FALLING

Someday my son will be a teen-ager and he will need to think for himself. He will need to use the tools I've given him to deal with life's challenges. Though a part of me would like to short-circuit his journey, to simply present him with a pot of gold made from scratch, I know that I can't. He must follow his own path and create his own rainbow of truth. He'll stumble along the way, but he'll learn how to get back up.

If he doesn't learn to think for himself, someone will do it for him. This short story, a work of fiction, is written from the point of view of a college boy reflecting back on his childhood. Take a look. I'd love to hear your thoughts...


FALLING - Amy LeClaire


My friend Peter always did as he was told.

The thought calls me as I climb the stone steps of a majestic drug rehabilitation center. It is an autumn day in New England, crisp and smelling of summer’s passing, of overgrown foliage and dewy grass. A row of maples pose vibrantly in the front lawn, their leaves colored like citrus juice and wine. Some leaves have fallen already, gracing the air in a downward spiral before reaching bottom; and some are still in motion, defying gravity, vacillating in wind’s soft breath.

I enter the building, soak in the memory.

“Joey, wait up!”

We are seven years old, and speeding down the banking behind our houses—the one leading to Matty Fenton’s bike ramp. Matty is a snotty nosed kid with freckles and a fresh mouth. He makes Peter feel uncomfortable but he is one of the best jumpers in the neighborhood.

“Whoa…nice jump! I gotta’ try that!”

Hunched over my handlebars, I race around the cul-de-sac then climb the ramp. For a moment in time I am high and my heart soars. My tires roll off the other side and bounce one last time, hot and satisfied.

“Your turn, Peter!” I yell back. “Make sure you go fast enough!”

Peter remains frozen, brooding. “Mom says no. Last time I fell, remember?”

I remembered. Mrs. Dale had tended to her son’s wounds with cream and a band-aid, cursing the biking excursion along with Matty’s bad influence.

“From now on, Peter, you may ride your bike in the driveway."


I blink the image shut and enter the building, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets before taking them out again. Too casual. A middle aged man wearing a Red Sox hat sips from a bubbler, glimpsing at me. A scar embeds his cheek like a dead caterpillar, a fossil of his wound. I smile at him, the humble kind of smile that tells him I understand him even though I don’t and, for some reason, I’m embarrassed that I don’t.

“Hello,” the receptionist says. She is eager to key in my information. “Who are you here to see today?”

I don’t answer promptly because I can’t. But her forehead is ignorant to our history. It tightens and wrinkles.

“Peter. Peter Dale,” I manage to say.

She enters his name, asks, “Your relationship to the patient?”

Again I pause and my eyes water; blurring my vision of then and now, drowning and saving the memory all at once. Unaware, she repeats the question.

“Relationship to the patient?”

My voice strains, “Best friend.”

“Ahh…Wednesday, four thirty,” she confirms. “The patient is in room three thirty four, elevators to your right.”

The elevator is a welcoming distraction. Neutral and robotic, it does not feel the weight it bears each day. The doors squeak open and an Asian couple steps in, frail and somber, wearing matching L.L. Bean vests and hiking boots.

We share a nod, a communal agreement that the space between us is both familiar and strange. We are in the elevator together and our thoughts are connected. The doors glide open on the third floor. We find smiles and separate.

A sign indicates that Peter’s room is located to the left. I do not try to collect myself because it is my best friend, and though college has divided us for two years; it is still him and I am still me.

The hallway smells of processed food, maybe mashed potatoes and canned green beans, and then, further down, vomit. I swallow my own liquid and draw a piece of gum from my coat pocket.

A patient sees me, stretches out a bony arm. Her expression is both amused and deranged, a combination that matches her wild red hair.

“Got any more?”

I dig for a piece and a nurse appears from nowhere. She grabs the patient’s hand, chides her. “Rochelle, what did we talk about today?”

I don’t look back, just keep walking. I can hear jabs of conversation, language contaminated with sharp edges and hurt. My legs heave against a current of doubt.

Many rooms are left open. Though a part of me wants to; I don’t peek in because I know that the faces inside will need me and I will be ineffective at giving them what they need. Peter’s face will be different. He will need me and I will know what to give him.


We’re at the bike jump. Peter’s willing to try again.

“Don’t worry, Pete. Watch me.”

I loop around the cul-de-sac, my bike weightless underneath me. I believe in Pete even though he doesn’t believe in himself.

“Speed up right here!” I yell back, bracing myself before the jump. “Your turn, Pete…you can do it.”

His eyes are moist and wide. They cling to my face, capture my words. He pedals slowly at first then gains speed at the ramp’s bottom. His tires climb…


His door is open and I can see him on his bed, pale and thinner, but I see him still. He appears anxious, leaning back on his bed as though awaiting a dental exam. His white t-shirt and hospital pants are loose and clean. His eyes find me and there are no words to be said.

I approach him; sit down on the guest chair beside him. The television gargles above us. His tears force mine out. We embrace, sealed by our bond, protected. I release him first. He speaks.

“How’s school?”

“Pretty good. Full course load this semester, you know how it is.”

“You’ll get through it, Joe. You always do.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I am ashamed of getting through things suddenly. We pause in a moment that’s confined to all that’s wrong. Yet it’s also a moment dependent on all that’s made right.

“You’ll get through this, too, Pete.”

Skeptical, he studies the window, searches for a way out. “I don’t know, Joe.”

I touch his knee, remind him: “Peter, don’t you remember what happened at the ramp?”


…and he wobbles at the ramp’s plateau before falling to the ground. I skid to his side. He’s crying. He’s crying but he shakes the dirt off of his jeans.

He gets back up.

"Just don't tell my mom I played here, okay?"

I extend an arm and pull him from the ground. His secret is safe with me.