18

Jojo

I stand in the kitchen doorway. “Wait, Mom.” I know I’m being obnoxious, but sometimes I can’t help myself. “So now you’re saying I can’t go?”

Dad is messing with a hinge on one of the doors to the pantry cabinet. He’s got a screwdriver and some stuff in a little can. It’s the cabinet door that squeaks when you open it. Mom and I both told him months ago it was squeaking. He never did anything about it, but that was before he and Mom got all lovey-dovey again. Before Georgina showed up and Dad moved back in. I never cared that Dad spent the night once in a while. He always left before I got up, like I wasn’t going to notice Mom’s door closed when I went to the bathroom. Like I wasn’t going to hear the sounds coming from Mom’s room, the kind of sounds no teenager wants to hear coming from her parents.

It kind of pisses me off though that Dad didn’t want to live here with Mom and me anymore, but now Georgina is here, all of a sudden he wants to be with us. Obviously he wants to be with her. Not me and Mom.

It’s never going to work. Him and Mom. I could tell them that, if anyone asked my opinion. They’ll play married again for a while, but he’ll leave. Mom’s too crazy for him to stay. Too much . . . Granddad used to have some saying about water and a bridge.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I already said I was going.”

“You can send her a birthday card.”

“Mom, I already told you a hundred times. It’s not her birthday!” I’m so pissed I could scream. This was planned weeks ago. She told me weeks ago that I could go. I followed all of her silly rules about providing the information, including a phone number for Megan’s mom, who I know Mom called before she said I could go. “How can you not remember? This is, like, the biggest party I’ve ever been invited to. Megan’s having a whole bunch of people over. Girls and boys. Everybody’s going. It’s a big deal.”

“I’m sorry, Jojo. I know you were looking forward to this party, but having your sister home is a big deal, too.” She’s sitting at the counter, writing something on a notepad. Plans to ruin my life, probably. “We’re going to see Granddad, as a family, so he can meet Georgina. Then—”

“He can’t meet her,” I interrupt. “That makes no sense. He knows her. Knew her. You can’t meet somebody you already know. She’s his granddaughter. Of course he won’t remember. He probably won’t even remember that she got kidnapped.” I throw up my arms. “So this whole big family trip to the nursing home is a waste of time. I can go to the party. Georgina can go with you to the nursing home and you guys can act like she’s always been around.”

Even that doesn’t get a rise out of Mom. Which is weird, because after yesterday’s hullabaloo when she thought Georgina got kidnapped again or ran away or whatever, I figured she’d still be riding the edge. It’s like things push her and push her and then she can’t get back to normal again for a while. Normal for her. That’s the way things used to be with her. She’d get upset about something and stay upset, long after it was over. But since Georgina got home, I’ve noticed she’s not quite so crazy like that.

Mom taps her pen on the counter. “We’re going out to eat after we see Granddad. Your dad made reservations at Cochon. You love their macaroni and cheese.”

“Dad?” I huff. “Isn’t the deal that if you commit to something, you do it? I committed to going to Megan’s party.”

“I’m sorry you’re going to miss your party, hon.” He pushes his knee against the cabinet door. I can’t tell if he’s taking the screw out of the hinge or putting it in. “I know things are crazy right now, but everything will settle down. Georgina is going to school next week and—”

“Is Mom going back to work?” I turn to her. Mom’s better when she works. And I like it when she works because that gives her fewer hours in a day to obsess about me. I bet as soon as Georgina figures that out, she’ll be on board, too.

“Not next week, for sure. I want to be able to take Georgina to school. Be there to pick you both up after school.”

“I have basketball.” I groan. “Remember?” I can’t believe she’s doing this to me. Weeks ago I picked out what I was wearing to Megan’s. This guy, Wills, who lives down the street from Makayla, is coming. Everybody says he likes me. I really want to hang out with Wills. “If you pick her up after school, then you have to come back for me. And Tuesday we have a game in Slidell,” I throw in. “What? Now you’re not coming to my game?” I say it like she always comes to my games, which she doesn’t. Which is fine with me. Better than fine.

She doesn’t look worried. In fact, she almost looks happy. Which, again, is a pretty big bounce back after the Georgina-is-missing episode. Mom’s been in a good mood since I got home from school today. Apparently she and Dad met with the police about that crazy bitch who took Georgina. Georgina didn’t get to go; she went with Aunt Annie to get school uniforms. Nobody really said what happened at the meeting, but Mom seemed pleased with whatever went down. I bet Sharon got a hundred years in prison. I don’t know a lot about prison sentencing, but I would think she’d get at least a hundred years for what she did.

