Sarahs fall, p.1
Sarah's Fall, page 1
Sarah’s Fall
Published by Remedy Publishing
Lakewood Ranch, Florida
Copyright ©2022 by Paula Riehle. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the publisher/author, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover and Interior design by Victoria Wolf, wolfdesignandmarketing.com
All rights reserved by Paula Riehle and Remedy Publishing.
To Max
1
OCTOBER 28, 2015
95th Floor, John Hancock Building, Chicago
In high school, my friend Tori warned us that we all might lose touch one day. She was resigned to the possibility, stating it matter-of-factly as something we needed to consider. Her rationale was simply that once we graduate, “things just change.”
At the time I’d dismissed her declaration because you don’t let friendships like ours go. Yes, things change. We grow up, get married, have careers and kids, but we do those things together. And when that part’s over, we grow old and wrinkly and laugh over cocktails as our daughters tell their daughters, “They’ve been friends since they were thirteen!” So, while things may change, friendships don’t. At least not ours.
And now, twenty years later, I sit here asking myself how I’d been so quick to let them go. Hoping they can at least forgive me for everything I did—and didn’t—do. Most of them, anyway. One I don’t care about at all, and I hope she doesn’t come today. But with everything that’s happened, especially lately, it’s become blisteringly clear that friendships are the best defense against this tumultuous world. I wish I’d recognized it sooner, pulled them closer. Instead, I pushed them away.
As I nervously smooth a lump in the white tablecloth, the waiter approaches. I wave him off because I’m not sure anyone will show up to a reunion we’d committed to as teenagers, especially given the circumstances. Most of us haven’t even spoken in twenty years, so who knows if they remember—or care. And I’m the only one who has to be here. Well, we all have to be here because we made a promise that no matter where we were in our lives, we would meet here today. But I’m the only one who’s truly obligated because I am in possession of the incentive we gave ourselves to show up. I take a deep breath as I put the tattered red duffel bag on the chair next to me and hope I’m not taking up this five-person table for nothing.
I check the time on my phone—ten more minutes. I wish my curiosity hadn’t driven me to get here early because as the minutes tick by, my hopes of a successful reunion begin to fade. Why would they remember? Why would they care? And as the afternoon martini crowd fills in around me, I start to get restless, feeling irritated by their apparent zest for life, while mine is falling apart. I feel preemptively defeated and wonder if it’s better to leave now before the loss is forced upon me—no one remembering, no one caring. I want to leave. But a deep need for connection, for forgiveness, for closure compels me to stay. I try to distract myself with some people-watching. But the beautiful people, swilling their cocktails, laughing in that celebratory way twenty-somethings do before life starts kicking them around, are making me feel worse. I sense my cynicism rising and look around the room for anything to stifle it. My eyes are drawn to the expansive view, so I rise from my chair, move to the window, and lean my forehead against the chill of the glass.
It’s one of those perfect Midwestern fall days, where the sun touches everything just so. The sky is clear enough that I’m sure I can see my childhood home. So, I scan the cityscape for the northwesterly highway and follow it with my eyes. As I zero in on the blur of the general vicinity, I start wondering about the home I haven’t even driven by in twenty years—wondering who lives there now. Wondering if they’re happy. Wondering if they have a teenage daughter who will one day ruin their lives. This line of thinking isn’t helping my nerves, so I sit back down.
As I child, I loved this time of year—the excitement of the new school year when you’re actually happy to be there. The reuniting with friends, trading shorts and flip-flops for bulky sweaters and boots. The start of football season and cheerleading. The traditions—Homecoming, Halloween, apple picking. The sweetness of fall. The sweetness that now makes me sick to my stomach. I have a lot of wishes about that tragic day. I hate to admit that one of the bigger ones is that it would have happened in another season instead of permanently tainting my beloved fall.
My eyes wander to the entrance, and I am instantly relieved when a familiar face enters my view. It’s Tori. She told me she was coming, but I still had my doubts. She’s the only one I’ve kept in touch with since everything happened—if the occasional phone call and social media count. Even though we haven’t seen each other in person, at least social media makes me feel like I still know her. I know her kids are ten, seven, and five, two boys and a girl. I know she likes to travel to exotic places and dine at trendy restaurants in New York City. And she seems to love her family and her job. I suppose her social media portrayal of her life could be a misrepresentation of the real thing, but I doubt it. She genuinely seems happy.
“Is it just us?” she asks, setting down her oversized Louis Vuitton bag. Tori has done very well for herself, so she’s probably the most eager to attend the unveiling. She married a great guy, an entertainment attorney. She attended Syracuse University and majored in journalism. And she’s established herself as a reporter on a major news network. I attribute at least some of that success to the fact that Tori’s conscience is cleaner than the rest of ours. “I did everything I could with what I knew at the time,” is the way she says it. That’s mostly true. But I’m sure that despite her squeaky-clean conscience, part of her fears the story will come out someday and jeopardize her perfect life. As far as Tori is concerned, my conscience is clean too. But judging from the way my life has turned out, she should know better. The chilly scent of dried leaves lingers on her wool coat as she leans down to give me a hug.
