Catch My Fall (20 page)

Yvonne Porter had become more than my assistant. She was my friend, and she was bipolar. She’d spent years in and out of hospitals when she was younger, only finding the appropriate cocktail of medications before starting her first year of college. She was well maintained, often coming across as quirky and maybe a little nervous, but by no means an unhinged individual. She told me her condition made her a lot of fun – scary fun at times, but fun. Until it wasn’t fun anymore.

Our firm closing meant the loss of her insurance. It meant not being able to pay for the pills that kept her from lying in bed all day sobbing and screaming until someone complained about the smell coming from her apartment. That meeting ended with the two of us being escorted out with our potted plants.

I saw her to her car that day and watched her pull out of the garage into the streets of Boston before I started my drive home to my quiet condo, in a line of identical beige condos, with bushes outside their doors that smelled like cat pee. I made it three streets from work before I had to pull into a parking lot and sob. My sight was so blurred by tears that I had to feel for the buttons on my phone to call my mother. Over the next few months, as I tried desperately to pretend the world wasn’t falling apart - I lost track of those who’d fallen with me. That last day of work, I felt everything they felt; every panic, every cringe, every temper flare. Yet as days passed, my need to know their wellbeing was drowned out by my own troubles. I’d let them fade, drift away like some forgotten raft after the summer ends. Part of me wondered if I let them drift out so I wouldn’t be able to hear them drowning.

I wanted to believe I was better than that. I wanted a lot of things.

"OMG! Omg! I'm so glad you're onnnnnn!"

I could practically hear her through the exaggerated type.
"How are you?"

"I'm sooooooooo amaZING!"

I stared at the words, searching for the comraderic excitement that should come with such a declaration.
"That's so great! What are you up to?"

Yvonne
- "Omg! I haven't talked to you in sooooo long! There's so much!"

I discovered that she was currently living in Tennessee after hopping a Greyhound bus in search of greener pastures. After meeting a guy and settling, then meeting another guy and resettling, she'd traveled through Georgia, fallen in love with a Lakota man in South Dakota, discovered the 'vibe' of Portland, Oregon to be just right for her and discovered Hollywood was too plastic. She finally explained that she was now on a farm in Tennessee, happily typing to me while her bunkmate slept.

"That does sound pretty amazing!"
I said, and I meant it, with no lack of what I can only describe as overwhelming envy. Despite the seeming aimlessness of her pursuits, she was living. In comparison, I felt pathetic. I felt boring. The only news I had to share was that I was newly single and might have an interview on Thursday.

Yvonne -
"You would love it! There are actual cowboys here, Faye! I'm soooo buying a pair of boots!"

My mind wandered. I thought of the characters I would meet on the road, imagined myself being swept up by some handsome cowboy on some green stretch of Earth where we were the only people for miles and having loud sex under the stars. Oddly, that cowboy had Stellan's face. I shook my head at the image of him in a cowboy hat and moved on.
"I bet I would!"

Yvonne -
"You have no idea!! Something about the fresh air must be medicinal or something, because I've never felt this good! It's like I've never seen color before or something."

I waited a moment. There was a suspicion sneaking into the conversation that I was afraid to admit.

"How did your docs take it when you left?"
I asked.

There was no response. I noticed my tea was getting cool when I finally reached for it.

Yvonne -
"Probably not good. I didn't ask!"

And there it was.

She had a tendency to declare her misbehavior to me when it came to her health. Like a misbehaving child that tattles on themselves to see the reaction.

"Are you taking your medications?"

Yvonne -
"Of course not! Fresh air does the job just fine!"

Foreboding tone Me -
"...Vonnie..."

Yvonne -
"WHAT!!????? Why can't anyone be happy for me!?"

"I am happy for you,"
I said.
"I just want you to be happy too."

Yvonne -
"I AM! I'm doing so amazing!!!"

Rain on your parade Me -
"What happens when you're not doing so amazing?"

Yvonne -
"OMG! Shut up! YOu sound like my mom!"

I didn't respond.

Yvonne -
“Omg! I'm gonna send you pictures!"

