Losing Ruby

Copyright © 2020 Kelsa Dixon

All rights reserved

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[Chloe]

The next few days passed immeasurably. Debatably, they didn't move at all.

In the silence all I could hear was the steady line of his failed heart. It tormented me. And then when I was lost in its depth, any other sound sent a pang of hope through my system; as though the blank rhythm jump started itself again. I'd blink and remember he was gone.

People came and went. They drifted in and out the front door and somehow I managed the ability to curl the corners of my mouth in appreciation for yet another bouquet of flowers that would inevitably last as long as their illusory grief. Yet, still, I encouraged their words of sympathy with a dose of gratitude I didn't truly feel. Because, although it was kind, it did nothing to ease the shock. The numbness.

Now, the house was quiet again, and water fell through my fingers as I stood at the sink. I didn't have the mind to pay attention to what my hands should've been doing. Instead, I stared blankly through the window and watched as the Spanish moss twirled in the silver light; flirting—reaching out to kiss the leaves of the oak trees it spun from. I let the memories twist into my thoughts and pull me under. I preferred them to reality; there—in the memories—my parents were still alive.

"DAD!" The shrill shriek left me before I could call it back. I was standing where I was now at the sink. It was framed in the window, eighteen inches from my face. Six spindly legs like tentacles tapping at the glass for its next step.

His heavy footsteps rumbled through the house as he ran from the other room. He was always quick on his feet. I would've thought it had to do with the murderous sound coming from his only daughter, but I knew it was a precision he'd refined in his years on the football field.

"Chloe? What is it—what happened?"

I pointed a finger and I wobbled backwards. My stomach rolled as it reached the windowsill. A shiver raced through me at the idea of the feather-like touch crawling all over my skin. I gagged. "In the window. The window, the window." I practically threw up the word and aiming a shaky finger in its direction.

"Who?" He brushed by me in a hurry and clung to the lip of the sink as he leaned closer. "Who did you see?"

Who did I see? Momentarily, I was confused. Then it lifted another lanky stem that caught in the overhead light.

It was right in front of his face, and I stumbled back again. At some point I'd managed to back myself up onto a chair and instinctively my arms curled under my chin, hugging myself together. My upper lip started to sweat, and I had to remind myself it was only a spider. Although this one was the size of a hand. Really, the size of a child's hand—smaller than an infants'.

The size didn't matter.

"Please," I hissed through clenched teeth as it scurried down the wall nearly disappearing behind the cabinets. "Just get rid of it," I pleaded, my feet stamping out my urgency. "Please."

I bit my lip and didn't dare tear my eyes from the trail it was making across the white countertops. A stark comparison to its grisly, black frame.

"Hmm." Dad hummed, he'd caught onto the irrational, displaced fear. I heard the amusement in the underlying chuckle. "I don't see it."

It dropped to the floor and I stomped in place, my knees lifting to my chest one at a time as I suppressed a scream. "I swear to God dad, just step on it." I nearly cried. Hot tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

He scoffed teasingly. "I teach you parallel park and how to change a tire in the rain. You can shoot a straight shot from twenty feet at the range; throw a spiral comparable to Luca; and run a fifty-yard dash in under four seconds. But this is where I lose you."

I whimpered and bounced on my heels as it crossed under my chair. The spike in my fight or flight mode was searing through my veins. I could feel all the air I'd sucked in threatening to resurface with my dinner.

I pinched my eyes closed and there was a thud on the floor next to me. I finally released the air I held in and my heart pounded to catch up. I opened them just in time to watch him toss it out the back door where he'd caught it between a cup and an old magazine.

"It comes back inside and winds up in my room, I'm sleeping with mom for a week and you can have my bed."

He placed the glass in the sink and extended his hands to me. "Fair enough. Now will you get down from there?"

"And that glass is trash."

"I'll be sure to scrub it myself."

My shoulders eased and I smiled at the easy banter. "What would I do without you?"

His fingers laced through my hair, pulling it away from my face. I could feel the pads of his thumbs swipe my temples now, just as they had then. I watched him study every inch of my face. I clutched his wrists wanting to pull away; he was studying too closely.

His words halted me, though. "You've never needed anyone, Chloe. You have your strength, and you get it from your mother."

I twisted away. I wasn't always this strong. I chuckled nervously, and attempted a lame joke to deflect the sentiment. "Mom's made of steel." I was not.

But he held me in place. And he didn't laugh. He wasn't looking at me anymore. "The boys will need you; they'll need that strength."

I tried to read the placid look in his eyes, they were glazed over and there was a barrier between us now. Between what he was saying and what he actually meant; and I couldn't see past the haze. I struggled harder in his hands. "Okay...."

"You will be the thing to heal this family."

"Dad," I yanked on his wrists. His eyes refocused and settled on mine. "But you're not going anywhere."

His thumbs stroked my cheeks again, then fell away. His smile was weak. "Of course not, Angel."

But he'd lied to me, and unintentionally my grip tightened around the stemmed glassware in my hand. My teeth clenched.

Angel. With a golden halo of hair to match the claim. I was all the best parts of our sister. Although Ruby had no bad ones; none we remembered anyways. I was their window to the past, a pillar for their fading memories. A glimpse at me and they saw all of the time that should've slipped away with the years; in turn maybe they mourned a little less. I wished I could see what they saw. All the mirror showed me was a simple reflection.

