All We Left Behind

by Ingrid Sundberg

  I can’t breathe.

  There are other people in the room. Watching us. Sitting in plastic chairs bolted to the floor. Waiting, like us, for whoever they have behind the glass. And it’s quiet. Too quiet. Especially after the yelling and commotion and strapping her down. I try to breathe but—

  Oh God, what if I lose—

  I swallow. Press myself into the counter and try to get my legs to remember how to hold me up.

  “And where did you find her?” the lady behind the counter asks as I suck down the sterile air that tastes like vinegar. Her pen stops writing and she looks from Conner to me.

  “A friend’s house,” I say finally, my voice hoarse. “She needed to see her friend Tina. That’s where she was. Tina’s house.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” The lady gives us a smug look, and I want to knock out her teeth.

  “No, he’s not kidding,” Conner snaps, and she cuts him a look.

  “You do know that Tina’s the street word for methamphetamine, right?”

  My knees go out.

  Conner tries to catch me, but I’m on the floor.

  “Wow, okay,” I hear the lady say. I think she picks up the phone to call a doctor or someone but “He can’t be on the floor” is all I catch.

  “He needs air,” Conner says, trying to get under my weight and help me to my feet. But I don’t want to get up. I don’t need air. I don’t want air ever again.

  * * *

  Conner sits next to me on the curb, and we wait for my dad. Light from the emergency room glows behind us, and I hang my head between my knees. Somehow, through snot and spit, I breathe.

  “I messed up,” I say, my voice ragged. “I messed up.”

  Conner takes off his coat and drapes it over me. His hand stays with the coat, against my back.

  “I thought Tina was a person,” I say, and Conner nods.

  “Of course you did. Who knows a thing like that?”

  There’s a crack in the asphalt under me. A hairline crack that’s so thin it’s almost not there. It’s the kind of thing you can pretend not to notice, until it guts you in half.

  I raise my head and feel dizzy. The blood draining. I look at Conner and I know there’s snot and vomit all over me, but he doesn’t look away. He’s always been here. Right here. Next to me. No matter what. It hits me that he’s doing exactly what I did for Mom. Being here. Seeing. Not looking away or judging. Just picking me up. There are things you’re not meant to carry by yourself.

  “Con, I’ve been a shitty friend,” I say, adjusting my leg, which is still throbbing, and he shakes his head. Pats me on the back.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

  I look up at the sky, not sure if Mom’s up there. Not sure if Josie’s on her way to follow.

  “It’s not fine,” I say. “None of this is fine.”

  There’s water on my face. Dripping down over my chin and hitting the pavement. Finding those hairline cracks.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, and he rubs my back. Lets the tears fall.

  “I know,” he says, and we sit there. Him and me. No matter what.

  * * *

  My father storms into the ER sucking on a cigarette and stomping so loud everyone turns to look. I get up from my plastic chair, but he doesn’t see me.

  “Medford, Josie,” he barks at the attendant behind the desk. “Where is my daughter?”

  “You can’t smoke in here, sir,” the attendant says, and he curses at her, looking for a place to stab the thing out.

  “You got a trash?”

  The attendant points outside. “There’s a receptacle by the—”

  “Screw your receptacle! Where’s my daughter?”

  “Dad.” I walk toward him and he turns violently. Ash litters the floor. “They don’t know anything yet.”

  Two steps and he’s on me. Clutching my shirt. Teeth in my face.

  “What the hell did you do?” he spits. “I leave the house for three hours and—”

  “Sir!” The attendant’s voice is sharp. “Do I need to call security?”

  He lets go of me.

  “No, you need to find out what’s going on with my daughter!” He points behind the glass.

  “Sir, I don’t appreciate your—”

  “I don’t care!” He glares at her. “I’ll be waiting out by the receptacle when you have an answer.” He grabs my shoulder and pushes me toward the door. Conner gets to his feet and the attendant picks up the phone, both of them eyeing me. I wave them off.

  This is between Dad and me.

