Falling Backward

Earth itself tipped over in a great wide arc

This wasn’t the first time his feet had lost their grip. The study, worn spines of books, Earth itself tipped over in a great wide arc. When the fall's backward, there's no time. No graceful recovery, just a panicked blink. And then—smack. Flat out.

With a bang, he landed, eyelids fluttering shut. The sudden darkness pulsed with stars, a million pricks against a sea of black. As he lay, his breath rasped in his throat, his hands fumbling at the emptiness.

When the sting of ammonia seared his nostrils, it sent a jolt through him. The chemical blast dragged him from the dark. His fingers twitched, then swatted feebly at the smell. Next, a message arrived for his eyes: open. They obeyed, his left sluggish, the world a blur of harsh light and shifting shapes.

"You've had a fall. Can you hear me?" The voice buzzed in his ears, muffled like a distant radio. Could he hear? Yes. He still hadn't found the volume knob. He nodded, blinked. A fall? Yes to that as well. His bones ached with the memory of it.

A pair of hands—enormous, it seemed—waved something under his nose. Beside them, a face came into focus. Round, worried, with sweat beading on the stubble. One drop broke free, raced down the man's thick sideburn like it was in the Olympics. Funny. He blinked again, the world still swimming. Where the devil was he?

In the periphery... faces, a flash of chrome. This wasn't... where? Before was a void, and now... scattered puzzle pieces. He blinked hard, the world tilting crazily.

He smelled bacon and the musk of shoe polish. When had he last smelled polish? He sat upright. The room clunked to one side, his brain settling into place, he thought. Checkered tiles, a woman’s shoes, and the fine hem of a dress. The round man still knelt, his brow furrowed, a hand outstretched.

“Let’s get you on your feet,” the round man said, pulling him up before moving on to smooth the creases on his own trousers. Friendly eyes, wide with concern, watched from nearby tables. A woman's hand touched his shoulder, gentle, hesitant. Her eyes met his, widening a fraction, a question in them: "Are you alright?" He willed his jaw to move, his lips to curve into a smile. Blinking slowly, he reassured her, "Yes."

He was mostly fine, wasn’t he? Fall notwithstanding, of course. His hands brushed his pants, flattened his tie. Familiar motions. He took inventory in this movement—all his limbs seemed to work, senses were more-or-less intact. But why was everyone staring like that?

"I'm sorry, mister,” a boy's voice cracked, a jarring counterpoint to the soft murmur of concern. He hadn't seen the boy in his spotless apron or the wet floor. The smell of pine cleaner swirled in his head, sharp and familiar as... as what? His mother's kitchen? Much too long ago for that scent to linger so clearly.

Familiar faces, yes. Neighborly. Familiar, he supposed, in the way magazine ads or old photos often seem. But these people were not picture-perfect like an advertisement. They were flesh and blood, complete with the idiosyncratic details of life: a crooked tie, a cracked tooth, a splatter of burger grease on a sleeve. Yet, there was a smoothness to their appearances that he couldn't quite reconcile. The women had crisp dresses and carefully pinned hair; the men had slicked-back styles and a shine on their shoes. Something unsettled him in the perfection. The light coming in, that golden afternoon light, gave them a Hollywood sheen, like extras. In the murmur of their voices, he listened closely, listening for anything to—

“Maybe we should go?” The woman’s voice, soft, kind. A gold locket hung on a chain so thin it could barely be seen against her faded green dress. Like the others, her voice had a lilt, too. Clipped and soft. Midwest? No. He searched the geography in his mind. It was more familiar than anything else in this place but hidden somewhere behind an adjacent thought, just out of reach.

The round man had returned to his work behind the counter. It seemed the show was indeed over for the evening. “No repeat performances tonight, please,” he thought to himself.

Outside, the air nipped at his face—a brisk sting. Autumn light, when the sun seemed to linger at the horizon, stretching the seconds as long as time would allow. A time of year for filling the root cellar, for making soup and warm bread. Why did he miss it? She held his elbow, guiding him under the street lamps. As they walked, he looked at the oak and birch leaves laying in dark browns and bright yellow along the sidewalk.

“I think you’ll have quite a bump,” she said quietly, breaking the trance.

“What happened?” he asked. Her steps beside him faltered for a second.

“Oh, I’m not sure… you just seemed to fall. I think you were leaning and lost your balance.”

In the thick of his hair, he felt a knot, a raised, tender lump. His knees throbbed, his elbow ached—stupid, careless fall. In a diner next to a woman he couldn’t… couldn’t what?

“What were we talking about before I fell?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Why don’t you tell me?” she said.

“That’s just it, I seem to have bumped my head hard enough that I’ve lost a bit of time.”

“Well, that’s not fair!”

“I know. I’d like to think it was a nice evening. But I can’t… can’t place it.”

“Just give yourself a few minutes.”

“The fresh air helps…” His voice trailed off. Was it helping?

Street lamps buzzed as they warmed and began to brighten. She released his elbow, turning to him.

“Do you remember your birthday?” she asked.

“Of course, June sixteenth.” A surge of pride, then a small flicker of hesitation. Was that right?

“And your mother’s name?”

He pressed his hand to his temple. She tilted her head, that familiar way. The right words hovered, just out of reach. Finally…

“Beatrice. Marie Beatrice,” he said, relief flooding him.

