The Falls (9 page)

Funny, I'd thought that boat was going to be swept away any second. But that was two years ago, and the remains of the boat were still there, stuck on those rocks.

I knew a lot of people were afraid of heights, didn't like going right to the edge, but not me. Looking down into the swirling water below my dangling feet, I almost felt like taking the drop myself, right there and then, rushing over the edge with the force of the rapids, if only to get the hell out of there. Away from all the stupid, loser things I'd said and done and all the people who thought they knew me. Sitting there I could feel the Falls pulling hard at me, and I understood why some people actually wanted to end it all that way. But I figured I needed to be a lot more drunk, or maybe it wasn't my time. Besides, with my luck, I figured I'd just end up stuck on the rocks, like that boat, something new for the tourists to gawk at.

“I figured I'd find you here.”

I turned around. It was Timmy.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Sitting.”

“I see that. Why are you sitting
here
instead of around the fire?”

“Better view here. See for yourself,” I said as I patted the space beside me.

“No way, man. Why don't you come back to the fire?”

“Told you. I like the view here better.”

Timmy slumped to the ground behind me, away from the edge. “I take it things didn't go so well with Candice.”

“They didn't go bad.”

“And that's why she's back at the fire and you're here by yourself.”

“I'm where I want to be,” I said.

He shook his head. “I don't know why you like it here so much. Heights make my stomach go all weird and my knees buckle. Doesn't it bother you at all?”

“I like high places.”

“The only high I like involves a bottle,” Timmy said. “You want something else to drink?”

“Like I have a choice.”

Timmy reached into his jacket and pulled something out. “Ta-dah!”

“What is it?”

“Something special. Amaretto.”

“What?”

“Come here and see for yourself.”

It was pretty obvious what he was doing—trying to get me off the rock—but I didn't care. I'd sat there long
enough anyway, and the beer I'd had really wasn't enough, all things considered. I took one more look through my legs to the river below then got up and walked over to Timmy. He stood up and handed me the bottle. It was square-shaped, with a big fancy label.

“It's a liqueur. Try it.”

I twisted off the cap. It was big and square, just like the bottle. I smelled the stuff. It was sweet—almost sickly sweet. I tipped the bottle and took a taste. The booze was even sweeter than its smell, and thick.

“Here, let me have a slug,” Timmy said as he took the bottle. He took a big gulp. “It's like drinking liquid candy.”

“More like drinking maple syrup.”

“Maple syrup with a kick. Do you know how much alcohol is in this stuff?”

“More than beer?”

“Way more.
Way
more.”

I took the bottle from Timmy and took another drink. This time it wasn't just a sip. I tipped the bottle back and took a long, long drink. It did taste like candy . . . the only candy I was going to get that night.

 

 

 

 

I
ROLLED OVER
and the bright light pierced my eyes, sending spears of pain deep into my brain. I closed my eyes tight and brought my hand up to shield them from the light. Why was it so bright in here . . . in my bedroom. My bedroom? How did I get here? What happened?

I tried to sit up and my stomach lurched and I knew I was going to throw up. My guts heaved violently but nothing came out except a little bit of foam and saliva. I looked down on the floor. There was a puddle of puke already there. My stomach lurched badly again and I gagged, but nothing came out. There was probably nothing left to come out. My stomach was empty because I'd emptied it earlier on. When, I didn't remember. I didn't remember much. There was me and Timmy and the bottle, and then we went back to the fire and . . . I remembered saying some stupid things . . . and then nothing. I didn't know how I'd got home. What time was it?

Slowly, hesitantly, I climbed out of bed. My legs felt shaky. My stomach did a flip again, but finally settled down. My head hurt . . . the whole thing was throbbing, but the left temple really hurt. The whole world seemed to be on a tilt. I looked down. I was wearing one shoe while
the other foot was bare, not even a sock. I put a hand against the dresser to steady myself.

My head was really hurting. I couldn't believe how much. I put my hand up to the spot on my head that hurt the most. It felt raw and painful to the touch. I drew away my hand. There was a little bit of blood! I staggered toward the mirror on my door and—

“Aaah!”

I'd stepped into the puke with my bare foot! I lifted up my foot and almost fell over, so I ended up putting my foot back down into the puddle and my foot slipped out from under me and I almost tumbled into the puke.

I limped over and leaned against the dresser again. I reached down and grabbed a shirt off the floor and wiped the puke off my foot. With one foot off the ground I almost tumbled over again. I teetered, regained my balance, and tossed the shirt into the corner. As I put my foot back down I realized I hadn't gotten all of the puke off. I could feel it squishing between my toes. What did it matter? I was going to have to have a shower anyway. I kicked off my other shoe.

I looked into the mirror and was shocked by the image staring back. The whole left side of my face was covered in dried blood! I felt around. There was still a sore, raw spot in my scalp, hidden beneath matted, bloody hair. There was no way I could tell how big the cut was. I knew, from experience, that cuts to the head really bled a lot, even if the cut wasn't that bad. Besides, it had almost stopped bleeding on its own, so how bad could it be?

I put my ear close to the door and listened. There was no sound. Was my mother still asleep? Had I gotten in before her last night? Did she know anything? And if she
didn't know, could I clean everything up and cover it up so she never would?

The cut on my head could probably be explained away. After all, how many times had I cut or bruised or broken something, doing something I shouldn't have done? Between bikes, mini-bikes, my go-kart, and doing stuff that was just plain stupid, I'd gotten hurt a lot. I'd broken my left arm twice, trying to do the same thing two different times.

When we lived in Welland—one of the times we lived in Welland—the house we rented was across an alley from the house where one of my friends lived. The two houses were only separated by that one little alley. A narrow alley. I figured I could jump from the roof of my house to the roof of his house. I didn't make it. And it was a lot farther down than it was across. That was how I broke my arm the first time.

