Page 81 of The Lies I've Told
“They were invisible,” I said. “And so were we. It was an agreeable living situation—one we cherished because it meant the three of us stayed together.”
“That’s sad,” she replied.
“No it was wonderful, because I had Ben and James. It was more than I’d ever had before, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world.”
“Then, why don’t you want to go back? To England, I mean.”
I let out a hard sigh. “When James and I scattered Ben’s ashes, our foster parents handing them over to us without more than a glance, I was ready to move on. Ben’s memory didn’t need to live on in that shitty neighborhood with those terrible memories. I just…I thought I could honor him with more.”
“So, you ran?”
I met her gaze, realizing how much of me she saw when I said so little.
“Yeah, I guess I did.”
“And, now, you honor Ben through your carving?”
I nodded, going on to tell her of Ben’s love for stone carving and how he’d shared that love with me.
“I have him to thank for your relentless patience then?” She smiled, turning her head up toward me.
“Ben was infallible with his never-ending patience. He would, still, to this day, say I have the patience of a gnat. And, in comparison, he’d be correct.”
“He sounds amazing.”
“He was the best.”
“How did he die?” she finally asked.
“He was always a sick kid,” I said. “Ben was consistently smaller than the rest of us. Pale, you know? I just figured it was his coloring, but then he began to thin out even more and grow weaker. He’d shiver at night, even in the summer. When we asked him about it, he’d brush it off as a summer cold or a winter flu. It went on and on.”
“He was sick all that time?”
I simply nodded.
“When he got real bad at the end, I became so angry and swore I’d go in and demand that our foster parents do something, anything, but Ben made me promise I wouldn’t. He was terrified they’d separate us. But it didn’t matter; James and I were about to age out anyway.
“So, one day, I finally stomped into the living room and told my foster dad off. I told him he was a sorry son of a bitch with no love in his heart. I asked him how he could sit around and watch a boy die right there, in his own house. It was the only time he ever looked at me with any sort of emotion. It was pity.
“‘Ben is dying,’ he said. ‘He’s known ever since we took him in. He just needed a place to do it.’”
“That’s horrible. What awful people you lived with.”
“I honestly couldn’t even focus on their lack of empathy as I stood there in shock over the fact that my brother had known he was dying and didn’t tell us. All that time, and he never said a word. I felt utterly betrayed.”
“And what would you have done if you had known? Tiptoed around him all that time? Sat around, waiting for him to grow sicker?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, sitting up as she did the same. “But I could have at least done something. Maybe fought for him.”
“Babe, you were teenage kids in the foster system. You can’t blame him for wanting to enjoy the fact that he had a family for probably the first time in his life.”
I looked down as she pulled my hand into hers, the warmth of our fingers intertwining, filling my heart with hope. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But, God, I wish I could have done something.”
“You did do something. You gave him happiness. You filled his heart with joy every single day when you sat down with him and let him teach you how to carve, and you carry on that joy even now through your artwork. I know it for a fact.”
My brow rose at her decidedly resolute statement.
Reaching over, she grabbed the stone bird that still resided on my nightstand.
