Amanda Leduc - The Centaur's Wife

“She didn’t have to stay here, though,” he argues. “They didn’t have to help us gather supplies or build the greenhouses or get wood for the winter. They could have kept on going when they found out the hospital was destroyed. But they stayed. We’re here— you’re here — because of them. Jesus, Heather. What’s your problem? Where’s your faith?”

She laughs at this—high, almost hysterical. Faith in what? In centaurs? In other magical beasts that prowled the mountains around them long years before any of them were born? Faith in the ground that teems beneath them, in a world that chokes the food they plant and offers them poison berries instead? In the vegetation that creeps relentlessly in to drown the city?

Or does he mean faith in regular people, in the miracles they work with their own hands? They have survived one winter, yes. That is a kind of miracle.

But that was because of Estajfan. If they continue to survive, it will only be because of Estajfan. Tasha has nothing to do with it.

“I don’t hate her,” she says, finally. “But I don’t trust her either.”

It’s B’s turn to laugh now. “Are you serious?”

“Fine. I knew you would say that. Never mi—”

“You think she’s got some kind of nefarious plan? That she’s going to—what, hoard all of the food so everyone else starves?”

“Why is she here? Why here , B? Why spend the whole winter here and ration the goddamned food and practically take over a small mountain city no one cares about? Why not somewhere else?”

“Here is as good a place as any.” He pushes the stroller past her, out through the front door. “And maybe she saw too many of us falling apart and figured she could help.”

“Right,” she says, pretending not to get the dig. “Because Tasha has no problems of her own and is taking perfect care of her own family.”

“What?” He’s genuinely surprised for a moment, then rolls his eyes and continues down the walk. “Oh, for Chrissake. You don’t even know her family.”

“I know you think she’s strong and unflappable, but I see how she neglects Annie in favour of saving everyone else. And when she can’t save everyone else—I’ve seen her in the greenhouse, B. I know what she does when she’s alone. She’s telling herself—and us—stories too. That we’ll survive if we stick together, that everything will be okay if we just hold on. But what if she’s wrong? What if things aren’t going to be okay?”

“Won’t they?” he says, exasperated. He doesn’t stop pushing the buggy. The girls laugh loudly at the bumpy ride over the overgrown road. “How long do you think we’d survive all on our own? How long did Randall and Stella make it? Candice and Seth and the baby? We’re only here because we stuck together. And we only stuck together because Tasha and Annie saved us.”

“How is holding on to the idea of pulling through going to help us when there’s no one left?” she says. And then, “Have you talked to Annie? Have you asked her how she feels about Tasha? Because I guarantee you Annie’s not feeling the same saviour vibes that you are.”

This time he does stop, and turns to her. “What is wrong with telling people that we’ll survive if we stick together? What’s the alternative—that we’re all doomed? Is that it? Is that what you want us all to say? Because if it is—why bother eating at all? Why bother taking the girls out on those goddamned walks? Why bother anything?”

“Tasha’s not looking after her own family—that’s my point,” she says. “I know she wants to help. But she’s a fanatic. She’s neglecting the person closest to her because she’s hell-bent on saving the city.”

He’s beyond exasperated now. “And that’s a bad thing? I want to survive. Don’t you?”

“She wants to save the city because she thinks that’s going to save her ,” she says, the words clicking into place like solving a puzzle. “And if—when—it doesn’t, everything she’s built will fall apart.”

He starts walking again. “She almost died during the winter along with the rest of us,” he says. “How is that saving her, exactly?”

“She’s telling herself a story,” Heather says. “One where she’s the only one making the right decisions.” He’s pulled ahead of her—she speeds up to try and catch him. “You know about her parents, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “They died in a fire. What does that matter?”

“I don’t think she’s over that,” she says. “I think she’s still trying to save them. I think she thinks that if she saves us, it will redeem her. Somehow.”

B looks back at her, his eyes filled with loss. “We’re all trying to save our parents,” he says. “Even if we can’t.”

She reaches out to him, finally, wrapping her fingers around his wrist. “But that’s just it,” she says, softly. “We can’t. We survive by moving on, and moving forward. She hasn’t. She refuses to let go of things she can’t control, even when they’re already lost to her. And everything about that makes me nervous.”

B shrugs her away. “Yes,” he says. “Like how you moved on and forward by not talking to anybody for a year after your father threw himself off that mountain. Like how you move forward now by telling the children silly stories about magical mountains and queens who murder geese.” He registers her shock. “You think I don’t hear you telling those stories to the girls? My God, Heather—if that’s your idea of moving on, I think I’ll stick with Tasha.” He pushes the stroller ahead again, and this time she lets him go.

As they draw closer to the square, they join a crowd. Little girls in faded dresses, little boys who run around, red scabs on their knees. Parents who look as tired and grey as Heather feels. At the square, people mill about, antsy and unsure. Someone has pulled an old wagon into the middle of the square and heaped it high with coloured boxes. Tasha is out front, greeting everyone, and as children shyly approach, Tasha’s people—Annie and Kevin—climb on board and start tossing boxes out into the crowd. The children cry out with delight as they rip the boxes open on the grass. More clothes, some toys, more colouring books and crayons. Things salvaged and stored for months, it would seem.

“Where’s Elyse?” Heather asks B when she reaches him.

He looks around. “Maybe she’s resting. She’s not well. Which you would know, if you’d been paying attention to anything else.”

Of course I know, she wants to say. Instead she turns back to the boxes, to the scraps of wrapping paper that now litter the ground.

B sees the scraps too. “I don’t remember storing wrapping paper.”

She can tell by the look on his face that he doesn’t remember storing clothing, or the other gifts that the children are unwrapping on the grass. Dolls and building blocks. Clay modelling kits. There is even chocolate—small bars that Annie pulls out of one of the boxes and tosses into the crowd.

Tasha approaches them just as B catches a chocolate bar. He can’t keep the surprise from his face. “We had chocolate?” he says. “We had chocolate all this time?”

“I wanted to be able to save something special for all of us when we made it through the winter,” she says. Always the same calm, knowledgeable voice.

Heather thinks of Tasha in the greenhouse—an animal crouched down on the floor, writhing and wild.

B fingers the bar, watching Tasha. And what about the people who didn’t make it through the winter? he wants to say—Heather can see it in his eyes. Instead he unwraps the chocolate and breaks off two small pieces, squats down, and tucks them into the mouths of his girls.