I try not to flinch and give people another reason to stare.

I focus on the brown blobs. They’re like speech bubbles on my toes. I spill coffee all the time. I always have. It’s a running joke at the shop. When I grab a pot, everybody raises their hands in the air in surrender. It used to be funny. Now, it’s just something else I can’t get right. So, I try to work in the back bakery as much as possible. It’s what I did when I first got the job at their lake location. Three years, and I’m right back where I was when I was fourteen.

Whoa!

Two battered work boots are toe-to-toe with my sneakers, blocking my route. My heart rate spikes and I glance up through my bangs, trying to avoid any chance of eye contact.

You came this close to wearing it. The guy’s holding his coffee cup out to one side and using his other hand to demonstrate what a near miss it was. According to his thumb and forefinger, I was about an inch away from a total scalding.

Sorry, I mumble and try to step around him. My shoe stubs his and I stumble. Ow! I cry although I’m not sure which hurts more—the coffee burning my skin or the searing of his hand on my arm.

Oh, shit, he says but doesn’t loosen his grip.

Coffee seeps across the cuff of my white shirt like watercolor paint bleeds on paper. I brush at it stupidly as if that’s going to help get rid of it.

Man, I’m sorry. You okay?

I nod repeatedly and yank my arm loose, ready to flee, but he grabs my hand. My eyes follow its path to his face, my heart thumping, expecting … I don’t know what. Certainly not the hippie throwback who’s holding it—a faded rocker t-shirt, a peace tattoo on his inner arm, and long wavy hair held snug to his head by a bandana. He intently inspects my hand, flipping it over several times before finally looking directly at me. My heart stops beating. And I mean stops. Altogether. His eyes are blue, dark blue as in ripe blueberry blue, and it’s like he’s looking right into me, like he can see everything about me. A shiver runs up my spine and trickles down my arm to where his hand holds mine.

It’s pretty red. You should run some cold water on it or something.

He looks around as though there’s going to be a tap there in the middle of the sidewalk. He’s still holding my hand when his gaze lands back on me.

You sure you’re okay? he asks quietly.

For a second, I think he’s asking about more than the burn, and I want to tell him I’m not. I haven’t been for a while. I don’t think I ever will be again. Of course, I don’t say any of that. The world doesn’t know how cracked I am. Nobody knows. At least I’m not crazy enough to confess it to a stranger.

Yeah, I say, pulling my hand from his and stepping around him, my heart beating so hard again I barely hear him say, Seriously, some cold water.

I put one foot in front of the other, frantically counting each step in sets of three. It’s only one more block to the shop, and I make it there without banging into anyone else. I walk slowly down the side alley, shortening my last step to make sure it’s a third one. Long deep breaths help my insides calm down, like jumbled pieces settling into place. When the puzzle is back together, I tap on the door.

Eli lets me in.

Hey, Chloe, he says cheerfully, holding the handle so the door doesn’t slam shut. He’s always upbeat and positive. I’ve never heard him say a mean thing about anyone.

Hey, I say back and head directly to the single staff restroom. I turn the hot tap on first and wait for the water to get hot enough to burn the finger I hold under it. I don’t need the hot water, but it has to be ready in case I do. I shrug at myself in the mirror. It’s the way it is. I turn on the cold water and put my hand under it. There’s a splash of raspberry red on my skin where the coffee hit, but the slight stinging sensation subsides quickly. I hold my wrist under the tap and rub at my sleeve. It looks a little better, but it’s going to need a detergent stick or some bleach to get the stain fully out.

The mirror is old and fractures the light. I like it. I can see myself well enough to make sure my mascara isn’t running or there’s nothing gross stuck on my teeth, but not so much that I can see me. You know, the real me. I force a smile and turn to the door. I pretend I’m an actress. Eli is my manager and the coffee shop is my stage. It wasn’t always like this, but it is now. It helps me get through my shift without anyone noticing the freak who lies beneath the surface.

