by R. K. Ryals
The dark, silent years after Mom’s death were hallowed ones. No one talked about them. No one talked about the way we crumbled, becoming the parts of ourselves we hated. Jet had cried and fucked his way through it. Literally. Deena pretended it never happened. Dad died with Mom. I didn’t do anything to save anyone.
I stood my ground. “Then don’t be like him and step away.”
“What about you, Tansy?” Jet asked. “If you’re not angry or wallowing in despair, what are you?”
“I don’t know.” My insides twisted into knots. “I don’t know what I am.”
Turning, he slammed into the room with his things, the sound echoing through the house.
“And we shall call this tune ‘the slamming of the doors’,” Hetty said from behind me.
Turning, I found her watching me from the living room surrounded by her cats. Snow remained at my side, no longer nudging me.
“Is that supposed to be funny?” I asked.
Rather than answer me, Hetty studied my face. “You are so much like your mother.”
My chest tightened. “I don’t want to be like anyone.”
Hetty smiled. “Neither did she. I guess that’s why she ended up with your father.”
Stepping toward the living room, I choked out, “Why?”
One of the cats, a fat orange tabby, hissed at me. Hetty nodded at him. “That’s Grumpy. He’s a mean ol’ cuss.” She laughed softly, her gaze going distant. “Your dad needed direction. I think your mom liked being his direction.”
“So she was as self-centered as he was?” I asked, disappointed.
“Maybe,” Hetty answered, surprising me. “You’re not self-centered, Tansy. You’re just tired like the rest of us. Your parents created enough drama in our lives. They’ve left us looking for peace.”
My hand found the wall at the end of the corridor. “I think I’m scared.”
“Good. Scared isn’t so bad. It’s better than angry.”
By the way she looked at me, I knew she’d misunderstood my words. I wasn’t scared of what was going to happen next. I wasn’t scared of where my life was taking me. I was scared of love. Scared of falling in love. Scared of being in love.
He did the best he could for all of you, Hetty had said.
Love made you do the best you could for people while giving your essence to someone who may destroy it. I didn’t want to do the best I could for the people in my life. I wanted to do more than that. I wanted to give the people I cared about everything I had and still have enough to spare while keeping my essence.
“Tansy,” Hetty called, drawing my attention away from my thoughts. “You’re not like your dad. None of you are.”
How could she be so sure? Could falling in love for us be the same way it was for him? Could we fall so hard that it would destroy us?
“I’m tired,” I muttered, turning.
My room was the finale, the echoing sound finishing ‘the slamming of the doors’.
***
Dad’s visitation and funeral were exactly as I’d imagined them to be. Two days, a handful of people—mostly men and women who knew Hetty—and a coffin with a man I barely recognized lying inside of it.
“He’s so thin,” Jet whispered.
The swelling that had plagued Dad’s body for over a year was gone, his once swollen features now cold and slim.
After the initial shock of seeing him, we avoided looking at the casket, plastering on false smiles for the people who sauntered through whispering things like, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
By the end of the first day, Deena’s grumpiness was rubbing off on all of us.
“I’m not sorry,” Deena grumbled, the words chasing the last visitor. “I’m not sorry at all.”
“I don’t think he knew a single damn person who showed up,” Jet complained.
“It was nice that they came,” I reasoned.
Exhausted, we trudged through the rest of the evening; through showers, a painfully silent meal, and restless sleep.
On the second day, Hetty’s van followed a hearse to a small country cemetery. No one else came to the gravesite.
A preacher said a handful of thoughtful words and murmured a prayer, Hetty dabbed at the corners of her eyes, Jet stared at nothing at all, and Deena scowled.
The casket was lowered into the ground next to our mother’s plot a few rows ahead of Mom’s family. Half the graveyard was full of Mom’s relatives. Dad didn’t seem to have people. If he did, he’d never talked about them much.
Jet gestured at the grave. “Do we really spend our whole lives to get to this moment?”
