Free Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman Page A

the dad you need, the dad you would never want to hurt... wounded, diminished, brought low when he is already down.
    Hurt by you.
    Weeping, stabbed, shot down by you, kicked by you, sobbing, shaking, heart broken by you.
    Please, please, make it not so. But it is so.
    You piece of shit.
    “Daddy . . .” You reach out to touch his shoulder. He flinches.

    Chapter Eleven

    I ’ve often wondered what happened to Faith English af- ter she left our high school in disgrace, but my wondering never included the desire to have coffee with her.
    Bernadette and I are catching up with Faith as though the three of us were great friends back then.
    What I remember is Bernadette’s broken heart, the worst fight we ever had, guilt over Faith’s meltdown—bad times.
    Of course, she still looks perfect, her yellow hair stick- straight, brown eyes big and long-lashed, and her clothing— lilac cashmere turtleneck, black pants, leather boots— conservative but stylish.
    “So, nonprofit, that’s admirable,” Bernadette says to Faith. “You like it?”
    Faith nods. “We never have enough funding, of course, but the people I work with are fab. How’s your family?”
    Bernadette blushes. “Fine. Good.”
    “Your brothers still like to wrestle with you?”
    “Oh, I kicked Martin’s butt for good years ago, and Paul is way too dignified to wrestle these days. I can’t believe you remember that.”
    “Well,” Faith looks down and then up again. “You used to have bruises.”
    Okay, wow, suddenly I may as well not be here.
    I excuse myself and go to the washroom, where I hide out for a couple of minutes. Crazy protesters, riot police, and now Faith English. This day is seriously killing me.
    “Bee, I need to get home,” I tell her when I return to the table.
    She blinks at me like she’s forgotten who I am. “Oh!Yeah, sorry.”
    Out on the sidewalk we both shake hands with Faith.
    “It was great to see you both,” she says. “Really, really great.”
    “Mm,” I say.
    “Absolutely,” Bernadette says.
    “Yeah,” Faith says, not leaving. “You said you live on Euclid?”
    Bernadette beams. “303A,” she says.
    “Great, great. Well, maybe I’ll... see you in the neigh- borhood.”
    “Maybe. Bye, Faith,” Bernadette says, and we walk away. Half a block up, Bernadette says, “Do you think she’ll call?” “You gave her your number?”
    “Nope.”
    “You think she’ll actually remember your address?” “Faith has an excellent memory for numbers.”
    “Bee, I don’t think... I’m not sure this would be... positive for you.”
    Bernadette chuckles at my concern, and we keep walking. I’m feeling unwell. My stomach is queasy, my temples are throbbing, and I feel, that is, my body is convinced, that something bad is about to happen. I hear thudding in my ears, inside my head. I look around. Some vengeful ex could leap out of an alleyway and stab Bernadette, a rabid dog or raccoon might attack us. We are in front of Sappho when I suddenly can’t walk any farther. I’m having a heart attack, a stroke. I need to sit down, but there are no benches and too many germs on the ground. Lead, dirt...I will never leave
    my house again.
    Hugo will think I’ve stood him up tomorrow night and give up on me. People will realize my paintings are shit and stop buying them. Sal will cut me off and I will lose the house, have to be forcibly removed, evicted, and I will live in the park until Bernadette finds me and by then I’ll be terminally ill. Tuberculosis, malnutrition—
    “Mara!”
    I blink twice and find Bernadette standing in front of me with her hands on my shoulders. Right. I am on Church Street on a chilly autumn day. There are tears in my eyes and I’m shaking.
    “Mara?”
    “Hi,” I say. “Ah, what’s up?”
    “What’s up? What’s up! What the hell is going on? We were having a conversation and suddenly you were gone. You just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.”
    “I’m fine, it’s okay. I got,