  Out by the trash can, Dad takes three long drags of his cigarette and starts to pace.

  “You better start talking,” he says, flicking his ash. “You better start telling me why my only daughter is in the ER, ODing on some shit she isn’t supposed to have!”

  “Because she’s a meth-head, Dad!” I kick the trash can and pain splinters through my leg. White flashes in my vision and I have to grab the can to keep from falling over. It’s the same leg that Cigarette Guy smashed.

  Dad flinches but he doesn’t offer a hand.

  “I fucked up,” I say through the pain.

  “You’re damn right, you fucked up.” He points his cigarette at me and I grip the can, wanting to pull it off its bolts and chuck it at him.

  “And she’s a meth-head!” I say, glaring at him. “She just wanted more. I didn’t know that, but that’s what it was! That’s all it ever is.”

  His face is stone. He doesn’t want to hear it.

  “She’s Mom!” I yell. “She’s just like Mom.”

  He’s on me then, grabbing my shirt. Smoke in his nostrils. My leg throbs and I can barely stand. I lean into him, shaking my head.

  “I dump it out. I try to keep her away from it. But she still goes out looking for more. That’s it. She’s Mom.”

  “Don’t disrespect your mother like—”

  “Mom was a drunk!”

  His knuckles press into my chest.

  “And Josie’s a meth-head! And they both just wanted more.”

  He yanks me close and I taste the ash on his breath. “Your sister is—”

  “Why didn’t you stop Mom?” I interrupt, razors scraping up my leg. It hurts so much I can’t see straight. Fire at the edge of my vision. “You were her husband. Why was I the one pulling vomit out of her hair and dumping the bottles down sink? What did you do?”

  He’s grips me so hard, I think I stop breathing, and I can’t see his eyes. For a second I think he might be holding me up, because I can’t possibly be standing on this leg.

  And I see it all now. How it isn’t one thing I could have done, but a hundred little things. Looking left instead of right. Knocking on my sister’s door. Asking Mom to talk to me instead of playing our guitars. Maybe it’s as simple as watching a movie with Dad and learning to stand in each other’s presence. We might be able to make it if we did that. If we could all be like Marion with her hand on my shoulder in the rain, listening, seeing, despite how uncomfortable it is.

  Uncomfortable but choosing to stay.

  “I fucked up,” I whisper to Dad. “With Josie, yeah, you’re right, I made a bad decision. But you fucked up too. Where were you? Where have you been the last four years? It’s like both of you died when she got in that truck. I don’t know how to carry this by myself. Yes, I fucked up, Dad, but you fucked up too!”

  He pushes me away and I have to grab the trash can to keep my balance. It doesn’t matter; I hit the cement anyway. Pain streaks up to my groin and I see him stalk away to his truck. The cigarette falls out of his hand. Red embers on the pavement.

  Burning out.

  He unhooks his tailgate and then slams it shut again. At least that’s what it sounds like he does. He’s too far away for me to really see what he’s doing. I rub my eyes and think maybe he’s just standing there. Gripping the back of the truck. Fuming. He stands there for way too long and I’m sure he’s going to get in that truck and drive away. Su
re he’s going to leave me alone with this mess.

  Again.

  I get up.

  There’s fire in my fucking leg, but I get up.

  I limp over to him and it takes forever with the bones twisted wrong and scraping against each other. But I walk.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and he’s shaking. Shaking like he might never stop.

  “I don’t care that you fucked up,” I say. “I care that you stay.”

  He rams the butt of his palm into the tailgate. It slams like a gunshot. He rams his hand into the metal again—

  And again—

  And I wait there with him, until he stops.

  “Josie and me,” I say. “We won’t make it without you.”

  Marion

  My father is furious. He races toward me with the light of Abe’s house blazing behind him.

  “That man is a cop,” he growls, throwing a finger toward Abe’s house. “You think I like cops calling me in the middle of the night? What the hell were you doing?”

  Hair blows in my face and he stops at the curb. He takes in my rumpled clothes, my bra-less shirt, my tangled hair.

