Until I Fall Read online

  He was the best. The loss is more than my heart can take. I don’t think I’ll survive. Glancing at the coffin, I send a silent prayer. Numb me. Freeze my heart. I don’t want to feel again.

  Eleven Years Later

  ASPEN

  WINE. GIN. TEQUILA. Any kind of alcohol should do the trick. New plan: for the next seventy-two hours I’ll sleep, binge watch movies and drink all the alcohol in the house. The ER of a hospital is like a never-ending reality show: bad acting, too much drama and there’s always that one bitch who wants to rule them all. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s perfect for me. A fast-paced work environment keeps me busy and sane. Focusing on others helps me balance my emotions—or rather helps me forget about them. Today my brain and body are drained, but my soul is restless. My heart beats erratically. I can feel it, another anxiety attack. I won’t let it happen. Nothing like self-medication to snap me out of whatever’s happening.

  “Finally, you had me worried,” Brynn, my best friend and roommate, calls from the porch as I step outside my car. “It’s past midnight, young lady. Where have you been?”

  “At work?” She knows, our shifts overlapped for a few hours. “Was there an emergency of any sorts?”

  “Heath was sitting here when I came home,” she announces, her voice tired just like I am. “You had dinner reservations—at seven.”

  I rub my forehead. Did we?

  “Was he upset?” Working in the ER pays well, but the hours kill my social life.

  “What do you think, Aspen? He mumbled some shit under his breath and strode away.” She yawns. “Two years and I’m still trying to understand why you’re dating Heath.”

  “Shut up, Brooklyn Eliza Ward,” I order before the entire neighborhood learns about my boring or nonexistent social life.

  “Slapping me with my full name won’t change the truth,” she continues with her rampage. I’m pleased that she sounds annoyed. She hates being called Brooklyn, let alone when people use her full name.

  “He barely stays over, and I never heard her scream when he’s around,” Brynn says out loud to no one. “I wonder if she knows what an orgasm is?”

  “Are you drunk?” I can’t find another reason why she’s so loud. She’s your best friend, murder is a crime. I mumble twice as I read my boyfriend’s latest text.

  Heath: We had dinner reservations at Vendome, what happened? I can’t see you this weekend. It’s my turn to be with the kids. Text me so we can schedule something for next week.

  I feel like a bitch for forgetting our date. Time slipped away from me, and my brain remained fixated on work. It was between the baby I delivered and the little boy with an earring stuck inside his nose that I lost track of almost everything. This is my life. I spend countless hours in the hospital, and when I’m not there I’m at the free clinic. A few years back I discovered that by following this schedule I can function properly.

  Me: Next weekend I work. We can try to find time.

  We always do. He has his children over the weekend, and I can’t help but feel relieved that he doesn’t think we are ready for me to meet his kids. Hurray for couples with commitment issues.

  When I lift my head, I see an unruly, blonde mane running toward me. “You look like shit.” Scarlett, my other best friend, almost tackles me as she gives me a big hug. “Poor sex, huh? No worries, we’ll visit Sexy-Paradise, and I’ll get you a few toys that’ll guarantee happiness.”

  “You’re on your own, Scarlett,” Brooklyn warns her. “The last time we went there, you asked the sales associate to demonstrate how the cock ring worked—worst five minutes of my life.”

  I laugh at the memory of Brooklyn’s face turning purple. My best friends couldn’t be more different from one another, but that’s what makes them great. They balance each other, and I enjoy hanging out with both. One keeps me responsible, while the other pushes me to let loose.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d be in town?” My fatigued voice reflects my actual state. After a tight hug, I release her. We make our way onto the porch in front of the house. Climbing the steps, I find there’s a small gathering going on. Candles, wine, cards, and beer. Brooklyn sits on the loveseat we have on the porch. Her black hair tied into a fancy braid—Scarlett’s crafty work. I flop my ass next to hers, and grab her glass of wine, finishing it in just one gulp. “When did you leave the hospital?”

  Brooklyn pours more wine into the glass. “Nine-ish? I dashed out of there and never looked back. You should learn to say, “no, I’m off.””

