Catch My Fall (2 page)

Meghan was at the ready with her thoughts. “No, stopping for a latte is a spur of the moment thing. Getting your clit pierced is-”

“Hey, at least my landing strip is clean,” Jackie said.

Meghan held up a hand. “Damn straight it is!”

They immediately high fived, and Jackie went on to explain the intricacies of just how ‘not so bad’ getting pierced was. We listened, but stopped her before certain details. Hearing your friend describe the ‘most excruciating pain you’ll ever feel’ in reference to that region was well off my list of things to learn more about.

Meghan shook her head, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “Seriously though, what kind of dirty slut would let a guy like Cole take a picture of her pierced hoohah?”

“He doesn’t have any of yours, does he?” Jackie asked.

I shook my head. “No! Never!”

Meghan hummed her approval. “See, cause you’re not a dirty fucking skank.”

I thought about it for a moment.

“Well -” When I was trying to convince myself it was my uncleanly waxed and pierced toonana I was looking at, I wasn’t startled so much by the idea of having posed for it. “I can’t say I would never let someone take such a picture. If he were the right guy -”

Jackie made a face. “And you’d had a few.”

Yes, Jackie knew me well.

Meghan shook her head. “Honey. No matter who the guy is, if you let the bastard take a picture of your pussy, you best expect that somebody else is gonna see it.”

“Not necessarily,” Jackie said, and I sensed she’d taken part in a few of her own erotic photo shoots. I hurt when I thought of Jackie and her devoted husband, Kevin. There was no question in my mind that if Kevin had such a picture of Jackie, he’d be dead before it saw the light of day. There was also no question in my mind that if Kevin asked, Jackie would be bare-assed with her feet behind her head before Kevin could get his phone out of his pocket.

“No, I’m sorry. You have to assume that if a guy wants a trophy like that, he’s probably got a trophy case somewhere,” Meghan said, snatching up her iced coffee to take a sip.

That bothered me. If there was one, what if there were more? It must’ve played on my face, because both women were soon holding my hands and consoling me yet again. A little before one, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall from the kitchen just as Meghan collected her keys.

The footsteps startled me. Stellan had come.

Why after all these years was I surprised?

Meghan greeted Stellan as he came in from the kitchen, then apologized for leaving. She offered to take me shopping for something sexy that evening. I wasn’t ready to feel sexy.

Stellan plopped down on the couch beside me, cracking a can of root beer he’d snagged from the fridge. He turned on the TV as Jackie collected her coat to head out as well. We exchanged a few more agitated words –
he’s a schmuck, you’re too good for him, if I see him on the street I’ll run him down
. She and Stellan smiled at each other.

“I’m a phone call away,” Jackie said. With that she slipped out the front door.

I sat next to Stellan watching as he flipped through channels - soap operas, news casts, and cartoons all bled together as my eyes grew heavy.

Stellan glanced my way, and I fought to keep my expression still. Then, he shifted and turned off the TV. A second later, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and the next thing I knew, I was pulled into his chest, and I was sobbing.

I leaned on the counter as Stellan made himself a sandwich. He’d asked for permission to raid the fridge, since I was standing right there. Most occasions, he wouldn’t bother asking. You might think such a cavalier attitude toward manners is rude, but Stellan spent so much of his free time at my house during our friendship, my mother finally demanded he simply stop asking and treat our house as his own. Even though I’d been living in Arlington, and Stellan and I rarely saw each other for years, the minute I came home, we picked up where we left off. Easy enough when he lives less than a quarter mile down the street. Stellan comes by, keeps me company, takes what he wants from the fridge and despite my mother’s protests, delivers groceries to the house every few weeks to replenish the stock.

Stellan Odegard is a monster of a man – 6’5” or so, though I’ve never bothered to measure him and he doesn’t seem to care. He’s a black belt with a blond mullet that he’s maintained since high school despite everyone nagging him to cut it, and an inappropriate humor that simply ruins me. His father, Lennart, is a Swedish immigrant who married his American mother, Linda, after learning English from her when he first went to business school in Sweden. Despite Lennart’s stoic nature, Stellan was raised in the most disgustingly loving household ever. He still happily lives in his parent’s basement a few blocks from my house. He teaches Ninjitsu in West Concord, and when he isn’t playing video games, he’s programming iPhone applications on his five thousand dollar laptop, or he’s here - eating my food.

