Chapter Seven

My Sister’s Keeper

Sauce

My sister wasn’t like me. None of my siblings were, but Sammy was farthest from it. She had shit together. Always.

The girl graduated early. She didn’t just go into the service; she became a marine. Even that wasn’t good enough. I’m pretty sure she was dipping into the military legal stuff, JAG or whatever she and our dad called it.

She was not flippant. She wasn’t sour or sullen. And she never snapped at anyone like that. My sister was the queen of reducing someone to size without uttering a single cuss word. She spoke with patience and precision. She could insult someone so gracefully they wouldn’t even realize she’d hit them until she was gone, and they were reflecting on her big words and wit.

She never openly judged our parents, even if I knew they were what she was really running from. The turbulence was too much for her. Conflict far and abroad was something Sammy excelled at, unless it involved people she loved.

We were all that way.

I’d walk away from someone I cared about before I’d engage in some eardrum rattling shouting match. I spent enough time with all of that during my formative years.

We rode in silence for a while, the vent of the truck blowing a gentle warmth into the cab that countered the Spring nip lingering in the evening air.

“Sam,” I started, and even that felt too far out on thin ice.

She snorted and pain splintered through my upper arm as she randomly popped me one from the passenger seat.

“Shit! What’d you do that for?” I huffed.

“You told me to leave it. So, fuckin’ leave it… Sauce.”

“I didn’t say anything like that.”

“Your eyes did, back there unloading that cart,” she mumbled, her attention locking on something outside the passenger window.

“Did something happen between you and Mom?” I gently pressed.

She cleared her throat and shook her head, but didn’t look at me.

She didn’t say anything either, not until we were back at her house and all of her things were unloaded.

“Hey, thanks.” She shoved twenty dollars into my hand and smiled awkwardly.

“You’re welcome.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the twenty-dollar bill.

My stomach flopped and it felt like something the size of the Grand Canyon was silently stretched between us. My mouth went dry.

“Yeah.” She nodded, and I could feel her pointedly staring at me, waiting on me to read the silent social cues that had guided our lives for longer than either of us would ever care to sit down and contemplate.

Normally I’d have caved to them, I’d probably have led the dance in them, but that nausea doubled.

I took out my phone and hit the speed dial on the local pizza joint.

“Carry out or delivery,” a peppy voice on the other end asked instead of greeting me.

“Delivery,” I barely managed, causing a sound to lodge in my sister’s throat.

I placed the order for a pepperoni pizza with mushrooms and then paused when the address was requested.

“Yeah it’s – What was that house number, sis?”

Her jaw set and she flopped back on the sturdiest looking box, “Eight o’ three.”

“Right, eight o’ three” I relayed and finished up the call under her heavy glare.

“You asked me to put the stuff together,” I reminded her.

“I– I could have figured it out.”

“You could tell me what's up, too,” I pressed, leaning back against the wall.

“Nothing is up.” She shot off the box and started toward the kitchen.

I followed her through it and into her bedroom, but she slammed the bathroom door shut, and I didn’t dare contest that.

I huffed and turned to leave, but something on her dresser caught my eye.

I’d seen military discharge papers before. My father had them.

He didn’t have that big ugly word stamped on his.

Dishonorable.

It wasn’t any of my business, but I couldn’t stop myself. I gravitated toward it like some destined moth. I was halfway through the accompanying paperwork when the bathroom doorknob made a faint click.

I startled hard, guilt flooding my cheeks in a warm dose. I flinched and the papers jostled in my hand. A pamphlet fluttered, and I looked like a fool trying to juggle it all and catch it. When I saw the letters stamped on the front of it, though, I regretted ever touching her things.

HPV: Cervical Cancer.

“Shit. Sorry,” I stammered, but when I saw the mortification on her features and that flicker of hurt in her eyes, I was smacked with an understanding that might as well have been a brick.

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