I remember someone laughing too loudly behind me, then stopping.
I remember the wood cracking under my back.
For one ugly heartbeat, I thought of grabbing his shirt and pulling him with me.
I thought of making him feel the drop before he could turn it into a story about my balance, my nerves, my tendency to overreact.
Then the railing gave way.
The sky flipped upside down.
The rocks knocked every breath out of my body.
At first, the pain was so hard and bright that I could not scream.
It tore through my lower back and spread through my ribs.
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Then came something worse than pain.
Nothing.
My legs were there.
I could see them twisted against the river stones.
I could see one sandal still on my foot and the other lying near the porch steps.
But my legs had gone silent, like someone had turned off a room inside me and locked the door.
At 4:37 p.m., I tried to move my toes.
I felt only panic crawling up my throat.
Above me, the deck went quiet.
Then voices started stacking on top of one another.
“Oh my God.”
“Did she fall?”
“Someone get Harold.”
No one said Tyler pushed her.
Not one person.
My father, Harold, came down the deck stairs slowly, one hand on the rail, like he had all the time in the world.
My mother reached the patio first.
Diane was already furious.
Not because I was on the ground.
Not because the railing was broken.
Not because her daughter was staring at her own legs and realizing she could not feel them.
She was furious because the party had stopped.
“Bridget, get up,” she snapped. “Stop making a scene.”
The yard froze around us.
Women held their glasses near their mouths without drinking.
One uncle stared at the ice bucket as if the melting cubes had become fascinating.
A cousin’s hand hovered over a tray of shrimp like her body had forgotten what it was doing.
The outdoor speaker played soft jazz over my breathing.
Nobody moved.