Orion and Lillian Zoan had been buried together in the Clyde River cemetery. No one ever went to visit them: not even the churchgoers who’d claimed to adore them. It wasn’t hard to believe. When you were dead, no one remembered you. It was stupid to let your feelings get the better of you. River had been doing it for years. Sebastian had been last spotted in Newfoundland and Labrador, around the area where Hannah lived. It was always curious to River how the boy managed to travel without a vehicle to his name.
It was almost New Year’s Eve. Wren, who didn’t celebrate, had invited River over for the night, and he was anxious to go. Waking up that morning had made him feel grumpy and sad, without a single indicator as to why. For most of his life, his default emotion had been sadness. After her very early morning shift at the hospital, when River was home alone, Wren had come to pick him up. It was stressful, the thought of being disliked by her sisters - but from what River had heard, both were outspoken women. He was very cold: but sweat through his tee shirt so that his winter jacket stuck to him. When Wren parked her small purple hatchback, she took quite a while to get out.
Raven was the owner of the mobile home that Wren lived in. The eldest of the sisters, Raven was thirty four, married to a man her parents had chosen. This was strange to River. In some parts of the world, arranged marriages were standard practice.
He frowned. “What if your sisters don’t like me?”
He was often embarrassed about his obsession with being liked - as if rejection by a stranger meant he was worthless and meaningless. As the sisters of his favourite person, the opinions of Robin and Raven meant something to him. River knew he should have learned to value himself without the opinions of others. This seemed so seamless to everybody else.
Wren unlocked the door with a small silver key, which hung off a tie dye keychain. She had spoken of her sisters to him, and of him to them. The day would end badly, probably. He hadn’t yet met the women, and was already on edge. “If my sisters care about my happiness, they’ll like you.” This should have been comforting. River wasn’t a consistent boyfriend, or a well-adjusted one. In the four months since meeting Wren, he had been calmer - but all of his well-being revolved around her, and this could leave him broken.
The mobile home was small and well-kept, possessing three bedrooms and one bathroom. River knew that Wren paid her sister rent, but he wasn’t quite sure of the amount, and it didn’t really matter. The sun wasn’t yet up; the women still slept. He followed Wren to her small bedroom at the back of the mobile home, clutching in his hand the small plastic bag he’d packed with things. “It’s okay if they don’t. I’m used to not being liked.” Wren, who’d insisted he bring a change of clothes, changed into her inside clothes in the corner of her room. She was beautiful and exposed, and even this didn’t make River feel excited.
He shut the door. “Don’t look.” River hadn’t always been afraid of nudity. He changed quickly, lying next to Wren on her small trundle bed. “Fuck, you’re pretty.” Wren, who was born in Australia to Indian parents, was far more cultured than River: having travelled to six countries and lived in three. When she sat up against the wall, he plopped his head on her thighs.
What’s going to happen when she gets tired of you like all the rest? What’s going to happen when she decides to leave you?
River had spoken about his intrusive thoughts to his therapists - many of whom had suggested journaling as a way of managing them. He’d tried this. The trick was to stop an intrusive thought before it completed itself: a task that, apparently, a mentally healthy person was fully capable of. Since leaving the hospital, he’d replaced alcohol with weed and hoped this to have the same effect.
River missed booze. Some days, it took all of his energy to not fall back into it.
He’d fallen asleep. When the sun came up and voices talked loudly outside the bedroom, River woke to realise Wren had gone.
I try so hard to love you, but you’re so exhausting. It’s always something with you. It takes all of my energy to spend time with you.
Bad habits were hard to reverse. Vices were replaced with vices, which were sometimes worse than before. They all claimed to support a friend’s mental health issues, and then ran away at the first sight of a crisis. River had seen movies and heard stories about crazy people - as if people like him chose to act the way they did, as if they were miserable on purpose. He’d been called all sorts of things, and crazy was the tamest of them.