“Well, I think you’re alright. Any fella who forgets his mother’s name…”

“Ask me another.”

“Who owns that store?”

He looked where she pointed. The big glass windows were dark, but he could see the outline of the shelves and the newspaper rack. In the back was a single light where an old man shuffled back and forth behind a counter.

“Well, that’s Mister Price’s pharmacy, of course.”

“You see, you haven’t lost all your senses. Now, what were we talking about, just before, in the diner?”

He stopped. A cold dread prickled his spine. The woman in the faded green dress... his gaze flickered from her face to the empty street and back. Nothing. His mind, a jumble. There sat a thousand puzzle pieces, refusing to fit. She pursed her lips. Was that a flicker of... anger? No, just concern.

He noticed the moss had grown between the stones, a delicate web of green against the gray. His gaze dropped to his shoes, rocking back on his heels.

"I... I'm sorry," he finally managed. "I just can't..."

Even at twenty paces, he could have seen the disappointment. Close up, it was unbearable. Her entire shape had slowly changed in front of him like a flower closing as the sky darkened.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said, in nearly a whisper.

From her small handbag, she pulled a scarf. Delicate, the same faded green as her dress. It settled around her shoulders, and still, the locket gleamed against her skin.

“Let me walk you,” he offered.

“I can manage. My mother…” Her voice faded, the weight of it settling between them.

He didn’t… couldn’t find the words. He felt the same weight that pressed on her shoulders pushing them both to the ground. Another piece, somewhere just out of sight. He wanted to scream, to grab those fragments, force them to make sense.

She stepped further away, heels ticking on the brickwork. But he saw it then: she was the missing tile, the single perfect fit.

“I’d give anything to see you again,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“If you remember, come find me tomorrow,” she said. Her hand brushed the gold chain, quietly adding, “Even if you don’t…”

Her footsteps fading in the night, disappearing as she rounded the corner.

Night steals the fading day. A car cuts through the dusk, its headlights washing over him. He turns, shielding his eyes, watches her silhouette disappear. In a darkened window, a figure flickers—strangely familiar.

He barely recognized him—the young man staring back from the darkened window. A neatly pressed suit, a jaunty pocket square... familiar, yet distant. A hesitant wave fluttered from his hand. The figure in the window mirrored the gesture. He straightened his own tie, a spark of old habit. The figure moved with him, hand dipping into a pocket as his own did. A rabbit's foot jangled—and a box?

Inside, black velvet and a flash of gold. This was it—the missing piece! This belonged on the hand of the woman in the pale green dress. Seeing it fully, the ring captured all the stars, magnifying them as every other light dimmed, bowing. His hand moved to hold it up, to show her what he had found. Out of the box it tumbled, rolling free. His young eyes watched it bounce over the bricks.

He lunged for the ring, his fingers fumbling, desperate. His heart raced. A surge of what? Joy? No, something… important. But his polished shoes betrayed him, slipping on the moss. Plummeting. The Earth’s gravity pulling him down. Until, smack. Flat out. And just like that, the stars were a fading curtain at the edge of his vision.

He lay there, a jumble in his head. Fragments of the puzzle lay apart, still not complete. The hum, always the hum. Bacon… was she cooking again?

Eyes opened. Bookshelves loomed, out of place somehow. A hand on his arm, frail. A woman’s face, a flicker of something familiar, faded, incomplete. He moved his shoulders, still working, he thought. And wiggled his toes—they were cold.

“Let’s get you on your feet,” a familiar voice said. The world shifted into place as he stood. His head throbbed. Knees and elbows, too. Casualties of entropy, he thought.

The woman's hand on his shoulder, gentle, hesitant. Her eyes met his, widened a fraction. A question in them: "Are you alright?" His eyes found the gold locket on a chain that looked too thin to hold it.

She looked at him, tilting her head in a way that was both strange and achingly familiar.

* * *

Music to read by: “Indian Summer” by Glenn Miller

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Backstory

First, let me just state out loud: I like circular stories. Ending where you begin is, to me, a wonderful way of putting a reader in a moment, taking them through a journey, then returning them (safely?) back to the moment of introduction. It also happens to be cinematic, which is how my brain works.

I took some of the setting, characters and names from my own life. In my head, the main character is my grandfather, who’s still kicking at 96. He’s a Yooper so I set it in his hometown of Lake Linden, MI. There’s a lilt in the accent—not Canadian, not Fargo. It’s kinder, more wistful…at least my grandfather’s version. And a few of the names are family or friends-of-family. Just seemed right.

My grandfather is now suffering from dementia. But, it’s him looking at himself in the store glass when I re-read it. In fact, I see him in his late teens because that’s a portrait he painted of himself I have hanging in my house. I seem to have written about that image a few times.

As poignant a story as I’m likely to write, I suppose. What an excruciating heartbreak it must be between spouses when dementia takes hold. I think about what it would be like to not know my wife, my kids. When the things you know are now unknown. Sheesh. Maybe more than any fear I have about aging—sight, hearing, mobility—I think about what happens when you lose your place, when the record skips but you don’t remember what you were listening to. Maybe worse are the lucid days, the moments when the focus is true?

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