Chương 12
Her mouth tightened.
“I have a credit card.”
“That is not a plan.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
I dug my heel into the grass.
Every instinct in me wanted to solve it.
Write a check.
Pay the contractor.
Cover three months.
Make the whole problem smaller.
But she had asked me not to offer money.
And somewhere beneath the fear and the irritation, I understood why.
If I rescued her too quickly, the story would become exactly what she dreaded.
Successful little sister saves failed older sister.
She would hate me for it.
Maybe she would hate herself more.
“So what do you need?” I asked.
She looked suspicious.
“That sounded dangerous.”
“I’m not offering money.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking what you need.”
“I don’t know.”
“Fine.”
I pulled out my phone.
“First, you need to tell Evan you’re alive.”
“I was going to.”
“Now.”
She sighed.
“I hate you.”
“Get in line.”
She unlocked her phone.
Then remembered it was powered off.
The screen stayed black until she held the button.
Notifications flooded in.
Her face drained.
“How many?”
“Twenty-three.”
“From Evan?”
“Eleven.”
“Mom?”
“Eight.”
“Mara?”
She looked at me.
“Why would Mara call me?”
“She wouldn’t.”
“Then why did you say her name?”
“I’m stressed.”
That made her laugh.
She opened Evan’s messages.
I watched her expression change as she read.
“What did he say?”
“I’m not reading them to you.”
“That’s probably healthy.”
She typed.
Stopped.
Deleted.
Typed again.
“What are you writing?”
“Stop.”
“I’m sitting quietly.”
“You are vibrating.”
“I spent half my day looking for you.”
“Fine.”
She typed one final time and sent it.
“What did you say?”
“That I’m okay and I’m sorry.”
“That’s good.”
“And that I’m with you.”
“Also good.”
“He’s typing.”
We both stared at the screen.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
Jenna groaned.
“I hate that.”
“Everybody hates that.”
“They should ban it.”
“Strong policy position.”
The dots appeared again.
Her phone buzzed.
She read the message.
“What?”
“He said, I’m glad you’re safe.”
“That’s good.”
“He used a period.”
“Oh no.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She looked at me.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She put the phone down on her knee.
“He also said we need to talk.”
“That seems fair.”
“I don’t want to.”
“That also seems fair.”
“See, this is why I like you better when you’re not giving advice.”
I looked at her.
She looked back.
For a second neither of us knew what to do with the sentence.
Then she cleared her throat.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
My phone rang.
Mom.
Jenna saw the screen and made a face.
“You call her.”
“You call her.”
“She’ll cry.”
“She’s your mother.”
“She’s your mother too.”
“I already talked to her today.”
“That is not how motherhood works.”
“You seem very certain for someone without children.”
“Answer the phone.”
I did.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Where are you?”
Her voice was frantic.
“With Jenna.”
A sharp exhale came through the speaker.
“Put her on.”
Jenna shook her head vigorously.
“She’s right here.”
“Put her on.”
I held out the phone.
Jenna mouthed something impolite.
I kept my hand extended.
She took it.
“Hi, Mom.”
Even from a foot away, I heard Mom’s voice rise.
Jenna closed her eyes.
“I’m fine.”
Another burst.
“I know.”
More.
“I said I know.”
Her shoulders tightened.
“No, I did not try to kill myself.”
I flinched.
Jenna stood.
“No, Mom.”
She paced two steps away.
“I quit my job.”
Mom’s response was loud enough to send a crow out of a nearby tree.
Jenna stared at the phone.
“See, this is why I didn’t tell you.”
I got to my feet.
She walked farther down the row.
“I’m not ruining my life.”
Another pause.
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“I just know I can’t keep pretending everything is fine.”
I watched her shoulders rise and fall.
Mom said something quieter.
Jenna stopped walking.
“No.”
She wiped beneath one eye.
“No, you don’t need to come here.”
Another pause.
Then she looked at me.
“Lil’s with me.”
Mom said something.
Jenna almost smiled.
“Yes, she’s being bossy.”
I held up a finger.
Accurate.
“She says that’s accurate.”
A few minutes later, she handed the phone back.
Mom’s voice was calmer.
“Bring her to my house.”
Jenna immediately shook her head.
“No.”
Mom heard her somehow.
“She needs dinner.”
“I can feed myself,” Jenna called.
Mom ignored her.
“Bring her.”
I looked at my sister.
She looked horrified.
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Lillian.”
“Mom.”
A beat.
“Fine.”
That word in our family rarely meant fine.
I ended the call.
Jenna looked relieved.
“I’m not going to Mom’s.”
“I gathered.”
“She’ll make chicken.”
“You like her chicken.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“She’ll look at me.”
I frowned.
“That’s generally what people do.”
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
Mom’s concern could feel like surveillance.
Her sympathy was often worse.
She had a way of looking at disappointment as if she could diagnose where it had entered the bloodstream.
“Come to my place,” I said.
Jenna’s face changed.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Strong argument.”
“I don’t want to sit in your giant perfect kitchen while my life collapses.”
“My cabinet door is hanging sideways.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I tried to fix it.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I own screwdrivers.”
“That is not a qualification.”
“I learned that.”
She laughed.
It was small but real.
“Come over,” I said.
“I have food.”
“What food?”
“Half a tray of scones.”
“That’s breakfast.”
“Then we’ll order something.”
She hesitated.
“No speeches.”
“I promise.”
“No financial rescue plans.”
“I promise.”
“No calling Mom without telling me.”
“Fine.”
“And I’m sleeping in a guest room nowhere near your bedroom.”
“There are four options.”
“I hate you.”
“You mentioned.”
She bent to pick up her coat.
May you like
Before leaving, she touched two fingers to Dad’s name.
The gesture was so quick I might have missed it if I had already turned away.