I'd shrugged it off and chalked it up to one of the weird episodes he had from time to time when mom said the effects of his past concussions would flare. I tried to let it go and offer a backhanded joke, but it was stale even to my own ears. "Seriously, I'm never living alone, and Molly's worthless. I'm living here until I'm thirty-five and married, or I'm moving in with a guy—married or not, regardless of how you feel about it—if you want me gone earlier."

It'd been an attempt to lighten the mood for my own sake. It hadn't worked.

It did for him though, and there was a spark back in his eyes the same shade of green as mine. I wondered if he was that oblivious to what he'd said or that naive to think I was. "Thirty-five, huh? Your old man would like to walk you down the aisle before he's in a wheelchair."

And I fired off another snarky remark in a game I didn't think either of us really wanted to play. "You planning on going somewhere? You're forty-seven, dad. I have dreams other than just my wedding you may want to see first."

Just like that, the distant look was back in his eye.

But my dad walking beside me was a dream—one I hadn't realized was so precious until it had been so quickly taken away. The last three days it was the only thought that kept circulating. Of all the things to think about, of all the memories to conjure up, that was it. The simple idea of him walking me down the aisle. A bundle of flowers clenched tightly in my left hand, my arm draped around dad's, my fingers laced tightly between his as we walked side by side.

A sob bubbled up, clogged in my throat. I strained to see past the well of tears building behind my lashes. My ears rang as a squelching shatter sounded and a nipping sting seared through my palm. In an instant my mind cleared of the memories; the hopes and the dreams dissipated. The physical pain, a distant, yet all too familiar comfort.

"Chloe—Jesus." Luca snatched both of my wrists. He held them up and I glanced at the broken glass in the bottom of the sink. "What are you doing?"

I was washing the dishes from lunch before we sat down for another meal none of us wanted. It's what I was supposed to be doing. I said nothing as I stared into the basin. Drop after drop of a satin burgundy stained the porcelain sink.

He gave me a hard look when I met his eye. "Noah, get the first aid kit. It's in mom and dad's bathroom."

My shoulders slumped as I felt the warm trickle start down my forearm. Noah wouldn't. I saw the quickly fading color drain from his face and he turned away. "You get it."

"It's just a nick. I'm fine."

Luca glared at me again. "Noah," he barked at our brothers retreating back.

"I'm going to check on Brody." He was gone before Luca could argue. He was squeamish, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone, because that would lead to why, and even I couldn't stomach the answer to that. Not when I was to be their strength. How would it look if they realized that their sister of steel was actually made of glass? Maybe not hand blown, fragile glass; perhaps sea glass worn against the waves, battered against the sand, but stronger because of it. Perhaps.

But glass all the same.

"Your sister's bleeding and you're gonna go check on a fucking deadbeat," he hissed under his breath.

"Luca," I snapped back at the harsh accusation.

He grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it between my fingers, winding it down around my wrist. "Come on."

Gently, he took my elbow and guided me over to the kitchen table. "Hold it here," he replaced his hand with mine. My eyes lingered on his fingers, they were rough and calloused like dad's from years spent curled around a leather ball. I wished they were dad's now. "I'll be right back."

I ran my finger over the different etchings on the table. They'd been carved or dinged or nicked at one time or another over the years. They made up all the time that had unnoticeably slipped by to become our past. I did my best to live in the present because the past brought a lot of darkness and time that was swept out to sea; gone forever. It was hard to think that this present—our parents death—would soon just be part of a past that would float away.

I hadn't realized I was crying until a tear fell into the lines of a lily Ruby had once started to carve her junior year—weeks before her accident. Mom had caught her before she could finish and no one had ever had the heart to do it for her.

I heard Luca just before he reappeared and quickly swiped at my cheeks. He pulled out the chair next to me and gingerly unwrapped the towel. It really wasn't deep, there was no embedded glass.

"What happened?"

Divots rippled across my forehead. "I dropped it—you were standing right there."

"I meant where was your head that you weren't paying attention to what you were doing?"

I winced as he dabbed the cut with alcohol. I was thinking about dad. But I didn't want to open that can of worms. Not with Luca. He'd have me sit here and tell him everything I didn't want to talk about right now. They needed my strength, just as dad had told me to be.

So, I said nothing and watched as he wound a section of gauze between my thumb and index finger, over the heel of my palm. When he taped it and let it fall to my lap he sat back in his seat.

We were quiet for a moment before a heavy arm fell around my shoulders. "C." Luca's lips moved against my hair and I closed my eyes, envisioning our dad yet again. "You okay?"

No. But I will be. "I'm worried about B," I said instead. Of all of us he was the one I was worried about most. He hadn't made amends, and now he'd never get the chance to. He was riddled with enough guilt as it was.

The arm snug around me fell away, and Luca tensed. "Don't be."

I held back a sigh. "Luca—"

He gathered up the alcohol and ointments and abruptly stood from his chair. "You need to focus on yourself. He should understand that; the self-centered part."

My hands slipped from the edge of the table and hit my thighs. I glared at my brother, burning a hole in his back until he turned around. Then I stood just as abruptly as he had, the legs of my chair scraping the floor. "You can be just as good at it, too. Now is not the time to be so stubborn. He needs you and you know it." You just won't do anything about it because he won't ever ask you for help, I wanted to add.

There was a fleeting moment where his scowl faltered and I watched the pain he harbored between them flare. He quickly covered it up and looked away. We were all the same, trying to pin the despair we each felt on the other, waiting for someone else to crack first.

— • — 

• losing ruby •

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