Falling
an excerpt

Whenever people ask me about my background, I always tell them the same thing. My parents didn’t want me to grow up and so, of course, I grew up much too fast.

We always lived carefully.

Mother and Father never dared take any risks. Father kept all of the insurance up to date. Mother refused to buy anything second hand because “you never can tell where it’s been.” Father reminded me to floss and brush my teeth after every meal. In fact, one of my earliest memories was standing on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror as he taught me to brush in careful strokes, being sure not to forget the teeth in back. Mother made sure I took my vitamins and kept me away from junk food.

My parents always loved me. Of that I’m certain. Sometimes, though, I felt I would suffocate under their love. Their paranoia about tooth decay and junk food kept me inside on Halloween while all the other children laughed down the street in their costumes, carrying their heavy bags. Their devotion meant I was under their constant surveillance, from the moment I woke up in the morning until the time I went to bed at night. I know sometimes Father kept a watch over me while I slept. Occasionally I would wake up and catch him staring at me. He made no apologies at those times. He simply patted my arm and told me I must go back to sleep. “You need a full eight hours in order to grow properly and maintain your health.”

Yes, that’s how my father talked to me. I was only five years old at the time. I never remember him calling me silly names or playing games with me. Life was serious, and his only job was to make sure I didn’t die before he did. Mother was the same. They both kept guard over me, not allowing me to sprout wings, not granting me the joy of life but only the business of living.

I wish my brother had lived. I’m sure everything would have been different. They wouldn’t have had as much time to fret over me if there had been two of us. And from what I know of my brother, he would have kept them so busy that they wouldn’t have had time to worry about me. Unfortunately, that’s what killed him.

He was only twenty-seven months old. Father was at work. Mother turned away from my brother for just a moment while she answered the phone. In the time it took her to tell the telemarketer she wasn’t interested, he managed to slip out the front door with only a diaper on. By the time my mother found him, not more than three minutes later—she always swears it couldn’t have been more than three minutes—he was lying in the snow, already half-frozen. She called for an ambulance. They got lost on the way to the house. By the time she got him to the hospital, his breathing was ragged. He lived for another week before dying of pneumonia.

And what about the phone call my mother had answered? It was from the doctor’s office. They told her she was pregnant. As my brother lay dying, she swore she would do everything right for me. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing a second child.

I was born healthy, a full eight pounds, and never got sick during my first four years of life. That’s not surprising because they never took me anywhere. I think I remember the first time they let me leave the house. I know it was soon before I started kindergarten. The world amazed me. I looked up at the blue sky, which was much bigger than I had ever imagined. I smelled the fresh cut grass. I basked in the sunshine. Mother pulled my hand, hurrying me toward the car. I wanted to sit on the grass and watch the fluffy white clouds as they floated above my head. “We must go, Lori,” she said. She pulled me toward her. I reluctantly followed.

After that, I never wanted to stay inside. But Mother insisted. I spent much of my childhood gazing out through my bedroom window, wishing I could ride a bike or kick a ball, just like a normal child. My parents always told me I wasn’t normal. I was special, and they intended to make sure I remained that way.