Chapter Twenty-Three Jenn
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jenn
Twenty-three years ago
The difference between grief and rage is that, in most cases, time will temper rage, allowing it to cool and subside.
Grief, on the other hand, has infinite patience.
It can lie dormant for years—decades, even—awaiting its opportunity to rise out of the ashes of that smoldering fury.
You can delay grief, but you can’t put it off forever because it will wait you out every time.
Thanks to national news outlets and a heartfelt glossy spread in People magazine, what should have been a private, deeply personal time was hijacked by thousands of well-meaning strangers who felt moved by—and somehow connected to—this horrific tragedy.
Suddenly our grief became everyone’s grief. Our rage became everyone’s rage.
My home life turned into a never-ending onslaught of phone calls, knocks on the door, and letters in the mailbox.
Reporters wanted quotes, neighbors wanted to comfort, strangers wanted to sympathize.
All the while, we simply marked time from dawn until dusk, each of us waiting until the time we could retreat into the dark and our own isolated solace.
Looking for a different angle, one reporter glommed onto the image of identical fifteen-year-old girls clinging to each other as a chasm opened between them, literally ripping them from each other’s arms. It was heartbreaking and devastating, and it made for damn compelling reading.
Not that I was even remotely aware of the attention I was getting at that point. I existed in the no-man’s-land between the living and the dead—a walking, talking ghost haunting the rooms of our house, the halls at school, the darkened kitchen of the restaurant.
Home had always been a noisy place—pots clattering, the smell of garlic and onions in Lita’s skillet, my grandfather’s radio humming boleros from the 1950s.
After Jess died, all of it stopped. The radio stayed silent, the kitchen cold.
Even the phone, which rang constantly with reporters and “well-wishers,” sounded muffled, like it was underwater.
Stef tried to pull me into life again—dragging me to the beach, forcing café con leche into my hands, talking enough for both of us—but her voice was background noise.
My grandparents moved through the days like actors in a play they no longer believed in: Lita cooking and cleaning in silence, Lito sitting at the table for hours, staring at the empty chair that used to be Jess’s.
Little by little, they began to nudge me forward.
Lita would press food into my hands—arroz con pollo, her cure for everything—and tell me, “Eat, mija. Jess wouldn’t want you fading away.
” Lito took me out to the garden one afternoon and placed a tomato seedling in my palm.
“You plant this,” he said. “You take care of it. Something good should grow in this house again.”
It wasn’t much, but it was life—slow, fragile, and persistent.
It was nearly two years before the silence finally cracked again.
Ruth came over one afternoon carrying a leather portfolio instead of her usual tote. She’d been our lawyer for only a couple of years, but by then she knew my grandparents like family. She set the portfolio on the table as if it might explode.
“It’s final,” she said softly. “The settlement’s been approved. There are two accounts—one in Jenn’s name for her education, and another for you both, as Jess’s guardians.”
Lita crossed herself. “We don’t want their money.”
Ruth’s tone was patient but firm. “Lita, this isn’t charity. It’s what they owe—for the negligence, for the lives they ruined.”
Lito’s jaw tightened. “What they owe can’t be paid,” he said quietly. “That money’s cursed.”
Ruth hesitated, then nodded. “All right. Then we’ll leave it where it is. Let it grow until Jenn needs it. No one has to touch a cent.”
They both looked at me then—as if there were anything left in me to decide. I stared at the papers on the table, the neat lines of numbers that seemed to mock the mess we’d become.
Lita reached over, closed her hand around mine. “Mija, promise me you won’t let this destroy you,” she whispered. “We already lost one child. We can’t lose another.”
I nodded, because it was easier than speaking.
Ruth packed her things quietly and left us there in the fading light. The accounts were opened, the statements arrived once a year, and life went on—or tried to. But the time, the money, the legal closure—none of it brought them any peace. None of it brought Jess back.
People said time would help. What they didn’t tell me was how it stretches when you’re waiting for someone who’s never coming home.
Days blurred into nights. I ate when someone put food in front of me.
I slept when my body gave out. I was there, but not there, as on and on the dumpster fire raged around me.
Over the years, grief learned to hide itself—tucking neatly beneath work, ambition, and the quiet comfort of routine.
After Lito and Lita passed, Ruth called again, her voice just as gentle as the first time.
