“Fuck, Jill! You have to stop that shit.”
Chapter Seven
Most brothers remember how bratty their little sisters were or how they were treated like a princess. Jackson’s sister hated being called “younger,” but that’s what she was, at least in his mind. Jillian was born seven minutes after Jackson, and rarely did a day go by that he didn’t remind her of it.
When he thought of his sister, it was usually the ghost of her innocence. It was the young teenage girl that watched a video on slaughter houses and declared never to eat meat again. He remembered the shrill scream of her racing across a room to save a spider from its near death as their father prepared to snuff out its life under his shoe. She shooed him away then coaxed the spider onto a piece of paper to set it free in the backyard.
Jillian walked away from the front door, refusing to acknowledge him. She always hid her regret behind a pile of denial.
“What happened to you?” he asked, his voice a notch calmer. “You’re not that person anymore. You shouldn’t even want to be that person. She died. Let. Her. Go.”
Jillian pounded the lid back onto the can of paint. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t! You can lie to anyone, including yourself, but you can’t lie to me no matter how hard you try. I saw him.” Jackson grabbed her arm and turned her toward him then brushed her hair off her forehead.
Jillian blinked at the floor.
“You head-butted him.”
“He grabbed my—”
“You bit him! I saw the bite mark on his lip.”
She turned her back to him.
Jackson sighed. “This is your chance, Jill. You can be whoever you want to be. It’s not perfect, I get that, but you can find normalcy. That part of you doesn’t have to die. You were quirky, and a little weird, but in a completely endearing way. Remember when Dad would go to Home Depot and you’d beg to go with him because you loved the smell of the place? Even when Mom told you it was just chemicals off-gassing, you didn’t care because your other little secret was how you’d crack open the door when they filled the car up with gas because you loved the smell of those fumes too.”
Jackson grieved for his sister—what she’d seen, who she’d become. He suffered from his own denial. They were told she’d never completely recover, but he refused to believe it. She was too strong. He wanted to believe that she could prove everyone wrong.
“Do you remember when you got your first babysitting job how you blew your whole paycheck at Staples because you had an addiction to office supply stores? I miss that girl. I miss you showing me a carton of Sour Cream and Chive Pringles, an ice scraper, toenail clippers, a bulk box of red Bic Pens, and a box of tampons, then asking me if I knew where you got everything just so you could yell ‘Staples!’ before I had a chance to answer.”
Jillian turned back around. “No, I don’t remember because that girl is gone. She died. Let. Her. Go.” She sulked toward her bedroom.
“What’s going on with AJ? What is he to you?” Jackson called after her.
His sister had mad talent for compartmentalizing her emotions, almost to the point of OCD. Every situation had a little shelf in her head and she never took more than one thing down at a time, never mixed feelings, always kept a sense of control. Sometimes she sounded like she was regurgitating lines from a self-help book. The problem was, when she couldn’t mentally or emotionally handle a situation, she tried to physically control it. AJ was clearly one of those situations.
She stopped at her door and released a slow, controlled breath. “He’s therapy.”
Out of a million answers she could have given him … that was the one he feared most.
*
Take away a college education and all previous work experience and the only thing that’s left is one unmarketable loser. That’s how Jackson felt. Even as the movers were delivering his piano, the daunting task of finding students—adult students—drove him back into the warm comfort of a cool Heineken.
“It’s a grand piano.” Jillian observed as the movers situated it in the middle of their great room. “And it takes up the whole room. If we sit on the sofa we won’t be able to see the T.V.”
Jackson laughed. “We don’t have a sofa or T.V. anymore, remember … you had Stan haul them off.”
“The sofa smelled like Febreeze and the T.V. was a box—with a turn dial.”
“It didn’t have a turn dial, you goof. And this was your job choice for me.”
Jillian pressed her foot into the back of Jackson’s knee causing him to falter a bit. “Yes, but I envisioned an upright piano on the sun porch.”