Feel Me Fall Read online

Molly began wiping herself with leaves, trying to clean what she could.

  “Why him?” I asked. “You could’ve picked anybody.”

  “Because I had a crush on him. He was the only guy who was kind. Who encouraged me. Who saw me.” She crumpled up the leaves and tossed them into the green. “It’s silly…but I loved him.”

  “I understand more than you know.”

  “I know,” she said. “I saw the way you two were with each other.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The day in his office after you left. Remember?”

  “But nothing happened.”

  “Nothing needed to. I just knew.” I was about to speak, and she interrupted. “Don’t deny it, Emily. My fantasy was crushed. I felt so stupid. I was this close to picking up the phone and telling everybody about you and him. About everything.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because after I thought about it…he was my teacher. And you were with him. I felt bad for you.”

  “Felt bad for me?”

  Molly nodded and pulled up her pants.

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “You’re the one who lied to get sympathy you didn’t deserve.”

  “You don’t get it. I may be fat, but I know I’m fat. I know how people look at me. But you? You make me realize how lucky I am.”

  I didn’t understand.

  “You want me spell it out for you?”

  I was stunned and my silence only emboldened her.

  “You grew up with a single mom never knowing who your father was. It’s psychology 101. Guys in school like you, but either you don’t notice, don’t care or don’t want them. Maybe it’s all three. The one guy who catches your eye is a teacher. You’re just a cliché.”

  “He’s not my father’s age.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s not your age.” She wiped her hands on the ground. “He’s probably everything you wish your father was. Instead of who your father probably is.”

  I wanted to hit her. I wanted to hit her so bad.

  I didn’t believe a word of it. Love was love, no matter the age. Molly was just jealous, lashing out. I didn’t know much about her family other than her father worked all the time and was never home. She was probably the one with daddy issues.

  I pointed at the hut. “I could just tell them the truth.”

  Molly said, “On second thought, maybe I did have a miscarriage.” She smiled. “Thanks for coming out in my time of need.” Then she walked back to the hut and I was alone.

  In Johannes’ crushing absence, soon it was me crying outside in the dark.

  Chapter 29

  I was alone. Viv, Molly and Derek were gone, lost to the jungle, lost forever.

  I walked. I had walked for so long. I had a vague sense of direction. The sun rose in the east and set in the west. I tried heading south, but god only knew what direction I really went. The jungle looked the same no matter how far I traveled, and I feared I was going in circles, always coming back to the same spot. I’d run and hoped, walked and hoped, staggered and hoped, and my hope was dying.

  I hadn’t eaten in days. Hadn’t had water save a few drops I licked from leaves. I was becoming part of the jungle.

  Every step I took was effort. Lift, step, move and repeat. I was reduced to my essence. I’d been boiled for so long, there was only the tiniest shred of life left.

  I wanted to stop.

  I wanted to lay under a tree and sleep.

  It all seemed so futile.

  But I would not die here. I would not die in this place. I would not allow everything that had happened to be lost to history, lost to the soil.

  Time was meaningless. The sun rose, the sun set; there was day and there was night, but the measurements between were nothing.

  At some point, I didn’t daydream; I didn’t think. I was aware of a strange sensation: I moved, proven by the distance I covered, but I did so without conscious effort. Rather than feel alarmed, I liked not having to be present, not having to feel every strain. I was calm, the waves of my mind placid. I moved pleasantly by some other source, floating like a bird over the undergrowth. The jungle was circus-like, a kaleidoscope of bursting color, and for all I knew I was crossing into another plane of existence.

  There was brightness ahead, light streaming from beyond the trees. It shone on me, and I thought of all the stories about near-death experiences and how they must be true. Death was coming. My life was drawing to a close. I wasn’t afraid. The light drew closer and encompassed me, growing brighter and more intense. I couldn’t see anything beyond the light and noise; it obliterated everything, making the leaves sway. Even the wet mud rippled beneath my feet.

  The light shifted from my eyes and there in the sky was a helicopter, a man rappelling down with a kind of stretcher attached. I thought I was dreaming. The man landed on the ground and approached. I embraced him and never wanted to let go. As he bundled me into the stretcher, he asked in broken English, “Is there anyone else with you?”

  I reached out into the depths of the jungle and I couldn’t feel Viv’s spirit. We’d been so close, but I knew in my heart she was dead. It was impossible to think of life without her in it.

  I shook my head. “I’m the only survivor.”

  Then he gave a signal and the stretcher was hoisted up and I rose in the air, watching as the jungle receded below me. I rose parallel to the tall trees and finally above their canopy, seeing the beauty of their flat tops stretching into darkness, this lawn of green. Like a tendril of smoke, I left the soiled world behind and drifted into the sky.

  Chapter 30

  My story is over. My journal is complete. There is nothing else to write. The journal entries I’ve written are what the world will read. I’ve never written anything as long, or as emotionally draining, and yet, now that it’s over, rather than feel relief, I feel hollow. There is nothing to celebrate. I’ve tried my best to capture the misery we experienced, but in the end they’re only words. They can convey only so much and not enough.