She told me they’d never touched the settlement, not a single cent. They’d left it all to me.
That money paid for my education, my office, the small home Gabe and I built together. But sometimes, when I walk through the halls of the hospital, I can still feel the weight of that envelope in my hands—proof that even devastation can become the foundation for something new.
All these years later, the world is a different place.
I’m a different person.
But at least my hellish experiences can do someone some good. That’s what I’m hoping anyway.
Saturday morning
The solarium is located on the hospital’s fifth floor.
With its floor-to-ceiling glass, it provides the perfect bird’s-eye view of the vibrant gardens below.
Even after all this time, I don’t love heights.
The glass makes me feel exposed, the ground too far away.
My fingers find the pink elastic band around my wrist and snap it once—sharp enough to bring me back to earth.
I’m surprised when Nurse Shannon wheels Mary out to join me in a wheelchair.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
“No. I’m perfectly capable of walking, but they’re making me use it anyway,” the young woman says, sulking.
“Doctor’s orders for whenever she leaves her suite,” Shannon tells me over her charge’s head. “She’s still a little weak.”
“Are you sure you’re okay to be out here?” I ask, thinking about her bandaged and abraded skin. “We could go someplace with less direct sunlight.”
And this view. I don’t suffer from full-on agoraphobia, but open vistas from high places never fail to make me queasy. Even now I have to keep my breaths coming slow and deep so I don’t break out in a very noticeable cold sweat.
“Whatever. It’s fine,” Mary tells me with a dismissive wave. “I just had to get the hell out of that room. I was so sick of staring at those walls.”
Shannon helps her transfer to a white-cushioned chaise longue, dropping a light cotton throw over the girl’s legs.
“Right, just gimme one more second . . .” the nurse tells us, holding up her index finger.
She’s back a minute later to set down two tall tumblers with straws on the table between us.
“Protein drinks,” Shannon explains. “Mary asked for them. I hope you like strawberry.”
I smile. “Love it.”
Once she’s left us, I pull a rattan rocker close to where Mary is stretched out.
When my companion pulls a pair of pink tortoiseshell sunglasses from her pocket and slips them on, I follow suit, rummaging around in my bag until I find the overpriced pair I picked up at the airport.
I’d forgotten just how brutal the South Florida sun can be.
“So I told you I spoke with your parents yesterday,” I start slowly. “They’re very worried about you.”
She scoffs. “Yeah, I’ll bet they are.”
There’s something different in her tone today—an edge that wasn’t there when we were together yesterday. Of course, her shock is likely wearing off. And God only knows what cocktail of grief and trauma is swirling around in her veins right now.
“You do know they’re the ones who arranged for you to be moved here, right? They had you transferred from Everglades General so you could get the best care possible.”
She pulls her shades down the bridge of her nose and looks at me over the frames. “So they could get Uncle Jules to spy on me is more like it.”
Even though I’ve been told of the connection between Julian and the Langstons, hearing Mary refer to him as her “uncle” doesn’t land right with me.
“So how well do you know Dr. Braithwaite?”
She lets out a little puff of air. “He’s been around as long as I can remember. Holidays, parties. I even worked for him for a while on weekends sometimes. And summers.”
“Worked for him? Doing what?”
“Mostly filing papers and organizing. He’s so disorganized! And he refused to use a computer.”
“Still does,” I inform her with a small smile.
She pauses for a moment, considering the past.
“But I think he was lonely too. After Aunt Rose died, I’d go over to help straighten his office.
That man always seemed to be buried in paper!
” I chuckle at the spot-on characterization, and she continues.
“But more than anything he really seemed to like the company—liked hearing about what was going on in my life.”
This gives me pause.
“Mary, was Dr. Braithwaite like a therapist?”
She shrugs. “I guess. In some ways. But not officially or anything.”
I’m probably overthinking this. After he withheld the fact that he was involved in Mary’s adoption, I’m on the lookout for other factual “oversights.”
“He wants me to encourage you to see your parents,” I tell her. “Is that anything you’d consider?”
“No.”
She says it so simply and easily—as if I’ve just asked her if the sky is purple. There’s no anger there, no malice. There’s just . . . nothing.
“Not even if Dr. Braithwaite or I was there to support you?”