We are connected to Earth by a multitude of strings. They begin in our heart and branch out like those of a tree. Some run as small as an inch. Some stretch on for miles, traveling even as far as the other end of the world. When those strings die, one by one, so do we. When the end breaks off, the string entwines itself with the one closest to it.
To put it simply: the older we get, the more we lose, and the more we latch onto what remains.
The rain always reminds me of the day my first string snapped. It was raining then, too. I trace the scar behind my ear. Mom always told me to keep my hair down, keep it covered, bury the truth because she couldn't handle it. It was a mistake. She didn't mean to get that drunk. Didn't mean to bury shards of her wine bottle in my neck.
I was ten. And wore my hair piled in a messy bun atop my head the next day and the one after that. It wasn't my mistake to be ashamed of.
"Are you listening to me?" Gran asks. She pats my hand, the one with fingers curled around the handle of a mug.
I look up to her and give a weak smile.
She sighs and tightens her fingers around my hand, then pulls away and points an accusing finger. "You really should check out that program down in La Push." Seeing my pathetic smile drop like a light switch, she says, "You really liked it when you came with me last time. And I don't go anymore, so you don't have to be shy about what you say." She sits back in her chair and takes a sip of her coffee, waiting.
I sigh, waiting, too. Waiting for the wall to crumble beneath the weight of her stare. "Fine," I agree before she breaks it down. "I'll go."
"Well, don't go on my account." She lifts the mug to her lips again, to hide her smile, I'm sure, and puts a hand in the air as a white flag. "You have to go for you."
But I'm not ready to disassemble my heart and lay the parts on the table. I'm not ready. Other peoples' messes, I can bare to the world. I can dig into their dirt until my fingers bleed. Their pieces are easy to display, easy to accept. I can't bear to look at mine.
I drink the rest of my coffee in a few sips and drop the mug in the sink. Gran's lips pucker for a kiss, and I turn to kiss her on the cheek. "I'll see you this afternoon," I tell her, and grab my purse and yoga mat near the door.
When the lock clicks behind me, I can breathe again. I love Gran, and she's my best friend, but I can't always talk about the failed relationship between my parents and me. I don't want to. I lean against the door and close my eyes, but straighten back up. I don't need any of the neighbors asking questions.
Only when I pull out of the driveway do I feel the weight lifting from my shoulders.
I need to drive down to La Push more often. The highway is lined with nothing but forest on either side, and there isn't any traffic. I may have passed one or two cars, but my lane is empty for as far as I can see. I'm more at peace behind the steering wheel than anywhere else. I try to stifle my disappointment as the community center comes into view.
I hope it's still held here. It's been a few months since I went with Gran, and sometimes these things fizzle out, right? Shots fired within my ribcage. Color drains from my face, and the overwhelming urge to run to the restroom. Three cars. Three whole cars. I know La Push is small, but smaller crowds mean more attention.
Just do it. I can do it. I run my hands over my face, like it'll squash the nervousness, and shut off my car in the lot. I lean my head against the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths before getting out of the car.
Warm air brushes my face when I open the door to the community center. I shake away the bite in my fingertips, rub my hands together. Damn, it's starting to get pretty cold. I pull the scarf from around my neck and fold it. Voices carry from the end of the hall, the same room as before. Everything looks the same.
"Brianna, I'm glad you made it," Emily Uley said, pushing herself away from the table. "I was worried the weather wouldn't hold out."
I halfway lifted my hand in a greeting and grabbed the nearest seat so she wouldn't hug me. "It's nice to see you," I said, tilting my head toward her in politeness.
Her smile twitches, but I can't tell if she's hurt by my rejection or amused. Half lifted from her seat, she sits back down. "It's nice to see you, too, sweetie. Is everyone ready to start?"
There are four of us. A man in a wheel chair, a younger woman—short hair, bags beneath her eyes, unnervingly thin—Emily, and myself. Three natives and one paleface. Just another reason to feel set apart.
Al-Anon is easier than I thought it would be. Emily makes it that way. She doesn't draw attention. Doesn't have any expectations. It's easy with her. The tension in my shoulders falls to my feet and I kick it beneath the table, left to be swept away by the janitor sometime later.
Then, I can feel the cords. I'm tethered to two of these three people in the room. Emily and the man in the wheel chair. The chords feel thick, braided, unyielding. I can't help but sink into it.
When it's my turn, I show my scar.
***
I had to be home before dark, and technically, the sky was still light, so it wasn't completely dark when I stepped foot in the house. As soon as the door closed behind me, a bottle flew toward my face. Pure instinct took over and I ducked, but the bottle hit the wall and shattered. A sliver embedded itself behind my left ear.
"You little shit," Mom said, pointing her finger at me. "You were supposed to be home before dark." Her eyes were wide, heavy and dark on the skin beneath. She could hardly stand on her own two feet.
But then again, my eyesight might have been screwed up from the blood loss.
"Thank you," Emily says.
Then it's the woman's turn.
I still feel like a part of me is sick for telling the story, but another part is relieved. The more people that know, the less I must hide it from. The less I have to talk.
A chair screeches against the old floors, and I jump. The woman across from me stares down at the table in front of her, cheeks red from the remnants of tears.
Emily's voice rings, echoes off the whitewashed walls, signaling the end of the meeting. Her fingers wrap around the handles to Billy's wheelchair—he couldn't stop thinking about the loss of his wife all week—and pulled him away from the table. When she passes the threshold leading to the hallway, she sends me a look. We'll talk later, it says.
A hum of thunder in the distance. The creaking of an old roof. Lightning flashes on the horizon.
"I'm sorry," I blurt, for no good reason. Nothing's my fault. I've done nothing wrong. And here I am, ready with an apology strung out from the hollow in my stomach.
The woman across from me—Sue—looks up. Her long hair casts a veil of darkness against her cheek. Makes her eyes look like my own. Dark. Ragged. Unsure. Broken. She grieves the loss of her husband. A smile. She tucks her hair behind her ear and the darkness falls away. Leaves kindness, openness, acceptance. "Thank you," she says to me.
My lips twitch. You're welcome. It was nothing. Okay. Sure. Glad I could help.
None of these words fall from my lips. My chair scrapes, feet tap against the floor, I leave her there. In her own sorrows as darkness grows from the middle of my chest, wrapping around my lungs and slithering through my veins. She'll move on. She's already begun the process.
Here I am. Running.
Right into Emily.
"Sorry." I cringe. It's the only thing I can seem to say. Spiderweb cracks cross the tile beneath my shoe. My hands fumble with the fabric of my folded scarf. Half of it falls from my fingertips, and I slide it around my neck.
"I know this is a bit last minute," she says. Her voice is smooth enough to soothe the ache winter brings to my knees. "But would you like to come have coffee with me? My house is just down the road and it's still early."
The claw marks do nothing to silence the smile across her face. To be her. To be carefree. I want that.
I like coffee.
Yes.