  “Jesus Christ,” he hisses through his teeth, realization forcing him to turn away. Both his hands ball up and all the muscles in his neck tense. I hate that he can’t look at me.

  “Give me your keys and get in the car!” He points to the Lexus, and I do as I’m told. My keys jangle too loudly as I put them in his palm and we peel out into the street.

  I see my car getting smaller in the rearview mirror and my stomach turns knowing Abe will have to see it in front of his house in the morning. I hear his ragged voice in my head, pissed at me, with his buttons all over my floor. Buttons I scattered.

  Cold crawls up my legs. Squishy and mud-water cold.

  My father grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are white. I lean into the armrest and hold tight, trying to keep steady, to breathe, swallow.

  “I’m sorry Mr. Doyle had to call you,” I say, and he scoffs.

  “No, I’m sorry he had to call me! I’m sorry my daughter can’t be a respectable young adult.”

  “We didn’t do—”

  “I don’t want to know!” His lips jam together and his eyes bore into the road. He huffs, nostrils flaring, like there’s water rising inside him. “Jesus,” he growls, almost to himself. “And who was that other one? The other day? Your friend.”

  I taste salt and the ocean.

  “Kurt.”

  “Right.” Saliva flings from his lip. “How many—” He cuts himself off, grinding a palm into the wheel.

  “Just the two,” I admit.

  “Stop talking.”

  “I didn’t sleep wi—”

  “Stop talking!”

  Silence razors between us. Silence thin as ice. It’s toxic. It lumps with rose hips and worms in my throat. Ramming quiet. Ramming down. Ramming shut. How long can he ignore me? How long can we pretend not to see?

  “You’re grounded,” he snaps, but all I hear is the clang of belt buckles and the sizzle of raw meat on the grill.

  “Do you remember the barbecue?” I wheeze.

  “This discussion is over.”

  “Do you remember the barbecue?”

  He speeds up and tightens his grip.

  “Your company barbecue,” I insist. “The one where I got sick?”

  “I said you’re grounded! I suggest you think long and hard about the type of girl you’ve be—”

  “What type of girl is that?” I snap, and he stares at me, his eyes scared.

  He doesn’t say it. He goes silent, and yellow road signs flash by us in a blur, threatening caution and dark.

  “I cut my hair,” I say, my voice sand-caught and harsh.

  “What are you talking about?” he whispers, his arms locked on the wheel.

  “The Fourth of July barbecue. The day I cut off my hair.” I grab a clump of my blond, wishing I could razor it off. “All of it. Gone! And you barely noticed. You didn’t care!”

  “I thought—” He looks at me, and his face goes white. Something naked and afraid floods his expression and his eyes snap back to the road.

  “What?”

  His Adam’s apple presses against his throat. It moves like a marble pressed hard against the skin, thick and impossible to swallow.

  “What did you think?” I press, but he refuses to look at me. “You’re upset I’m out late with a boy my own age, but you didn’t care about that man!” I dig my feet into the floor and it isn’t solid anymore. It squishes like dirty mud in my toes. “Do you remember that man, from your work?”

  His hands tighten, and I know he knows.

  “He played horseshoes with me?” I cough. “You remember?”

  His head shakes slightly and my pants stick to my thighs.

  “That man who took me for a walk.”

  “Marion, stop.”

  “That man—” It catches in me. The water. The current.

  “Stop.”

  It swells.

  “That man who kissed me.”

  He frowns and shakes his head.

  “That man who put his . . . put his . . .”

  Rose hips jam in my throat. Worms and rose hips and—

  “He put himself in—”

  I choke. I gesture.

  “Goddamn it Marion!” Dad pulls the car over, banging his trembling fist into the dash. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I gasp for air.

  “Why would you say that?” he yells. “Why would you—”

  I gasp—

  “You were fine after the barbecue.” He’s so loud. Louder than I’ve ever heard him. Ocean loud. “You were sick!”

