35. Maisy
35
MAISY
Pam and Tatum discuss baby names as they spoon chili into their bowls. When Jake travels for work, and with Jensen spending his evenings at Bruno’s, the three of us eat dinner together often. I enjoy cooking with Pam and learning her family recipes, and Tatum adds to the fun when she plays her guitar or asks us random trivia questions she finds online. It feels like old times, with us enjoying each other’s company. While some things may never change, others do. For instance…
I stare at my empty bowl and summon the courage to make a rare request. Choosing not to let my discomfort win, I simply spit out the words. “I think I need help.”
In my periphery, Pam leans forward with her forearms on the table. “With what?” She keeps her tone casual and doesn’t make a big deal of my admission, which I appreciate.
“Making Vera’s house more accessible. You know, ramps, grab bars in the shower, that type of thing. I don’t know if it’s best to hire a company or if I could do some of it myself. Honestly, the less time I spend over there the better, so I think having some help would?—”
Tatum squeezes my arm to end my rambling. “Maiz, whatever you need.” Her blue eyes convey an unspoken I’m proud of you for asking .
Pam chews while she thinks, then swallows her food and says, “Menchy should be able to help.”
“I don’t want to put anyone out.”
“There’s no harm in asking for his opinion. He may have some recommendations.”
I slump in my chair. “You’re right. Thanks.”
That wasn’t so hard.
During the remainder of our dinner, I update them on Vera’s diagnosis, earning more sympathetic looks from both women. Tatum leaves after we clean the kitchen, and I wait until nightfall to let myself into Jensen’s house.
With a few hours to kill until Bruno’s closes, I take a walk down memory lane, perusing the Holloway family photos on the shelves and the albums in the curio cabinet. I’m blanketed with warmth as I turn the pages, each one filled with images of a happy family. A family I so badly wanted to be part of when I was a young girl.
The Holloways were a team, sharing in their wins and losses. They hugged and laughed and encouraged one another. Jensen’s mom, Christine, was the sun, and the three special guys in her life orbited her, basking in her unconditional love and positivity.
To my surprise, several photos feature my family when my parents were still married. Before their divorce, the Donovans and Holloways enjoyed being together. Summer barbecues. Afternoon picnics and swimming at the river. Birthday parties for all the boys.
I trace one picture of me as a toddler, sitting in my dad’s lap as he grins at me. Joy and a popsicle stain color my cheeks. What happened to the happy girl smiling at the camera? I vaguely remember my parents adoring me in my early years. Dad singing made-up songs, and Mom smiling as she fixed my hair at her vanity. Then football happened.
Long before grief stole my parents from me, football captured all their attention once they discovered Logan had a natural gift. Contending with a sibling for a parent’s affection is one thing. Contending with a talented sibling is something else altogether. And in a state like Texas where football is a religion, I never stood a chance.
Saddened by the once upon a time glaring at me from this page, I turn to the next one and the next. A pattern forms—an undeniable truth that quells my rising sorrow. In almost every picture featuring me, Jensen’s nearby, his attention on me instead of the camera. Like he appointed himself my guardian, watching out for me with adoring smiles and diligent eyes. Always watching. Always ready to swoop in as my hero.
If I fell and scraped a knee, he was there in a flash with a bandage. If I lost a toy, he formed a search party of one. If everyone else had a slice of cake, a plate appeared in front of me, delivered by his hand.
As I flip through these albums, I chuckle to myself. He could’ve shown me these instead of making those terrible stick-figure drawings of us. Though I’m flattered by his effort to recreate the happy memories not captured on camera. He speaks loudest through actions, and his actions toward me have been telling our story for decades. It’s time I play a conscious role and write our story with him.
I put the albums away and crawl into bed, intent on reading until he arrives. I must’ve fallen asleep, however, because something wakes me in the middle of the night. Three o’clock in the morning, according to my phone. And the space beside me hasn’t been touched.
As I pad barefoot through the house, heavy metal music drifts from the garage, the volume low enough to avoid disturbing the neighbors. I crack the door open, allowing a sliver of light to spill into the space. It joins the dim glow coming from the lamp on a cheap folding table.
Jensen’s lying on the weight bench, pressing a loaded barbell at a furious speed. His arms shake from the strain, and I wonder how long he’s been in here working himself to exhaustion. Sweat drips onto the floor beneath the bench, his hair soaked, skin glistening. He’s shirtless, wearing only athletic shorts and sneakers. The muscles in his abdomen, arms, and neck tremble as he lowers the bar and pushes it up again. The scene before me is both familiar and heartbreaking as I watch him fight against whatever’s happening in his head.
He took my advice from that first day, when he showed up at my house in a panic, and began lifting weights to relieve stress. But I had no clue it got as bad as what I’m seeing right now while peering into the garage. I’ll take the fact he’s not shaped like a professional bodybuilder as a promising sign. He’s muscular, but not overly bulky. Weeks ago, he said he found other ways to stop his meltdowns before they get out of control. I can only hope his new coping methods are healthy because this scene isn’t.
Slipping through the door and leaving it cracked, I tiptoe toward the bench. Aware of my presence, he drops the barbell into the hooks on the rack. His fingers remain curled around the metal bar, and his arms hang loosely above his head.
I lean over him, face to face, our gazes connecting. “One word,” I say.
Chest heaving from exertion, he takes a few thoughtful seconds to find the right one. “Pressure.”
My nod conveys understanding. He needs me to pull him out of his head. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”