Lucy glances up from the till and waves. I wave back and head to the coffee machines. They’ve been busy. I dump the filters, fill the reservoirs with water, and get two fresh pots going.

How old is number four? I ask as I wipe the grounds off the counter and shake the cloth over the garbage.

Maybe ten minutes, Lucy says over her shoulder before taking an order from a gang of kids who are jostling each other teasingly, smiling and laughing like the world is a perfect place, a safe place. Maybe they’ll never find out differently. Maybe it’s only my world that is screwed up.

I turn back around and try to focus on the coffee. We have a strict rule not to serve any that’s sat on the burner for more than twenty minutes. It’s why we’re so popular. Our coffee is always fresh. Plus, Eli makes the best pastries on the planet. It’s why I applied for the job when he opened a café at the lake. You get a freebie on your break.

Can you grab me a large, sweetened with room?

Linda breezes by and into the back before I can answer. I don’t know if it’s for here or to go, so I continue to clean the mess they’ve left. The early morning shift always leaves it looking like a tornado went through.

That coffee? Linda snaps as she scurries back through carrying a tray of freshly baked cinnamon buns, their sugary sweetness wafting behind her.

For here? I ask, trying not to be upset by her tone. We’ve worked together since I’ve been here, and she’s always short when she’s frazzled. Still, it grates.

Aw, crap. Sorry, Chloe. To go.

Her wrinkled nose and crooked smile make me feel better. No prob. I snap a lid on the cup and slide it over to her end. I’m going to work in back if that’s okay.

Fine with me. Lucy, we’re good, right?

Yeah, we are now, Lucy says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Off you go.

Call me if you need me.

Lucy is the unofficial boss on my shift. They don’t pay her more or anything, but she’s been around for over ten years and she’s assumed a position of authority. I’m good with that. She’s always fair and she’s not giving me any grief over preferring being in the back these days.

All right! I get my helper again today, do I?

Eli wipes his hands on his apron. He does that a lot. His apron always looks like my kindergarten painting Mom framed and hung in the hallway, the one where the teacher dipped my hand in paint and pressed it over and over onto the paper.

You do. At least until lunch rush. What do you want me to do? I grab an apron and tie it on.

How about some buns? White.

Sounds good.

I wind my ponytail into a bun and slip a hairnet on, then drag the bucket of mix out from under the counter. I open it and count the scoops as I dump them into the Hobart mixer. When I first started here, I thought the mixer was huge. While it is bigger than a house mixer, it’s no Hansel and Gretel stew pot for kids. Still, it’s a piece of equipment that needs to be respected. Eli says if my hand ever got caught between the bread hook and the bowl, it would crush my bones like a trash compactor.

Wanna talk?

No.

Eli asks me this every shift. My answer is always the same. I finish whisking the yeast and warm water and pour it into the bowl, adding some kosher salt before flicking on the mixer. The rhythmic beat of churning is soothing. After two minutes, I shut it off and make sure it’s what Eli calls shaggy. I call it tacky. It seems okay to me, so I use a plastic scraper to push all the dough back away from the edge toward the hook, then set the timer for seven minutes.

I leave it running and deliberately walk as far away from Eli as I can get. The sink is already full of pans soaking, so I wash them, making lots of noise so he can’t talk to me. It’s not personal. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

When the timer goes off, I check the dough. It’s balled nicely and the consistency looks smooth with some bubbles puckering the surface. I turn off the machine, remove the hook, and methodically scrape off all the dough.

Eli comes over and grabs the bowl. It’s made of thick stainless steel and is super heavy. I can’t lift it on my own.

Gotta talk some time.

He says that every day too. I know he’s trying to be nice and all, but he’s wrong. I don’t gotta do anything. Except get through the hours until I am back in my room, until Mom and Dad are both in the house, until night settles and the world goes away and leaves us safe at home.

