Fragments

Chapter Asher

Asher

Waking up early, I wanted to head home and check in on my brother. He’d been staying with my parents since my mom didn’t like the idea of him living alone.

I hadn’t told Lennon he’d tried to kill himself. Something about saying it out loud made me queasy. A really sick, terrible part of me worried she’d find some twisted validation in it, and I couldn’t bear the thought.

When I pulled into the driveway, every vehicle was lined up. Everyone was home.

Along with checking in on Wyatt and Mila, I’d wanted to speak to my mom about the group. Having a full house sent my nerves into overdrive.

“I’m guessing the whole house is awake,” I muttered, feeling the anxiety creep up.

Duke nodded. “Yes. Bit of a frenzy this morning, too.”

He gave me that look, the one that told me everything I needed to know: everyone was already on edge today.

I stepped out of the passenger seat and waved as he smirked and took off to park the car. I should’ve thanked him for the heads up. I knew when I walked in, the house would be buzzing with displaced energy.

The moment I opened the front door, I walked straight into chaos.

Mila and my dad were bantering back and forth. She already had a chip on her shoulder. I peered down at my watch. It was only 8:19 a.m.

What could possibly have wound her up so tightly this early in the day with my dad?

Wait—no. I didn’t need that answered. My dad could spark an argument over someone breathing wrong. He was that type of person.

Upon further inspection, my mother was also arguing with Wyatt.

He was waving his arms around after she announced, annoyed, “I don’t care that they said you’re fine, I know otherwise!”

I closed the door behind me, everyone stopped to acknowledge that I was present and the silence grew.

Wyatt turned to face me like I’d just thrown him a lifeline. “Can you please explain to our overbearing mother that I’m allowed to return to my own fucking house? As per doctor’s advice?”

Oh no, I wasn’t taking this bait.

Not today.

He wasn’t going to enjoy my part in this.

My mother eyed me with a look that threw daggers in my direction. She was not playing this early in the morning.

I started carefully. “Well, Wyatt, you are a grown ass adult, who can make decisions on your own and whatnot. You pay your own mortgage. You are, generally, a fully functioning member of society.”

If looks could kill, there’d be blood splatter all over my mother’s white tiled floors.

I kept eye contact with her. “However…you clearly were unable to take care of your own shit and, thus, tried to take a sharp left exit off of this planet. So staying here a little longer doesn’t seem wildly unreasonable, ya know?”

“Unbelievable, man. Whose side are you on, anyway?” Wyatt muttered.

“The side that keeps you earthside, fucker. Now are we having breakfast or what?” I said, attempting to keep the mood light.

Mila turned to me. “Do you only come around here for scraps of food?”

For someone who had just moved into this family, she’d made herself very comfortable. I had to admit, I really liked that about her. She was resilient in the face of adversity. Lennon would like her.

“Darling Mila—” I started before she cut me off.

“Do not call me that, asshole.”

A playful grin danced on my face. “Right. Orphan it is. You see, since I’m defective in all the things, I can’t work. No workie means no money and no food. And since I’d focused essentially my entire adult life on having a career in hockey, I’m basically a useless human being.”

Her jaw struck the floor. “Are you okay? Like as a human being who socializes with the rest of society?”

My father decided it was time to chime in. “All right, all right. Let’s sit at the goddamn table and enjoy this breakfast your mother made for all you ungrateful bastards.”

I looked between Mila and Wyatt, the three of us chuckling to ourselves like a bunch of teenagers.

Mom had gone overboard, as she always did. She served up scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, turkey sausage, and hashbrown casserole. The room smelt incredible.

She really did go over the top for us.

She knew deep down that we were grateful, but banter was a part of the culture in this household. After my diagnosis, things had been tense for far too long. I was determined to keep it lighter, even with the hormonal firecracker and the suicidal doctor in the room.

“So, Mom,” I started, ripping a piece of bacon in half, avoiding eye contact, “how fucked up do you have to be to qualify for this therapy group I’m in?”

She dropped her fork onto her plate.

“Do you all mind being respectful of this home with one, the language, and two, my line of work?”

I bowed my head, a sad attempt at hiding my laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I actually do have a legitimate question. There’s someone in the group who’s assigned with the Assisted Suicide program or something…”

My mother looked at her plate, nervous about where the question was going. She nodded quietly to herself. “What about it?”

“Why is that even a program? Like…People that are sad can just choose to off themselves? Medically?” I treaded lightly now.

The room went silent.

The question hovered over the table like a dark cloud. My mother cleared her throat, preparing to speak, because this wasn’t just her work anymore. This conflicted with the reaction she had to Wyatt, her son, and his attempts.

“The Assisted Suicide Program is designed for those whose quality of life has been diminished or non-existent for several years. It is for the deeply disturbed, majorly depressed, and lifelong suicidal persons. This isn’t a program for people who just up and decide that today’s the day they want to die.

There is a long list of criteria to meet before even being considered, let alone the work you have to do once accepted. ”

My mother continued, still treading lightly. “The person would have had to suffer unimaginable traumas in their life to even be considered.”

I nodded slowly. “And you developed it, right?”

It was then that she was brave enough and lifted her head.

Her eyes met mine. “Correct. It’s still only a pilot project at this point.

Yes it is controversial, but it carries a heavy weight in my heart as a necessary evil we need in this world to aid those suffering.

Mental illness may not look like much, but it can be just as deteriorating as physical disease. ”

The way she spoke sounded as if she was not only trying to convince me of its purpose, but now herself.

“I wish you’d never began that program, Mom,” I whispered, all cheeriness sucked out of the room. It was silent before, but now I had the room’s attention.