Her tone was already shifting to that dangerous place - that irrational joy she would get that resulted in poor decisions and poor reactions when plans didn't go as she expected. I pictured her roaming the streets of some distant city, no one knowing where she was, getting picked up by dangerous men - something that had happened before.

I signed off, wishing her well and begging her to be careful. I wanted to call someone, wanted to feel that connection to someone and distance myself from the image of Yvonne lost and out of her mind somewhere.

One face came to the fore - Stellan.

I'd listened to her adventures with envy. I'd read each location with longing. I'd told her I was happy for her, but it wasn't the truth. The truth was that I felt almost relieved to hear she wasn’t taking her pills - that this bliss might just be a symptom of something sinister, and that it would end.

I fought hard not to consider the implication of feeling relief at another person’s misfortune.

There is something to be said about that old phrase - misery really does love company. Or I guess more importantly, it hates to see others outside its doom laden, self-built cocoon. My cocoon was comfy, looked like a Crate and Barrel catalog, and my mother paid all the bills for me to fester therein.

I settled my thumb over Stellan's name, but I didn't call. At that moment, the mental image of Yvonne wrapped in a blanket at the bay of some ambulance, relaying her experiences of assault and violence as she once had dragged me from the comfort of my holier-than-thou fit. I’d had the seeds of the thought that inspires lesser people to utter the phrase, “she brought it on herself.” I was not that person. I decided to shoot her an email later, telling her how jealous and proud I was and how great it would be to see her and have coffee if she passes back this way.

Still, at that moment, I just wasn’t ready to.

I set my phone down, the muscles of my hand relaxing for the first time in about ten minutes. Though I wanted to hear his voice, I was too ashamed at that moment to want him to hear mine.

***

Wednesday.

Whoever has anything truly important to do on a Wednesday? I mean really. It was another one of those days – the ones where you don't really have anything to do and the sheer enormity of that fact cripples you where you stand. Still, Wednesday was the day before Thursday, and that knowledge settled in my stomach like a lump of still cindering coal. I tried coffee to calm the sensation, but there was no remedy. I would spend my pointless Wednesday fretting.

By the time I was done fretting that afternoon, my stomach was churning with a seething hate reserved for Nazis and puppy kickers, and had almost the entire contents of my closet strewn across that cloud top mattress in an attempt to choose an outfit for my interview. I had no luck. I did, however, have a plan for a trip to goodwill with half of the clothes I owned. I tried on a few things, giving my sense of defeat a chance to be proven wrong, and instead ended up down in the kitchen searching for a trash bag to cart upstairs and violently fill with all of my pants.

My mom caught me as she came in from work. She smiled, and today she meant it.

"Hey hon. What're you up to?"

I shrugged. "Taking out my frustration on some denim. How was your day?"

She dumped her bag on the table beside the door and smiled wider, her teeth showing as she paused. This was the real deal.

"Oh, just great," she said.

I leaned against the staircase and listened to her - the new exhibition was traveling through town, and she was planning the gallery where the works were going to be displayed. She only had to say the name once, and I understood the smile; Pollock. It was happening.

She overflowed with joy and words like ‘emotive,’ ‘sensual,’ and ‘Springs Period.’ I had no idea what she was talking about. By my mother’s account, the exhibit paralleled the birth of baby Jesus.

“Would you like to come in for a visit and catch the exhibit? I’m sure you could convince Stellan to go with you.”

I smiled. “When does it open?”

Before I could protest my fate, not only did I have plans to visit the museum the following Tuesday, but I had her intermittent company for the rest of the afternoon, flitting around the house like a peacock in mating season. In fact, by the time I was beginning to feel the subtle pains of supper calling, she’d managed to pry information about the job, the comic strips I’d drawn, and Stellan’s game, without my even realizing I was talking about them.

Pamela Jensen is a witch, ladies and gentlemen. When she deems you worthy of her wiles, you will be caught unawares, and before the end of the day, you’ll be sipping a Chardonnay and watching Oprah with her on her living room couch.

Yes, that did happen – and I had several suggestions for job interview attire the next day.

Witchcraft, I tell you. There’s no force greater than my mother in a good mood. She didn’t retire to her room until well past ten. I’d honestly enjoyed her company.