My mother couldn't believe I'd broken my arm trying to jump between houses. But she
really
didn't believe it when, the day after the cast came off, I did it again, missed again, and broke the same arm, again. At least it was in a different place. Someday I wanted to go back there and do it a third time . . . not the breaking-the-arm part, but the jump. Except this time I'd make it.

I opened the door a crack. Bright sunshine flooded into my brain with a sharp jab. I stifled an urge to cry out in pain. Shielding my eyes, I tiptoed down the hall and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

I peeled off my remaining sock, one hand against the wall to support my faulty balance. I pulled my T-shirt over my head. It was sticky and smelled foul—like alcohol,
sweat, and vomit. I dropped it to the floor. I'd do a whole load of laundry, including this shirt and the one I'd used to wipe off my foot. Next I unbuckled my pants and let them drop to the floor. I stepped out of them and then removed my boxers.

I turned on the taps. The water splashed out, cold, with a brown tinge, which was how it always looked when the taps were first turned on. I adjusted the taps, waiting for the water from the old hot-water heater in the basement to make its way up through the pipes to the bathroom. It got less cold and then warm and finally hot. I climbed into the tub and pulled the shower curtain so it completely circled and surrounded me.

The stream of water felt so good. I shampooed my hair, delicately probing my scalp with my fingers to find the wound. The shampoo stung the wound slightly but the hurt almost felt good. I stuck my head back under the flow of water, washing away the suds and vomit and who knew what.

Next I soaped up my whole body. I didn't want to miss a spot. I wanted to wash away whatever had happened last night. What exactly
had
happened last night?

It was scary to think that I couldn't remember, that I'd lost a night, or at least part of a night. Maybe it was better that way, or maybe it wasn't. Either way, I was sure Timmy would tell me all about it. Assuming
he
could remember.

I turned the shower off and grabbed a towel. I felt cleaner but not much better. I could wash away the blood from my hair but not the throbbing in my head. My stomach lurched again. Maybe I was just hungry and
I should eat. Then again, that might be a big mistake. Food in the stomach was just something else to throw up.

I wrapped the towel around my waist and bundled up all my clothes. I unlocked the door and quickly crossed over to my room, closing the door behind me. I dropped the clothes to the floor and kicked them into the corner to join the pile of dirty clothes that had accumulated there. When my mother headed to work I'd do the laundry—my clothes as well as hers. I knew how to do it. There were lots of things that I'd had to learn to do for myself over the years when she was too drunk to do a lot of the things that a parent would usually do.

Quickly I pulled on new clothes. I really was hungry. I was going to have to risk eating. I went down the stairs, the old wooden steps creaking underfoot. Halfway down I heard sounds coming from the kitchen—a radio and plates rattling. Obviously my mother was awake. She turned around as I entered the room.

“Good morning,” I said, trying to sound chipper. It seemed awfully bright in there.

“It's barely morning,” she said, gesturing up at the clock. It was eleven-thirty. “And I'm not sure how good it is, either.”

She knew something.
How much?
was the question. I sat down at the table.

“How is your head?” my mother asked.

“My head? It's not bad . . . it's nothing . . . just a little cut.”

“I know it's cut—remember I practically carried you inside—I just want to know how badly is it cut? It had stopped bleeding before I put you to bed.”

“It's nothing,” I repeated as she rushed over. “I fell down, tripped on a crack in the sidewalk, really stupid, but I'm okay.”

She moved my hair so she could try to find the cut. I jumped as she located it, with her fingernail!

“Be careful!” I pleaded.

“It isn't me who should be careful.”

“Accidents happen,” I said. “I tripped.” I probably had tripped.

“I guess that happens to people who are
drunk
.”

I felt a shiver go up my spine. Obviously she knew everything. Or at least she
thought
she knew everything.

“I wasn't drunk.”

She snorted.

“So I had something to drink. That doesn't mean I was drunk.” A partial truth was the best lie.

“You were drunk. Don't forget, you're talking to an expert.”

“On drinking or being drunk?”

“On
both
.” She reached over and grabbed a cigarette from the package on the counter.

“I thought you were stopping again last night,” I chided her, trying to shift the conversation away from me.

“I did stop again last night.” She struck a match and lit the cigarette, inhaling and then letting out a cloud of bluish smoke. “I started again just after I found my son on the front steps of the house, unconscious, bleeding, and lying in a pool of vomit.”

I felt my stomach pitch again and tried not to show it. I tried not to show anything. Obviously she knew everything.
She might even know more than I knew. Lying was hard when you didn't even have any idea what the truth was.

“Do you know where your other shoe is?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Those were expensive shoes. Weren't they your favourites?”

I nodded.

“We're not made of money. I don't have another two hundred dollars to go throwing away on another pair of …” She stopped. “Listen to me. Talking about the shoes instead of what really matters. I sound like
my
mother.”

“So what happens now?” I asked.

“What happens is that we try to get some food into you.”

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” I said.

“Something bland. Unbuttered toast or some dry cereal. Cheerios always worked for me. This may be the one time that having an alcoholic for a mother works in your favour, because I know the drill.”

She went over to the cupboard and pulled out a box of Cheerios. She put it down on the counter and reached farther into the back and pulled out another box of Cheerios—a brand new box—and opened it. She poured a little into a bowl and brought it over and set it down in front of me.

“Fresh Cheerios are better when you're not putting milk on them. Use your fingers. Just take them a couple at a time. If it's not feeling good then stop eating.” She walked over, opened the cupboard under the sink, and pulled out a bucket. “And if you need to throw up again, try to use this instead of the floor,” she said as she put it
down beside me. “After you eat and we talk, you should go back to bed.”

“I'd like to go back to bed and . . . what are we going to talk about?”