  “It’s not as easy, you should have stayed with me. I think I might hate you a little.”

  “Impossible. You love me,” Brooklyn protests.

  I do. We are sisters. Brooklyn, Scarlett and I met right before college. The three of us had been roommates from freshman year all the way through med school. Until Scarlett quit before our second year of med school and went to vet school so she can be useful in her family’s ranch. “We had a rush around ten. Accidental gunshot while a man cleaned his case—who owns a gun and doesn’t know how to handle it? A woman with a water bottle up her ass, and her boyfriend needed stitches on his brow. She has a mean left hook. So many stupid accidents. I think I’m going to quit and go to retail.”

  “That means working at a mall, spending time inside a store, and dealing with crowds of healthy people,” Scarlett reminds me. I fake-shiver, she laughs and sits on the empty chair across from us. “How many hours did you work today?”

  I lean my head against Brooklyn’s shoulder, closing my eyes briefly. “Counting the five hours I spent at the free clinic yesterday night? About a lot.”

  “She’s fucking nuts,” Brooklyn adjusts the blanket so she can cover both of us with it.

  “Says the pot to the kettle.” I take off my clogs and retrieve my feet. “We work the same number of hours, Brynn. Now tell me, Scarlett, why are you here?”

  “I’m attending a conference and checking on Hugo.” She starts piling the deck of cards. I guess we’re not playing tonight. “Where’s our favorite pup?”

  I look around the porch for our mutt, but he’s nowhere around. “Getting lucky?”

  The three of us laugh because we have fun making up stories about him. Hugo appeared a couple of years ago on a cold December morning. We came home from the grocery store and we found the poor guy resting on the porch. Brooklyn gave him water, I fed him carrots. He continued arriving at our doorstep when he knew we’d be home. The second weekend we went to the pet store to buy supplies for him, Scarlett came to give him a checkup. He doesn’t have opposable thumbs but he is crafty and can open doors, bring slippers and cozy up in bed with us. We adopted him. No, it’s more like he adopted us. He’s independent enough to work with our schedule but loves us so much that when we are home, he’s by our side.

  “So how long will you be here, Scarlett?” Please leave soon.

  I love her, we have many things in common, including her brother. The grief of losing him created a strange effect between the two of us; we either cry for long periods remembering him or we fight. Scarlett took it upon herself to become the perfect daughter, filling Michael’s absence and committing to everything she believed Michael would’ve done if he were alive.

  Michael would be living in San Diego visiting his family only when necessary if he was still here. He wouldn’t take over the ranch. Michael lived for his country, loved his country and wouldn’t let anyone or anything come between the two—not even his family. Scarlett’s big question is always ‘what would Mike do?’ My answer usually arrives in the form of, he wouldn’t give a shit about it.

  I knew my fiancé better than I knew myself. Sipping another glass of wine, I wash the sadness away, at least until I go to bed.

  “A couple of weeks. My conference starts next Monday. Will you bitches have time for me?”

  “Yes, we have the weekend off. I propose we party like we used to back in college.” I gather the last strands of energy and spring off the couch, then help B
rooklyn. “We’ll kick it off tomorrow. Brunch at Maria’s, then we can plan the day.”

  “You’re moving too much. I’m going to kick you out of my bed,” I warn Scarlett. Sleepovers with my two best friends means sleeping in the same room—like when we were in college. Brooklyn chose the couch, leaving me with the hyperactive one. “What’s going on?”

  “Mom’s organizing a big event to celebrate Mike’s birthday,” she blurts at lightning speed.

  Mrs. Reynolds and I don’t see eye to eye. After Michael died, we barely exchanged pleasantries. Don’t count me in.

  “He’s a hero, a martyr, he died young. He deserves a party in his honor to remember everything he meant to all of us.” My heart thumps fast as she speaks of him. My mind screams loud, shut up, shut up. I’m about to kick Scarlett out of the room—the house, or the country even. “She plans on going through all the boxes where she stored his stuff.”

  The ones I fought to take with me, or at least go through? Mrs. Reynolds, the bitch, didn’t allow me to see them. I wasn’t anything but a girlfriend.