Someday, I answer as I always do and pull on my gloves, glad he can’t see my sweating palms or hear the hum in my head. He holds the bowl while I pull the dough out and let it plop into the plastic bin. He takes the bowl to the sink, and I tug off a small piece before draping a cotton cloth over the bin. I ball the dough between my thumb and forefinger, imagining it’s my stress and I can roll it away. It doesn’t help. I know someday will never come.

Chapter Two

The shift rolls along as well as any other day. The setup here is the same as at the lake, so it’s as familiar as my bedroom and super easy to go on automatic pilot. Unless I’m out front. These days, it’s harder out there. Not because of Lucy or Linda. They’re great. So are the afternoon girls, Nora and Tina. They act as though nothing’s different, like the world didn’t fall off its axis. They did try to talk about it when it happened, but unlike Eli, they let it go. In all fairness, Eli’s known me a lot longer.

It’s the customers who make working at the cash harder. Mostly the strangers that come and go. The regulars? I learned my part with them when I was in a better place in my head. Besides, they’re no different here than at the lake. They want you to say hi, remember their drinks, and maybe even call them by name. They want to feel like they’re somebody. It’s easy enough to do. But I’m no good at improv, which is what I have to do with new people. I was never good at it, but now it totally chokes me up.

Linda and Lucy have gotten used to me hiding in the back. So long as I duck out there and make coffee and tidy during rushes, they don’t complain. Unless it’s extremely busy. Then they make me go out and deal with people. As for Eli, he and his brother Sam own the place, so he has final say over the girls anyway. Originally, he hired me to work with him in the bakery and he doesn’t mind that I’ve chosen to come back. At least, if he does, he doesn’t say so.

Good day’s work, he says, brushing at his apron. He sniffs the air appreciatively, the smell of the last batch of Chelsea buns lingering in the air.

I recognize his look of satisfaction. The bakery is clean, spotless, if I do say so myself. The steel counters gleam and every pan is washed and dried and stacked according to size. I do come in handy for some things, and Eli’s always appreciated it.

You done good, kid.

He doesn’t pat me on the shoulder the way he used to do. He tried to hug me when I came back to work. I flipped out, made a complete fool of myself. Now, he stands back a couple of feet from me except when he’s helping me empty the mixer or keeping me from tipping a fresh tray of buns out of the oven. But his eyes are always kind. It’s almost like a hug.

Thanks, I say, untying my apron and tossing it in the laundry hamper by the restroom.

Hey, why don’t you take tomorrow off? You know, go have some fun. You’ve earned it.

My heart shoots out the gate and races along the track. I try to breathe deeply and slow it down, but I swear I can see it running laps. I flap my arms like I’m a flag person at the Indianapolis 500, but then catch myself and quickly wrap them around my waist. I hope Eli didn’t notice, but the lines around his eyes have deepened and his smile is gone.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the extra hours you put in back here, but you haven’t taken a day off in a month or more. He shakes his head. It’s not healthy. Everybody needs to unwind.

Here is healthy. Here I am the most unwound. But I can’t tell him that. He’ll think I’m crazier than he already does.

I swallow a big mouthful of air before spitting out a version of my usual excuse. Nothing’s changed. I need the money. I don’t want to work when I go to college. I want to focus on my studies. So, I’ve got to sock it all away now. I can tell he’s not buying it any more now than he has in the past, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is I get to come back tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Yeah, I know. Money. He tugs off his apron and I know he’s frustrated with me. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.

I’m grateful for the tap at the side door. Eli heads toward it to let in whoever is here for the evening shift. It’s Jacklyn and Peter. Eli insists there’s always a guy in the building and never pairs two girls on an evening shift. Sam comes in to do bookkeeping and ordering for a few hours each evening too, making it two guys for a while. Personally, I doubt it matters much whether it’s a girl or a guy staring down the barrel of a gun, the weapon has the upper hand.

Hi! Jacklyn and Peter say in unison as they pass me, Have a great night. They don’t pause to check in but continue on to the front. It’s fine by me. I suck at small talk.

I run my fingers up and down the stack of bread pans, counting them. Twelve. Twelve is a good number. I