“It’s so good to see you, Sarah.” She runs her fingers through her glossy, auburn hair. It falls perfectly into place as she takes the seat across from me. “How’ve you been?”
“Well, you know. It’s been a little hard since Shawn and I separated.”
“God, I’m sure. I’m so sorry. I should have called, but I’ve just been so—”
“Busy,” I interrupt her. “I know. Everyone’s busy. The kids are busy, my friends are busy . . .”
“And your parents, how are they? Are things better between you guys?”
Tori seems great, as if she hasn’t given much thought at all to what happened twenty years ago today.
“I don’t know . . . not really. They live in Florida and have ever since . . . well, you know . . .” I say, trailing off. “I mean how is anything supposed to get better if we never got the chance to fix it. I think about that a lot. It’s like one day things were great, and one day they turned to shit, and then they moved. So, things just stayed . . . broken. It’s like arrested development or something. And there’s no way to go back and change anything. Excuse me,” I shout to the waiter. “Can I get a sauvignon blanc please?”
“Just a Pellegrino for me,” Tori adds. “And Kevin?”
“He’s there too. He wasn’t happy when they moved right before he was supposed to start high school, but it grew on him. He’s married, two kids . . . and they live about a mile from my parents, which of course they love.”
“It’s got to be hard trying to keep your family together with no family of your own here. Who’s keeping you together?”
I see the look of pity in her eyes for a millisecond before it turns to excitement.
“Look! Is that Stacey?”
I turn toward the hostess and see a tall woman dressed in all black. Jimmy Choo booties, coated leather pants, and a fitted cashmere sweater. Her wavy blond, lowlighted hair reaches just below her shoulders. She’s still stunning, maybe even more so. Tori and I wave eagerly to get her attention. The scent of Coco Chanel announces her approach.
“Hi girls!” Stacey pulls out the chair next to me. She glances at the duffel bag occupying the seat and then opts to sit next to Tori. “Oh my god, I can’t believe we’re actually here. Honestly, I didn’t think you guys were going to come. I wasn’t sure I was going to come, but I live in the building. I decided I didn’t have a good excuse not to.”
“So, you didn’t want to come?” I ask.
“Did you guys? I was thinking if we wanted to keep in touch, we would have. But it was too convenient for me not to at least pop in and say hi. If anyone showed up, that is. Or even remembered. Well, it is the day before your birthday, Sarah, and the anniversary of . . . well, it’s been twenty years since all of the ugliness happened. I figured it would be good for us to cleanse our souls a bit.”
“Well, we’re glad you’re here.” Tori smiles warmly and puts her arm around her. “You look amazing.”
“What’s amazing is how much it costs to keep all this up,” she says, running her hands from her face to her thighs. But you look fantastic.” Stacey scans Tori from head to toe.
Tori’s smooth forehead and full cheekbones make it clear she’s no stranger to the dermatologist, but she looks natural. Beautiful. I’m sure whoever does her work has all sorts of celebrity clients. And writes a column somewhere. Or has a reality TV show.
“Do you even remember what it was like when we just had it, without having to go through all the effort?” Stacey raises her cheeks with her fingers.
“Right? Think about what I have to go through just to be on camera,” Tori says.
“I cannot even imagine. Add that to the reasons I’m thankful I don’t have to work. I’d never be able to handle that kind of pressure.” Stacey lets her cheeks snap back into place and rests her hands on the table.
They know better than to include me in this conversation. There’s no erasing the toll these years have taken on my face. I could live on green smoothies and spend my last nickel on plastic surgery, but my appearance would still scream guilt and failure. I notice the dirty blond split ends resting on my chest. I hate that I couldn’t drag myself to the salon in time for today.
“So, marriage? Kids? I heard you got married,” Tori says.
“Yes, Greg and I have been married for five years now. No kids. We’re not sure we want them.”
“Tick tock.” I offer what I can.
“I know. Everyone keeps reminding me. But, you know, kids are just so much to worry about. I don’t know that I could handle the enormity of the responsibility. I don’t want to fuck them up, you know?”
“Well, I’m doing a very good job of fucking up my kids,” I say, raising my glass.
“They will be fine, Sarah,” Tori tries to reassure me, as she always has.
“Will they? Look at our childhoods. Some of our parents were great and some not so great. But no amount of good parenting could have stopped what happened.”
“That’s kind of my point. I think my kids have it pretty good, but I’m not naive enough to think that means they’ll turn out okay. There’s only so much you can do. Sometimes I think you get what you get and all you really have to do is feed them until they can feed themselves.” She laughs. “I can’t tell you how happy I was the day Jasper learned to make mac and cheese by himself. I literally said out loud, ‘my work here is done.’”
“So, you’re saying my shitty parenting might mean they’ll turn out just fine?” I ask pleadingly.
“What I’m saying is that you can’t protect them from everything. But if you love and support them, like I know you do, odds are they’ll be okay. Stronger even. Resilient.”
“Well, thank you. I feel much better now!”
