Breadcrumb #628
VALERIE HUGHES
My sister digs, a greased up ring of hair falling in front of her eyes, clinging to her gaunt cheekbone, but ultimately failing to break her concentration. Wavering above her on tired feet, I smell the ripeness of her, three halos of sweat ringing the armpits and collar of her yellowing t-shirt. Her hands plunge into the earth, coming up and looking black in the moon’s glow, darker than blood.
“Stop.”
She doesn’t flinch.
“Christa.”
Nothing. Bending down, my fingers find her shoulder but she wrenches away and stumbles over her long-forgotten shovel. Dodging the holes she already made--who knows how long she was doing this for before I woke up--she thrusts her hands into a new spot of grass.
There’s no need for her to fully look at me; I know she’s high. My stomach feels alarmingly empty but if I tried, I could throw up. Despite the summer’s thick night she wears her pink hoodie, sleeves religiously at her wrists. Scabs across her face are caught in the moonlight, the bridge of her nose shadowed with dirt. Her lips move so fast that I’m not sure if she’s saying anything until I hear the stream of words knotted together in a guttural murmur.
She gives up digging in one spot to turn to the next with me lamely trailing after her, my feet getting caught in the holes. More than once I find myself standing on the edge of one of them, the dirt crumbling underneath me.
Following her brings me back to when we were younger, of me always just at her heels and itching to play with her toys, read her books. She enveloped my whole world and I held a pressing awareness of her habits. I scorned Mom’s black bean soup even though I loved it, painted my nails a muted brown for months just because she gave me the polish. And all the while, Christa would watch me under heavy lids, brown eyes turned gold, and smile. A genuine smile, glowing. My best friend.
“She enveloped my whole world and I held a pressing awareness of her habits.”
Now I can’t remember the last time we had a chance to be alone like this. For the past few months, her bedroom door has almost always been closed. She’s grunted at me in greeting and walked out the front door with purpose, calling to Mom that she was off to work. There was that night in June when she didn’t come home and I called her eight times, getting angrier at her voicemail each time her chirp greeted me, “It’s Chris, you missed me!” She came home at dawn and I was in her room, waiting. She looked sick, her skin sticking to her bones like it belonged there, but her voice was so smooth. She never once looked away from me. “Jesus, Karie, relax. I got drunk and stayed at John’s, didn’t want to drive. Don’t tell Mom and Dad about this, they don’t need to freak out over nothing. Can you let me sleep, please?” No room for my voice to fit around hers but I went along with it anyway.
A lump beings to grow in my throat. “What are you looking for?”
She never looks my way.
Exhaling sharply through my nose, I say, “I know about the library.”
Finally, she stills.
“Laura told me they fired you, she offered me your job. What have you been doing this last month? Where were you tonight?”
She clicks her tongue, eyes flicking up to meet mine as she lifts her middle finger. “You don’t look like Mom to me.”
I go to touch her but she jerks away, out of reach. “Why are you pushing me out?” I ask, my voice cracking. Hot tears roll down my cheeks and I wipe them away quickly, frustrated at myself for crying. “I’m the only one you have left.”
She haughtily shakes her head at me. “That’s not true.” Lifting a chunk of grass out of the earth, she gasps and further shoves her hands in deeper. She looks like a dog, squatting with her feet apart so she can push the dirt between her legs. Laughing, she pulls a small wooden box out of the earth. It’s the jewelry box Grandma gave her for her eighth birthday, one with a fairy that spun around when she opened it. She was distraught, howling, “I didn’t want this!”
“What the hell’s in there?”
“Keep your fucking voice down,” she snarls while tripping over the destroyed ground. The box flies from her grip, sending a bunch of crinkled dollar bills across the lawn.
Even in the darkness, I can tell that they’re only ones and fives but Christa yelps, feverishly shoving bills into her pockets while hissing, “I’m leaving, I’m leaving!”
I launch towards her when she glances at her car at the end of the driveway and latch onto her arm. I’m crying openly now, wet snot on my upper lip. “Don’t go, this isn’t you. Please,” I whisper. I hate myself for being quiet but yelling for Mom and Dad will really get her to leave. Our house looms behind her, the blank front windows gawking at us.
“This isn’t me?” she laughs coldly, wrenching her arm away. Her eyes are wide, jumping all over me, from my face to my slippers to my stained sweatpants. With a smile, she flicks her wrists to sling dirt onto me. “I feel good, Karie. And here you are taking that all away from me. All you ever do is hold me back and all of you,” she waves her arms to gesture to the house, “are so manipulative, this is what you all do-- you look at me and beg and beg me to change but I don’t want to fucking change! This is the best I’ve been.”
“You’re high.” It’s all I can think to say.
With a scoff she says, “You know I love you but you make it hard. You can’t even see that I’m happy.” Her eyes fall from mine as she digs into her pocket to unearth her car keys.
My breath hitches. “Don’t drive, Christa. Just come inside. We want to help you.”
She bolts for her car and I dart after her, trying to grab her, my hands skimming through her hair, so close, but she’s faster, closing herself into the driver’s seat with a slam of the car door.
“Mom! Dad!” I scream, banging on Christa’s window.
She stubbornly stares straight ahead and jams the key into the ignition. Tears run down her cheeks and I keep yelling, the words straining against my throat, my palms burning from slapping the cool glass and there’s the creak of the front door but it’s too late, Christa throws the car into reverse and careens down the driveway. I run after the car, stopping in the middle of the road, breathless, as Christa flies away from me, the summer’s sticky darkness pulling her in. The car’s taillights are red mouths closing, silenced by the night. Sobs race through me and I look back at the house to see my parents’ silhouettes, tall and nameless. Cheeks tight from crying, my eyes catch on a steady and perfect square of light from our living room window splayed out on the grass, creating the illusion that someone’s home.