“Please, Mom?” I know I’m whining like a spoiled brat, but I really, really want to go to this party. “Please?”

“We’re done talking about this, Jojo. There’s some of Ann’s pie left. I’m going to get us a piece. Go see if Georgina wants one. We’re going to have a family meeting in a little while.”

“A family meeting?” I want to say, “What the hell is that?” but I don’t want to hear a lecture on why I shouldn’t curse. “What’s a family meeting?” I make a face.

“It’s when a family gets together and they talk about anything that needs to be discussed. Your dad and I thought we might try having family meetings once a week, so we’re all on the same page.”

I just stand there, staring at Mom. That’s got to be one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.

She looks up from her notepad. “Please, Jojo,” she says quietly. “Go ask your sister if she wants pie and tell her we’re going to have a family meeting in a little while.”

I can’t argue with her anymore. Not when she uses that sad tone of voice that sounds like she’s almost begging me. It reminds me of how things were when Dad first left. Mom was so sad. Even sadder than her usual somebody-kidnapped-and-killed-Georgina sadness. But that’s when she and I really became a team. After Dad left. She took care of me and I took care of her. I think that’s mostly why I’m upset about Georgina being here now. It’s one thing for your mom to be obsessed with your ghost sister; it’s a whole other deal when the sister comes back to life. And suddenly everything is about her. I mean, I thought everything was about her when she was dead, but now everything really is about her.

And it’s just not fair. I was the one here all this time, not Georgina. I was the one who slept in bed with Mom. I made her tea. I told her about all the things that were going on with my friends that I knew they didn’t want me to tell. Just to have something to talk about with her. To make her feel like I needed or wanted her advice. So she wouldn’t be so sad.

I walk out of the kitchen. I think about just going up to my room. But I don’t. I go down the hall. Georgina is in the living room. She’s sitting on one end of the couch. She’s looking at a photo album on her lap.

“Mom wants to know if you want pie,” I tell her, standing in the doorway. “It’s pecan. Aunt Annie made it.”

She looks up at me. She doesn’t smile. “I’m good.”

“I don’t want any, either,” I say. “It tastes good, but it’s kind of sweet. Makes my teeth hurt.”

She looks down at the album again.

I glance around the living room, then back at her. We haven’t said more than a dozen words to each other today and they were about passing something at the table and me saying “sorry” when I bumped into her getting out of the car. I keep thinking that sisters are supposed to talk to each other. Sisters talk, don’t they?

“Your room looks good,” I hear myself say. “You’re a good painter.” The second the words come out of my mouth, I realize how stupid I must sound. Childish and stupid to her. Or worse, I sound like Mom, all fakey positive and upbeat.

Georgina makes me feel like a little girl. A dumb little girl. She’s only two years older than I am but she’s seen so much. Done so much. Thursday, when Mom thought she’d been kidnapped from her bedroom, Georgina had ridden the streetcar all the way to City Park by herself. She just got on the streetcar and went. She even changed lines downtown. I’ve never ridden the Canal line, but I looked it up on the Internet last night. It goes all the way to the cemeteries in Mid-City. I’ve been there; we got my bike from a shop in Mid-City. But I’ve only been there in the car. We don’t ride the streetcar often. I don’t know why; not safe for some reason, I’m sure.

I chew on my bottom lip, trying to think of something else to say. Maybe about her trip to Mid-City. Maybe I could ask her a question about that.

“Is this me or you?” Georgina lifts up the album, turning it to face me. She’s pointing at a photo of a baby. It looks like it’s taken at the Audubon Zoo.

I walk into the living room. “Me?” I stare at the photo and frown because I’m not sure. “Maybe.” I sit down on the couch beside her. “Are there dates?”

“On some pictures. Not this one. I found it on the bookshelf. The picture album.” She glances up at me. “I hope nobody cares if I look at it.”

“Nobody cares. Nobody even looks at them.” I study the picture again. “I can’t tell what color the hair is.” I squint. “Not a lot of hair.” I shrug. “Maybe it’s you.”

“I found these.” She flips back to a page.

There are two pictures, side by side, of babies in the same white gown. The first is labeled “Georgina, seven weeks.” The second says, “Josephine, ten weeks.” The dress is long and white and fancy with lace and ruffles and stuff. Mom had the dress framed. It’s on a wall in her bedroom.

I stare at the pictures. “We both wore the same christening gown.” I shrug. “Or baptism gown or whatever you call it.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

“You know, the dress you wear when the priest puts holy water on your head and your parents promise to raise you in the Catholic Church and whatever. It’s one of the holy sacraments.”

