Free Ashes by Laurie Halse Anderson Page B

from running.”
    He ended the story abruptly.
    The expression on his face helped me realize something I’d not seen before. “Are you sweet on her?”
    â€œNo.” He poked at the fire, sending sparks into the air. “Yes. Mebbe. She’s always been my friend, ever since . . .” His voice trailed off to nothing.
    I picked up a willow branch, took out my knife, and started scraping the bark. “Ever since when?”
    He gave me a hard look. We had never talked like this, the two of us. Never talked about things that mattered.
    â€œIt’s just that I don’t know her,” I explained. “I don’t know my own sister. I don’t even know how often she has fits or what makes her laugh. I can’t tell if she remembers anything about me, or about her life before Riverbend. I don’t mean to pry into your business, but if you can help me understand her, that would be another kindness.”
    â€œCritters make her laugh, and silly songs.” He started breaking bits of a dead branch into small sticks for the fire. “She doesn’t have as many fits as she used to.”
    He stopped and stared into the fire again, like he was seeing young Ruth there. Mayhaps young Aberdeen, too. He stared so long, sat so silent, I was certain he’d forgotten I was there. I wanted to keep him talking so I could hear the stories of the years I’d missed with Ruth.
    â€œWere you born at Riverbend?” I finally asked.
    He shook his head, stood up, and walked to the pile of dead branches and brush. “Got sold to Riverbend the year afore Ruth turned up, at hog-butchering time. I was eight years old.” He brought his boot down hard as he pulled up on a branch, snapping it cleanly. “So when butchering time came round again, I was in mighty low spirits. I missed my parents and my brothers something terrible. Ruth found me crying in the loft. She sat down next to me and patted my back, gave me a cloth for my nose. I told her my whole story about where I’d come from and who my family was. Things I hadn’t told anybody, because it just hurt too much to say their . . .”
    His voice cracked and my heart went out to him. No wonder he was close to Ruth; they’d both been stolen away from everything they knew and loved.
    He cleared his throat with a sharp cough. “It hurt too much to say their names, so I didn’t talk much. Anyway, Ruth listened, sweet as could be. When I was done, I asked after her people.”
    â€œWhat did she say?” I asked.
    â€œThat she didn’t remember nothing.”
    â€œDid you believe her?”
    â€œNo.” He fed another branch to the fire. “But I kept asking. Different days, different questions. She always said she didn’t remember a thing in her whole life before that mangy dog lay down next to her by the kitchen fire.”
    I looked down at my hands, one clutching a willow twig, the other the knife, and was again enveloped in sorrow.
    â€œMayhaps she hit her head,” I said quietly. “Mayhaps it destroyed her remembery.”
    â€œIn that case, I guess, she’s lucky,” Aberdeen said. “She’s got you here. You can tell her all the things she forgot.”
    â€œShe won’t even look at me,” I said. “She doesn’t want to hear anything I have to say.”
    â€œDon’t seem to me like she’d argue right now.” He tossed the branches on the fire and brushed off his hands. “Going fishing. I’ll be back afore dark.”
    I watched him disappear, then brewed up more willow tea and tried to get Ruth to drink it. She wouldn’t wake, lost again in a place I could not reach. I rinsed her handkerchief and soaked it in the willow tea, then replaced the cold poultice on her foot with the warm one. She stirred a little but did not wake. Sweat had beaded on her brow, but I had no rag to wipe it.
    My shift had reached the end of its