Page 84 of Pieces of Ash

“What?”

“She was my mother,” she says.

She barks out a garish, high-pitched laugh, and a weird chortle follows, her eyes widening as she pulls her wrist away from me and slides off the stool slowly, as though dumbstruck.

I keep my voice as soft and gentle as possible. “Okay. Um, I didn’t realize?—”

“Fuck,” she whispers, staring at the counter like she can’t believe what she just said. She crosses her arms over her breasts, hugging herself, her eyes blinking wildly, her breath coming out in little pants, like she’s about to have a panic attack. “Forget I said that. Please just…”

She shakes her head and starts for the door, but I rush around the counter, fighting against my instinct to reach for her shoulders and pull her back to me. “Wait! Ashley! It’s okay. It’s fine! Don’t run.”

She stops just inside the living room but doesn’t turn around.

“It’s okay,” I say to her back. “Seriously. It’s okay. I want to help. You can tell me anything. You can trust me. I don’t…I don’t want to hurt you or make things worse for you.” Her shoulders are bunched up so tightly, they graze her ears. “So…Tig was…your mother?”

She turns around slowly, her face white when she faces me. “Yes.”

Whoa. Okay.But her body language tells me that she is completely uncomfortable, which I need to fix or she’s not going to want to keep talking. Because I can’t help her unless she invites me in.

I have an idea and hold out my hand to her. “Hey. Come with me.”

This was an important tactic I learned during my months of training. People with big secrets are often more inclined to share them if it doesn’t feel interrogative when they’re speaking. Sitting across from her at a table or facing each other in a classic standoff position, like we are right now, aren’t scenarios likely to lessen the tension. Side by side is sometimes best, so that you don’t have to meet someone’s eyes as you converse.

She flicks a glance at my hand. “Where are we going?”

“The pond?” I suggest.

“The…pond?”

“Yeah. Remember from Saturday? Where we took Bruno for a walk? We could, you know, walk there. Talk. Chill. Whatever.”

“Oh,” she says, her face relaxing just a touch. “Okay.”

Without taking my hand, she walks around me and heads to the back door, sliding into her little white tennis shoes and stepping onto the porch.

I think about whistling for Bruno, who’s asleep in the barn, but decide against it. I want to focus all of my attention on her. I follow her, copying her rhythm, falling into step beside her. But I don’t say anything until we round the barn.

“Tig was your mother,” I say softly. “You just lost your mother.”

Glancing to my left, I watch her nod, the single movement jerky. “Y-yes.”

“That’s tough. God, that’s…terrible.”

She nods again, this time more easily, and I can feel her body loosening up beside me as we walk through the tall grass.

“Thank you for sharing, you know, the truth…with me,” I say.

“Nobody really knows,” she says. “My grandparents, of course, but they’ve just returned to Wales. Gus and Jock. Father Joseph. That’s it.” She pauses. “Well, now…you, too.”

“Father Joseph?”

“The priest at my school.” Without looking at me, she adds, “The Blessed Virgin Academy in New Paltz, New York.”

“Why was it a secret?”

“My school or my mother?”

“Both,” I say, “but I was asking about your mother. Why did your family keep it a secret? That you were her daughter?”