Feel Me Fall Read online

  I finally stepped on the bottom.

  Up close, Nico’s body was in way worse shape than he seemed from afar. There was no way he would walk. No way he would move. I was surprised he’d even survived. Aside from his original injuries from the crash, the bruises and cuts and scrapes, his body was littered with new wounds, the bones of his legs broken like a shattered set of Jenga blocks. Pain must’ve overwhelmed him into unconsciousness. Tangled among his limbs was my cross-body bag.

  Lifting the flap, it was empty. Our foot chase had been for nothing. How long had the mushrooms been gone? It didn’t matter. These were facts: Nico was severely injured. There was no way I could carry him on a bamboo stretcher. And I doubted anyone in the group would volunteer to share the load.

  Nico would die here, that was certain.

  But he was alive now.

  Derek yelled from above, his voice echoing down, “IS THERE FOOD?”

  That was his first question. Not Is he all right? Not What do we do? Not Can we save him?

  I looked at the empty bag, considering the ramifications of my answer. “Yes. There’s some left.”

  “GOOD.”

  If I had told him there wasn’t any food, I feared they’d leave immediately, and maybe even leave me. If I had food, I was valuable. I was worth waiting for.

  As if reading my thoughts, Derek called down: “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?”

  Then Nico gasped. His eyes were open, his head lying on the ground as if it were detached, like a robotic piece left over from a useless body. Nothing else moved, just the muscles around his lips and eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Blood trickled from his mouth.

  “It’s okay,” I said dumbly, not knowing what else to say.

  “Can you…reach into my pocket? I can’t move my fingers.” He motioned with his eyes. “Give me the rest of what’s in there.”

  I rummaged through his pocket, wondering if I was causing him more pain. If so, he didn’t wince. I drew out the plastic baggie. It was empty. There weren’t even seeds or tiny bits of grass-like pieces. “I’m sorry, Nico,” and I showed him the baggie.

  He coughed and spit out more blood. He shut his eyes and all was still. I thought he had died. After a moment, his lips moved. “I’m not gonna make it, am I?”

  Did he want honesty? What else was there?

  “Rest,” I said. “You’ve come a long way.”

  Nico glanced at his broken watch and tried to joke. “Some things can’t be fixed, can they?” He laughed and it morphed into a cry. He softly sang, the lyrics jumbled and nonsensical.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE?” Derek’s voice rattled the tranquility. I wanted to tell him to shut up. No matter Nico’s “crime,” he deserved a peaceful death.

  Nico’s song became more of a hum, and then he stopped. He was winded. “Can you stay here with me…?”

  I didn’t know how long it would be—minutes, an hour? I didn’t think Derek and the group would wait that long. I hated weighing Nico’s needs against my own, computing my survival against his death.

  Nico said, “I don’t want the animals….”

  Come nightfall, if not sooner, they would rip him apart. I wanted to protect him. But I couldn’t. I knew Derek was right and I cursed his logic as his voice pinballed in my head: this is survival.

  I decided to wait a little bit and hope he would pass. It couldn’t be too much longer.

  “EMILY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

  Nico opened his eyes. “Go.”

  Seconds passed, each one an entire universe. His last words to me were “The sun feels nice.”

  I started back up the path, and going up was much harder. Step by step, I rose from the depths, climbing to Molly, Viv, and Derek, leaving death behind and moving to life. My tears blurred my vision and I had to wipe them away. I had to steel myself to climb back up. I promised myself I would cry oceans of tears, but right now I couldn’t. I climbed and I rose. I decided not to look back. I wanted to remember Nico alive. I wanted to remember him as the man who had loved me. Or maybe I didn’t want the image of his dying—dying alone because he’d been chased—burned into my mind.

  Chapter 22

  In the hospital, I wake to the sounds of faint clicking. I’ve been sleeping a lot and it’s less from exhaustion and more from depression. Dreaming is my escape, my drug. There’s too much pressure to live up to the preciousness of life when compared to the absence of everyone else’s. It’s a burden I don’t want and never asked for, as though all the deeds and things they would’ve accomplished now belong to me. I have to make up for their loss. I will never cure cancer; I will never change the world; I will barely be remembered after my own death. So how can I measure up?

  Across from me my mother sits on a chair, laptop open, and she’s reading and scrolling down, her fingers tapping with a click, click, click.

  Reading my journal.

  “Mom.”

  She looks up, and I understand the cliché of a deer in headlights. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t know it was private.”

  “It is.”

  She still doesn’t shut it. “But you were so brave.”

  “Mom, please turn it off.”

  “I must’ve done something right, then, to raise you like that.”

  She must’ve read the parts I wrote about her. “It’s just my way of getting things down. Explaining things. Like the counselor said.”

  “Well, it’s very good.”

  “I don’t care if it’s good.” It occurs to me this isn’t the first time she’s been reading. She’s probably been sneaking peeks every time I fall asleep. “You called that agent guy, didn’t you?”

  She looks at the window with its closed blinds as if picturing the view outside. “I just thought…on some level, I knew what you had gone through, but to read it…I’m sorry you had to experience that. You like to think you can protect your kid, not that I was a great parent….” I don’t argue with her. “But you hope. And I thought—people have to know.” There’s steeliness in her voice. “People have to know my daughter didn’t suffer for nothing.” She pauses and looks at me. “Are you mad?”