Dumbfounded, she wasn’t connecting the dots at my statement. “W-why do you say that?”

I broke eye contact first. Inhaling a deep breath I didn’t realize I would need in order to make this statement out loud. I finally exhaled and said, “Because I’m in love with a woman that’s in it.”

“The program is very much reversible,” she began automatically, trying to soften the blow. “And the person involved can drop out anytime with no barriers or conflict. It really is—”

Then she froze.

“Lennon.”

Hearing her name from my mother’s mouth felt intimately sad. Heavy.

Her hands lifted toward her mouth. Her saddened eyes reached across the table at me. I hadn’t realized my eyes were welling up with tears.

“I think I love her,” I admitted, my heart shattering into pieces.

Mom’s expression softened. “She is remarkable. I’ve had the privilege of getting to know her through her therapist’s case notes and the application process.”

“What’s so wrong with her that she wants to kill herself?” my uncompassionate father muttered.

I stiffened, but my mother responded instead. “She was handed the world’s shittiest life. In fact, you were there when her father passed. You were the lead investigator. So mind yourself before you speak too quickly.”

My dad’s face went stark white. The colour completely drained from him. He stared at my mother for far too long, a question in his eyes. I looked between them, unknowing what was happening. She nodded once in his direction, affirming something on his mind.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed.

Curiosity consumed every thought and potential question on my lips. I asked outright, “What? What do you know? I know her dad died in a car accident, but not much more. I’m too scared to ask her anything else honestly.”

My father gulped.

He wasn’t much of a conversationalist when it came to his line of work, but he appeared to be gearing up to tell us something important.

“Well, that evening, I was working the night shift. It was the first call, right out of the shoot we got an accident, likely an impaired by the fact that guy ran the red light. We got on scene, and found Todd Becker pinned inside the vehicle. He was still conscious, but declining rapidly.”

His jaw tightened, obviously affected by this story himself, but he proceeded on.

“I took one look at him and knew he wasn’t going to make it.

The way the vehicle had him pinned, the blood that was, well, everywhere.

I lied to him, telling him we’d get him out of there, and return him home to his family.

He—uh—he knew. He knew he wasn’t going to make it.

But I stand by the ways that you don’t tell the people who are dying just how bad it is, okay?

But he knew. He fucking knew he was dying.

He looked me right in my eyes and told me, ‘Just check on her, okay? Make sure her mom is taking care of her’ and then the light went out of his eyes. ”

My father was now unable to look at any of us, shame crawling all over his skin at the things he’d seen over the years. Decades of wear and tear on his soul.

“I did go, but I didn’t go right away,” he finally confessed.

The room was suffocating.

“I wouldn’t have even gone had I not gotten the report of a potential breaking and entering at the house where he lived. Just seemed too suspicious.” He made note of the events in his head, trying to compartmentalize which was important, and what was not.

Mom reached for his hand. “You don’t have to relive this one. It wasn’t your fault.”

He shook his head. “No, it was. I should have checked in. But when I went there, she was so hungry, and filthy, and neglected. Her piece of shit mother had fucking left her, just left her like that. She was fucking six years old. She just left her there to die, and he had asked me, on his death bed, to fucking check on her.”

The sombre air sat heavy on all our shoulders.

We never fully understood the weight of what my father sat with each shift when he came home quiet and short-fused. Never really understood the full extent of what he carried each day he saw something traumatic. Or something he felt he could’ve prevented.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I finally said.

He looked up at me. “Why are you sorry?”

“Because I never knew what you had to deal with. Knowing what I know about Lennon…I’d kill anyone who caused her pain.

I know I would. The hesitation would be nil.

But you just did your job. Day in and day out.

Every day. Trying not to mess up. Trying to do the right thing. It probably never felt like enough.”

He shook his head. “It never did, no. Because you could always do more.”

My mother decided this was her time to add, “It was that call that changed something inside of your father. Always doing more, burning himself at both ends to make sure everything was done…perfectly.”

Before the air could collapse us all, Wyatt chimed in.

“Too soon to ask if she’s hot?”

Mila’s eyes grew wide. “Like, is there one sane person in this family? What is wrong with you, Wyatt?”

And then…laughter erupted in the room.

Was it dark? Probably. Was it too soon to crack jokes? Most definitely. But it was what we required in order to heal together.

And that’s what it felt like, it felt like we were healing.

Mila rested her chin in her palms. “Tell me about her. I don’t want to hear the sad stuff or the program bullshit. I just want to know about her. As a person.”

I smiled, unable to contain it.

“She is a pistol. Ready to fire at any fucking second.”

“Language.” Mom sighed.

“She is challenging, and mostly angry. And mean to me sometimes, but she’s soft when she lets you inside. And she has this ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude that really works for her, because she really doesn’t give a shit about anyone’s approval. Lennon is basically everything I’m not.”

Mila sighed, happy to indulge on the romantic side of things. “So when do we get to meet her?”

I nearly choked on my water. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Mom and Mila asked in unison.

“Because we’re already overbearing. Not to mention, Mom, you have seen her entire file.

Dad, you were the last person with her dad before he died.

And Wyatt, you attempted to off yourself, and I don’t need you two trauma-bonding over it in some sick, twisted way, okay? ” I spilled in one quick breath.

The disappointment was evident around the room.

“I’m taking her out tonight,” I added. “Day by day, is all. One of our bucket list assignments is eating at a Michelin-star restaurant. So, I’m going to surprise her by taking her to one.”

Mom smiled gently. “That’s really lovely, Asher. I bet you two will have a wonderful time.”

“I think so, too,” I added with a strange feeling in my gut.

And I couldn’t tell if it was hope…or fear.