Ember Burning

by Jennifer Alsever

  “You get off.” Tre sticks his chest out, too. “Ember needs our support. Our help. Not… not… this.”

  I’m witnessing some sort of love triangle fight over trash bag body sledding. I have no idea what they’re even arguing about.

  With one swift step, Zoe steps between the three of them, and like a spell has been cast, everyone grows still and quiet. It’s like the air stops moving around us—the moment before a tornado hits. I brace for whatever comes next. The whole energy of the space shifts. Pulsing, soothing, quiet. For several seconds, we all stand there silently on the hill.

  Breaking the trance, Zoe turns to me, her molten eyes digging deep into mine. Her voice is rich molasses. “Don’t worry about them, Ember. Would you like a refreshment?”

  She holds out her hand, and I grasp her cool fingers to stand up.

  I’m stunned. A refreshment?

  “Yes,” I find myself saying. A dark velvet curtain closes over my mind.

  Content, I know only one thing: I need to be here, with her.

  21

  “Let’s watch E.T.,” Lilly says, pulling a DVD from a rack in the living room.

  Pete takes a piece of fried chicken off a tray and bites into it, sinking his lanky body into the sofa. The smell of grease makes me nauseous. Everyone continues to ignore the fact that an hour ago, Lilly had a seriously crazy freak-out, not to mention that confusing fight between her, Pete, and Tre.

  Pete pats the spot next to him, looking at me. “Sit,” he says before taking another bite. Grease drips from his chin.

  Lilly starts the movie and takes a flying leap onto the sofa on the other side of him, her skin slapping the leather when she lands. She appears to be back to Cool Lemonade Lilly. She takes a piece of chicken and waves it in the air at me. “Come on, eat!”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I need fresh air.”

  Outside, the high-pitched chirping of crickets reverberates across the canyon. The cool pine scent in the air invigorates me. The full moon shines bright. I perch on a rock the size of my old kitchen table not far from the house and take in the view of the sky. Happy to be alone.

  “My mom used to tell me something about the nighttime sky.” Tre leans against a tree, his silhouette barely visible in the dark. Butterflies race inside my stomach at the sight of him and the memory of him protecting me from Psycho Lilly like some kind of Batman. A super hot Batman.

  “She’d say the stars represented all the lost souls out there—just fighting to be seen again,” he says. Okay, that line is pretty cheesy. But the sound of his sweet, rich chocolate voice sends a tingle up my spine.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, feigning disinterest. I crane my neck to see the millions of tiny dots in the sky. “Actually, they’re exploding gas balls made up of mostly hydrogen and helium.”

  “Yeah, that’s true.” He sighs a little laugh as he steps out of the shadow. Butterflies do faster laps in my stomach. Dammit.

  “So you probably know the type of spectrum from most stars is—”

  “Continuous with absorption lines,” I interrupt casually.

  “Oooh, science girl.” I can hear a smile in his voice, but I’m not sure if it’s coated in condescension or just friendly banter. Based on all our previous interactions, I’m pretty sure it’s condescension.

  I ignore him and sit silently staring out at the milky green meadow.

  “Are you going to be an astronomer or something?” he asks.

  I don’t say anything, biting my lip.

  “You don’t talk anymore?”

  I shrug. His dark hair has fallen from its weird spike and flops across his forehead in a handsome, disheveled way.

  I can’t help but offer a small smile. “Actually, I’m more into music these days than science.” I only tell him of the old me. The one who laughed and played guitar and soaked up sunshine and read interesting books. Not the screwed-up me of late.

  “Music? Ahhh, let me guess: you are the hair-swinging pianist, driven to marathon practice sessions by parents who tell you that you are a child prodigy who must win, win, win!” He uses his fist to emphasize the last three words.

  A crooked smile attempts to spread across my face. “Nope,” I say, shaking my head. I work hard to banish the smile, pinching my lips together.

  “Okay, then the tuba player in the marching band, and your parents tell you that you’re brilliant even though they secretly wear earplugs when you practice,” Tre says.

  “They wore earplugs? How could they?” I throw my palms over my chest for drama.