It didn’t seem so bad to me. An eternity of sleep after years of pain.
Dirt thudded onto the wooden casket below. Across from us, Hetty spoke quietly with the preacher, a young man with bright eyes. Occasionally he glanced at us, his gaze flicking from my nose ring to the fire engine red sprinkled throughout my hair. Rebel, it yelled. A rebel I was not.
“For what?” Deena asked Jet. “For dying?”
“No, to be put on display for people who don’t even know you, and then buried with no one here to see.”
“We’re here,” I pointed out. “Maybe we shouldn’t spend life just to get to this place. We should just make the most of it, you know?”
“Maybe,” Jet murmured.
He’d forgiven me for comparing him to Dad. Either that or he just didn’t care. Not when he was leaving. A cab sat idling at the edge of the cemetery, waiting to whisk him away to the nearest airport. Back to New York. Back to his life at school where he’d blow straight through his part of Dad’s life insurance. The part that hadn’t been used to pay off debt.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Deena whispered, her voice shaking. For the first time in months, she sounded like a sad, scared, fourteen-year-old girl.
Jet’s eyes met mine over her head. “Tansy’s staying,” he assured.
Tansy’s staying. Tansy’s staying. Tansy’s staying.
The words echoed through my head, mocking me. Oh, God! I wasn’t sure I could do this again. I wasn’t sure I could watch someone I loved spiral into nothing. Only Deena wasn’t Dad, so maybe it wasn’t the same. Dad hadn’t been angry, he’d given up.
A tear slid down Deena’s cheek. “But you’re not. You’re not because it’s too hard for you to stay, right? Because you need to start over. What about us? Do you even care that you’re just leaving us behind?”
Jet’s gaze went wild, sliding from the grave, to Hetty, and finally to the waiting cab. “You’re starting over, too.”
“Are we?” Deena wailed. “You’re leaving us behind with Nana who, quite frankly, hasn’t started over. She’s living in the same town Mom’s buried in for Christ’s sake!”
“It’s going to be fine,” Jet said firmly, his jaw set.
In that moment, I hated my brother. I hated him for his lack of compassion, for running from his ghosts while leaving us behind to deal with ours. Resentment ate at my insides.
“It’s still starting over,” I told Deena. “The town doesn’t matter. It’s how we go about getting out of here one day.”
“Without Jet,” she mumbled, her gaze avoiding our brother.
His lips parted. “I’m sor—”
“Don’t!” I warned. “Sorry is a bullshit word. If you feel the need to apologize, then you’re doing something wrong.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” he muttered.
It was the worst thing he could have said.
Reaching for my sister’s hand, I tugged her toward Hetty’s van. “Are you?” I asked, throwing a glare over my shoulder.
Hands in his pockets, his shoulders sagging, and his head down, Jet headed for the cab.
“Wait!” Hetty called. “You’re already leaving?” She glanced at us. “You’re not going to tell your brother good-bye?”
“We’ve said enough good-byes,” I answered.
Jet kept walking. Hetty rushed forward, her gaze on his back. He pi
cked up his pace.
“You shouldn’t let him leave like this,” she told us.
Deena exploded, her eyes shining. Wrenching her hand free from mine, she screamed, “He’s the one leaving! He could have stayed for the rest of summer. We aren’t doing anything to him! We didn’t do anything to Dad! We aren’t hurting them!” She placed her hands over her ears. “Quit blaming us!”
Hetty’s brow furrowed. “No, I didn’t mean—”
Deena hummed to drown her out, her eyes squeezed shut. My heart broke. Not for my dad or Jet, but for my sister who carried too many confusing emotions on her shoulders without knowing how to channel them.
I reached for her. “None of it is our fault, Deena. She didn’t mean that.”
She pushed her hands tighter against her head, the humming rising. In the distance, Jet climbed into the cab, and the car pulled away. He never glanced back.
“Dear Lord!” Hetty breathed. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
I glanced at her. “Just don’t say you’ll do the best you can. There’s no good way of doing anything. Just fucking do it.”