  “I wish you would’ve asked me first.”

  “I meant to.”

  The things I meant to, as well. Like mother, like daughter.

  “I wish you would’ve told me,” she says, “about your relationship.”

  “With my teacher? Yeah, that would’ve gone over real well.”

  “I think you forget I know what it’s like to be in love. To love the wrong man.” She smiles. “Or men.” When I don’t fill in the empty silence, she asks, “Did you love him?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did he love you?”

  I don’t answer.

  “He seemed like…an interesting man.”

  “Is that your way of calling him a pervert?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” She sighs. “I don’t want to fight with you, Em. I want to be your friend.”

  I want to say: And I want a mother. “It’s easy to say now.”

  “I know.” She finally closes the laptop and places it on my bed.

  We sit in silence. I say, “I’m sorry I left the note for you.” I’m sorry for a lot of things. Guilt eats at me like a withering disease and I think of all the pain and worry I’ve caused. My life is filled with so many bad decisions and there’s no way to erase them.

  “At least,” my mother says, “something good came from that trip. Us talking. Really talking.”

  I’m 17, soon to be 18, and then out of the house, probably forever. Why couldn’t we have talked before? Why did it take a tragedy to say how we feel?

  She fidgets with her fingers, probably craving a cigarette. “You made me think about things. Things that need changing. Things I’ve been ignoring for a long time. What you went through, what you did to survive…I can’t let you down anymore.”

  She kisses my forehead. “I’m proud of you, Emily. I’m
sorry I never told you that. Or how beautiful you are. I’m proud you’re my daughter.”

  I can see tears welling in her eyes, and she excuses herself before she loses control.

  When I reached the top of the cliff, Derek grasped my hand and helped heave me up. Once safe, I moved away from the ledge. He took my cross-body bag, looked inside, and had the look of someone who has smelled something bad.

  “I thought you said there was some left.”

  “I know, but when I looked, they were covered in blood.” The lie slid easily off my lips. “We couldn’t eat bloody mushrooms.”

  “We could’ve washed them off. It’s not like Nico had AIDS.”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  He rummaged through the bag. “I don’t see any blood in here. No stains. There’s nothing wet.”

  “Do you think I’m lying?”

  He eyed me suspiciously. “I know you, Emily. I know you’re not telling me something. And I want to know why.”

  “I told you.”

  “Turn out your pockets.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” he said.

  “I didn’t take any mushrooms, Derek.” He stood in front me, arms crossed, waiting. I could’ve thrown a fit, but I was too tired, and it was easier to acquiesce. “Fine.” My pockets were empty. “Satisfied?”

  “You could’ve eaten them. No one would’ve seen you.”

  “You’re right. I could’ve eaten them. But I didn’t.” To prove my point, I opened my mouth to let him inspect. He didn’t.

  “Then why’d you lie?”

  I figured the truth was better than him thinking I’d eaten food meant for the group. “I wanted you to wait for me.”

  He cocked his head like a confused dog. “You think we would’ve left you down there? That I would’ve left you?” His confusion turned to disgust. “Who do you think we are? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are.”

  He lifted the empty cross-body bag and threw it back at me. “Sure feels like it.”

  “Derek….”

  “Never mind.” He walked off, joining Molly and Viv.

  As we made our way back to the river’s edge, I thought of Ryan and Nico. Two bodies never to be seen again, lost to the jungle, bones scattered. I hated the jungle and yet I didn’t say it aloud. Nico had and he was dead. I knew it was irrational, but it seemed that to criticize the jungle out loud was to welcome a curse. As if the jungle would hear and focus all of its efforts so that I would never leave its grip ever again.

  It was Molly who asked me, “What did he say?”

  It took me a moment to realize she meant Nico. I turned to Viv, and she wasn’t interested; her legs were like the pendulum of a clock, always moving.

  His last words belonged to me. I wouldn’t share them. “He didn’t say anything.”

  “You were down there long enough.”

  “You could’ve come with.”

  Molly motioned towards her belly. “I couldn’t risk it.”

  I kept forgetting Molly was pregnant. I didn’t know any pregnant people, and I didn’t know what their symptoms were. I laughed—symptoms, as if being pregnant was a condition or a disease. At least in the midst of all this death, there was something comforting to know there was life among us, too. A life that wouldn’t know this horror. A life I hoped that would be born someplace far from here.

  “Have you thought of any names?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” After a few moments, she said, “Maybe ‘John’ if he was a boy. After his dad. I haven’t thought if it’s a girl. Something scarier about a girl, you know? Guys always love their mothers, but it’s the daughters who hate their moms.”

  True enough, I thought.

  “Why don’t you call her Molly, Jr. Guys do it. Why can’t women?”

  “Or maybe MJ,” she said. “Short for Molly, Jr.”

  “MJ could stand for Molly-John.”

  “That’s perfect!”

  Weirdly enough, I was glad to help. My little contribution to this unborn baby could very well last its entire life.

