Trail of Crumbs

by Lisa J. Lawrence

  Greta slid into a chair and waited for Rachel to do the same. She felt a pang, Rachel smiling at her like they shared a good secret. Like stepping into the sun after too long in the shade. She shoved away another memory—the one of Rachel’s car peeling away on snow-covered gravel. “First of all, I want you to know I didn’t ask Ash to beat up Dylan. I had no idea he’d do that.”

  The smile dropped from Rachel’s mouth. “I didn’t think so. Didn’t really seem like you. What happened?”

  “Well, I had a…realization, I guess. That night at the cabin”—it never got easier, saying these words—“I never said I wanted to sleep with Dylan.” She cleared her throat. “It wasn’t consensual. I finally told Ash.”

  Rachel smiled again, this time like a mother being told by her child that heffalumps and woozles actually exist. “Greta”—she shook her head—“why are you saying this? Dylan was really upset when you accused him of that before.”

  Only then it wasn’t an accusation. She’d only gotten as far as implying she hadn’t exactly raced to his bed with cheerleader-level enthusiasm. And then she’d rejected him, which probably didn’t happen a lot.

  “I know it sounds stupid,” Greta said, “but it’s taken me a while to understand that I wasn’t given a choice. He didn’t ask me. I didn’t say yes.”

  Rachel’s smile drooped, irritation tightening her mouth. “Greta, I was there.”

  “Fill me in then.” A sickening panic bloomed in her gut. What if Rachel was right, that she’d said yes, been more than willing, and was now playing the victim card?

  “You were all over him that night,” Rachel said.

  “I remember some of that, yes. We kissed. I sat on his lap.”

  “Well, you can understand why Dylan thought you were game.”

  Greta sighed, trying to find words to make sense of it. “Here’s the thing. I really liked him. I liked kissing him. I liked sitting on his lap.” Then she stopped. Ever since she’d dropped that confession on Ash, on herself, she had started to unravel the I-made-a-mistake-and-regret-it story she’d fabricated in her mind. “But if I’m honest, I didn’t plan on staying over that night. And I didn’t plan on sleeping with him—at least, not then.”

  “So why did you?”

  “This is what I’m trying to tell you!” Greta hissed, straining across the table. “I drank too much and wasn’t given a choice.” A girl wandered close, saw Rachel’s and Greta’s faces and beelined to a shelf on the other side of the library.

  “If you wanted to leave, why’d you drink so much? You could’ve said something sooner.”

  “Well…” She knew Rachel wouldn’t understand this. She’d never had to work to save face or impress anyone. “I didn’t really know how to get out of it.”

  Rachel leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “So you’re blaming Dylan instead? He was drunk too, you know.”

  “Rachel, I couldn’t even speak.”

  “You’d been giving him the green light all night.”

  “Did you actually see or hear me say yes?”

  “I wasn’t exactly hanging out in your bedroom.”

  “But what about getting to the bedroom? How’d that happen?”

  Rachel furrowed her brow and looked away. “Dylan kind of helped you up the stairs.”

  “So he could walk and I couldn’t?”

  Rachel sighed and raked her fingers along her scalp. “I can see where you’re going with this, and I won’t be a part of it. I don’t get it, Greta.” Her smile was long gone. She squinted across the table. “Are you really religious or something?”

  Greta shook her head.

  “Then just desperate for attention,” Rachel said, pushing her chair back and standing. “Everyone has done things they regret, but it’s wrong to blame someone else. I don’t want to hear any more.” She walked away, her hair swishing at her waist.

  Greta’s whole body fell out of alignment, wrong to her core. A mannequin hammered together with mismatched parts. She fought the urge to hurl a book at Rachel’s retreating head. Retreating for the second time. Shame leaked from her bones again. Drama queen. Liar. She wrestled with the feeling and nearly convinced herself that Rachel was wrong.

  Then she stood, staring vacantly at the other students in the library. It was busier now. Some people talked low in groups. A startling burst of laughter came from a few shelves over. Greta turned to face the door, which swung open and closed as bodies came and went. Out that door, up a flight of stairs, her social studies class would begin any minute, Angus pretending not to notice her as she slid into her seat. Or slut-shaming her for not choosing him. Dodging that tiger in the hallways between classes. Slouching with Nate behind the ficus tree. A target on her back for being Ash’s sister.

