Vertigo

We were on the balcony. We had slipped out of the office party celebrating Julia’s having made partner to have a quiet toast, just the two of us. I was leaning against the railing with a champagne glass in my hand. I was so proud of her. I heard the sound of glass tinkling in the distance, which, strangely, seemed to be coming closer. I was about to ask Julia if she heard it, too, when I felt that convulsive queasiness you get on a plane when you hit an air pocket. I dropped my glass and grabbed the railing instinctively – and it leaped and tried to twist away. Julia was crouched low, feet apart, arms extended, swaying, trying to keep her balance, her footing. I looked to the side and saw the dark edge of a corner wall rocking wildly back and forth against the backdrop of the window lights of the building across. There was an explosive crunch, and the railing gave way, and I started falling backwards with it. I clawed the air, trying to grab hold of something, anything. Then I felt Julia’s hand seize mine, like a vise, and I felt a shock along the length of my arm as I was jerked to a stop, my legs kicking air. I looked up, past the straight, quivering line that our arms made, to see her face taut with absolute strain. She was half over the jagged edge herself, the crook of her elbow hooked around a steel post. She’s a strong woman, a triathlete, but I have thirty pounds on her, and I knew she couldn’t bear my weight, I knew I would pull her down with me. I didn’t feel much of anything – except it seemed as if my whole body was my heart pounding. I felt myself slowly slipping down, I could see her sliding over the edge, so I said, “Honey, let go, let go.” That’s when it happened.

It was as if the world was a turntable, and it made half a turn, and I was looking down at Ramón’s face. He looked so scared, so scared. He was screaming, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying for the roar in my ears. My arms felt like they had been wrenched out of their sockets. I knew we were going to fall: the ledge would buckle from under me or the metal stanchion would uproot itself from the floor or my arm would slip from it and I would tumble after him. But I knew that I was not letting go of his hand, I knew it for a certainty. I would let go of the stanchion before I released his hand. Only our hands were damp from the champagne, I could feel his slipping slowly from mine – it was like squeezing a bar of soap. All at once my hand was a fist and I was watching him drop away from me. He kept falling and falling. Eighteen stories. I must have seen him hit the ground – I was in too much shock to have turned away – but I don’t remember it. Seven months now since that night when I saw through his eyes those few penultimate moments – when I watched him fall and he didn’t seem to stop. I’m still waiting, sick with dread, for the impact.

(October 2011)