And I will Lean on You Part 2

Bryenna

Walking through the disgusting hall, filled with cigarette haze and discarded gum, I hesitated before entering the apartment. Our new home, I corrected myself dismally.

Helping Ana to heave the microwave up the narrow stairs, I looked at my older sister. At 19, she was all I had left in the world. My rock, my angel, she was everything I aspired to be.

She opened the door, and I tried hard not to gag on the stench of sour milk and disinfectant. I saw Ana’s face fall when she heard my heavy breathing, and tried not to think of what this place was when she walked in.

Helping her carry in the last of the items, I put the last box down and moved straight into the motions of cleaning, scrubbing down the benches in the kitchen. Ana smiled gratefully at me, and we worked in silence.

Two hours and aching arms later, I looked over at Ana, and saw her slumped against the bare walls, eyes closed.

Gently rousing her, I pulled her towards the bedroom, before we realised there was no bed yet. I dug through the mess in the living room, and pulled out the dismantled bed frame. Working quickly, we pulled it together, using the screws from something else, I didn’t care what.

Flinging a mattress and some sheets onto it, we collapsed onto the bed together, Ana only managing to set her alarm on her phone for 6 am before we fell asleep.

***

Waking to the beeping of her alarm, she flung her arm over sleepily and pressed snooze, buying us another two minutes. I lay there, protected from the world in her arms, under the sheets.

I sat up when the alarm rang out the second time, huddling under the blankets, trying to adjust to the thought of waking up.

“What’s the date today?” I mumbled sleepily to Ana, who fumbled for her phone again. The soft light lit up her face eerily, and I watched her expression crumble.

“The 24th.” She choked out, and reality came crashing down. I sat back, my head hitting the wooden backboard firmly, but I didn’t feel it.

24th of June. The day Mum died three years ago, submitting to the ovarian cancer that ate at her from the inside.

The day Alexei hung himself a year later, unable to face the world where God doesn’t exist, where good people died and bad people lived longest.

The day Dad went insane, locking himself in his room, allowing no one except Ana to enter, mumbling in his native Russian to the blank walls, shuffling past the shattered glass of the photographs he had torn down in his anger.

I heard a soft moan and looked down to see Ana’s blonde head tucked into her knees, arms wrapped around herself, as though she could keep out the memories that burned through us both.

I wept with her, curling around her. She opened up to enfold me in her embrace, stroking my hair and crooning in Russian, comforting nothings that I recognised from before my world collapsed.

I felt the tears soak through my hair, letting the silence bleed through the moment until it all seemed blood red, the tears dripping down tasting like the ocean, mourning for us all together.

We lay there, tangled together, until it seemed we became one person.

“You don’t have to go to school today. I’ll call you in.” She whispered through the scratchy, rough sound of my choked sobs.

I nodded and curled tighter around her, feeling her heartbeat as it continued on, a reminder that if she was here, I was safe. That I was home.

***

Waking up later, I squinted against the bright sunlight filtering through the sheets Ana had put over the windows. I saw her stretched out at the end of the bed, three heavy textbooks open, writing furiously.

I got up and padded to the sink, pouring her a drink from Emily’s cups, and grabbing myself one. Handing it to Ana, I smiled as I saw her take a long pull. It felt so normal, so comfortable to be here with her, looking after her as she looked after me.

She made a space for me to lie down next to her, and I sat cross – legged, my hair mussed from sleep, Alexei’s singlet hanging off me, too large for my small frame.

“I’ve been thinking,” she began, hesitating before continuing.

“We actually can’t afford this place without me working more. I was going to ask Aunt Camilla if she would hire me on at her restaurant. Will that be too disruptive for you?” She asked me, concern overflowing her words.

I shook my head, studying my nails.

“I’m gonna look for a job too.” I informed her, staring at my fingers to avoid her piercing green eyes.

“No. Absolutely not. I can work, I have the time. You’re in year 11, it’s too important that you get a good education.”

“And what, watch you throw away your degree? Tati, no. I can work weekends and after school. I’m a good student. Besides, you admitted it. We need the money. It’ll work out. We can apply for student loans or something.”

She sniffled as I called her by her childhood nickname, a tear falling onto her page, smudging her work. I gently moved it away, and wrapped my arms around her.

“It’s just what we’ll have to do now. There’s no way around it.”

“How will you get to work? And back home?” Ana fretted, worried about me, when she was going to ruin her degree by working two jobs to keep me in school and afford to live in a hole on the East side. I couldn’t let that happen.

“Bus stops. It’ll work out Tati, you’ll see.”

We agreed that I would work three nights a week and weekends, as long as my grades stayed at a B average. She ignored my attempts to set limits on her working, deflecting my questions with other topics. I gave up on it, but knew that if I didn’t watch her, she’d work herself into the ground.

I sat back, watching her attack her psychology degree furiously, writing about five pages before sitting up and stretching. I went to the living room and began to open more boxes, setting up more of our belongings.

My stomach grumbled and I remembered I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, at Emily’s. I opened up the food package Aunt Camilla had packed us, and smiled as I unwrapped Shepherds Pie, Mother’s favourite food.

She always knew, Aunt Camilla did. Mother’s best friend since childhood, Aunt Camilla was the reason Ana and I were fed when Dad died in the car crash three months ago, the reason we could stay in the house for so long. Emily was my distraction, my comforter when Ana wasn’t around.

Microwaving it, I sectioned off a piece and put it on a plate for Ana, remembering the feel of her bony arms wrapped around me as she protected me from the world. She would go hungry if it meant more food for me. I placed a smaller amount on a plate for myself and took them into the bedroom, handing her hers. I frowned as she reached for mine, nodding at her books.

“You need more, you’re working harder.” I tried to ignore my stomach’s cravings, lying to myself that I would be full after the small amount.

I had to protect Ana. She was all I had, my world, the reason for my life.