  “I knew it. So you must have big muscles carrying that tuba to school every day,” he says.

  “Huge muscles. No tuba involved.”

  “No tuba? Hmmm.”

  “Not a band geek. Sorry. Wrong answer,” I say, looking again at my feet that bounce faster on the rock the closer he comes.

  “Let’s see. The only answer is you must just be that angry girl who sits around in her basement listening to bands that I would say probably suck. Earplugs required.”

  “Judging by your clothes, your music is probably the stuff that sucks. Not mine.”

  “Punk rock does not suck.”

  “Punk rock? Who even listens to that anymore?”

  “Me,” he says. The leaves crunch with each of his steps.

  I smirk. “My condolences then,” I say sarcastically. “And for your information, I sing. I don’t play tuba. And I am not convinced my parents or anyone else wore earplugs. I never saw any evidence of them. No hidden earplug stash in the house that I could find.”

  “You just don’t know where earplug people hide them.” I can smell him. I can actually smell him, fresh like soap, a hint of musky boy smell. And I feel him, the heat of his nearness, the weight of his body cutting through the chilled air. It sends a shiver through me. A good, nervous shiver.

  “Well, I could be in denial.” A quick glance in his direction reveals the moonlight perfectly outlining his face, sending just the right light to his cheekbones, illuminating his soft lips. Our eyes lock for a moment, steady, intense, delivering big zings to every vein in my body. I look away at the forest, because trees aren’t as confusing as guys. Guys who stand too close to me, who make my heart race.

  “So what was the deal with that standoff today at the top of the hill?” I say quickly. “Lilly, she was… really… mad.”

  His gaze drifts beyond me and then his body stiffens. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You should leave tonight. It might already be too late.”

  Great. His words pop that little balloon he inflated with a loud smacking sound.

  “You came out here to tell me to leave? Why, because some crazy blonde wants to smash rocks on my head?”

  He shakes his head, exasperated. “Whatever. Seriously. Why can’t you just go?”

  My face heats up with humiliation and irritation. I thought he came out here to… I guess I don’t know why he came out here. But I didn’t think it was a “get the hell lost” conversation.

  “Hey now, no need to hurt this purty little thing’s feelings.” Chris’s voice is so loud and so unexpected, I jump like a bomb went off. “What’re you two doing out here?” he asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  I shrug. “I was just getting some quiet.”

  Tre slowly backs away into the shadows, as if shrinking from Chris’s presence. I wish I could lasso him and yank him back to me. But I don’t have a lasso. And he slinks farther away.

  “Where ya going now, Tre?” Chris asks him.

  Tre just raises a hand up and tilts his head down, as if he’s surrendered the space to this strange cowboy.

  Now alone with this man, I realize his lean, hulking six-foot-whatever frame and ruddy weirdness could all add up to one thing: he could very well be a creepy cowboy ax murderer. Alone with him and away from the house in the dark, I feel the urge in my bones to just lift off this rock and leave. “Well,” I say, slipping to the ground. “Been fun.”

  As I walk
by him, he vigorously scratches his arm. “Bugs. Damn bugs. I’m like a buffet,” he says, slapping at his arm.

  His tattoo catches my eye. I can’t help it—curiosity takes over and the blurt comes out. “So who’s Taylor anyway?”

  “Taylor?” he repeats. “Why?”

  “The tattoo on your arm.” I point to the mark that extends the length of his forearm with black and red swooping lines. I can see tiny little music notes following the name in red and green. I wonder if perhaps Taylor’s a girlfriend.

  “Ahhh,” he says, glancing at his arm. “Perceptive young lady, you are.”

  “I can read, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Taylor. Well, that would be my son.” He pulls up his sleeve to show another tattoo—one that says Roslyn in red and green, with a little cherub—on his left upper arm. “And Roslyn, that would be my daughter.”

  He doesn’t look like the kid-loving type. I lean back onto the rock, jut out my hips, and shove my hands into the front pockets of my jeans. “Where are they?” I ask.

  “Roslyn’s dead,” he says. His words are casual, as if he’s telling me something as simple as my shoe is untied.