  In the hospital, the camera crews left, the lights packed up, the electrical cords running like snakes on the floor rolled up and put away. Not more than an hour ago, there was a talk show host in this very room, a woman I had seen tons of times when flipping through channels. I know people on TV exist in real life, but to have them sit across from you, focused 100% on you is…surreal. She’s talked to movie stars and presidential candidates and she was talking to me. I even had a hair and makeup person, though Alan made sure they didn’t “pretty me up” too much. He wanted, as he called it, “the truth to shine through.” Being on camera, I became self-conscious about how I spoke, the way my face looked, whether I blinked too little or too much. I didn’t even remember my answers, though Alan and my mother told me afterward I’d done great.

  “You were the perfect blend of humble and strong,” he said. “Keep it up!” I didn’t know how to take his praise: I wasn’t an athlete. I was a survivor from a plane crash. The next few days would bring interview after interview, one a day, sometimes two. That is the schedule. I worried I would say the same things so much I’d start to sound rehearsed. He told me not to worry.

  My mother tells me there’s talk of scholarships in the names of the deceased at Riverdale Academy. The school promises to increase the number of underserved students. “At least,” she says, “something good came from it.” She’s been doing that recently; reminding me of all the good things that have happened in the wake of the crash. The outpouring of concern, new airline safety initiatives, a reminder to live life instead of walking through it. As if all those things balance out tragedy. I’d rather nothing good happened if I could erase my memories. My mom says, “Once the interviews air, more people will want to help. It may mean a college scholarship. Offers for internships or jobs. Choices, honey. Choices you never had.” Just as Alan had predicted.

  I don’t care about any of it. I don’t care at all. All my life I wanted to be special. Here it is,
offered on a silver platter—The Girl Who Survived—and it makes me sick.

  At night when I see my mother sleeping on the chair across from me, I can tell she’s changed. There isn’t the scent of cigarettes wafting from her hair. She’s not taking Ativan anymore. Either that, or she’s taking much less, tapering her doses. She doesn’t have a glazed donut look in her eyes. And yes, she and I are talking more. But overall, she’s been the one most affected by the crash: she’s been the one to change for the better. In her life, the crash is her Before and After moment, the piece of the puzzle that will motivate her to carpe diem her lemons into lemonade.

  Since the crash, I think I’ve gotten worse. Or maybe the crash revealed who I really am.

  After my time in the jungle, I finally understand my mother. I understand why she kept reaching for a pill to make life better: because life is too much to bear. The lies and selfishness, disappointment and loneliness, they’re too hard to deal with on your own. It’s too bad, ‘cause now that I finally understand her, she’s changing.

  It kills me to see her off Ativan, because it only proves how awful I really am. She is facing life as it is while I hide. I hide behind lies; I hide behind feelings people place on me, like sympathy or courage, blessed or special.

  I am none of those things.

  My counselor wanted me to write things down so that I could make sense of what happened. I took her advice and tried to make sense of things—not of what happened, but of what I did.

  The Emily Duran who emerged from the jungle was broken. I remade her, stitching her back together piece by piece.

  I rewrote my life.

  I wrote a story about a character named Emily Duran who looked and talked like me, but was so much better. The story was the version of myself I wanted to be. The version I so wished I was.

  But I’m not.

  I thought writing my story—and that’s what it was—a story, not a history, would make things better. By writing, I could erase the past and create a new one. But in lying, line after line, page after page, it made me feel worse. I kept writing thinking Finish it. Finish and everything will fall into place.

  It hasn’t.

  I finished the story, but it seems the story isn’t finished with me.

  I cannot escape the truth.

  I cannot escape my guilt.

  I cannot escape myself no matter how hard I try.

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” She sleeps, probably not hearing, but I continue anyway. Someone needs to know the truth. I need to unburden myself before I sink into a hole and never return. “I’m a liar and a fraud, and I’ll tell you what really happened.”

  After crying myself empty in the dark, I walked back to the hut. Molly was asleep on the cot. I was disgusted by her lie and disgusted at myself. Disgusted by everyone, at how we devolved. We weren’t starting over; we were stepping backwards.

  I crept up to Derek’s cot. He and Viv slept, releasing small snores. On the floor rested the spear. I reached down and picked it up, feeling its weight and pointed the sharp end towards Derek’s body. I mentally played out the movements it would take to kill him; pulling my arm back like cocking a trigger and thrusting it into his kidneys, feeling the resistance of his body, pull out and repeat. There would be blood. There would be screaming. But the nightmare would be over.

  Or would it?

  I heard Molly stirring. I looked over, waiting to see her eyes on me, waiting to hear her gasp, setting off a chain reaction that would wake everyone up. But her eyes stayed closed. Then Derek stirred and changed his body position. I watched as he moved on the bed, eyes shut, getting comfortable, reminiscent of a baby in a crib, turning from his side to face-side up. Was it a sign? I could easily pierce his heart.

  Is this how Derek felt on the night he stood over Nico? The jungle brought out something, almost daring us to give in to our darkest desires.

  I held the spear. It would be so easy.

  Too easy.

  A voice in my head asked me: Who’s fault is it that you’re still here?

  Yours.

  You can leave at any time.

  Who is there to stop you?