He pulled out the ingredients for two sandwiches, and I declined before he could make the second. He raised an eyebrow. I couldn’t help but laugh. The second sandwich wasn’t intended for me.

“Though, now that you mention it, have you eaten anything today?” Stellan asked.

I shook my head. We both glanced at the clock. It was two thirty. I was about to get reprimanded if I didn’t eat something. I didn’t care. My stomach was in knots. I was anxious as though some terrible event were about to take place. Then I’d remember it already had.

Stellan didn’t push eating as I’d expected, but he did offer me a bite. I took one. It felt like eating paste. Stellan pushed a second bite, but I declined. We sat on the couch watching taped episodes of America’s Funniest Home Videos despite his having made fun of me for loving them for years. Apparently today it was ok to laugh at people falling down. And I did, I laughed every chance I could.

Stellan and I spent the afternoon together until Meghan returned around six. The three of us sat there, Meghan doing most of the talking, but when she again offered to take me out for some girl time and shopping – anything to distract me - I just wasn’t ready. Those penguin pajamas were really comfortable and stupid television felt miraculous. She hung out for a little while, then left. Stellan followed shortly thereafter, having blown off a day’s worth of work to be with me. It took a few minutes to convince him it was alright to go. I collected myself from the living room couch and went upstairs. My mother was still out, Monday night being her standing dinner date with someone from the Museum.

I had the house to myself. Rather than blare some Billy Idol or sing loudly while cooking myself dinner, I simply crawled into my bed. On the bedside table, my cell phone sat silent where I left it that morning. I’d wanted to avoid hearing Cole’s ringtone when he texted or called. Yet after a day with friends, I was ready to face whatever pathetic attempts he’d made to excuse himself.

There were texts from Meghan, Jackie, and a message from Stellan to let him know if I needed him to come back to the house.

Nothing from Cole. He hadn’t called to fix things. He hadn’t chased me down to explain this pain away.

He’d done nothing.

I cried harder then than I had all day.

CHAPTER TWO

T
here is healing power in sleep. I don’t know if it’s the therapy of dreams, the passage of time, but no matter how miserable you are when you fall asleep, you wake up feeling just a little lighter.

Well, today wasn’t one of those days.

I woke up with the feeling of a vice clamped onto my temples and a wolverine in my stomach. I managed to get out of bed with one simple purpose – take Tylenol - then go back to bed.

Too lazy to rub the gunk out of my eyes, I found my mother topless, sitting lotus style in the center of the living room floor with her morning coffee steaming away in a nearby mug.

Pamela Jensen was an eccentric.

She was an art curator, a painter, a poet, a nude yoga practitioner (and teacher), spoke three languages, and let her salt and pepper hair grow wild and long. It was pinned up in a bun at the top of her head, letting the power of ‘tits out yoga’ work its full magic.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Damn it, Faye. You grew up with the ‘naked time’ behavior, why are you so startled now?

Maybe because I’ve lived on my own for almost ten years and have kept my ‘Mom’s tits’ quota to an absolute minimum?

I took a deep breath. I should have known, given the ambient spa music oozing from the downstairs stereo. I tried to pass by her without disturbing her, but she glanced my way.

I smiled and hurried by, praying she wouldn’t try to have a conversation with me until
after
she put a shirt on.

She smiled at me, but the jovial look was fleeting. I’d betrayed my mood, and I was practically half asleep.

Shit, shit, shit! Half naked meaningful talk incoming! Please don’t hug me, Mom. I’m too fragile for Mom boobs right now!

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Should’ve stayed in bed.

“Yeah, just a headache.”

“Well, let’s take care of that,” she said and was off the floor in a heartbeat, gliding down the kitchen hallway in her baggy yoga pants toward the medicine cabinet, her breasts tanned and undulating as mammaries are wont to do.