“Sharon was Jewish,” my sister says.

“Right,” I say. “But you were baptized, so no big deal.”

She seems to think about that for a second and then she turns the page. “This is definitely you.” She points at a photo of me walking across the front porch. I look maybe two. “You can tell by the date,” she says.

She turns another page and I look at her while she looks at the photographs. She’s really pretty. I still can’t believe she’s here. I can’t believe she isn’t dead. I mean, who ever heard of something like this happening? I bet Mom and Dad could get some money if they sold our story to TV. I bet they’d make a ton of money. But they don’t want people to know Georgina was found. We told our family and friends, of course. Everyone at church knows. People acted crazy Sunday when Mom and I went to Mass. It was kind of fun because since Georgina didn’t come, everyone made a fuss over me. But Mom and Dad don’t want strangers to know. They don’t want anything in the newspapers or on the Internet.

“We look a lot alike, even though our hair is a different color.”

I shake my head. “You look like Dad. I look like Mom.”

She reaches down between her and the edge of the couch and she pulls out a photo. She places it beside the photo of me on the porch. It’s a little girl about the same age. She’s on a tricycle.

“That’s me,” Georgina says softly.

The two little girls do look alike, mostly because neither have a lot of hair. I’m definitely blond in my picture, though, and the little girl in the picture my sister is holding definitely has dark hair. There’s a woman in the photo, leaning over the girl, smiling.

Georgina flips over the photo. There’s a date on the back. I do the math in my head. It was taken about three months after Georgina was kidnapped.

I look up at her. I know my eyes are big and my mouth is probably hanging open.

She turns the photo over again so I can see. We both just stare at it.

“We do look a little alike,” I hear myself say. Then I can’t help myself. I have to ask. I point at the woman who’s laughing in the photo. “Is that her? Your . . . the woman who . . .” I don’t know a nice way to say it and I don’t want to be mean so I just let it go.

“Yeah, that’s Sharon. Sharon Kohen.”

We both stare at the photo for a long minute and then she slides it back down between her and the couch. And both of us just stare at the picture of me.

I glance at Georgina. “Did you get in a lot of trouble for taking the streetcar to your old house?” I ask quietly so Mom and Dad don’t hear us. Mom is still saying I shouldn’t ask Georgina questions. That she’ll tell us stuff when she’s ready. But so far, Georgina doesn’t say anything unless you ask her something. And then you don’t get more than a yes or a no.

Georgina meets my gaze. “Not really. Remy . . . your dad—”

“He’s your dad, too,” I say.

“Right. Um . . . Dad just . . . he said I couldn’t go places without telling them. So they don’t worry.”

“So you’re allowed to ride the streetcar whenever you want?” I ask, annoyed. Why is she going to be allowed to go places alone and I’m not?

She looks at me with her brown eyes. Dad’s eyes. “I . . . don’t know. We didn’t really talk about that.”

“I would love to just get on the streetcar and go wherever,” I say. “I’m not really into the streetcars,” I add quickly. “But I never get to do anything without adult supervision. Mom never lets me do anything. I just started walking alone to school in the fall. And not alone. With Makayla, and if she doesn’t go to school, Mom walks me, or Dad or Aunt Annie, or someone drives me.”

She nods. She’s looking at the photo again. Of me on the porch.

“Hey,” I say. “You want me to call you Lilla?” I know Mom’s going to kill me, but I don’t care.

“I don’t think she would like it,” Georgina says quietly.

“Mom? Definitely not. But . . . that’s what people have been calling you as long as you can remember.”

“That would be nice,” she says quietly. “But I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“Oh, I’m always in trouble for something.” I shrug. “I don’t mind. Sometimes I think I do some things just so Mom has to holler at me and lecture me and she doesn’t have time to think about how you got—” I stop before I finish the sentence.

Georgina looks at me again. We both just stare at each other.

I sit there for a second trying to think of something else to say. When I can’t think of anything, I get up. “We’re going to see Granddad at the old folks’ home tomorrow.”

“I heard.”

“I don’t know what Mom’s told you, but he has dementia. So . . . he might not know who you are, even after you tell him. Sometimes, when we go, he thinks I’m his little sister. Her name was Annabelle. Mom said he wanted her to name me Annabelle.”

Georgina looks up. “That’s a pretty awful name,” she whispers. Then she smiles.

“Right.” I say it like the girls at school, turning the word into two syllables. It always sounds so cool. As I walk out of the room, I remember I was supposed to tell Georgina about the family meeting. I decide to just let it be a surprise.