Chapter 5 Georgia
Georgia
As I draw closer to Whitetail I feel the city heat lift and the fresh air of the mountains blow in. If I stopped I might spot
a family of deer leaping through woods named after them. Whitetail is barely a postage stamp on the sweeping Blue Ridge Mountains,
but surrounded by the rolling landscape, thick forests, and copious wildlife, it’s as cozy as it is compact.
I slow as I approach the main thoroughfare of the itty-bitty downtown, Mountain Laurel Row, and after a few turns onto side
streets, then back streets, I roll up to Junie’s house. It’s a small Victorian bungalow with delicate woodwork and dollhouse
dormers. It’s the perfect Girl Pad.
The girl in residence sits on the front porch looking perfectly cute and not a drop bothered. An oak hangs over the house
and the driveway, a canopy of one tree, a century-old witness to our lives, and I park below its cover. This tree, the shade
it affords, the cover of it, the way it buffers the worst of storms—it has always felt like Mama is still with us.
I hop out and slam the door, and the quiet of Whitetail surrounds me, only a family of birds chirping their welcome.
“Junie Bug,” I say as I lumber up the creaky porch steps.
“Queen Peach.” Once upon a time, that nickname accompanied Mama’s hand curling into my tiny head of hair. Junie grins, and
she looks exactly like she did when she was seven and I’d sneak us both a rocket Popsicle from the freezer.
This, case in point, is how I’m wound around her pinky finger. I yank her into a deep hug, inhale her, and every muscle in
my body sighs into relaxation.
“It’s good to see you, Georgia Louise,” she says into my shoulder. When I pull back, she looks down at my chest and says,
“Lookin’ perky.”
A laugh erupts from my belly at the inside joke we’ve shared for years regarding my perky, fake ta-tas. Breast cancer took
our mother, and when we were both in high school, Junie and I got tested to see if we carried the gene that put us at higher
risk for the disease.
Mama was young when she got sick, and testing was still fairly new, difficult to access, and expensive. Fortunately, some
court ruling allowed new labs to open up shop, and I found one that—although a bit rough around the edges—offered testing
at a price we could afford. The health insurance we once had through Dad’s work had since lapsed, and a family-run beauty
shop didn’t exactly come with glossy corporate health insurance policies.
Dad worked in sales before Mama died, traveling around the Southeast pitching accounting software to small- and medium-size
businesses. He was personable and likable and closed enough deals to keep us comfortable, along with what Mama brought home
from doing hair at June’s. But after Mama died, Dad could barely function, he was so smothered by grief. He stopped making
sales calls; he could barely remember to brush his teeth. The deals slowed, then eventually stopped. After a while the company
had to let him go, and after a month grace period, we were uninsured.
When my results arrived, I learned I was positive for brCA1.
I scoured the internet and learned a preventative double mastectomy would likely be recommended for me down the road.
Tina and Cece left me out of it, but I know they hosted some sort of intervention with our father, yanking him out of bed and giving him a talking-to.
I could probably imagine a fairly accurate script.
“Your girls need you, Rich,” from Tina. “Get your ass up, and do June’s memory right,” from Cece.
Before long, Dad had begged a favor of a friend and landed a job at the local bank—one with health insurance.
The doctors told me I could wait until my thirties to have the surgery, but I wanted to do it before I dropped off Dad’s insurance.
When college graduation approached I picked out my new knockers with Junie.
Her envelope had come the week after mine, and it was the answer to my every prayer when the test was negative.
I pull back to get a good look at the beautiful girl in front of me. Junie has the bone structure of a runway model—high cheekbones,
straight nose, and big green eyes shaped like a doe’s. A shock of red hair just like mine falls in deep waves to her shoulders
and a sprinkling of freckles fans out across her nose. Not that she has a clue that she’s a knockout. “And I’ll say the same
for you, but I think it’s better than good to see you.”
“Fabulous and wonderful and downright perfection come to life.” She squeezes my arms and lets me go.
“Amen,” I say.
Junie’s golden retriever scratches at the screen door, panting enthusiastically, begging to be included. Puddleduck. He’s
been Junie’s sidekick since he was a puppy who sat in puddles just like a wannabe duck.
Junie grabs the door handle and clicks it open. “You excited to see your auntie Peach, Puds?” She crouches to pet him, but
he pushes past her and arrives at my feet.
I kneel to meet him and wrap my arms around his neck, pulling my fingers firmly through his fur.
He drops to the floor and rolls right over.