She popped a couple of pills from the bottle and handed them over. When I received my bounty it included a multi-vitamin and a St. John’s Wort. Ah, the pleasures of having a crunchy mother.

I didn’t complain. I didn’t want her efforts to feel unwelcome. She offered me coffee or orange juice. Standing before the open fridge, tits still out. I chose water and downed the pills. She stood leaning against the counter, silent, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched me. She knew I would open up if there was something to tell. I told my mother everything that went on in my life. When my company went under, she was the first person I called. She spent ten minutes assuring me that some other company would snatch me up in a heartbeat and be more than happy to match my just over six figure salary. When I realized I was going to lose the condo, she took a half hour explaining why such an event was a blessing in disguise and that my bedroom was always ready if I ever needed it. Yet, despite those moments of unadulterated positivity, on that morning, I felt allergic to her sunshine.

I was especially allergic to topless sunshine. Sure, I grew up with her nudity, but having lived on my own for so long, coming home to it felt odd.

I drank the rest of my water and wished her a good day at work, then turned back for my warm bed and the serenity of not being conscious.

“I’ll leave the mat out for you? A little yoga might be just the thing to settle your mind.”

I grumbled my approval as I hunched up the stairs. “Sure. That sounds great.”

Mom stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching me as I escaped back into my bedroom.

I listened to her get ready for work, then relished the sound of her car pulling down the road.

I spent the day lying there replaying each moment I’d spent with Cole – each kiss, each gift he’d bought me, each Valentine’s Day, each sexual encounter. I tried to recover from those memories with the terrible and miserable ones that had come in between, but I couldn’t help but miss him. I hated myself for it.

I didn’t go back downstairs.

I didn’t do any yoga.

I didn’t change out of those penguin pajamas for three weeks.

***

“Honey?” My mother called from outside my door one morning. I murmured for her to come in. “I made some eggs. Scrambled with ham and cheese, do you want to come down, or should I bring it up here?”

“I’m not really hungry. Thank you, though.”

She stood at the door a moment. I could almost hear her fretting. Finally, she delivered the eggs to my bedside table and headed off to work.

I didn’t eat a bite.

This was another infuriating part of living with your parents – not only to do they like nudity a little too much for your tastes, they have the audacity to care about you.

I tried not to feel guilty for causing my mother worry. It wasn’t working.

When noon rolled around, I heard heavy footsteps across the downstairs floor. My brow furrowed and I turned to watch as my door swung open, slamming against my bedside table. Stellan appeared in the doorway and jumped on the bed. He knelt beside me, bouncing up and down, chanting “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

I slammed my pillow into his face and returned to my prone position. He had me by the ankles in a millisecond.

“Let go of me!”

“God, you fucking stink.”

I kicked at him, pulling feet from his grasp. “Oh, and you smell like roses?”

Stellan grabbed my wrist, hoisted me up off the bed and over his shoulder. I screamed, but it was no use. When he wanted you to move, you had no choice.

Stellan shifted me on his shoulder. “What can I say? Some days, I sweat awesome. You on the other hand are just festering. I’m doing everyone a fucking favor.”

“Fuck you!”

“You wish.”

I kicked and pushed against him, but he simply ducked himself through the doorjambs and carried me to the linen closet. He set me on my feet, pulled out a couple towels, and pressed them to my chest.

I glared up at him. He’d been my best friend for most of my life, but damn it, I’ve lived on my own – a grownup – for almost ten years. Suddenly I’m back home and he’s treating me like he did when we were in high school. Who the fuck did this guy think he was? “You suck, you know that right?”

“Hey, it ain’t my fault your mom called me.”

She did? Oh god, I thought.

He turned me toward the bathroom door. “I should be fucking working, right now. So suck it the fuck up. You’re not spending the day in bed.”

“I fucking hate you.”

Stellan puckered his lips and made kissing sounds as he pushed me toward the shower. “Love you too.”

He clomped down the stairs and turned on the TV. I knew if I tried to get back in bed, he’d be back up here in ten minutes, and we would go through this scene all over again, only next time he’d use his big voice.