37
Jojo
I stand outside Lilla’s door for a long time debating whether or not to knock. The hall is dark. Mom and Dad got home about an hour ago; Mom came in to check on me and then I heard her stop at Lilla’s door to say good night. Their door is closed now.
I look at Lilla’s door. Since I got home from camping, she’s been acting weird. Like weirder than her usual weird. I think maybe she’s mad at me. Mad that I didn’t tell her Mom and Dad are divorced. She texted me when I was with Olivia, asking me why I didn’t tell her. I don’t really know why. I guess I didn’t think it mattered that much, but I’ve been living with Mom and Dad’s weird relationship my whole life. I texted Lilla I was sorry. Maybe she’s mad I didn’t call her or maybe it’s because I didn’t say anything about it when I got home.
I can’t figure out how to act around her. What to say. I don’t know if I bug her too much or not enough. Makayla and I talk about it all the time. She doesn’t know what I should do, either. She’s an only child. Like I was until two months ago. I don’t know what I could do so Lilla would like me better. I don’t know if I care if she likes me. Which makes me feel bad for Mom because I know she wants us to be besties.
I don’t dislike my sister. We just don’t have anything in common other than DNA. We’ve been talking about DNA in biology class and it’s actually really interesting. It’s possible for us to come from the same parents and be totally different. It all has to do with the way the chromosomes shake out.
I hesitate and then knock before I chicken out. “It’s Jojo,” I say.
“Yeah?”
I’m not sure that means it’s okay for me to come in, but I open the door anyway.
Lilla’s lying in bed in pj bottoms and an Ursuline T-shirt, looking at her laptop. The bed’s still in the middle of the room even though it’s been weeks since she finished painting. Like I said. Weird.
“I . . .” I stand there leaning on the doorknob feeling like a complete idiot. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry about not saying anything.”
I look around her room. It’s dark, but there’s enough light coming from my room that I can see a little. It’s like no one really lives here: no clothes or shoes or anything on the dresser or the chair or the floor. I can’t even figure out where her shoes are. We don’t have closets; the house is too old. But she has a big dresser thing where you can hang clothes up inside. Mom calls it a chifforobe. Makayla’s mom calls it a wardrobe. Maybe Lilla’s shoes are in there?
Lilla’s just lying there in bed, but now she’s looking at me.
“About them not being married. Anymore.” I twist my mouth around, bite my lip. “I guess I . . . You know, when he wasn’t living with us, I think we hung out more than when he was living here when I was young.” I lift one shoulder and drop it. “I don’t know if that’s true or not, though. I don’t think people always remember things the way they really are. You know? Like . . . Makayla remembers going to her great-grandmother’s funeral when she was in second grade.” I feel like I’m just blabbing on and on. I don’t even know what I’m saying. “Like, she remembers the dress she wore and everything. Except she didn’t go. She stayed here with us.”
“Right,” Lilla says. She’s got her thinking face on; she seems to spend a lot of time thinking. “Sometimes it’s hard to figure out what really happened and what you think happened . . . or wish happened. I always thought I had a happy childhood. That Sharon was good to me and that she loved me.” She looks up at me. “But what if that’s not true?”
She looks sad. I chew on my lip, thinking about that. “Mom and Dad always loved you. Even when you weren’t here.”
“Mom and Dad,” she says, and she makes a face. “You understand why I’m upset, right? Because they lied to me. Well, technically, I guess they didn’t lie, but they deceived me. On purpose. They made me think this family was one thing when it was another.”
“Right,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else. I just stand there.
She’s just lying there, looking at her computer now.
“Anyway,” I tell her as I back out of her room, “I wanted to tell you I wasn’t in on it. Not like they didn’t ask me what I thought or anything. I guess I didn’t realize it would make you feel bad.” I hesitate. “I think maybe they did it because they thought it would make you feel better coming home. Safer.”
“Maybe,” she says. Then she types something on her laptop. I can tell the screen has changed, even though I can’t see it, because the light on her face has changed. “Night,” she says.
“Good night.” I close her door and stand there. I keep thinking things are going to go back to normal here, like they were before Lilla came. I don’t like feeling this way all the time. Uncertain. Of what to do, what to say. Uncertain of myself. Having Lilla here, it’s like I’m someone I don’t know. I used to know what I wanted. I knew who I was. At least I thought I did. Now I wonder if it’s like Makayla thinking she went to her great-grandmother’s funeral. Did I just think I knew myself? Did I just think I was happy? I don’t want to blame everything on Lilla, especially since none of this is her fault. But things were definitely easier before she came home. I don’t know if easier is better or not.
