This Is Falling(86)

I take a trip upstairs, because I like torturing myself. It feels good, takes away the other things I’m trying not to let simmer to the top of my mind. I’ll be angry about this instead. My room is nothing more than a pile of boxes, stacked neatly in the middle, and labeled “North Room 2.” My parents’ room is pretty much the same, except there’s a tattered looking air mattress with a few rumpled blankets sitting in the middle of the room. The move, it seems, is happening very soon.

“Hello?” my mother’s voice calls from downstairs, and my heart starts thumping fast again, my hands naturally forming into angry fists.

“Rowe? Are you here?” my father calls out now, and I exit their room, charging down the stairs. “Oh, honey. You’re home,” he says, opening his arms, expecting me to hug him. I can’t come near him—I can’t come near anyone!

“What were you thinking?” I growl, rushing beyond their reach to the foyer, where my bags are still dropped by the door.

“Nate called us, told us you were coming home.” My dad’s voice is calm, and I don’t know why, but it only makes me angrier. I don’t like being coddled. This is coddling.

“Stop it! Just…just stop this! Both of you! Quit pretending this…this…is normal!” I shout, turning slowly in a circle, my hands gesturing to the packed house and the darkness that seems to be settled everywhere. “None of this is normal! And I don’t need you to feed me make-believe!”

“I told you. But you wouldn’t listen,” my mother says under her breath, walking away from my father and pushing through the kitchen door. My dad stares after her, his face pained. He’s upset that my mom is upset, that this situation is upsetting her. But what about me?

“Hey! Here!” I say, snapping at him and forcing his focus on nothing but my face. My dad is speechless, and all he can do is cover his mouth with his hand and shake his head. “You don’t get to feel bad that she’s angry. She’s right! This was a bad idea, keeping this from me. You stole everything from me! Everything! Josh is dead! And it should have been me! I get to live, but he died. And I didn’t even see him!”

My dad is still frozen, staring; I can feel my mom coming back behind me. Her fingers are on my shoulder, and I jerk, but she holds on, and I jerk again. “Rowe, honey…” she says, and somehow my cage cracks the tiniest bit, and my lungs stutter with one big cry, but I bite my lip quickly, doing my best to hold it in.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” I say, my voice softer now. “I didn’t get to say goodbye. He didn’t know I was there. He was alone. I left him…alone. And I didn’t even say goodbye…”

My eyes are flooded with tears now, and I can no longer stop myself from feeling. Anger can only carry you so far, and mine has run out. Now, I am only devastated. I collapse to the floor, and my mom collapses with me, pulling me to her body and rocking me in her arms while my dad still stands in front of us—his hand to his mouth, and his eyes crying just as hard as mine are.





I cried for a solid hour, and I don’t remember breathing. My mom managed to find a box with towels and pulled one free for me so I could take a shower. I feel like a zombie—not as ugly as the Walking Dead, but as animated. I pull a clean outfit from the top of my suitcase, a purple sweater and a pair of jeans, and then run a comb through my tangled hair.

“I packed the dryer. I’ve just been towel drying,” my mom says behind me.

“That’s fine,” I say, scrunching the ends of my hair until the dripping stops. I turn to face her, and she reaches up to my face, holding her hand to my cheek, and I close my eyes because I don’t want to pull away. But I’m still so angry. “When do the movers come?”

“Tuesday,” she says, her hand still there. It’s making my face feel hot. “We meant well, Rowe.” And just hearing her say that starts a new chain reaction through my bloodstream. I breathe in long and deeply, forcing the boiling inside back down to a simmer.

“I know,” I say, but it comes out cold. I can’t say it any other way. I know they meant well. Everyone meant well. But it doesn’t make me forgive them, not yet. I still can’t forgive myself. “I need to go to his house.”

“I know,” my mom says. We stand there in this face-off for several seconds, and in that time, I play out everything I’m walking into—so I’m prepared for it, prepared for everything I’m about to feel. “They’re expecting you. I’ll take you when you’re ready.”

My mom leaves, and I spend the next few minutes putting on eyeliner and lip-gloss, and then twist my hair up into a clip. I look like that girl…the one from two years ago who used to get dropped off at Josh’s house for movie night. It feels right to go there looking like this.

My dad doesn’t talk, but he comes along for the car ride with my mom and me. We pull up to the Andersons’ home; I notice the For Sale sign planted in the yard, and it makes my eyes tear up again. I remind myself to breathe, just breathe, and then I put my hand to the car door, still not convinced if I can do this. “Do you want me to go in with you?” Mom asks.

“No, I’m okay,” I croak. One last inhale, and I pull the handle and step to the curb. Everything here looks the same—the same black door with the gold handle, the same bench sitting off to the side, and the same pillows stitched with owls on the front. I can almost visualize Josh sitting there, pulling his cleats from his feet and banging them together to get out the chunks of dirt.