Falling Stars

I gazed at the chandelier hanging limply from the ceiling, fake diamonds twinkling, as I tried desperately to drown out the screams and shrill cries from below.

Moments later, I heard footsteps echoing from the heavily varnished wooden stairs.

I panicked and quickly got to my feet, pushing aside the majestic dark-colored curtains that covered the sliding windows. I didn’t want her to catch me listening.

Once at the narrow terrace, the cold breeze immediately blasted against my face.

A few minutes later, my friend Jessie, crept silently beside me. Her eyes were puffy and swollen; her nose rendered a shiny scarlet. I was dying to know what happened. But even at nine years old, I already understood that it was very rude to ask about it, so I kept my mouth firmly shut.

Instead, I merely observed the scene below me: an expanse of swimming pool filled with murky water was nestled in their neighbor’s backyard, flanked by various plants and what seemed like huge pieces of junk.

The house was massive, owned by a wealthy doctor and his wife. If the water were faultless we’d probably have seen our reflections etched on the surface.

“I’ve always wanted to have a swimming pool,” I said, breaking the silence. “The people there must be very lucky.”

“They don’t really use it, though,” replied Jessie. “Unless there’s something really special going on, like parties.”

“That’s sad. It’s such a waste. If it were me I would have swum there every day,” I said. “Except I don’t even know how to swim,” I groaned, but she didn’t even smile.

I was becoming more and more frustrated. Sure, I felt bad for her, but I felt completely, utterly, lost at that moment. I had no idea what in the world I was supposed to do or say. I was desperate to go home, or to play hopscotch like we planned.

“Grandpa really hates Mom. Maybe even Dad does,” she finally said.

I was a bit surprised. I thought the quarrel emerged because of something Jessie did. She was a bit of a spoiled brat, admittedly, resorting to expertly-conjured tears when things didn’t go the way she wanted.

Slowly, my disappointment started to ebb away. I stared at her, and probably saw myself reflected on her glistening eyes.

A few years later, I would learn that the argument I witnessed was a fairly common thing in her family. Her Mom was having an affair with someone, leaving behind her Dad and two other siblings in that enormous, stately house. Whenever her mother visited them, the entire household would hastily erupt into a place of chaos and relentless screams.

An idea suddenly occurred to me.

“I can make them now, those stars I showed you before,” I told her excitedly. “Do you have a paper? I’ll teach you how.”

She seemed pleased with this novel idea. A few minutes later, after meticulously folding long strips of paper, we were back at the terrace, our newly acquired treasures gleaming between our cupped hands.

“Let’s throw it at the neighbor’s roof and make a wish,” I said. “They say it’s a kind of lucky charm.” It was an utter lie, of course.

And so it happened that I, a mere child of nine, had made up an ingenious way of making a wish for someone who couldn’t catch a glimpse of a shooting star, or for someone who didn’t have a fallen tooth to hurl across a roof. All this to cheer her up.

Thinking back on it now, ten years later, I realize that maybe it wasn’t truly her I was so intent on consoling, that it wasn’t her who was in such a dire need of solace.

Perhaps it was me.

I want us to have a family picture where everyone is present, I thought fervently, gripping the star more tightly. I want Mama and Papa to get back together.

I keep wondering, would it have comforted Jessie if I had told her we shared the same grief? But it was a grueling task, that kind of confidence, especially for a child of nine.

I had always maintained my silence, never revealing the loneliness engulfing me to anyone, even to my four other siblings. I’d quickly escape to our bedroom whenever the arguments would emerge, trembling and silently crying. I’d watch Mama’s face turn livid with rage at the mere sight of Papa entering the house, red and reeking of liquor. I’d listen to my elder sisters’ lamentations, whispered under the bed sheets, never offering a word —

Presently, I sighed, staring at the vibrant piece of paper held gingerly between my fingers.

I mustered all my strength, thrust the origami towards the distant roof, and watched it soar like a falling star in the cloak of darkness.

Back then, I still didn’t know that there was simply no such thing as falling stars.

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