Her suggestions for the interview the next day were simple – business casual, dressed up with appropriate accessories.

“A colorful scarf or a nice costume piece - if you go in there dressed like some stuffy old broad, that’s exactly what they’ll see, and that isn’t you, is it Faye Bear?”

That was her suggestion, and let’s be honest, by then she was riding high on that Chardonnay. Still, she wasn’t wrong. After she drifted up the stairs to her room, I proceeded to return half of my options to their stalwart position in the very back of my walk-in closet. I worked with my stereo on and caught my mother dancing down the hallway on her way to the bathroom a half an hour later as I culled the pile before me. Apparently she could get down to
Take on Me
by A-Ha. I laughed at her, listening as she attempted the high note from the bathroom door, cracking miserably, yet holding it with the conviction of a Gospel Choir Soloist. When she passed back down the hall she demanded a good night kiss, and disappeared into her room.

There’s something to be said about the mid to late afternoon interview. Sadly, I’d convinced myself that scheduling early in the day would give a good impression.

Look world, I am, in fact, capable of getting up before noon. Hire me!

That kind of initiative has a tendency to backfire when you can’t actually get up before noon, but let’s pretend that didn’t happen. I woke up on what must have been the sixth alarm, having slammed the snooze button in my sleep apparently, and threw myself out of bed. I dove into the shower with such force that not only did I forget to take my socks off when I climbed in, I managed to leave half the conditioner in my hair when I jumped out. No matter! I brushed, I flossed, I smiled wide into the mirror, and I planned my greeting and the caliber of grin I would give to the oncoming horde of potential workmates. And above all, I managed to get my eyeliner on without looking like Tammy Fay Baker. Yet when I returned to my bedroom, despite all the planning and plotting, the nerves got the better of me, and I completely forgot where I’d hidden my perfectly planned outfit. I tore through drawers, flipped through hangers and found items for a potential Cyndi Lauper costume for the Halloween Party the next day, but I was pretty sure my future boss wasn’t looking to hire Cyndi Lauper.

Well, maybe he was, but probably not some whack job dressed as her. When I finally started up my car, I was running twenty five minutes late, and I was dressed like a stuffy old broad. Pants suit and white blouse to the rescue. I followed my mom’s advice last minute and stole one of her scarves from the downstairs closet. I was ten minutes down the road before I realized I was wearing a Monet painting in fabric form around my neck.

“Great Faye, you look like a fucking librarian.”

The firm was located in an old brick building in West Concord that housed a Starbucks and the offices of an international weapons company – awesome. Traffic was kind, and I made it with three minutes to spare. Not exactly the sort of entrance I wanted to make, hauling my tired ass up three flights of stairs only to greet the secretary, breathlessly. She smiled from behind horn-rimmed glasses, her lip piercing glinting in the overhead light. I should have taken her appearance as a baseline, but I was too antsy.

“Faye! So great to finally meet you,” said a man as he rounded the corner in an untucked white button down shirt and faded blue jeans. He seemed to pause at the sight of me. I could imagine his thoughts.

I gestured to my outfit. “I came straight from my Bridge game, clearly.”

Dennis Shay had one of those full bodied laughs, the kind you expect from a man with a bowl full of jelly belly. Yet Mr. Shay was far from jelly. Dennis Shay was a few inches taller than me, his head shaved bald to counter a receding hairline, and his frame betraying an athletic lifestyle. He hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and shifted weight from toe to heel as he introduced me to Margarite; the receptionist. He made a point to compliment her on her Bettie Page look, then gestured for me to follow, his smile constant and bright.

We rounded the corner of the front desk wall, and I was greeted with the full expanse of the office.

The room was wide and open, and people milled around desks and printers by the red brick walls. The space was reminiscent of some comic hero newsroom where editors yelled from their corner offices for some seemingly meager paperboy who in his spare time thwarted nuclear catastrophe without wish of credit. I scanned the faces, wondering which one of the lot was secretly allergic to Kryptonite before following Dennis into his office. There was no desk, no separation to declare hierarchy. We sat, and he smiled, leaning in toward me.