  Bite your tongue hard. Stay quiet while listening to your best friend. She needs you.

  “She wants me to help her. I can’t do it.” Scarlett pushes all the blankets away.

  I pull them back up; this conversation is scary, and I don’t want to continue listening to her. “Sorry, your mother is being pushy with you.” I want to say she’s a bitch, but I rather avoid confrontation. Everything to avoid her Mrs. Reynolds. “Just don’t do it. Could you please go to sleep? I’ve been awake for too long.”

  “Do you mind giving us the pictures that you have of him, that will help me.”

  I uncover my head turning on the lamp next to me. “No!”

  Her blue gaze so much like her brother’s finds mine, her lips twist to the side, and she’s ready to say something I’m so not going to like. “Don’t be selfish. It’d be easier if you can give me his stuff, maybe she won’t make me go through the boxes.”

  “What is with you tonight?” Impossible. My limbs lose strength. Air. Where’s the fucking air? Inhale, exhale. Don’t let this push you to the ledge. “No, the few things I have from him are mine. If your mother wants to go through his stuff—which might belong to me—let her do it. Tell her you won’t help. You want to know what Mike would say?”

  “Don’t put words in his mouth!” She jumps out of bed walking back and forth.

  “You shouldn’t either, Scaredy.” Scarlett halts as I used his pet name for her. “First of all, Michael wouldn’t be working at the farm, he’d be on a mission. We’d be living in California. Your brother would hate to see what you’re doing to yourself to make up for his absence. He hated big parties, why would your mother throw one? Mike would tell your mom to fuck off and let him rest in peace.”

  Scarlett stops right in front of me, her hand lifts, I flinch as she’s about to slap me.

  “Stop!” Brynn who is the patient, reasonable and quiet one of the three of us yells and springs off the couch holding Scarlett’s elbow. “Mike died years ago, Scarlett. I’m sorry you lost your big brother. In case you haven’t noticed, Aspen lost her fiancé. She tries so damn hard to be there for you, but sometimes I swear you push her too far.”

  “I don’t understand why she makes up shit about my brother.”

  “See what I see,” Brynn points out. “You try to pick the same fights you used to pick with your brother. Aspen isn’t Mike. Nor is she a substitution, or your punching bag.”

  “Every time you do this it hurts,” I whisper. “No. I won’t give you the little things I have left of him. In case you ask, I won’t be going to the party. Please, don’t mention him. I can’t deal.”

  Brynn walks over to me, hugging me hard. We talked about this exact thing only a few days back. To remain in one piece, I need Scarlett to either stay away or stop invoking him.

  “Sorry. For some forsaken reason, you can’t understand that I lost him too. We all have different ways to cope, but yours is killing me, Scarlett,” I murmur swallowing the clogged tears. “You know I love you, you’re my best friend, his sister who he adored. I’m trying so damn hard to be the person you need, I can’t do it today. For now, let’s pretend he’s overseas.”

  She nods, her eyes filled with tears. Walking around the bed, she tucks herself in. “Sorry, I’m trying, Aspen. Some days I miss him too much.”

  His absence left a big hole in our lives and our hearts. The years haven’t helped. Where’s the wine? I turn off the light and rest on top of my pillow pushing the sadness, the stress of the day and everything else away. Except his blue eyes appear as my eyelids close. They show tenderness and love. My heart squeezes at the memory of the last time I saw him leaving my house for another mission.

  Only a few more months and we’ll be together forever—husband and wife.

  “Why are you here?” Michael leans against the old oak tree where he carved our initials long ago.

  “I miss you—mostly at night,” I confess walking closer to our tree. Stopping only a few feet from him.

  “We’ve talked about this. You shouldn’t come back,” he reminds me, as if it were that simple. No such luck, every time I’m lost I want to have him close, holding me in his arms. “It pains you, and I hate when you hurt.”

  There are many things I loved about him including his compassion, understanding and caring personality. “Go home, Aspen. There’s nothing here for you.”

  “I don’t want to. Scarlett came to visit.”

  “Did she now?” He marches to where I stand, taking my hands. “How are things with Scaredy Cat?”