Her gaze passed between us, weary acceptance falling over her features. “Let’s go fucking do this then.”
Deena quit humming, her shocked gaze finding our grandmother. “Nana—”
“We’re going to have to start a swear jar,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Too many dirty mouths in this family.”
A startled laugh escaped me.
Hetty ushered us toward the van, throwing an apologetic look at the young minister who’d come out to speak up for Dad.
Climbing into the vehicle, I studied our grandmother.
Was Nana a lot like Dad? She’d come crawling to the country when Mom died, living only a few miles from the cemetery where her daughter was buried.
Or was she better than Dad because instead of letting it kill her, she’d retreated to do something different? Maybe even something bigger while remaining close to the daughter she was forced to say good-bye to.
That kind of love didn’t seem so bad.
***
A day after the funeral, Hetty had me sitting behind the desk at the animal clinic twiddling my thumbs because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
Worse yet, I was exhausted because I’d spent the night dreaming about the day Dad died. In the dream, the blood from the hospital had leaked onto my toes, but instead of stopping, the blood had dripped harder, faster. Before long, it was a river, filling the rooms, the hallways, and the stairwells, drowning people. The guy from the roof was there, sailing a ship on a world covered in a bloody ocean, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Part human, part dragon. He reached for me and yelled, “Come knit me a bigger sail!” Which made no sense, but I wanted to do it. I wanted to climb aboard and knit him a sail out of pastel yarn, soft colors rather than harsh. Instead, I’d drowned in the blood and woke up gasping.
The clinic was the last place I wanted to be. It smelled too much like a hospital, even if the patients weren’t human.
A male veterinarian, two assistants, and the only other office clerk kept glancing at my badly done hair, the piercings in my ears—I had six altogether—and the one in my nose.
“This is my granddaughter, Tansy,” Hetty introduced. “She’s going to help out in the office.”
They kept staring. If Hetty told them about me, she obviously forgot to mention my appearance.
“It’s semi-permanent. It washes out,” I told them, gesturing at my hair. “Give me a week or two, and I’ll replace it with blue, maybe green. Pink or purple if I’m in the mood.”
The veterinarian—a thin, balding middle-aged man with a smile too big for his face—offered me his hand. “I’m Sean Whitehall,” he introduced. “Welcome to Refuge.”
I shook his hand, my grip much looser than his.
The rest of the staff mumbled their names, but with my memory I’d never remember them anyway. I was much better with faces. There was a birdlike woman, her nose pointy, her eyes small and close together, a blonde-haired girl with hair poufy enough to reach heaven and firm enough to stop a bullet, and a guy with professional football shoulders and a face scarred by years of acne.
“Okay,” Hetty said cheerfully, clapping once. “Well, I’ll let Vanessa,” she indicated the poufy-haired girl, “walk you through what you’ll need to know out here.”
She left. Sean and the assistants disappeared with her.
Vanessa went back to staring. “So, are you in school and stuff?”
My gaze took in her colorful knee-length tent dress and cowgirl boots. “No. You?”
She shrugged. “College. First year. Sean Whitehall is my dad. I’m here for the summer helping out. The girl who usually mans the desk just gave birth, so she’s out on maternity leave.”
“Okay,” I replied.
The phone rang, and she answered it, her gaze flicking occasionally to my face before scanning my body. There wasn’t much to see; patched, cut-off shorts, a black swing tank, and a pair of combat boots.
Half the day passed. Vanessa did most of the work, her lingering gaze settling too often on me. No conversation. No training whatsoever. Rather than ask her what I was supposed to be doing, I took mental notes: Answer the phone with a cheerful, sugary sweet, “Refuge Animal Clinic.” Go to the large, gray filing cabinet in the back for records. Walk to a wooden shelf in the lobby for leashes, collars, heartworm medication, or flea control items. Blah, blah, blah.