Puds has me, at least partially, to thank for being an only child pup, and he seems to remember.
Junie being Junie couldn’t bear to leave behind his three siblings three years ago at the pet adoption event and brought all four puppies home.
It wasn’t long before the reality of taking care of four puppies set in, and she called me for help.
I put out the word and within a week, we had safe new homes for the three others.
I sit cross-legged and scratch his belly, but after a few minutes Junie nudges me up.
“Alright, Puds,” she says. “If you keep her hostage she’ll quit coming home.”
Once my hands leave him, Puds hops up and charges over to the oak, where he zooms around the trunk in manic circles.
“He’s always been off enough to truly fit in with us,” Junie says over her shoulder as she steps inside.
“Hey now, don’t talk like that about my one and only nephew,” I say.
I follow her into the house, and my stomach flutters.
This is Junie’s house, I remind myself. Even if it was supposed to be mine.
In actual fact, it is my house—at least by deed—and walking into it is like punching my ticket to The Life I Could’ve Had Show.
When I picked up the keys, there was only a simple card attached.
It read: So it’s never hard to stay—if you please. XO, Clem.
If only she knew how hard it was.
Staying was never a consideration; Mama had been clear in her directive for me, and I completely and entirely bought in. I
had drunk the Kool-Aid and lined up for a second serving in allegiance to Mama. When I handed the keys over to Junie, I was
adamant that it was done in love and with not a single string attached, considering the hard feelings and tit for tat that
so pervade our family history.
We pass through the entryway and into Junie’s sitting room. “You’ve really done a great job sprucing the place up,” I say. “Not sure if I’ve told you just how much I love it.”
It hurts a little bit to say it, even if it’s true.
Junie stands back and flourishes her arms. “I’m just glad I have someone to show it off to.” She winks.
I run a hand over the embossed wallpaper. “You hang this yourself?”
Junie nods rapidly. “Every pretty little sheet.”
It’s a charming complement to the wainscoting she painted a barely-there green a few months back. And finally the refinished
floors below my feet have enough scratches to match Junie’s lived-in lifestyle.
I follow her into the kitchen. “Is that a new backsplash too?”
“Almost killed me, but yes,” she says. “Thanks to a lifetime’s worth of YouTube videos, I managed most of it before I had
to call for backup.” Junie snatches a teetering stack of paperwork—bills, appointments, or something—off the counter and shuffles
it away.
As if she’s ever cared about hiding her clutter from me.
“I’m glad you’ve made it your own.” I can’t help but wonder for a moment what I’d have done with the place. If I’d been brave
enough to give the Clementine plan a whirl.
“Clementine wouldn’t even recognize it,” Junie says.
“Not even for a second,” I say.
Scratches sound at the screen door, and we turn our heads. Puddleduck sits there panting.
Junie heads for the door and lifts her voice to the vat-of-syrup pet-owner octave as she addresses her dog. “What have I told
you about tearing up my screen door? A new reno project will put me over the edge.”
Junie moves from the door to the kitchen where something porcelain clinks. She reappears, jar of Twizzlers tucked under her arm, one she’s already munching in the opposite hand. Junie crosses the living room to the sofa where she flops down and says, “Come on, let’s find something trashy to watch.”
“Not so fast, missy. No TV before we talk about what it is that’s got the shop closed. And why I had to hear about it on the
internet.”
Junie holds out the candy jar. “Can I interest you in a happy stick?”
“Junie, you absolutely cannot call them that.” I feel red heat my cheeks, and my planned lecture veering off the rails.
Junie erupts in giggles. “I only do it for your reaction.” She pats the cushion seat beside her. “Come on.”
I cross my arms and remain standing, only semi-seriously eyeing her. I’m the big sister, the one who is supposed to be practical
and keep things proper. I’m supposed to be the responsible one. All of these things magnified since we lost Mama.
Even so, I can’t help but crack a smile as the seconds tick by. Junie can read my mind, and she knows curling up with her
and her godforsaken “happy sticks” is at the tippy top of my wish list right now.
Junie bats her eyes like a cartoon character. “But it’s my day off. The first Saturday in forever. Pretty, pretty please?”
I puff out a sigh that I don’t really mean. “Reluctantly, yes. One episode. Then we talk business.” I drop beside her on the
couch.
“Reluctantly?” Junie says, eyeing me from the side.
“Ok, fine,” I say, failing to stifle a grin. “Willingly. Maybe even gladly.”