  She shifted to face the library window. Outside that window, Ash. Elgin. Alice. A warm home bursting with green leaves. Somewhere, her dad and Patty. The rest of the world. People going to work. Cars. Buses. Planes. A big, big sky. All of them teeming on an engorged anthill. She swayed in a circle between the library door and the window.

  Greta found Ash in the living room, staring down at the crumpled form of Elgin on the sofa. Hard to tell his sallow skin from the folds of the blanket. He usually ensconced himself in his bedroom late morning. Today it looked like he had walked by the sofa and collapsed. A drive-by sleep attack.

  If Ash felt surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. “We broke him,” he said, thrusting his chin toward Elgin.

  “Shh.” Greta elbowed Ash’s arm. “He can still hear you.” But she did lean closer to check for movement in his chest, the flicker of REM sleep behind his eyelids. “He’s just sleeping.”

  Ash turned to look at her, his eyes wide. “Are you sure about that?” Greta steered him by the elbow to the kitchen. Before she could speak again, Ash said, “It’s too much, all this cooking for us,” he sputtered, “and dealing with our crap. We’re killing the man.”

  “I’ll call Alice,” Greta said, “just in case.” Elgin had written her number in Sharpie on the side of the fridge. Not even on a sticky note—actual Sharpie on the fridge surface. “And we’ll do more. We’ll do all the cooking.” They already did most of the cleaning, except for any plant-related stuff. Elgin practically bodychecked them whenever they attempted to touch a plant.

  Greta left a voice mail for Alice. They stood over Elgin for another minute before withdrawing to their room, leaving him to sleep. Greta flopped on the air mattress and Ash on his bed. Midmorning sun shone through the gauzy curtains. They lay on their backs, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.

  “So how’d it go?” Ash asked, without turning his head.

  Greta shook her head. “Not well.”

  Now Ash craned his neck to look at her. “Did she come alone?”

  “Yes.” Greta let it sit for a minute. “She just didn’t believe me.”

  Ash nodded, like he wasn’t surprised. “You came home. Now what?”

  “Ash, can I just…have a day?” Greta said. He didn’t respond. “I have no idea what happens next for either of us. I need a day, maybe even two.”

  Ash lay still. After a few minutes Greta wondered if he’d fallen asleep. She felt drowsy herself, heat pumping through the air vents and sunshine beaming through the window onto her skin. The first truly quiet moment in months. They had walked, run, driven, scrubbed, shouted, fought, shoveled, worried and cried. Today they lay on unmade beds in Elgin’s guest room, uncomfortably warm for Edmonton in February. At that moment Greta refused to turn in circles in the maze. She wanted to sit in the shade of its walls and have no idea which direction to take. To not even care. For one day. She filled her lungs and belly with air and released it slowly, again and again.

  “Ash?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Can I see the three pictures?”

  Silence. Then, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  For some reason it was Ash’s job to get them—they both knew it. He pushed himself o
ff the bed and left the room. Greta heard him open the door to the staircase leading to the basement and waited a few minutes. A hornet in her belly buzzed with anger, anxiety, fear. The sun burned it away, though, and the feeling didn’t pierce her.

  Ash came back and set the shoebox on the dresser, brushing dust off the lid. He picked three photos right off the top of the pile and handed them to her hesitantly, as if they were the results of a cancer biopsy.

  Greta’s heart sank at the first photo—a version of what she had feared. Their mom sliding a lit birthday cake in front of her and Ash, only the back of her head and one cheek visible. Greta counted the candles: their fifth birthday. Ash, with a messy mop of hair, smiled like he’d been handed a pony. Greta in partial silhouette as well. Still, a good moment, one retained only by the picture. Greta couldn’t recall anything about their fifth birthday.

  A pang of joy and jealousy at the second one. Diana’s and Ash’s faces filled the whole photo. Roger—the invisible photographer—stood close. Diana’s skin was washed pale from the flash. Greta noticed Diana’s slightly crooked teeth, and Ash’s new adult teeth, still too large for his mouth. What had happened to that look, a lightness—even joy—in his eyes? Was it snuffed out at once when Diana died? Slowly siphoned from him over The Patty Years? A natural part of growing up?

