I assigned my big sister that ring tone years ago. It used to be cute. Now it’s all sorts of annoying. I make a mental note to change it as slide my laptop off my lap, setting it beside me. I pull the phone from the side pocket of my purse.
I take a moment to stare at the screen like I always do. I used to love getting a daily call from Jenna. It’s not the same anymore. I avoid her and I know that she knows it. I just hope she can understand it. She and my brother-in-law have moved on with life. They have a beautiful little boy and while I adore my nephew, it hurts.
I’m the little sister who’s stuck living in the dark bubble of March 2011 and she’s the happy older sister living in the present and looking forward to a promising future with her husband and son. Who knows if they’ll have more? I haven’t asked. That’s exactly how shitty I’ve been in my role as the adoring younger sister. I haven’t even asked about their plans for more children. I didn’t plan her baby shower. I didn’t help her pick out nursery furniture. I hadn’t even answered my cell phone when she was making the calls to announce her pregnancy to everyone. She left a message telling me that I’d be an aunt. I was the absentee, depressing little sister, supportive to a limit, who everyone, with exception of our mom, left alone to wallow. It was uncomfortable to say the least. Everyone was thrilled with where life was going and I was trying to adjust to sleeping alone.
The rift between me and everyone else only grows by the day. They don’t exactly know how to behave around me and I don’t blame them. It must be awkward celebrating a birthday or a holiday with the 26-year-old widow in the room. People don’t know exactly what to say or how to say it, so they usually don’t say much at all. They just pass by, pretending not to see me. Makes it better for both of us, though. I’m tired of giving insincere thanks to people who are forced into giving their forced sympathy. It’s social responsibility, I suppose, but it doesn’t change how I feel. It just doesn’t change the fact that I kind of wish someone would walk up to me, hand me a fucking drink, and say something honest like, “People suck. Life is a massive asshole and I can’t sleep at night on account of how crappy my life is.” That is something I can relate to. That is someone I could possibly talk to. All the fluff from everyone else? Not my thing. I nod and hand out tight smiles like Halloween candy, methodically, like the emotional robot that tragedy has a way of turning people into. In the meantime, I drift further and further from society. I feel like a loner. I feel so lost. What’s worse is I don’t really think I care to fight my way back from it all. I could just lie down and die and I think I would be okay with it. It may be a bleak outlook to have, but at least I have the intestinal fortitude to be honest about the whole situation.
I don’t like that I haven’t been able to be there for Jenna or anyone else in the way they deserve. I hate it, in fact. I feel like a giant asshole for it. I don’t feel like much of a sister, or a daughter, or a friend anymore, and I’m definitely not anybody’s wife. So who the fuck am I? If Jenna’s nursing a grudge over my bullshit, it would be news to me. She hasn’t once made it a point to express how disappointed she is. She doesn’t really have to, though. I know I’ve let her down.
I swipe the screen and put the phone to my ear. “Hey, Jenna.”
“Hay is for horses,” she retorts in our usual greeting.
“Good thing you’re an ass,” I mumble, lacking the enthusiasm that I used to show with our little exchange. We’ve been greeting each other this way since we first got cell phones. After the second or third time it kind of became a thing and so it stuck. I tilt my head to the side, pinning the phone between my cheek and shoulder so that I can rub my tired eyes.
“What’s on your agenda for today? Wait a sec—Jackson, no honey. No. No. Yucky. Okay, sorry about that,” she chimes into the phone, sounding a little out of breath, probably from chasing down my 13-month-old, extremely curious nephew, Jackson.
“Um, nothing new, really. Packing for my trip, I guess.” I glance around the living room as if I’m looking for a decent response like “dusting” or “alphabetizing the canned goods.”
Both would be a lie and Jenna would know it. I don’t dust. My mother is really good about cleaning the hell out of my house for me even though I tell her to leave it alone. It’s her way of helping while she’s babysitting me. It’s suffocating. I wouldn’t alphabetize my canned goods even if I had them. I don’t exactly have to grocery shop much. It’s just me and I have a freezer full of sticky noted casseroles.
“Yeah, Mom told me about it.”
Of course she did.
“Are you nervous?”
“No. Just going to go and get it over with, ya know?” I fidget with the hem of my cotton shorts, my bare feet propped up on the coffee table.