It suddenly hits me to my core how much I’ve missed her. Tori has always been so consistently who she is. Honest and intuitive. Empathic, yet emotionally practical. I love that even as a teenager, I could have predicted she would become the woman sitting across from me today.
“All right, I’m having wine. But just one. Stacey?”
“I won’t be stopping at one. Did I mention I live in the building?”
The waiter brings a bottle of Kim Crawford. As we fill our glasses, I feel warmth and familiarity spilling over me, just like I did the day Ella moved back to Chicago. Ella.
I can’t believe she’s not here. I quickly push that thought deep inside, as it’s threatening my ability to enjoy the moment.
With the help of the wine, we are right back into it, laughing as if not a day’s gone by, when suddenly Stacey’s laugh falls right off her face. “Oh my god.” She nods toward the host stand. I look over and see Dalia scanning the crowd. From a distance, it appears that her life has turned out a lot more like mine than Stacey’s and Tori’s. Her untamed amber waves look like they’ve been bleached and recolored countless times. She’s rail thin, wearing tight, ripped jeans and a black moto jacket. I have to take a second look to be sure, but as she gets closer, I catch those unmistakable Mila Kunis eyes. She approaches nervously.
“Dalia.” I stand up and hug her, sure I wouldn’t have been so friendly two glasses ago. She smells exactly the same, and I’m struck by the range of emotions this evokes. Even though I’m ultimately responsible for what happened, Dalia had planted the seed. And I’d held that against her for twenty years. Yet somehow, it feels good to see her.
“Hey bitches.” She greets us the way she did when we were seventeen, although with a little less enthusiasm. She hangs her jacket on the seat occupied by the duffel bag and sits on the other side of it. The empty space between us does not go unnoticed.
“You made it,” Stacey says. “Has anyone talked to Jenny?”
“Yeah, sorry I’m late. I talked to her last night. She should be here.” She fidgets with her phone before turning it on vibrate. “So, what did I miss?”
“Excuse me, another glass please.” I flag down the waiter and motion to Dalia.
“No wine for me. I’m in the program. Three hundred eighty-five days, but who’s counting,” she says, playing with the triangle engraved sobriety token on her chain.
“Well, good for you.” Stacey claps with the tips of her fingers.
“Yeah, more like fuck me. I wasn’t going to come, to be honest. Part of me wanted to, but the other part, well, you know.” She inspects her black polished nails to avoid making eye contact. She takes the drink stirrer out of Tori’s Pellegrino and starts chewing on it. “But my sponsor said I have to work the steps. Steps eight and nine are about making amends, which she said is important if I’m serious about my sobriety. Which I am. I have to be. For my daughter.” She takes a deep breath and leans back in her chair.
“Why don’t we just catch you up before we get into all of that,” Stacey suggests. “You missed a lot, so I’ll give you the CliffsNotes. Me. Married for five years to Greg, an investment banker I met while staying at my parents’ house in St. Bart’s. No kids, no interest in having kids. And that’s about it. I don’t know, is there anything else?”
“Do you work? Of course you don’t.”
“Actually, I’m on the board at the Children’s Hospital and the Museum of Contemporary Art. I also sit on the board at one of my father’s companies, so between the three I’m pretty busy.”
“Well, look at you,” Dalia says. “Must be nice.”
“It is, actually.” Stacey rises above. “My work is very rewarding.”
“Tori, I see you on the news. Looks like you’re having a pretty good go of things.”
“It’s hard work, Dalia, but I really enjoy it.”
“Sarah.” She pauses, taking inventory of my face. “You look like you’ve seen better days. How’s our friend Shawn?”
I guess I should have expected it, but I’m pissed she even mentions him. Or maybe just pissed at myself that I’ve failed. “We’re separated,” I offer. That is all she will get out of me.
“Well, that’s too bad. Hey, tell him I said hi.”
I shoot her a glare as we sit through an awkward silence, the feelings of warmth evaporating before our very eyes. Dalia ignores my obvious irritation.
“Doesn’t anyone want to know about my life?” she asks.
“Go for it,” Stacey says.
“Well, after high school, my mom moved in with her boyfriend, and that was about the last she wanted to do with me. They paid the rent on the apartment for a while, though, so I survived well enough. I waited tables to put myself through beauty school and got a job at a decent salon.”
She goes on to tell us how she met a great guy, Tony, one of her clients, and that things were great in the beginning. They didn’t have a lot of money, but they were in love. They married, and a few years later, she had her daughter, Frankie, now thirteen.
“But, one day I took Frankie to the park. I was just sitting there watching her play on the swings, and I felt happiness. Like the real thing. It was weird. I’d never felt that way even once in my entire life. And it lasted for about a minute. And then I couldn’t breathe.” She starts talking faster. “I started thinking that I didn’t deserve all this, and one day it was going to be taken away from me, cuz who the fuck was I to have all this when Ella didn’t get to. And the feeling wouldn’t leave no matter what I did, so I started drinking. Just a little at first, to take the edge off.” The beginnings of tears well up in her eyes. “Then I hurt my back, so I couldn’t cut hair anymore, and this asshole doctor got me hooked on pain pills. Let me tell you, you don’t ever want to be hooked on that shit.”