  A passerby must have taken the third photo, all of them together at Hawrelak Park. Roger and Diana stood with their arms around each other’s waists, smiling for the camera. Roger, an inch shorter than his wife, had a lot more hair than now. Greta leaned her head against her mother, and Ash, on Roger’s side, clutched a bread bag and watched a nearby goose. This was before they knew bread wasn’t good for geese or ducks. It had always galled Roger, years later, when posted signs made other suggestions: halved grapes, grain. “The ducks eat better than we do,” he complained.

  Greta propped all three pictures against a stack of textbooks on the dresser. “We’ll have to get some frames.”

  Ash got up from the bed and stood beside her. He overlapped two photos, blocking out Roger completely.

  “He’s still your father, Ash,” Greta said.

  Ash shook his head. “He’s not. He chose that.”

  She didn’t want to get into it with him, didn’t even know if he was wrong. Maybe she was the human carpet, and he was the sensible one. Greta didn’t mind that photo—the Before Family. If Patty had been resting her pruny little chin on Roger’s shoulder, Greta would have hidden that part too. Cut it off.

  FOURTEEN

  Greta intended to chip the ice off the porch and scrub the bathtub, but her body wanted to collapse every time she stood. Ash watched her, frowning, when she got up off the air mattress and flopped back down within five seconds. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I’m just feeling tired.” Three months of tired all at once. Maybe even seven years of tired—all the energy needed to balance on the bucking surface of life with Patty. Plus the two years of fog after their mother died. And the death itself. Nine-years tired, in every cell and organ in her body.

  “Just take it easy then. I’ll do the work,” Ash said, his mouth poised to ask more.

  She settled with a book near Elgin, watching to see that he shifted and murmured in his sleep. Still alive, just tired too. Something about Elgin calmed her. Even as he stood on the edge of his own personal precipice, Greta knew he would never drag them off with him.

  Alice arrived before supper, slipping through the front door without knocking. Ash was frying chicken for quesadillas, while Greta was curled up in the chair near Elgin, her book fallen to the side. She sat up as Alice approached.

  “He’s been there, sleeping, all day,” Greta said, standing next to Alice. She swayed as the weight of her body dropped to her limbs. “Think something’s wrong?”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s always wrong,” Alice said, looking over Elgin’s sleeping form. “He goes through something like this every January and February.”

  “Is that when your mom died?” Greta asked.

  “No. It’s just when he loses all hope.”

  February. A test of endurance. How did any of them survive? Greta nodded. She felt it too—each day rewound to the beginning and repeated itself. The longest short month of the year.

  “Dad.” Alice leaned over and rubbed his head like a lucky penny. “Dad.” Her hand rested on his cheek for a moment. Greta startled at the tender gesture.

  Elgin opened his eyes and smiled at Alice, stretching his body long before deflating again. “I didn’t know you were coming.” He blinked, sleepy.

  “Well, your roommates here were concerned you were dying.”

  Elgin still smiled at Alice. She could say anything, really—I’ve come to mutilate you—and he would smile. “Just tired lately. I’m not sleeping at night.”

  “Want me to make an appointment with your doctor?”

  “No, no.” He waved his hand at her, shooing her away. “I’ll be fine.”

  Greta suspected Elgin’s definition of fine differed from the rest of the world’s.

  Alice and Greta helped Ash in the kitchen while Elgin watched the setting sun out the front window. Snow dunes and front lawns disturbed by boot prints and the odd spray of dog urine.

  “Ash and I are worried we’re putting extra stress on your dad by being here,” Greta said, leaning in close to Alice. Ash put down the cheese grater and stood on Alice’s other side.

  “No,” Alice said, looking back and forth between them. “In fact, you may have delayed the worst of it by being here, if I’m honest. It probably helped him to have someone to look after again.”

  Greta’s chest loosened a bit. She couldn’t stand the thought of her and Ash as tiny parasites, gnawing away at Elgin. “Why don’t you live here with him?” she asked Alice. “You’re in school. You could even stay in the basement and save him having to get renters.” The rent money went to her anyway. Dealing with Patty probably hadn’t helped his mental health.