The sisters sat around the living room, chatting casually and listening to soft Hindi music. River was an outsider, an imposter, standing quietly in the hallway outside Wren’s room and observing. She was the youngest of her sisters, and - according to her - the least accomplished of the family. Raven and Robin had met nice Indian men, gotten jobs as doctors and data scientists, established themselves. Wren had never been interested in following the footsteps of her sisters, and her parents had evidently been disappointed by this.
She noticed him, and stood. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” When she wasn’t working, she wore mostly tie dye. When she took River’s hands, the women looked at him; already, it was hard to self-regulate. He’d promised Wren to respect her sisters, but had no idea what they’d think of him. Wren smiled, leading him down the short hallway to where her sisters sat. “This is my boyfriend, River. He lives in Stratford.” She sat, pulling him down next to her. He should have greeted the women. He should have done anything than just sit there.
Raven wore a red sari and a bindi - the significance of which had been explained to River by Wren. He was nothing like them. Wren and her sisters were religious, dedicated, accomplished. River could barely get through the day without a breakdown. Raven stared at him for a long time, saying nothing. He was too sober to be here.
“Why are you staring at me?”
Though she’d purchased the mobile home, Raven no longer lived there. She’d moved into the home of her husband after getting married, leaving the mobile home for Wren, coming to visit once in a while when she wasn’t busy with wifely duties. She raised an eyebrow at River, turning the music down. “You met my sister in the psych ward.” This was so stigmatized, still: psychiatric hospitals were for the insane and the dangerous, and not people who just needed a little extra help getting by.
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River held her gaze. “Yes.”
He wished it were easier to be apathetic. He was many things, and apathetic was never one of them. Wren gave her sister a confused look, holding River’s hands, which were sweaty. It was important to Wren that her family liked him, that he be on his best behaviour. Even his best behaviour was disappointingly lacking. Raven sat back in her chair, looking at him as though he were a disagreeable son. “What do you do for work?”
Wren clicked her tongue. “Raven-”
“What?” The woman was unabashed, adjusting her clothing with dainty fingers. “He needs to be able to provide for you. Do you think I’d marry a man who made me the breadwinner?”
It was cold, snow piled up around the trailer. It was just what he needed, a reminder that he’d done nothing with his life. “You’re so old-fashioned.” Wren sighed at her sister, sitting forward in her seat. “You married a man Mom and Dad picked out because you couldn’t bear to disappoint them.”
“Unlike you - “ Raven cleared her throat, putting her hands up in the air. “It was just a question.” She had very long hair, which was swept back into a thick braid. “What about you, Robin? Anything you want to know?”
It felt like a job interview. It’d probably end the same way. River didn’t know what it was about him that made people so sour. He tried so hard to be worth something.
Robin shrugged, more casual than her elder sister, and only a few years younger. “I’m not as picky as you, Raven. If he makes Wren happy, then I’m happy.” Nobody looked at River. They spoke as though he wasn’t there, and this had always gotten to him.
“You know I’m sitting right here, right?”
Most of the time, River didn’t mean to say the things he did. Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, often leaving him with a bitter taste. Wren looked sideways at him, her face unreadable. The whole day had been a stupid idea, and so had trying to date. For a moment, it was quiet. He pulled his hands from Wren’s, feeling warm and exposed. The room swayed, leaving him dizzy. That was always the way it started. Raven looked at her sisters, seeming to speak to them silently. Standing quietly, Wren followed the women to a room in the back.
Anger tasted like poison, and left a burning feeling all through your body. Anger tasted like fire, leaving your skin scorched all the way through. Mirrors were contorted in a way that showed River’s reflections as someone he didn’t recognize: bags under his eyes that seemed to swallow his face. In the emptiest of rooms, insecurity was fueled by bitterness, swallowing everything around it until all that was left was a crooked trail of dirt. River wanted to bury himself in dirt, breathing it until it filled his lungs to the top.
The women spoke in hushed whispers behind the shut door of the largest bedroom. Exclusion was much friendlier than rejection, and just as familiar. They all could claim to understand. They all could make up words that mimicked comfort.
