After the Fall
By Deanna Hershiser

 

The small airplane banks left, its hull vibrating under my boots. Out the front window, sunlight divides the clouds. It’s a sight I wish you could see.

The other jumpers and I are nearing the correct elevation. Someone behind me jokes about our rendezvous with destiny and how he wishes he had a beer.

My helmet must have been hewn from a bowling ball. As sweat pools beneath my breasts, I gulp metallic air. I could rise from the floor, show the other jumpers panic eyes, and shed this gear. Imagining a wild dance in which I fling my pack at the beer lover’s head, I almost grin.

I kept news of my upcoming stunt from Mom. No need to worry her or Dad as he prepares this week’s sermon. You know people don't expect such daredevil risk-taking from me. At least they didn’t until a year ago.

The pilot has just called out that we’re in position. The other jumpers get quiet, share glances.

I love watching skydivers on TV. The crazy way their hair flips around their helmets as they free fall, their parachutes the brightest-colored fabric. We first-timers get drab olive, paratrooper-style chutes. The crewman crouching by the door will open each of our parachutes for us. No rip cord, unless something goes wrong and I have to deploy the emergency chute on my chest.

Maybe you were the smart one, turning me down when I asked you to come. I had forgotten your bum knee. I seem to forget many things: that onions in casseroles make you sick, or to pack sunscreen for our beach trip, when your nose turned so bright I found you easily in crowds across the sand.

I set my hand on the little string I’m supposed to grab if I fall like a stone. We’re only at four thousand feet. If disaster strikes, I doubt the little string will save me.

Last night I lay awake long after you crawled in bed beside me. What do I have to show for my life? If I made a will, you would get my ceramic dogs from the shadow box next to where your prized, depression-era telephone used to sit. You slammed it to the floor and it broke that awful day last spring; that morning, when I came home not knowing you had arrived back early from your trip.

Anger burned from your eyes, yet you let the tears soak your cheeks. Silent, I slipped out and left you amidst our ruin.

The crewman by the door is unlatching it, sliding it open. The first jumper moves near the opening. Wind whips his coveralls as he steps onto a wheel strut. He gives a thumbs up. The crewman says “Now!” and the jumper lets go. A thick cable plays out after him.

For a few seconds the crewman watches his progress, then jerks on the cable and reels it in. He looks at me, next in line. “Come on!” he shouts above the wind.

My mouth is dry. My hands grasp the strut outside, just above my face. One foot feels its way to the narrow bar over the wheel. Inhaling, I pull myself entirely outside the plane. I’m supposed to fall backward.

“Now!” the crewman says. “Let go!”

Perhaps I should have stayed home with you.

That awful morning last spring, I found a boulder near the river and sat, the way I used to as a kid camping every vacation Dad took from his pulpit. I stared at the water.

No matter how things turn out for us, I’ll always know I’m capable of this wrong, this betrayal. Why didn’t God stop me? I yelled across the rapids to the forest and the void that it should send the fucking lightning bolt already.

Whirled now through gray space, I can’t tell up, down, or sideways. A voice scratches from the radio strapped to my shoulder. “Look at your chute!”

I look up. My parachute has opened. My feet hang.

“Okay, good.” It’s a one-way radio, so I can hear instructions but can’t answer back. The man speaking is on the ground, watching my progress, ready to direct if I go astray. “Grab the steering lines with both hands. Pull left. A little. That’s fine, stop.”

I wiggle my fingers. I breathe. The earth curves ahead, fields and forests tidy as one of your schematic drawings. In the distance a miniature river finds its way near the highway’s dark line. “Ha!” I say. “Wow.” Gravity has slowed. I wish you could feel it.

Some mornings these past months I’ve awakened thinking about him. But here above the hills all I picture is your face—only you.

When I returned from the river, I expected to find my stuff piled in the yard. But everything looked the same, your car still parked in the driveway. I guessed you might be hiding in your workroom, caressing your circuit boards, radios, and TVs.

Instead, you waited on our sofa. You spoke first, saying you were sorry. Tears flowed as you confessed not cherishing me the way you had promised in your vows. You loved me, but you had let things come between us. You asked my forgiveness.

I wanted to drown, to disappear. How could you think this was your fault?

The fields below come closer, their bordering trees taking shape. The man on the ground guides me into landing position. Earlier, his crew made us practice falling. All morning we lined up and took turns jumping off a three-foot platform. The real thing, they warned us, would feel more like a leap from nine feet.

The instructors said to keep my eyes forward, my gaze on the horizon. Because if I look down, my ankles will separate. If the ankles don’t land together at this speed, they can shatter.

Before I left home this morning, you stood beside me at the front door. Your eyes unreadable, you kissed me.

You made no effort to talk me out of jumping. If I’m honest I can see that’s not your way. Sometimes I have wished you were the overprotective sort, but instead you trust my decisions, for better or for worse. Scarier, almost, than falling from a plane, is the way you don’t hold me back.

I keep my eyes on the horizon. My feet stick together.

THWUMP. I hit, roll, then sit up in bent grass. The parachute spreads out behind me.

I stand, gathering the slippery material, haphazardly wrapping lines. I stop.

My silly grin expands. I shout, “Whoo hoo!” Stumbling, I bound across the uneven field toward the hangar. I don’t comprehend how sore my ribs will soon be.

Hours later, I park my car at home. You’re in front of the TV, but you get up when I come in. Across your face an expression flashes—were you worried, afraid?—then it relaxes as you step closer.

I have missed seeing behind your mask of regret. I lift your fingers to my cheek, my neck, my lips.

Your smile blooms. Light and heat. “Did you die?”

“I lived.”

You switch off the TV and lead me, my stiffness nearing pain, down the hall into our bedroom. Without shame we shed our clothes and begin an untamed dance.

© 2010 prickofthespindle.com