Jealousy Junction by Cathryn Grant (rosie project .txt) 📗

I suppose I was the strong one. Death didn’t scare me. I didn’t want my Dad to feel alone, as if he couldn’t talk about what he was going through, even thoughts that might be uncomfortable for a daughter to hear. I wanted him to know he could complain and even cry when the pain was too much. I wanted him to know that whatever hour of the day or night he woke, someone—me, would be there for him—to bring the bedpan, to provide a sip of water, to listen, to hold his hand.

On the very day he died, Tanya said the cruelest thing I’d ever heard from anyone’s lips.

She stood in the entryway of the home where we’d grown up, looked me right in the eye, and said. “So I hope it was all worth it. Getting more than your fair share out of him, just because you can handle all the suffering and decay and pain. A perfect Florence Nightingale, aren’t you. But you have your reward now.” Then she gave me a vicious smile.

I tried to tell her I hadn’t asked for a thing, didn’t expect a thing. Dad was just excited about my idea for an organic grocery store, thrilled that I cared so much about the health of others. He was happy that sustainability was important to me. As he faded out of this world, his priorities had changed from those of the hard-driving, successful businessman he’d been all his life.

I sat up. Reliving upsetting memories was not helping me relax into sleep. I was hyper-aware of my sister’s presence in the house. The walls and rooms felt full of life in a new way, laced with unexpected potential. But potential for what, I wasn’t sure.

Finally, I slipped out of bed and put on my robe. I walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me. I stood on the landing for several minutes, trying to decide how I was going to calm myself and find the sleepiness I’d felt earlier but had now evaporated from my body as if it were already morning.

I walked slowly down the stairs. I didn’t turn on a light but found my way by holding onto the familiar curved iron railing. When I reached the first floor, I turned toward the kitchen. I didn’t think making a cup of tea would induce sleep. By the time I went through all that activity, I’d be truly wired. I’d just sip a glass of water.

Something made me pause. I felt as if there was someone else in the room with me. I stepped toward the living room. In the moonlight coming through the plate glass window, I saw my sister sitting in the wood and leather easy chair on the far side of the room. Her heels were propped on the footstool. The bottle of wine I’d corked earlier sat on the table beside her. A glass was in her hand, glowing with red wine.

I opened my mouth to speak.

She was staring at me. She raised her glass in a silent toast. She took a sip and lowered the glass. “Sounded nice. Props to you.”

Without going for a glass of water, I turned and walked back up the stairs. I went into my bedroom and closed the door. I leaned against it, trying to catch my breath, which felt tight as my heart ricocheted against my breastbone.

It looked like I wasn’t the only jealous one.

Chapter 4

To clear my head from a night of tormented dreams and those disturbing words from my sister, I decided to walk to work the following morning. Jerry and Tanya were both still sleeping. The night before, Jerry had told me that he planned to head back to the campground to check on two families arriving that day and do some maintenance work on the pier where campers launched small boats near Hideaway Beach.

My sister hadn’t mentioned any plans. Now that I was thinking about her with the clarity that comes from a fresh day and two cups of coffee, I realized that with all that talk of art, and all that bonding with Jerry, alleviating one concern while bringing up an entirely new one, she hadn’t said a word about how long she was thinking of staying. She’d said nothing about what she might be considering for her next career move if she had one.

Surely she wasn’t planning to start taking art classes, staying with me while she pursued a career that could take years to develop, was she?

I dressed in my usual jeans and comfortable shoes and a short-sleeved pale pink T-shirt covered by a warm sweater that I could take off as the day progressed but would keep me comfortable in that icy cold office. I braided my hair, put on a bit of makeup, and headed out. I walked along the road that ran parallel to the water, soothed by the gentle sound of it lapping the shore. After a few blocks, I turned inland.

It was still about an hour before sunrise, but I’m not a nervous person. Overall, Liars Island is a safe community. Most of the crimes that had occurred there were perpetrated either by outsiders or were unique to the individuals involved. There was no need to worry about random muggers or worse.

I walked quickly to get my blood moving into my brain, trying to figure out the next steps with my sister while also planning what needed to be done at the store that day. I liked working through my schedule in my mind, not checking my phone, to see if I could remember everything without a digital backup brain. It helped me think about the tasks ahead of me in a more pleasurable way instead of seeing them as a to-do list, a jam-packed schedule.

When I was a little over three blocks from Fresh Barons, I felt an inexplicable chill run through me. The wind hadn’t picked up;