  I gasp and choke, trying to dislodge the rose hips and the water. I gasp and hack and roll down the window and spit out the snot, and suddenly he isn’t yelling anymore. He’s grown so still beside me it’s like he isn’t even there.

  But he is.

  He stares at me in the dark. In this pitch-black dark, as I cough and wheeze. Spit dribbling down my chin. He stares at me. His little girl: hair tangled, water stung, grown-up. Too grown-up.

  He looks at me, for real.

  “You were . . .” But he can’t finish that sentence because he’s crying.

  My father is crying.

  Because I’m not invisible anymore.

  Kurt

  Tubes wrap Josie’s arm and there are needles in her wrist. IVs drip whatever they’re giving her and the machines beep. She lies on her side, curled in the fetal position, wearing a paper gown. She’s asleep. She’s breathing. Thank God, she’s breathing.

  I sit down beside her and see short spiky hair, visible on the left side of her head. I touch the fuzzy strands next to her scalp, brushing my thumb against the tender area where the hair grows from the skin. Always growing. Always trying again.

  Dad sits down on the opposite side of Josie and takes her hand, pressing her bony knuckles against his lips.

  “I’m sorry, Josie-girl,” he says quietly. “Stay with us.”

  I watch him. His face is covered in wrinkles. Hard work. Seams. Regret maybe.

  He looks up and it strikes me—how scared he is. How certain he was—when he walked into this hospital, flinging ash and fire—that she wasn’t going to survive this. His chin trembles against her fingernails and I’m not sure he believes, even now, that she’ll keep breathing.

  “Don’t let go,” I say, picking up Josie’s other hand, and I don’t know if I’m saying it to her, or to him, or maybe even to me. But this is my family. And I want all that we have.

  Marion

  Lilith agrees to meet me outside her house and I wait by the sidewalk. There’s a small dust of snow on the grass and frost-etched crystals paint the curb. Winter is coming. Real winter with real cold.

  Lilith walks out in her boots and scarf, and before she can say anything I put the blue mason jar in her hands. The one with the stars punched into the tin lid. The one with the dead bugs insi
de. I think her lip falls open, but I’m already walking toward the path in the backyard.

  “This way,” I say, and she follows in silence as we walk to the firefly field. It’s barren when we get there. The grass is dead and the goldenrods have shriveled to fists. Reeds hang low on the powder-sugar ground, and the air is crisp as our feet crunch on snow.

  “You’re right, I saw you,” I say, taking the mason jar from her hands and unscrewing the lid. She looks at me and then at the blue glass holding the tiny bugs and their tiny legs.

  “I know,” she says quietly, reaching into the jar and taking out one of the flies. She balances it on the tip of her finger, black and fragile against all this white.

  “Did that boy rape you?” I ask, barely above a whisper, and the wind whisks that bug off her finger and into the sky. My lip begins to tremble.

  “What?” Lilith looks at me sharply. “No! No, he didn’t—is that what you thought?”

  I look at the jar, the cold glass ice in my hands.

  “Why would you think that?” she asks, and I can feel the wet on my face. I breathe deep, standing in the cold and the quiet, and I know I can be louder than this silence.

  “I cut my hair?” I say, looking up. “Do you remember that? How I cut my hair?”

  She nods slowly.

  “That was the same summer,” I say. “Before I saw you . . .” I tip the jar over and the bugs drop out, catching the wind, falling to ground. “There was a man—”

  Understanding washes over Lilith.

  “Oh my God!” She grabs the jar and tosses it to the ground, grabbing me. Hugging me. Hugging me so damn hard, like she’ll never let me go, like she could melt all the snow.

  * * *

  I tell Lilith everything.

  About the creek.

  About Kurt.

  About Abe.

  We walk back to her house and sit on her porch, wrapping ourselves in blankets and warming our hands with cups of hot chocolate. Sunlight streams through the trees and makes the frost sparkle, a hundred tiny glints of truth all caught in the light. I can hide from the sun all I want, but its starlight is everywhere.