  “She changed so much since you died. We all did . . .” I study Michael from head to toe trying to imagine him older. Would his blond hair be longer? It’s hard to see him older. He hasn’t changed from the twenty-six-year-old man I last saw.

  “Go home, baby. It’s cold here. I’d hate for you to get sick.” I suddenly realize I’m wearing a pair of tight jeans and a tank top. The snow on the ground glares with the sunshine. Where are we?

  “If you were alive we’d be celebrating your birthday and our anniversary and discussing the possibility of having a tiny you—our first baby,” I blurt as if that explains why I’m losing my mind and overworking myself. “Yes, I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t think of you, but . . .”

  I shrug. “But I do. Today a boy came to the ER with a broken arm. His blue eyes, devilish smile and funny voice reminded me of you, of what I thought our son would look like.”

  “Aspen,” he hugs me tight. “Stop torturing yourself, baby. Life changed, we—.”

  “No, don’t say we don’t belong together. You’ll wait for me, right?” Swallowing the tears, I continue, “I . . . hate that I’m letting the memories escape from that place I locked them in years ago. I moved on, didn’t I?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know . . . all I know is that I want you by my side.” Pitiful, I am so hung up on him that I am confessing my issues to a nobody I created.

  “You’re stronger than you want to admit, Aspen.” He grabs my chin gently, leaning closer and taking my lips. It’s a sweet, slow kiss. Possessive, yet gentle. He releases me, his eyes filled with love. “Let go of those fears.”

  I sit up, breathing erratically. Droplets of sweat run down my spine. The tightness in my chest continues. I work to even my shallow breath. But it’s hard when the stitches of the old wounds are opened and the pain in my soul feels raw.

  ASPEN

  SLEEPING NEXT TO Scarlett after my dream is impossible. She’s my best friend. There’s a code somewhere where it says I have to be supportive when she’s having a bad day. A bad month, or a year. I get it, she grieves the loss of her brother. I recognize her need for comfort. But I refuse to be her floatation device while I fight to stay afloat. What she doesn’t understand is I lost the love of my life. If she continues with this behavior, the next two weeks might be my new little hell.

  Pushing myself
out of bed, I decide to make myself some tea to calm my nerves. After that vivid dream earlier, my body continues to shiver. Ignoring the lack of feeling in my limbs, I walk outside the room toward the kitchen.

  Breathe in and out, Aspen. Control your body and your thoughts, don’t let this be another full-blown panic attack.

  Why do I keep going back to that place—to him?

  I should go back to therapy.

  Therapy helped with the sorrow. It’s been eleven long years without him. The first days I couldn’t breathe. The following weeks I couldn’t get out of bed. The stages of grief hit me in a strange way. Pain comes and goes. Denial and anger stuck around for a couple of years. Those were dark days when I had no idea what I was doing with my life. I went to school, passed my classes and stayed numb. Brynn insists I created a new stage of grief, perpetual numbing. So what if I date a guy who’d rather have a root canal than marry again?

  We’ve been together for two years, and I haven’t interacted much with his children. Our relationship works for the two of us, and outsiders don’t matter. We have a good time when we are together. Don’t we?

  The kettle whistles, distracting me from my past and my present. Nothing I think or say would bring Michael back. For as long as I live, I plan on dedicating my life to saving lives. I turn off the gas and search for my mug and a bag of tranquility peach tea. Carefully I pour the hot water, adding a few drops of honey to sweeten it.

  Breathe, it’s almost over, Aspen. The dark emotions inside me continue spiraling, pushing my mind into a dark place. My body is having trouble coping, but I won’t let the nothingness win. I’ve followed the stages to avoid a panic attack. So far nothing has worked. Stopping in front of the medicine cabinet, I open it to search for my pill bottle—it’s almost tomorrow I can take it now. Wait, did I forget to take my medicine? Fuck, the bottle is full. When was the last time I swallowed my anxiety pill? No wonder I’m losing my shit. Brynn is going to kill me when she realizes I’ve been skipping doses. Using my shaky hands to fight with the safety cap, I take a pill and swallow it without water.