  “Oh… sorry…” I say, fumbling my words. Wow. I used to get so irritated by people who said sorry, but now I see I have no clue how to deal with someone else’s pain, either.

  I should be an expert in pain. I should emote. I should console. I should know how to talk about it. But the topic of grief and death is as comfortable as eating cactus.

  Chris sucks his cigarette and blows out a breath, tilting his head to the sky. I watch the smoke rise in the air above us, taking in the acrid smell. I try to conjure up how other people talked to me after my parent’s death, what they said. My mind is blank. I try to think about how I felt. What I needed the days and weeks after… I don’t remember.

  The moonlight is luminous, and Chris’s face is so clear, it’s like he’s standing under a streetlight. Lines extend down from his eyes to his mouth like they’re drawn in pencil.

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says. He pauses for a moment and takes a long drag on his cigarette.

  Enough time has passed now that I could walk away. Just say Goodnight, or I’m sorry for your loss. Like everyone else did with me. But that left me broken. I try to remember. My brother partied. Maddie distracted. Gram hid. Teachers gave me handouts. Classmates stopped looking me in the eye. Casseroles came. Cards were opened. But no one talked.

  After I came home from Trinity last week, Gram tried in her own way. She left a library book on depression out on the kitchen table and some pamphlets on drug rehab centers. “Ember, we can get you help,” she said in the car on the way home from school. I gazed out the window at the creek and never responded. When we walked through the front door, she gave me a pat on the back and told me to get some rest.

  I glance at Chris and take an uncertain step to go inside. I realize that would be a pretty cold thing to do: walk away after someone tells you they have a dead daughter—even if he does give me the creeps. I do a little heel spin to stop myself and swivel back to face him again. I should wait. In case he wants to talk it out.

  He shakes his head. “Well, not fine. But it was a long time ago.”

  Chris’s hand, gnarled, dry, and creased, trembles as he takes another drag. I wonder if anyone has ever really talked to him, looked him in the eye, hugged him.

  Inside my head, I direct myself: Do what you wished people would have done for you. I inhale. “What was she like? Roslyn. Tell me,” I say, leaning back onto the rock, trying to become comfortable with this place. This conversation.

  “She was beautiful,” Chris says. His voice becomes lighter, gentler. Proud. He gestures with his hands like he’s holding her face. “Dark hair. This angelic face. The cherub on my tattoo, ya know. She was my lil’ darling. She was going to grow up to become something special. I just knew it.”

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  No one asked me what happened with my parents. The police asked me. But later, no one really asked. Even Jared. No one knows how it was all my fault.

  “I can’t remember all the details anymore. People’s faces are blurry now. Events. Dates. But Maggie, her mom—my ex—accidentally let her drown in the bathtub as a baby. After that, Maggie—she couldn’t take the guilt, and she left. Disappeared. Left me and Taylor. Three years old, that boy was. Saw everything happen. Right there.”

  I swallow, and an ache swells in my chest for him—just like it does when I think about my parents. This must be the pain Chris wears with him always. No wonder he just sucks on those cigarettes twenty-four seven and stares into space.

  “I lost my parents,” I say. It comes out of nowhere, awkward and weird and obscenely self-absorbed. “They died in a car accident. With me in the car. So I know what you mean. Kind of. Except I’m not a parent.”

  His eyes droop and his head slowly nods, telling me I get it. I know. I’m like you. We gaze at each other a moment, exchanging our deep sadness without words. My eyes fall to the grass.

  “I’m messed up,” I say. A weight falls off my shoulders. It’s good to say that out loud.

  He nods again, reaches his rough hand out to touch my neck at the back of my hairline. He squeezes, like my dad might have. The weirdest thing happens: I feel comfortable. In his presence. With this conversation. With that squeeze. It feels… good.

  Dropping his hand, he talks to the trees. “Messed Taylor up pretty bad, too. How can that kind of heavy stuff not leave a scar on a kid?”

  “Is he okay now?” I ask, eager to know more about this boy.

