Page 85 of Pieces of Ash
She stops at a cluster of Queen Anne’s lace, fingering the delicate white flowers. “I never knew my father. I don’t even know if Tig knew who my father was. And my grandparents are…Catholic.VeryCatholic.”
“Is that why they left you here? After Tig died?”
“I am.” She pauses, and when I glance at her, I see her jaw tighten like she’s clenching it hard. “Their great shame.” She gathers a bunch of the flowers together before leaning down to smell them. “They wanted Tig to give me up for adoption.”
I wince at this news, at the way she states it so matter-of-factly, so offhandedly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes I wish she had. Maybe I could have had a normal life.”
“And sometimes you’re glad she didn’t?”
“What kidwantsto be abandoned by their mother?” she asks me, and I know the answer only too well.
I try to look on the bright side because it feels like the right thing to do in conversations like these. “She kept you, despite their disapproval. She must have loved you.”
She caresses the blooms before releasing them. “People keep saying that.”
She’s right. They do. After my mother left, many people in my own life, including my father, made the same claim.She loved you. She loved you and your sister. It wasn’t your fault she left.
Except, she did, in fact,leaveus. No pretty words offered out of kindness could change that damning fact.
We walk in silence for several more minutes, until we’re standing side by side at the pond, which is dotted with bright green lily pads. Our quiet presence disturbs a frog, who croaks indignantly at us, making a small splash as it jumps into the water.
I feel the back of her hand brush against mine. Without saying anything, I turn my hand so that our palms touch. When she doesn’t pull away, I lace my fingers through hers, feeling like she’s given me a gift when she bends her fingers and clasps my hand against hers.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly, “that you lost your mother.”
ASHLEY
I don’t know why I suddenly blurted out that Tig was my mother.
I don’t know why I told him that my grandparents pressured her to put me up for adoption.
I don’t know why I’m holding his hand.
But I guess I’m sick of carrying other people’s secrets, and the truth is that I am sofuckingtired in general—of being alone, of being unwanted, of being frightened—I feel like I can’t lose much more by letting Julian in.
And holding his hand is even less complicated.
Iwantto hold his hand.
In every way imaginable, it feels nice. It feels right.
After this weekend—seeing him with his sister and, perhaps more importantly, knowing of Jock’s confidence in Julian—I am willing to trust him. He’s right. I’m in trouble. I need all the help I can get.
“My stepfather,” I say, “is a very,verybad man.”
Beside me, Julian’s posture shifts, but I keep my gaze trained on the tip of a rock protruding from the water about fifty feet away. He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes my hand, which I take as encouragement to continue.
“He…” There is no good or easy way to share Mosier’s plans for me. They’re dark. They’re sordid. They’re twisted. All around, they’re pretty terrible. “After my mother’s funeral, he came to my bedroom to speak to me…to, um, to explain his plans for me now that she’s gone.”
Julian takes a breath through his teeth and holds it.
“He, um…he made it clear that he married my mother for me. I mean…he wants me to, well, take her place.”
“What doesthatmean?” Julian asks, his voice tight and biting.