I look at her door again and then I go down the hall and stand in front of Mom and Dad’s door. I can see that there’s a light on. I wait a minute and listen, just to make sure there’s no funny business going on in there. I don’t hear anything. I knock.
“Come in,” Mom calls. She doesn’t sound sleepy.
I open the door. “My fever’s down.” I glance around. Dad’s not in bed with Mom. And their bathroom light is out.
“That’s good news. If you wake up in the middle of the night, you should take some more ibuprofen.” Mom’s lying in bed wearing an old flannel shirt that used to be Granddad’s. She uses it for a sleep shirt. She’s propped up on pillows, her iPad beside her. She’s been reading.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. I didn’t see any light coming from downstairs.
Mom pats the bed beside me and I get in with her. She’s got an old quilt on the end of her bed that some old aunt in her family made. It’s some kind of pattern from Pennsylvania. It’s been here as long as I have. I lie down beside her, my head on Dad’s pillow, and pull the quilt over both of us.
Mom rolls onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. When I look at her face, I realize she’s been crying. “You okay?” I ask her.
She nods and lies down, her head on Dad’s pillow beside mine. She puts her arm around me and I don’t even mind. It’s probably the fever. I was afraid she was going to say I was sick because I went away for the weekend with Olivia. I was afraid she’d use that as an excuse next time I wanted to do something outside her comfort zone. But she didn’t blame Olivia or the trip. And I’m so glad because I really had a good time. Makayla’s still my bestie, of course; we were baby besties. But it’s fun having another friend. And I really like Olivia’s mom and her aunt Judy. Everybody was so nice to me and they like to play games. We played lots of games and ate breakfast for dinner and took walks and shot marshmallows out of little plastic guns at each other.
I stare at the ceiling; it’s pretty. There are big tin tiles with olive branch circles pushed into them. Mom says it needs to be painted but I kind of like the chippy paint.
Mom rests her arm across my stomach and sighs.
I can almost feel Dad’s absence in the room, like it’s radiating off her. Then I realize what’s going on. “He’s not coming home, is he?” I ask her in a whisper.
She’s quiet for what seems like a really long time before she says, “No.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Probably not.”
I stare at the ceiling trying not to be angry at him because why should I be? I knew he wasn’t going to stay. I knew it even if Mom didn’t. He loves us, but it’s like he doesn’t want to love us all the time. I don’t get it, but that’s how he is. Dad’s Dad. “So he’s moving out again?”
She doesn’t answer.
I turn my head to look at her. “Mom?”
“He’s moving back to his apartment. We decided tonight.” She says each word like it hurts her. “We wanted to wait to talk to you girls until after I spoke with the family therapist.”
I think the part about the therapist is dumb. The whole therapy thing seems dumb to me. Mom knows me. And she’s a good mom. I wish she’d trust herself more. “Lilla’s going to be really upset,” I say.
“Which is why I want to handle this right.”
“You should have told her you guys weren’t married anymore. I don’t think there was anything wrong with Dad being here, sleeping here, whatever. That’s your business. But making her think we were this, like . . . neat little, like you see in commercials on TV”—I turn my hands one way and then the other like I’m forming a box—“family.” I shake my head. “Not cool, Mom.”
She sighs. “In retrospect, we realize that. At the time, we thought this would make things easier for her. We were so excited; I suppose we weren’t thinking clearly. And . . . we were hoping we could make it work, Jojo. Your father and I.” She lies back to stare at the ceiling with me. “We really were.”
I think about telling her I knew Dad wasn’t going to stay. That he liked his life the way it was. Easy, simple. We worked around his schedule and what he wanted all the time. I think he thought he was doing what Mom wanted, but that wasn’t the way it was. I was here and I could watch, kind of from the outside. It’s not that I don’t think Dad loves Mom. He does. He loves her a lot more than a lot of dads I see who still live with their wives. But I get why Mom’s sad. She’s got to wonder what’s wrong with her that he doesn’t love her enough.
I guess I should feel that way, too, but I don’t. If it were Mom, it would be different. I’d cry forever if Mom left and I was here with Dad. And I guess Lilla now. Because even though Mom makes me crazy with her constant wanting to control everything I do, she and I are still a team.
I look at Mom and she’s crying. But she’s not making any sound. Tears are making wet lines down her face.
A lump comes up in my throat and my eyes sting. I don’t usually cry. It must be this virus. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say quietly. “I know you wanted him to stay here with you.”
She turns her head and leans to kiss me on my temple.
“I love you, Josephine.”
“I love you, too, Mom.” I roll over and lay my head on her shoulder. “And I won’t ever leave you. I promise.”