  He shrugs. “Like I say, big scars. Last time I saw him he was eighteen. I think. It’s all fuzzy in my head now, but I got a call from his grandma saying he spent nine hours standin’ in the driveway of our place in Houston talking to nobody. Just the air. I had him on videotape—our condo security. Nine hours. I was figurin’ he lost his marbles or just done a lot of drugs.”

  Death. Drugs. Pain. It’s my domain.

  “I get it,” I say. “It’s like a rabbit hole you want to duck into—just leave life for a while and numb everything. But it never works. It just gets worse.” I’m talking about Taylor. I’m talking about me. I’m talking about everyone.

  “Yup. Probably his story,” he says, nodding slowly, never looking at me. He takes another drag on his cigarette. “Had me a job on an oil rig in North Dakota. So I get on a plane home to figure out his story. Knock on the door and he tells me to go to hell. There’s nothing I can do short of just wrestling him to the ground and admitting him to rehab.”

  “Did he go?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t stick around.” He inhales sharply, awkwardly, then looks out at the mountains. “I got on the plane back to North Dakota.” He breathes out the words.

  I nod.

  “During my layover at the Denver airport, I met a girl in the bar who told me about Trinity. I got a map, got a car, headed to Leadville, and wound up here.”

  “So don’t you want to go home to help him?” If he were my dad, I would want him to be with me, supporting me. Gram tried, I suppose. But I wouldn’t let her.

  He is silent for a moment, hesitant. “Sure. I had to give that up,” he says. “But I miss him. I worry. I wish I hadn’t wanted to run.”

  Guilt washes over me. I totally misread Chris. He’s not creepy. He’s just in some dark well—one that’s so deep no one else can see inside.

  “You can change that,” I say. “You can be different.”

  He shakes his head and looks at the ground. My hand reaches out to touch his shoulder, and for a half second I hesitate, leaving it hovering in the air between us, realizing I don’t know if he even wants to be consoled. Still, I let my fingers touch Chris’s wrinkled cowboy shirt. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I need to do.

  After a moment, he stands up straighter, throws his cigarette on the dirt, and stamps it with his foot. He looks me in the eye and, for the first time, I see him
. The real Chris. Not the mysterious man under the cowboy hat. “Thanks,” he says. His eyes soften and appear sad. “You got some big stuff there, kiddo. Me too. We both gotta get some sleep.” He squeezes my shoulder and walks away.

  Back inside the house, a low murmur rises from somewhere near the staircase—someone talking. I stop near the living area, focusing on the gray wall and the round silver table in front of me. I strain to listen, wishing I had bionic ears.

  “You’re doing fine,” Zoe whispers.

  “I’m sorry about today,” Lilly says quietly. Her voice is drenched in shame.

  “It happens,” Zoe says. She sounds like a teacher. I imagine her patting Lilly’s arm gently without showing affection on her face.

  I know I’m eavesdropping, but it’s like driving by a car wreck—you cannot help but crane your neck. My feet stay glued to the floor, as if in wet cement, and I lean close to the smooth wall, quieting my breath.

  “You promise that if she stays, I’ll get a good position and it’ll be worth it?” Lilly whispers urgently. “Because I don’t like this.”

  “Have I ever let you down? You will discover the light that the world— ”

  “That the world did not give me,” Lilly finishes the sentence. “I know.” Their voices fade as they continue talking and walk up the stairs.

  I stand there alone, wooziness sweeping across me as all these moments settle in my head. Lilly’s freak-out earlier today. Tre’s whispered half warnings. Now, this confusing conversation.

  I know in my heart that those two were talking about me. And the idea that some strange deal has been struck to make me stay here makes me uneasy. Blinking a couple of times, I realize I’m a little afraid. It’s time to go home.

  22

  The sound of a running faucet stops and starts. Then stops again. I had planned to fill up my hydration water pack in the kitchen and hike out this morning without anyone seeing me. But the noise makes me pause and rethink my plan. I peek into the kitchen, where Lilly is sitting on the shiny white stone countertop. She leans over her knees, watching her feet soak in the water. I take a step backwards to slink down the hall. I’ll get water upstairs instead.