  We kept walking, destined to walk downriver, towards the river, towards a hypothetical village, and I thought life was the same way. We chose a direction, walk that path, and hope for the best. Hope didn’t come easy. It had to be continuously created and called upon or it would disappear as soon as something else took its place—an itch, thought, thirst, hunger. It was Hope versus Everything Else.

  Viv walked in front of me. She seemed beyond hope.

  “Viv,” I said. “Are you okay?” I mentally chastised myself for asking such a stupid question. “You haven’t said anything since….”

  “I’m okay, Emily.” She said it with such politeness, but she seemed dead behind the eyes.

  “I don’t think you are, Viv.”

  “Did I ever tell you I spent Nico’s birthday with his family?” Her voice was flat. There was no joy, no inflection. “There were balloons and cake, and wine. His father let us have some if we didn’t drive. Later, Nico’s dad inhaled a balloon full of helium. With his squeaky voice he imitated the Munchkins, singing ‘I’m a part of the Lollipop Guild’ and he ended with Tiny Tim’s ‘God Bless Us Everyone.’ I loved his family. They were so different than my own. I thought I’d be a part of them forever.”

  “That’s sweet, Viv. I know they loved you.”

  “Nico didn’t. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” I was about to speak when she cut me off. “Don’t deny it. I know. I never made him laugh. Not like you did. He thought you were clever. I was a fool to believe he ever cared.”

  “I care, Viv.”

  “I know, Emily. You’re my best friend.” It felt worse to hear her say it and even worse that it was devoid of emotion. It was as if she were repeating a fact, trying to convince herself. She gave a forced smile, walked away and caught up to Derek. It seemed as if they were pairing off, leaving Molly and me behind.

  I’m just being paranoid, I thought.

  Turns out I wasn’t paranoid enough.

  Chapter 23

  I used to watch the occasional episode of Survivor and it always amazed me at how quickly the contestants went from looking healthy to skin-and-bones. After only a few days in the jungle, we were no different. Viv couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. She looked coltish, hipbones protruding, verging on the skeletal. We were all on the “jungle diet,” but she looked the worst for wear.

  Molly trudged with me, and I thought it best to try and make peace.

  “I liked your poem,” I said.

  “You read it?”

  I nodded. “I saw it in class.” I caught myself about to say his first name. “Mr. DeKoning said you were talented.”

  She seemed surprised. “He did?”

  “He never told you that?”

  “No,” Molly said.

  “I thought he would’ve.” We passed underneath some low hanging trees. I don’t know why I asked; I guess I was curious how he treated her. “Did you guys ever go out or did you just spend time at his apartment?”

  “I don’t really want to talk about him, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  But Molly didn’t continue with any conversation. That left me with pretty much no one to talk to.

  As the day unfolded, we ate mushrooms and grubs, and sometimes drank water that dripped from vines. Viv, Molly, and I retreated into our own little worlds while Derek seemed to expand. The jungle was becoming his playground. He got excited at his discoveries, like the vines with water or identifying the Brazilian wandering spider. Somewhere along the way he’d morphed into a giddy, walking Bill Nye The Science Guy. One of us was happy, at least.

  Time had become meaningless and at some point during the day we turned away from the river. There was no way to walk on the edge, so we entered the jungle and kept our direction. Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me, it seemed brighter up ahead. That could mean only one thing: we were approac
hing some kind of open space, and I wondered if we would soon emerge into a village.

  A village, a village, a village.

  I pulled back a branch, the lazy sunlight on the other side like some kind of angelical apparition, and we stepped out of the jungle and into what was most definitely not a village. How foolish of me to think there would be salvation here. Instead of a field with huts and cows and people, it was a muddy, wet dirt road about as wide as a four-lane highway, and it ran as far as the eye could see, disappearing into the horizon. Beneath us, the dirt was reddish, and it was riddled with muddy holes. Scattered rocks littered the area. Portions were flooded over with brown water where mosquitoes danced on their surface. It seemed completely impassable by vehicle. There was off-roading, and then there was this, a road in name only.

  A road usually meant civilization. Transportation. People. But this looked long abandoned. That made it even more depressing, as if it were a road to nowhere.

  Molly asked, “Is this what they mean by deforestation and clear-cutting?” I pictured a giant barber coming through and giving the area a buzz cut. The jungle was thick on either side, but as for the road itself there wasn’t a single tree.

  Viv surprised us all when she said, “I think it’s the Trans Amazon Highway.” As if reciting from memory, she explained the Trans Amazon Highway was a project Brazil initiated in the 1970s. A kind of Panama Canal that would cross the entire Amazon, except over land. But the project went bust. She forgot why. After she spoke, she fell back into her detached silent state.

  The land reminded me of us. Of what we used to be: vibrant with high hopes, and then depleted and left behind.

  “Well,” Derek said, “it ain’t the Yellow Brick Road, but it’s something.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. “It’s something all right.”

  As disappointed as I was to not find a village, I was happy to get a change of scenery. No more green and its numerous variations. No more claustrophobia from a canopy above. No more snakes, tarantulas or surprises lurking around every tree stump. If I tried really hard, I could picture us walking on some backwoods country road.