My Sister (Fiction)
Jacqueline is now a twenty-four year old woman, so different from the girl she was while we were growing up. She was always independent – I remember her leaving the house without permission for nights, and nonchalantly waltzing in the door several days later, with no explanation and no apologies. I remember, also, the day I burst in on her in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and spritzing perfume to cover the smell of cigarette smoke from her first experimentation with the habit.
Then, her hair was semi-scraggly, long, but always shiny: a brilliant brunette without John Frieda’s help. Her huge, thick-glassed rims always hung precariously from her face, and her clothes were slightly too big, hiding her blossoming figure: she had inherited a full bust from the women in our family. She played soccer, and fiercely. I remember once she told me about playing during a game and overhearing a girl from the other team remarking, “Get out of her way. You might get hurt.” We used to laugh and laugh about that. But she was fierce, and not only on the soccer field.
Jacqueline was intensely emotional. The cliché “she wore her heart on her sleeve” fits perfectly, for she did. I would avoid eye contact when she was angry or else succumb to another hair-pulling screaming match which would inevitably end in tears – my tears. When she was happy, though – oh, when she was happy – we were the best of friends, and I loved to be in her good graces, tagging along with her friends and her wherever they went.
This story I have heard often; she recounts it as evidence of all these things – her ferocity, her independence, and her youth. Although it makes me cringe, I know that she has been forgiven, and has in turn forgiven, which has helped shape her into the woman I now know.
She would say, “I was so mad. I’m not even sure why, but it was when Grandpa and Grandma were there – you know, during the divorce. I was supposed to do the dishes or something, which,” and she looks at me, me already nodding in agreement, “you probably ended up doing. I wanted to hang out with Larissa instead. Grandma and I went at it. I mean, we really went at it. I was so tired of them being there. I was tired of her acting like she was our mom.
“We fought all through the house, until I finally ran out the front door with her screaming in her thick Southern accent, ‘You get back in the house this instant!’ I was halfway to the street by then. It was a gorgeous autumn afternoon; everyone was out in their yards, raking leaves and taking in the beautiful day. I turned back to her, and shouted, not even really knowing what I was saying – I was just so mad, you know – and shouted at the top of my lungs, ‘Goddam you people!’”
Here she’d pause, remembering the severity of her words. “She got real quiet, and just turned back in the house and shut the door. I’m sure she locked it, but that didn’t matter, because I left with Larissa. And I’ve never forgotten how I treated them after all they’d done for us. And I know they remember, but I wish to God they didn’t. It just goes to show the power of your tongue, the power of words, to hurt someone. God, I was such a mean kid. But I hope,” again looking at me, winking slightly, “I hope I’ve changed somewhat.”
Well, she has. Her hair is cropped and always styled; she abandoned the glasses for contacts, and she has adapted to the figure God gave her. Mostly, though, she is brave and caring. Jacqueline is attending med school now, in order to help others. What hasn’t changed is her dynamism; she draws people to herself without trying, and I am just grateful that she still considers her baby sister her best friend.