“What did I tell you about meeting boys in psych wards, Wren? Your mental health is bad enough as it is without some purple-haired crazy sucking you inside his weird delusions. You need to stop dating white guys and find somebody who can look after you.”
Anger tasted like regret, swirling around you in big waves until it swept you up. Anger tasted like stone-cold sparks, like huge bolts of thunder that left holes in the earth when they touched down. When Wren touched him, molten lava bubbled through his body, leaving him scalding everywhere it hit. When she spoke, words fizzled into static, filling his head with screams that left his ears ringing. Outside, snow filled River’s shoes, and it felt like being burned alive. This was foolish. Being burned alive would probably hurt less.
Nobody should have to love me, Z. People have better things to do with their lives than deal with me.
Screaming left him feeling raw. Running left him sweaty and exhausted.
On the side of the road, River stopped to be sick. His throat burned, more than the worst sore throat he’d ever had. It was too early to be drunk. It never mattered. Tomorrow, he’d be ashamed to admit he’d used the last of his government handouts to get drunk. Today, everything felt like fire.
I promise I won’t drink anymore. I promise I’ll work on getting better.
You have me now, River. I’m going to help you get better, too.
He didn’t want to be found - but had no idea where he’d ended up, or how much time had passed. When Wren’s tiny purple hatchback pulled up in front of the bus stop he hovered at, he didn’t look at her. The whiskey bottle he’d bought earlier sat at his side in a snow drift, nearly empty. It all tasted the same, when he was Worked Up. Wiping his mouth with a ratty coat sleeve, River noticed his eyes felt frozen.
“There you are.” Wren was alone, under-dressed for the weather. She wore thin mittens and regular running shoes, and she looked tired. River made everybody tired. “What happened?” River’s head spun; Wren was blurry. “You’ve been doing so well.” It was hard to tell how much time had passed since he’d run off. It always ended with River running off, and realising after calming down that many hours had passed. He didn’t speak to Wren, though she knelt in front of him - he was tired of being looked for, and weary of everybody he loved.
Wren took his hands, which shook from cold or from anger. There always seemed to be something to be angry about. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you to meet my sisters. I knew how they were.” She always spoke softly, except when very angry. River had only seen her very angry once, and it had taken him a while to calm her down. “I’m here, River. I understand how you’re feeling.”
They all claimed to understand. They all claimed to empathise. River was tired of being pitied.
“No, you don’t!” Feeling dizzy and wasted, he ripped his hands away from Wren’s, leaving her looking wounded. “Stop saying you understand, when you clearly don’t! I’m just some fucking disaster people only spend time with out of pity.” Wren was so easy to love, and even easier to mistreat. “You’re so fucking naive.”
It was windy. Snow whooshed around River’s face; he was far too numb to be bothered by it. Wren was quiet, a mix of expressions on her face, all of them hard to read. “You’re drunk.” She picked up the frozen bottle, and then threw it down again. “You promised.”
She should have known better than to take him seriously. “I promise a lot of things.” After today, she’d probably never speak to him again. This was best. River was used to sabotaging relationships. Sometimes, he thought he did it on purpose.
Wren was holding his phone. He didn’t care about this - he was an open book, and secrets always came out. Wren already knew everything there was to know about him: the names of his siblings, all of his favourite music, how he felt about being alone. He always cared for people more than they cared for him. It didn’t matter. That’s the way it always went.
“You have a text,” said Wren, softly. She was the opposite of River: gentle, cautious, tidy. “I think you’ll want to see it. It’s about your sister.”
Her touches were gentle. Even the tenderest sent fire all through him. “I don’t care.” After his rage wore off, River hardly remembered what he’d been angry about at all. In the past, Wren had promised not to leave him. Everybody broke promises. River broke the most of all. He’d been told by therapists in the past that those who claimed not to care about something usually cared most. He had a favourite sister. So did everyone else with multiple siblings.
It snowed, turning to ice at River’s feet. Wren sat very close to him, and still not as close as he would have liked. “River,” she said, setting his phone in his hand, “Alma’s dead.”