When I Was Whole (And When I Fell Apart)

7 - Sept

        He should have known it wouldn't be that easy when his sister came back from university.

"Laurence," Elisabeth began, holding up a sheet of paper. Her hands were shaking as she read the contents. "Laurence, what the hell is this?"

Laurence dug his nails into his skin, bottom lip trembling as he shifted from foot to foot. With their mother on her day shift, it was just him and Elisabeth in their dingy kitchen, a crumpled report card between them. He should have expected she'd find out eventually; his pillow wasn't the best hiding place, especially when she was the one doing laundry.

"Listen," he protested weakly, still avoiding her sharp gaze. "You aren't around anymore, how do you expect me to focus on my grades when I'm the one taking care of Arthur?"

Well, that was half a lie. Not that she needed to know, not that she would know. Ever since she was old enough for a job, Elisabeth spent less time at home and more time working, and if she wasn't working, she was studying. Laurence had more time alone than not these days.

She groaned, burying her head in her hands. There was a weariness to her shoulders that wasn't there before, and as he squinted, he could see the bags under her eyes prominent in the dim lighting of dusk.

"You're close to failing half of these classes." She shoved the paper back into his hands, sighing. "Even when we moved schools I wasn't struggling this much."

Laurence opened his mouth to protest but felt the guilt pool at the bottom of his stomach. He settled for being petty instead; there was no use fighting a losing battle. Getting angry would only make this worse than it already was.

"Well," he hissed, voice bitter. "I'm not you. I'll never be you. You can't expect me to get valedictorian when I'm practically raising our brother on my own."

She gave a dry laugh, letting out what sounded like a scoff. "When mom wasn't around, who was the one who walked you to school? Who was the one who made breakfast every morning? Who was the one who worked a part-time job?"

Her voice was shaking as she turned to look at him from where she sat at the dining table. "Are you forgetting that I took care of you too? I was only ten when dad died, Laurence."

Laurence would have felt pity if he weren't so angry instead. Pettiness turned to fire in his stomach, and it took everything in him to keep his rage to a simmer. He balled his fists, gritting his teeth as his head began to spin. The words were lodged in his throat, choking him as he tried to force them out. Words, he thought to himself, traitorous words.

"I–" He bit his lower lip, unable to voice out what he wanted to say, wanted to shout, wanted to scream. "I can't do this, Lizzie. I can't do this anymore."

And he couldn't. He didn't know how much longer he could bury this hurt with equations and numbers, not when in the end, they were all just a distraction for something even he couldn't put into perfectly organized solutions. Numbers were objective, but feelings were not. Two plus two would always equal four, but nobody could truly say that sadness and guilt were one and the same.

He vaguely thought about poets, then shrugged them off just as quickly.

His expression must have been pitiful enough. Elizabeth's gaze softened as she took a deep exhale. She motioned for Laurence to sit down in front of her, sliding back his crumpled report card and flipping it upside down.

"I'm not saying that you shouldn't get to mourn dad," she started, and Laurence wanted to laugh, because she didn't seem to get it, did she? It seemed too ridiculous to be true. "But it's been eight years, and we've had plenty of time to get used to...whatever this is."

Her words pierced through his chest, leaving him breathless as the air was sucked from his lungs. He didn't know what he was expecting–an explanation for these feelings swirling around in his chest? Some sort of kinship between two siblings for a father buried in six feet of dirt and guilt? She was his older sister, she'd have the answers. She always did.

Elisabeth looked sympathetic. Somehow, that only made him angrier.

"The last thing I want is for you to ruin your life." Elisabeth averted her gaze, and it sent another pinprick of hurt straight through his heart. She never used to do that, not when it was just the two of them. "I'm not asking you to be a valedictorian, as hypocritical as that sounds."

Laurence rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Like I said earlier, not everyone can be you."

At his words Elisabeth let out a hiss between her teeth, her breathing becoming more strained as she took a deep inhale. He'd lived with her long enough to know the beginnings of a cracked composure; she broke slowly, but when the cracks gave way to holes, the pent-up emotions flew forward in heavy waves.

"I made sacrifices, Laurence. Sacrifices so that you and Arthur wouldn't have to worry about anything other than getting a degree." And she sounded so, so tired. "Have you ever wondered why we're still able to pay rent?"

The answer was obvious enough. Laurence's mouth went dry, all other words dying on his tongue. Of course, he knew; sacrifices were made the moment their father's heart stopped beating that day in the hospital. Sacrifices that, for the most part, his sister and mother had to make to put food on the table, pay for hospital bills, and keep three children in school.

He just wished that Elisabeth didn't have to hang that burden above his head.

"That's what I thought," she said, standing up, and the worst part was that she was right. "So let's try harder next year, yeah?"

She waved her hand around dismissively, and Laurence did his best to tune out her words. Thoughts and emotions whirled like a river in his head, currents crashing against one another as he struggled to stay afloat. He couldn't look at Elisabeth, not when her eyes no longer held that warmth he'd once found so much comfort in.

Perhaps they were always that same, icy blue. He realized then he didn't know when he'd started seeing Elisabeth that way.

"Yeah," he muttered under his breath. His voice sounded weak, even to his own ears. "Yeah, I'll try harder. For you."

Elisabeth smiled. It looked strained.

"Good, good. Let's just," she looked away, biting the side of her cheek, "let's just put this behind us. I won't tell mom, I promise."

Later on, looking back, he doesn't know whether or not he can be thankful for that.