The Wait
*
Time doesn’t make things better.
As the latest screaming match erupted, I gnawed at my fingernails, my teeth scraping against the rough edges.
After polishing off a second bottle of wine with Louisa, we’d grabbed midnight tacos and slept it off. The next day, she bullied me to drive to Renee’s. I wasn’t here every day, but I was trying. I was making an effort.
And then, today, everything went to hell.
Renee’s husband, Kirk, in a misguided attempt to be helpful, had put child restrictions on the cable, blocking my parents from their steady diet of conservative news and radio.
Hilarious? Yes. Helpful? Not at all.
Jean sat cross-legged on the floor, her long red hair woven into a messy braid. White overalls covered a black crop top, and despite the chaos, she exuded that effortless cool that made her impossible to ignore.
“It’s their house,” she said, her tone sharp. “If they don’t want you two rotting your brains with propaganda, that’s their decision.”
“It’s not propaganda! Just because you all subscribe to the mainstream media machine—”
Jean looked ready to explode, so I smirked and jumped in before she could combust.
“Dad, you can’t say it’s not mainstream when it’s on cable. They make billions of dollars.”
Jean turned and winked at me. For once, an argument was worth my time.
Dad scowled. “Of course, you two would feel that way.”
“What does that mean?” I asked, voice light but laced with challenge.
He scoffed. “Jean has always been a bleeding-heart liberal. And then we let her raise you. She messed you up, just like her kids.”
The words hit the air like a slap. I was used to insults from our parents, swallowing them like bitter pills, but Jean? Jean would fight.
I raised a hand in her direction, trying to pacify her. “I disagree,” I said, steady. “She taught me about art, nature, and where to find beauty. Aurora and Sol are wonderful.”
Jean took a deep breath, but my dad wasn’t done. His voice was twisted, cruel, and sharp. “Only because of Reggie—”
“Shut the fuck up, Dickey,” Jean snapped, her amber eyes blazing.
I needed to get her out of here before she blew the whole place up.
“Let’s go for a walk.”
Jean stayed on the floor, motionless. I sighed and walked over, slipping my hands under her armpits and pulling her to her feet. She let her body go slack, turning into a deadweight with dramatic flair.
I dragged her past Louisa and Renee, who sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, past Libby in her high chair, who blinked up at us, bemused.
Louisa whispered to Renee, “Maybe Kirk could turn it back on on the weekends?”
Renee snorted, then said softly, “Like if they behave themselves and eat dinner?”
I rolled my eyes as I continued dragging Jean. No one moved to intervene.
“You could have helped me,” I grunted.
Jean hissed, “You could have stayed the fuck out of it.”
I wrenched open the back door, immediately assaulted by the wet heat, which contrasted with the cool, climate-controlled house. Cicadas screeched all around us, and I let her go.
She dropped onto the wooden porch with a scowl, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’m sorry, J,” I said. “Can we just take a walk? Enjoy nature?”
Jean glanced back at Renee and Louisa, who immediately pretended to be interested in their coffee. She huffed, then pushed herself up and walked past me without a word.
Renee’s home sat on fifteen acres of flat, open land. In the distance, cows and sheep grazed, but farther down, past the dry grass and scattered trees, there was a creek. Lush green leaves clung to the branches despite the winds from the plain’s best efforts.
I ran up to Jean, the grass crunching beneath my sneakers. The high humidity in June made me feel gross, with sweat forming all over my body.
“You are right; Dad needs to get over the blocked channels.”
Jean spun around on me, squinted her eyes, then shook her head. “What? No, I don’t care about that crap anymore. They all can do whatever they want. If Dickey wants Mom’s last moments to be filled with hateful politics, have at it.”
I nodded, thinking of my next move.
Defending Jean, obviously.
“I’m not going to defend Dad if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Jean scoffed. “You may not understand this, Bree, because of your perfect marriage, but I am not okay with discussing what happened with Reginald and me.”
She used his full name. She was pissed.
Reggie was, for all legal purposes, my brother-in-law. The father of Aurora and Sol. He and Jean were together for a decade. Then, suddenly, they weren’t. Jean had to navigate single motherhood alone while Reggie moved on, got married, and had another kid.
“I don’t think you’re a bad mom, Jean,” I said quietly. “I think you’re stressed and sometimes make bad decisions—”
“I am not the fucking problem, Bree! Reggie wanted to control me—he wanted me to be someone I’m not.”
I took a deep breath.
Jean said control, but I knew what she meant. Control meant boundaries. Control meant a prescription she refused to take. Control meant losing the high that made her feel invincible.
I realized my fears were warranted. I could become Jean.
She looked as if she was about to hit me as her fist balled up. Then, she thought better of it and threw her hands in the air. “I don’t need this shit. Stay the hell out of my life.”
She spun on her heel and walked away.
The wind rushed across the open field, kicking up loose dirt that stung my skin. I was overwhelmed by the spicy smell of prairie grass and immediately wanted to rip it out of the soil.
My heart clenched with that familiar feeling. Abandonment. Desperation to make Jean come back.
Between my time with Louisa and now Jean, it was becoming apparent that we were all the same. We were all damaged versions of one another, like broken dolls, where each had the piece the other was missing.
I wanted to scream, but I knew it wouldn’t help. I wanted to talk to Jean, but I also knew there was relief in her walking away.
This was what she did to me. She was one of the reasons therapy was so helpful. It made me realize that I could love my sister without putting myself in harm’s way.
This was the trap I walked into every time, thinking maybe this time she’d stay.
If I were honest, this was the most amicable conversation we’d had in five years. Jean’s moods shifted like the seasons—sometimes warm, sometimes stormy. As a kid, her father’s absence and the way our dad had treated her like an outsider had made it worse.
It started small: days of brooding, listening to The Cure, staying up all night. Then it escalated.
Jean’s anger was impossible to predict. Some days, she’d slam doors. Other times, she’d vanish for weeks. When the anger drained, she’d cling to us like we were the only thing keeping her afloat.
At thirteen, she was too much, too sad, too rageful. My mom sent her to live with her father, not realizing she was sending Jean into something worse. Jean saw things no thirteen-year-old should, and then she ran.
For five years, that was the cycle: run away, come back, therapy, medication, and run again.
I was five the first time she left. I remembered sleeping in her bed, twirling her hair in my fingers as she whispered, “I’m going to go, Bree Boo. Don’t tell anyone, and I’ll be back soon.”
I’d stayed silent as the police came, posters went up, and my parents whispered in frantic tones. She had disappeared—and when she returned, she wasn’t alone. She had Aurora three months before my mother had Edward.
Yes, my niece was older than her uncle; it was like a nineties comedy.
Motherhood had softened her, but it hadn’t erased her struggles. I’d spent every day at her place, wrapped up in Aurora and Jean, thrilled to have my big sister back.
I’d watched her relationships crumble. It always started small, then came the avalanche: Reggie fights, screaming matches, money gone in a week.
The relentless insistence that she didn’t need us.
Now, I stared at her shrinking figure, wondering how many more times I’d walk away from myself before I noticed.
I wanted to love her. I wanted the version from childhood—the Jean who told me bedtime stories, sang to me, and promised she’d return.
However, she had to be the one to change. All I could do was keep my hand out, focus on Aurora and Sol, and hope Jean would take it someday.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket, the screen lighting up with a picture of Robert hanging from a tree, mid-pull-up, his stupid grin aimed at the camera.
He was my safe place.
I answered, already smiling. “You have service?”
His voice was full of joy. “Even better. They shut down the site early today. I’ll be home by midnight.”