Page 5 of All Fall Down

There’s a silence that stretches the length of the bible, and then she slowly sits up. Now that she’s not glaring at me, I can see that her eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. Her lip trembles a little. Josie Deckard has been crying. The idea of teenage girl sobbing into her pillow might not seem like an anomaly, but my best friend doesn’t fit that description. She never has.

“Where have you been?” she asks me quietly.

It’s not as simple a question as it appears to be, and it doesn’t deserve a curt response or a cutesy answer. Instead, I lay it all on the line for her. “Under investigation for murder, falling in love, wrecking my entire family, doing incredibly stupid shit and realizing it’s been for nothing.”

But that’s only the beginning, and we both know it. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, I fill her in on all of the details. I know I’m leaving things out, probably important things, but the gist is there. When I’m finished, a huge burden lifts off my shoulders. I’ve forgotten how hard it is to keep secrets. Even having one person to trust them with lifts the load off my back.

“What about you,” I ask her. “I’m not the only one who’s been unavailable this summer.”

Josie and I were often separated over the last few years during school break. I’d be shipped off to Palm Springs to visit with my mother or be stuck working at my dad’s pawn shop. Josie would be stuck at home or taking whatever job she could find to supplement her non-existent allowance. But we called. And later we texted and Facetimed. We made time for sleep-overs and lunch dates and the occasional petty shoplifting. This summer, we have barely sent an emoji to each other.

Josie doesn’t respond to my question. Instead, she gets out of bed. It takes a long time, as if she’s ordering her limbs to move and willing her body to take each step. Opening her desk drawer, she rifles around for a few minutes until she pulls the false bottom up. We’d concocted that little secret spot to stash contraband over the years. Contraband being a pack of cigarettes when we were going through our we’re older than we look phase. A bit of booze. Maybe some condoms. The kind of stuff every parent knows their kid is hiding, but we still bother to hide anyway.

Nothing prepares me for what she pulls out of that drawer though. Having little to no experience with the topic, I stare at the black and white photo for far too long. The paper is flimsy. The image is warped, but I can read.

I can read her name in the corner. I can decipher that the numbers mean weeks and days. Try as I might, the white noise photo in the center doesn’t make sense.

“Is this…” I trail away, swallowing the words. If I don’t say them, they won’t be true.

“An ultrasound,” she says. Her voice detaches from her body as she continues on in an all business tone. “The clinic I went to makes you have one before you can make any decisions, even if you already made your decision. Probably some politician’s idea of punishment.”

She continues on, as if she can replace the tension in the air with her tirades.

“Oh my God,” I breath, basically ignoring her. “Did you ... Are you ...”

“I am,” she admits.

“Why?” The question bursts out of me. Everything is starting to make sense: her distance and irritability. But there’s no relief in this revelation. Rather it feels like I’m waking from a nightmare to discover I wasn’t asleep.

She snatches the picture away and shoves it back in the drawer, as if hiding it is in any way dealing with the situation. “All that debate about it and no one tells you how expensive it is to get it done. I’ve been saving all summer. It’s still not enough and ...” she doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t have to. The thought of actually going through with it is scary and I’m not even the one who has to do it.

“I can help.” It’s not an offer because she’s taking my help, whether she wants it or not. “I would’ve helped. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Does the father know?”

“He’s not in the picture,” she says, her nostrils flaring in defiance.

I decide not to press the issue. When she’s ready to share more, she will.

“All those years of her being so paranoid,” she says absently, “and I’ve gone and done the one thing that will break my mom’s heart.”

“You don’t have to tell her,” I whisper.

She blinks as if remembering that I’m there and then stares at me. “Em, I can’t do this alone.”

“You won’t have to,” I promise.