The Upside of Falling Down

by Rebekah Crane

The memories mean nothing to me if I can’t recall them. Except for the small fact that . . . they mean everything. No matter what people want to believe, life is locked in the past. It’s all we are—a timeline of events that make up a person.

Waiting for my dad is like waiting for the future and the past all at the same time. A few moments of diversion don’t sound too bad, but unfortunately, that plan dissolves as the television comes to life.

Pressure can make a truthful person into a liar, though I’m not sure whether I’m either. The line between truth and lies blurred the instant I woke up in the hospital.

“You always need a spare tire in Cleveland. For the pot holes of life.”

“And a dash of love,” I say to myself, the words coming from somewhere unreachable. “It holds everything together.” I’m not sure why baking cookies feels like the right thing to do momentarily, but putting the ingredients together, making something from nothing, seems right.

“I guess we all have something to hide.” “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Jane Austen,” Clive says, “it’s that if we told the truth all the time, there would be no stories worth telling.”

“The only therapy a Clevelander needs is beer. Takes care of all your pain at half the cost.”

Guinness has a milky quality upfront and a slightly bitter aftertaste, like dark chocolate. It’s absurd, really, that I can pick out the intimate tastes of beer, and I don’t even know if I’ve ever had one.

When you’re prepared for pain, pain loses power.

She may not know it, but she is a walking story. And me . . . I’m full of scars with no stories.

He admits to me that part of the reason he helps is to prove that he’s not like his father—that there are people who take and people who give, and his genes won’t determine that, Kieran will.

It’s no longer a question of whether I’ll help him, but who we’re helping next.

But then an uncomfortable feeling creeps up on me, like Clementine is hiding but not gone. As if every turn I take might be the one that leads me to her. But I’m no longer sure I want to find her. Three weeks ago, the anticipation of remembering was all I could think about. My happiness was dependent on it. But now . . . I almost fear the memories’ return.

“Why can’t it be both? Love is never safe, but it’s the truth. He loves you. I saw it with my own eyes.”