  “No way.” Alice held her hands up, motioning for them to stop right there.

  “Why not?” Ash asked.

  “I cannot deal with…that…every day.” She looked toward the living room, Elgin’s head silhouetted against the picture window.

  “That? Ouch,” Ash said.

  “Look,” Alice said, “I know this sounds cold, but I cannot deal with all his stuff on a daily basis. Whether he lives or dies, even,” Alice continued, “can’t come down to me. Don’t ask me to be responsible. It’s not fair. Could you fix your mother’s cancer?”

  Both Ash and Greta looked down at the counter, studying the diced tomatoes in front of them. This level of honesty didn’t sit in a nice compartment. Alice’s words rang true to Greta—harsh out loud, but true. At the same time, how often did the presence of Ash, doing nothing but existing, buoy her up?

  “I hear you,” Greta said. “I really do. What if you came a little more often?”

  “Not just once a month to collect his money,” Ash added.

  Alice wagged a finger at him. “Don’t even.” All the honesty cards were on the table now. To Greta, she said, “I’ll think about it. I’ve worked hard to get some distance from him and create stability in my own life. I guess I always felt I had to keep him at arm’s length.”

  “He’s definitely bat-shit crazy,” Ash said. Only Greta blinked at that. “But he’s a good man. I envy you, to tell the truth.”

  Alice’s head snapped to look at him, but he’d already turned back to the chicken on the stove.

  Bat-shit crazy. Funny. Lately Elgin was the only one who made sense to Greta.

  Elgin waved away their offers of food. While Ash and Greta cleaned the kitchen, Alice took him a plate and sat in Greta’s chair, coaxing him to eat a little. Greta thought she heard a few threats as well.

  When Greta collapsed in a kitchen chair, her body heavy again, both Alice and Ash joined her. Ash produced a deck of cards from somewhere, flipping one card back and forth between his fingers
, trying to master a trick.

  “You guys graduate this spring?” Alice asked.

  Ash and Greta looked at each other. “I got expelled,” Ash said, the card bending under the weight of his fingers.

  Alice snorted. “What’d you do?”

  “Beat up this guy…in front of the whole school…during a pep rally.”

  Alice practically beamed. “No! That was on my bucket list!”

  Greta nodded, grim. “He did.”

  “Was he a jerk or something?” Alice asked.

  “The biggest.” Ash’s eyes wandered to Greta and back down to the cards again. Alice didn’t miss the gesture and subdued her glee, glancing at Greta for a nanosecond.

  “Well”—Alice cleared her throat—“I’m sure he deserved it.” Greta was grateful she didn’t ask for details or what they were going to do next. “And I have a confession too.”

  Ash and Greta waited.

  “I’m getting a tattoo.”

  “What and where?” Greta asked.

  “Right here.” Alice pushed up her sleeve and rubbed a spot on her upper arm. “A Celtic symbol for strength.”

  “What does that look like?” Ash asked.

  “Here.” She grabbed his arm and started tracing curving lines on his skin with her finger. “Actually, do you mind if I use a pen?”

  Ash shook his head, still watching the place where Alice had drawn the invisible symbol. She came back with a Sharpie—Elgin’s Sharpie—and uncapped it. Gripping Ash’s arm with her left hand, she drew the curved, intersecting lines with her right. Her brow furrowed, and long hair fell onto his bare arm and wrist. Greta watched Ash’s eyes leave the symbol and examine Alice’s face, close to his. Greta felt like an intruder, watching them. Then Alice pulled back and put the lid on the Sharpie, triumphant.

  Ash lifted his arm to examine the symbol. “It’s nice. It’ll look good.” He noticed Greta now and cleared his throat, shifting away from Alice.

  Alice swung her purse off the back of the chair. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Ash said, prompting Greta to give him a classic Ash-style eyebrow raise. He might have recognized it had he looked her way. They slipped out the front door and settled on the top step of the porch. Through the screen door, Greta watched Alice light the cigarette and smile as she blew a stream of smoke above their heads. After a minute she offered it to Ash, who took a drag in a way that told Greta he’d done it a hundred times before. She felt a pang, watching him. What secret parts of his life did he shield from her?