Beth Hyland - Fall Into Forever

I delete it without opening. It’s Aaron. He knows I’m at PSU. But…how did he find me?

* * *

Jon

I have just enough time to pick up my mail at the post office and get some work done at the station before I have to be in class. I’d like to get tomorrow’s music schedule programmed to give Harrison a chance to insert the ads and PSAs. He gets cranky if I wait until the day of and I’m not sure I’ll have a chance to come back this afternoon because I’m working in the tutoring center the rest of the day.

Tossing my mail on the desk I share with a few of the other hosts, I sit down and get to work. At least ten indie tracks have been emailed to the station since I last checked. I listen to all of them and end up selecting three of my favorites. I drag those media files to the hard drive, move them into the scheduler, and make a note that I need to do look up the bands’ bios before tomorrow’s show.

Anna, part-time receptionist and host of KREX’s call-in advice show, looks in the open door. “I forgot to give this to you when you came in.” She hands me a demo CD from Shoo, Gretchen. “It came in the mail the other day.”

Gretchen must’ve gotten my Facebook message. “Old school. I like it.” Most new music comes via WAV files online, but some bands still send CDs.

I open the case, put the CD into the player behind me, and press Play. Their odd hip-hop slash folk sound fills the room.

“Interesting,” Anna says, then leaves.

It’s a song about following your passion, no matter how crazy it is, and not giving up. The best fucking job in the world. The EMT’s words echo in my head. Ivy didn’t seem to think it was strange that I once dreamed of becoming a doctor.

I run my hand through my hair. If I got accepted into medical school, I’d be leveraged up the ass for years in student loans. I just don’t know if it’s worth it.

As I listen to the next track, I go through my snail mail. Some catalogs, a few ad flyers. Nothing exciting. But then an envelope near the bottom catches my attention. It’s from the Ames-Wickey Foundation. I tear it open and read the letter.

My application for a college grant has been denied.

I ball the paper in my fist. That extra four thousand dollars would’ve really helped next year. I had hoped to quit tutoring in my senior year since my class schedule will be so demanding. Guess that’s not happening. I’ll have to think of some other way to pay for my final year.

Ivy

After several false starts, I call home. My fingers are still shaking. Mom answers on the second ring.

“Well, isn’t this a nice surprise. You calling us for a change.”

I waste no time and jump right in. “Mom, how did Aaron Marquette get my email address? How did he know I was going to school here? Did you or Dad say anything?”

There’s a pause before she answers. “What did the email say?” I can hear the tension in her voice.

“I don’t know. I didn’t read it.”

“Good,” she says, sounding relieved. “Ignore him, Ivy. He’s just being an immature little kid.”

“Mom, he’s eighteen. He graduates from high school in June. That hardly constitutes being an immature little kid.” She’s always trying to paint Aaron as harmless. She thinks that if she can get me to believe it, I’ll ignore his taunts and his threats.

“Ivy, listen. Your father’s construction company is on the short list to get that contract with the city. This could be the break we’ve been praying for. Please don’t screw it up for him. If Ace Marquette hears about any of this, it could reflect poorly on your father’s bid. The city could drop his company from the list. We can’t afford that, Ivy. We’ve got everything riding on this.”

I don’t understand what she’s getting at. “But Mom, I’m…afraid. My headaches are starting up again.”

“He’s just a kid,” she says, like she didn’t hear what I just said. “And he’s not even there. I saw him and his mom in the grocery store yesterday. Honey, listen. If your father doesn’t get that contract, I don’t know what we’re going to do. We’re stretched so thin financially as it is. We…we might have to declare bankruptcy, which means we’ll lose the house. Getting this contract means everything, so please don’t screw it up this time.”

There’s a loud roaring in my ears and I grip the phone tighter. “This time? What do you mean?”

“Never mind. That’s not the point.”

“Mom, would you fucking tell me?”

“Watch your language, young lady.”

I mumble an apology and hear her exhale through the phone.

“I didn’t want to tell you this—you’ve been through so much—but your father lost a big contract with the city shortly after your accident. I think you were still in the hospital, actually. That’s why this is so important now.”