I was leaning down, sneaking my brother’s hand-me-down iPod out of my pocket, when the bell on the door rang. Vanessa froze, a smile plastered on her face.
Rising slowly, I peered over the edge of the counter and froze, an avalanche of emotions piling on top of me.
Not possible.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I breathed.
Blue eyes set in a handsome, rugged face met mine. The guy—who looked completely out of place standing in the clinic’s orange-tiled lobby—was a walking billboard. Name brand jeans. Name brand shirt.
“Well, if it isn’t roof girl,” he said, surprised.
A handsome redhead with freckles and a crooked smile stepped out from behind him. “Roof girl?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, ignoring the redhead.
I didn’t want to remember this guy’s name, or him quite frankly, but I did. Eli was a dream I had. That boy on the roof, the one with the hurt in his eyes who shouldn’t fascinate me, belonged to a day which shouldn’t have happened.
Eli shrugged. “Community service.” He gestured at himself. “Drunk rich boy, remember? Second offense DUI, and one unlucky son of a bitch.”
Vanessa stood, her gaze raking over him. “You must be Eli Lockston, then? They told us to expect you.”
“What about you?” I asked, nodding at the redhead.
Russet-haired boy’s grin widened. “Jonathan Blackledge, Eli’s brother, and all around good boy.”
“He wishes,” Eli mumbled.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled. “You have a name, roof girl?”
“Tansy,” I answered, immediately drawn to Jonathan’s bright personality. He was the sun to Eli’s storm cloud.
“What are you doing here?” Eli queried, throwing my question back at me.
“My grandmother works here.”
Vanessa stepped forward. “Vanessa Whitehall,” she introduced. “I’ll show you to the rescue.” She looked at me, brows raised. “Think you can handle things?”
I glanced at the empty lobby. “Yeah … I think I have it. If the invisible dog in the corner starts having puppies, I’ll yell for someone.”
Vanessa threw me a look, a silent smart ass hanging in the air between us. Pulling open the clinic door, she nodded at the parking lot beyond. “If you’ll just follow me.”
Eli sighed, his hands sliding into his pockets, before trudging after her. With a snicker, Jonathan followed, throwing me a wink over his shoulder.
Roof guy. Life was playing an
ironic joke on me. People, especially random men from rooftops who’d been sailing a dream ship through a sea of blood the night before, weren’t supposed to reappear in your life.
Shoving an earbud into one of my ears, I stared at the black fingernail polish on my nails and thought about the rising sun on the rooftop the day my father died.
Eli Lockston, a guy who liked boats and boxing but didn’t do hearts. He belonged in my nightmares.
SIX
Eli
I was thinking about food, specifically something greasy from the diner we’d passed down the road, when I walked into Refuge Animal Hospital and saw Tansy.
Appetite. Immediately. Forgotten.
Now, walking out behind the imperious Vanessa Whitehall—I was good with names, terrible with faces—I fumbled for the pack of cigarettes I knew weren’t in my pocket.
My fingers curled into my palm. “So, this Tansy girl … she going to be here for a while?”
I wasn’t playing it cool. I didn’t do playing it cool. I did blunt as hell.
Vanessa glanced at me, her expression shuttered. “She and her sister are living with their grandmother,” she pointed at a modest red brick house with brown shutters, “right there actually.”
Jonathan laughed softly. “Roof girl.” He shook his head. “When we were leaving Atlanta, you told me you’d met her at the hospital, but on the roof?”
Vanessa watched me, a little too closely for someone who didn’t know me. “Was she planning to off herself?”
Despite the fact that I’d thought the same thing when I met Tansy, I glared at the blonde. “What makes you think that?”
She shrugged. “I mean … look at her.”
My brother and I stared at her.
“At what?” Jonathan asked.
“You know,” she muttered, “the piercings, the hair, the thick eyeliner, the black fingernail polish …”
I snorted, reaching for the damned phantom cigarettes again. “What? You don’t see that in the country? When did dye jobs and piercings constitute suicide?”