  I placed the spear back on the floor. I was a coward, but I was no murderer.

  In the morning, as we all got up, I didn’t say anything about Molly’s condition. It wasn’t my problem anymore. In fact, my problems were less and less about other people, and more about me. I needed to get out of here. I kept waiting for something to happen, for someone to rescue us, for a spaceship to land and teleport me out of here. It wasn’t happening; it would never happen. The more I waited, the more I feared I would become paralyzed and dependent on Derek, worried about him to the point where I would start protecting him, equating our survival with his.

  I would leave. But not without Viv, no matter how she felt about me now. I would prove my loyalty and we would be friends again. I would make sure of it.

  Derek said, “So, how’d everybody sleep?”

  Viv said, “Good.”

  Derek teased, “Only good? Or great?”

  Viv smiled; I cringed.

  Derek began his morning ritual: using the bathroom, rinsing his face and drinking from a water vine. He’d found safe plants to rub on his teeth in place of toothpaste. He was becoming a regular Medicine Man. After he was done, he picked up the makeshift hatchet and spear and said, “I’m heading out.” That’s when I caught up to him.

  “I’m coming with.”

  He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “Why?”

  “I need mushrooms.”

  “I’m getting mushrooms.”

  “I’m getting mushrooms for myself, Derek.” I could’ve chosen not to say anything, but I feared if I didn’t say it out loud I wouldn’t follow through. My own fear and dependence would hold me back. I needed to make my leaving real. And maybe in some weird way, I thought he’d be like the Derek I knew from Burger King, the Derek who would talk to me. The Derek who might actually come back with me. “I’m getting them and then I’m leaving.”

  I expected an outburst.

  He was quiet for a moment, and then a smile crossed his lips. “Always keeping me on my toes, aren’t you? Seriously, I’ll be back with plenty.”

  I grabbed him. “I’m not kidding.”

  He could sense my seriousness and he grew serious, too. “You’re not coming with me.”

  “I won’t be here when you get back.”

  He scanned the area, making sure we were alone. “You’re taking off with no food. No way of getting food. You realize that’s suicide, right?”

  “It’s called escape.”

  By now, we’d caught the attention of Viv and Molly. They watched from the hut, pretending not to.

  “From what?”

  I was stunned. “What do you think? This. You. All of it.”

  He seemed genuinely shocked. “I never stopped you.”

  “‘Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.’ You said that. You said that while holding a spear.”

  “I meant don’t make me lose you as a friend. You took that as a threat?”

  I couldn’t believe his rationale. “You withheld food from me!”

  “Because you weren’t doing your fair share! What kind of message does that send to everyone if you slack off?” He calmed down. “This is your home. Our home. I just thought if I wasn’t going back, there was no point in talking about how things used to be.” He gazed off into the jungle. “I wanted us to be happy here. No pressure to achieve. No worries about making it into college. Leaving the whole two-kids-and-a-mortgage behind. Just us. Our own tribe.”

  He saw I wasn’t convinced. He motioned towards Viv and Molly. “What about them?”

  “I haven’t told them anything.” The truth was as soon as he gave me food and left, I was taking Viv with me, whether she wanted to or not. I would knock her unconscious and drag her if I had to.

  “You can do what you want, Emily. There’s no shackles on your feet.”

 
Was I always free to go? Or was he playing mind games? “I need your help. I need food.”

  He took his time, glancing between me and them. “You can go.” He added, “If you’re really not here when I get back, I’ll miss you. Good luck.” He hugged me so tight I could smell the sweat and grime on his skin. For a split second, I thought he might stab me.

  But he didn’t.

  In my ear, he said, “If you’re rescued, tell them. Tell ‘em I’m gone.” Then he kissed me on the cheek and said cryptically, “I know what I’ve done. Do what you have to.”

  He didn’t try to stop me. Not by force. But by withholding help. Out here it was the same thing.

  He turned and something snapped in me. I would not be abandoned. I would not be trapped. I was so tired of this place. I’d seen too much death, too much mindless death. One more wouldn’t make a difference. I reached down and picked up the first thing I saw—a rock. I brought it up and bashed it with all my strength down onto his head. I heard a sickening thud and he fell to the ground. I didn’t look at his face, I simply repeated the motion and brought the rock down against his temple, and the softness of his skull gave way.

  I was right.

  There was blood. There was screaming. But I was wrong about one thing: the nightmare had only just begun.

  Chapter 31

  “What have you done? What have you done?!” Viv was a wildcat, tearing towards me. She fell towards Derek and cradled his head in her lap. My body shivered, a strange energy infusing it. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or exhilaration. I didn’t know what I felt—regret, remorse, revenge? Maybe all three. Maybe none. I killed a man. I killed my friend. The man I knew from prom lay in the dirt, his eyes open to the sky. See what you’ve done, I wanted to shout. See what you made me do? Is this how you wanted to die?

  This isn’t who I was supposed to be!

  I thought of his last words: I know what I’ve done. Do what you need to.

  He wanted me to kill him. He wanted me to put him out of his misery. That’s what I chose to believe. He never would’ve gone back to society and he knew it. This made him legend; this made him myth.