Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Devon
Sammy has painted every one of my fingernails at least fifteen times. And I use the word fingernail loosely to include the tip of my finger, my cuticles, and in some instances, all finger skin above the knuckle.
“She never was one to stay inside the lines,” Jenny says over my shoulder.
I chuckle and Sammy looks up at me with Jeff’s eyes. She’s got me wrapped around her sloppily painted little finger.
“Do you like them?” she asks, eyebrows lifted to her widow’s peak.
My hair is in fifteen ponytails, spraying from all regions of my skull like a demented dinosaur.
And my eyeshadow came straight off of Debbie Gibson’s first album cover.
Jenny warned me about a Samantha make-over—even showed me pictures of Jeff with lipstick on his eyelids and pink streaks in his hair.
But this just made me want to step up to the gauntlet.
“What’s not to like? You are the Van Gogh of nails!” I twinkle my fingers in her face and she giggles. Her giggle is like running through watermelon-flavored bubbles. But it’s cut short by a random thought. She wrinkles her nose and tilts her head.
“Isn’t that the guy with the ear?” she asks.
I press my lips together and nod. “He did have an ear.”
“No, no.” She rolls her eyes. Her eye rolls rival Syd’s in depth and tone. “He cut one off!” she says.
I look at her seriously. Touch my blue finger to her nose.
“Sometimes genius comes at a cost.”
Sammy blinks twice.
“Are you a genius?” she asks.
Finally, I’ve been recognized. Jenny laughs at my expression from where she’s piling like five hundred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
“You’ll have to ask Uncle J.J. that question,” I tell her, and she lights up at the prospect of just speaking to her uncle. I look up to find Jenny eyeing me from where she swipes at a generous glob of jelly with her butter knife. She smiles.
“You two have the exact same delighted expression at the mention of my brother,” she says pointing the knife between us.
I look to Sammy and realize we are both smiling like we’ve been gifted baby guinea pigs. I lift my fist out to Sammy for a fist bump. Ain’t no shame in loving Jeff.
“Mom, what time are Jeff and Grams coming home?” Sammy asks, checking all of the caps to the nail polish then placing them in her Caboodles. Man, I miss my Caboodles. The square footage of storage is absolutely astounding. I should keep one on my desk at school.
Jenny lowers her eyes back to the bread and shakes her head.
“Soon, sweetie.”
If I didn’t have these incredible woman senses, I’d miss the letdown of her shoulders and the puff of air escaping her flared nostrils.
Jeff and Donna are out on a financial planning mission.
I imagine them at the Old Savings and Loan downtown talking out their options with someone hopefully more like George Bailey than old Mr. Potter.
But it’s obvious that Jenny feels guilty somehow.
Like she’s responsible for this situation because she couldn’t hold down the fort while her brother was off mastering footery.
“Are we trying to break a pb&j record?” I ask, grabbing some wheat bread.
Jenny laughs and pushes the peanut butter my way.
“You know I live with my mom, too,” I tell her.
“J.J. mentioned that.”
“Yup. She’s the greatest. Just like your mom. But she’s got her issues.” I lift a giant mound of creamy peanut butter onto the bread and Jenny eyes me like she might regret letting me help.
“Don’t we all?” she murmurs.
Hells yes. If there’s anything I learned about mental health, it’s that the spectrum is long and wide. With plenty of room for all of us to pull up a seat.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that we can’t always feel responsible for them—our moms. Especially when one has her own children to think of.”
Jenny stares at me with her mother’s eyes. I’ve stalked all the family pictures in the house and have analyzed the genetic gifts of each child—drawn up a picture of Jeff’s missing father with his dark greenies in my mind. He also has a dastardly mustache.
Sammy is pushing her way between us at the counter, wielding a butter knife of her own.“Uh oh, are you pulling a Van Gogh? No one wants ear in their sandwich, girl,” I say, poking her in the ribs with my finger.
She squirms away towards her mom only to be met with a swipe of peanut butter on the nose. Her beautiful eyes widen, outraged at the assault.
“Oh my gosh. You didn’t!” Sammy says.
I laugh and she slowly turns on me. I’m a traitor.
“You two are supposed to be grown-ups!”
This makes us laugh even harder while Sammy slowly and primly pulls the glob of peanut butter off of her nose. She wags her knife at me. Narrows her eyes.
“Just you wait til’ Uncle J.J. gets home from his interview. Then it’ll be even,” Sammy says, flinging the peanut butter from her finger onto the wax paper with a thud.
Jenny’s eyes meet mine over Sammy’s dark head.
“Interview?”
I’m not sure if I’ve asked it out loud until Jenny nods a few seconds later, her eyes scanning my face for something.
Interview. For what? A maid? For a dog walker?
No. He doesn’t have a dog. I know what kind of interview it is, and my stomach is suddenly pulling my bellybutton inside out.
I try to talk myself out of the pit that I’m sliding headfirst into.
I mean he’s been on lots of interviews these past few weeks.
They don’t mean anything. Obviously, he’s a hot commodity. People are going to want him.
I want him.
If Jeff were thinking of taking a job across the country, I’m sure he would have told me. It’s not like he would tell me he loves me and then decide to move to Chicago twelve hours later. That makes no sense. Unless he’d already decided. Unless he assumed I understood.
My head feels a little woozy and I realize I haven’t breathed in some time. Jenny’s hand finds my shoulder. I look down at her unpainted fingers. There’s no need to jump to conclusions. Jeff will have a plan. He always has a plan.
“He’ll be home soon,” Jenny whispers.
And I know it’s meant to make me feel better.
But suddenly I’m dreading the moment Jeff walks through the door, because that’s one moment closer to getting answers to the questions that are now tugging at the corners of my brain like guy lines on a tent.
Naturally, the universe gives zero shits about what I want, because before the dread reaches my toes, I hear the front screen door creak open and slam shut.
Sammy takes off like a terrier greeting her long-lost owner, leaving the knife to clatter on the countertop between the mountains of sandwiches.
And Jeff’s voice reaches me, warm and smooth as the peanut butter I’m spreading.
“Honeys, we’re home.”