There’s an edge to her voice. Is there a connection between my accident and my father losing that contract?

“What are you saying?” I choke. No answer. “Mom,” I repeat, louder this time.

I can tell she’s still on the other end of the line. She doesn’t hear me or choose to hear me, but then, when has she ever? It’s like I’m a ghost, trying to communicate with her sometimes, but my words don’t quite register.

“Can’t you just ignore him?” she says finally. “The bids go before the city council next month. We need to put our best foot forward, and you claiming the police chief’s dead son was a jerk isn’t going to help.”

Claiming?

It feels as though she just reached through the phone and slapped me across the face. Does she think I’m making all this up? When did she drink the Lincoln Falls Kool-Aid and decide that Chase was a good guy? A few times, she even said I should break up with him, or am I remembering that wrong, too?

Then she changes the subject and starts talking about some book her book club is reading. As I sit there, the phone frozen to my ear, one thing becomes perfectly clear. My parents’ financial situation means more to my mother than I do.

* * *

Jon

I’m in the tutoring center with a Chem 121 study group, reviewing how to calculate the theoretical yield of a reaction. Finals are coming up and some of them are still having a hard time.

As they work on the problem I just gave them, I glance at my phone to see if Ivy answered my earlier text, but she hasn’t. Concern gnaws at my gut. God, maybe I should’ve cancelled my tutoring appointments and gone back to check on her.

Last night when we got home from the hospital, she was really quiet. Like she was in shock.

When I asked how she was doing, she kept saying she was fine, but I seriously doubted it. I mean, how could seeing that shit not affect her given everything she’s been through? Even though she has no conscious memory of her own car accident, the events of yesterday had to have struck a chord. I’m almost positive her headaches are back. Though she denied it when I asked.

When we went to bed, I spooned her and held her close. Not in a sexual way or anything. I just wanted to reassure her that she was all right. That she was safe with me. But she tossed and turned all night. At least she was sleeping when I had to leave this morning.

After the study group is over, I look around for my next appointment. It’s a couple of freshmen guys on the football team who are always late. Normally, I hang out for a while and wait for them, but not today. I tell Kelly, who is tutoring a couple of accounting students, that my next appointment is a no-show and that I’m leaving.

“Is Ivy okay?” she asks, frowning. “She didn’t look so good yesterday.”

At least I’m not over-reacting and imagining things. “It hit her pretty hard. I’m going to go check on her.”

I’m halfway back to the White House when I realize Ivy might have gone home. I pull my motorcycle to the curb, strip off my gloves and text James.

He answers right away. Nope. She’s not here.

I turn the bike around. A few minutes later, after waving to the RA manning the front desk, I’m standing in the hall outside Ivy’s dorm room.

I knock, but no one answers.

The white board says Back at 6, but it’s Cassidy’s handwriting, not Ivy’s. Only one room on the floor has its door open. I stride down there and knock. The two twin beds are elevated, and there’s a disco ball and a bunch of pillows under one of them.

A tall, lanky guy looks up from his desk near the window. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I’m looking for Ivy,” I say, pointing down the hall.

“I haven’t seen her, but then a bunch of people went to dinner a few minutes ago. Maybe she’s with that group.”

“At the dining hall?”

“Yep. The one across the street.”

“Thanks.”

I turn to go, but then he says, “Hey, you’re Jon Priestly, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so. I recognized your voice. When I have a kickback, we sometimes listen to your show.” He indicates the space under the bed.

“Sweet, bro. I appreciate that.”

When I get to the dining hall, I scan the tables. A few people say hi, including a couple of Parishioners in pink shirts, but I don’t stop and talk to them. Unless there’s a section I can’t see, Ivy isn’t here. And I don’t see any of her friends either. Maybe they went to a different dining hall instead. Or somewhere off-campus.

Once I’m back outside, I lean against a nearby pillar and check my phone. Still no text. Shit. I have Cassidy’s number saved in my phone from when Ivy called her once, but I don’t want to involve her yet.