Meg and Jo

by Virginia Kantra

  “I can’t be here now. Not the way she . . .” His gaze met mine, briefly. “Not the way you seem to want.”

  “You can’t just leave,” I blurted. “We’re your family.”

  His brow creased, as if in pain. For one giddy moment I let myself hope that I had won. But I’d forgotten I was fighting my father.

  His forehead smoothed. His eyebrows rose. “For someone who has pushed away any intimacy in her own life, it’s rather disingenuous of you to question my choices.”

  I sucked in my breath. It was like the end of To Kill a Mockingbird, when Atticus Finch doesn’t heroically save his client, when he loses at trial and Tom is shot escaping from prison. Except my father wasn’t even trying to do the right thing.

  I folded my arms, burying my shaking hands in my armpits. “At least I’m trying. I’m not running away.”

  But my father was no longer listening. He frowned. “Do you know where my navy sweater is?”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not going to help you pack. Find your own damn sweater.” I spun on my heel.

  His clear voice followed me to the door. “Who’s running away now?”

  His words tripped me at the edge of the carpet. But I didn’t stop. I pressed my lips together, the way I’d seen my mother do a thousand times, and went out, closing the door.

  My father, my hero, would rather minister to wounded warriors than deal with his own family.

  He’d always seemed so wise and impartial, presiding with loving fairness above the girl drama the rest of us lived in, Beth crying in her room, Amy shouting down the stairs, Meg fretting over her hair or her shoes. I’d wanted to be like him. I was too impulsive. Too hotheaded.

  “Passionate,” Eric said.

  My throat was tight. My father wasn’t impartial. He just didn’t feel anymore.

  I went into the bathroom to cool my hot cheeks. The mirror above the sink gave back the same reflection it had in high school: the same thin face, the same familiar scowl, even the same hair. My father’s hair. “For someone who has pushed away any intimacy in her own life . . .”

  No more.

  I was in the bathroom a long time. When I came out, my parents’ door was still shut. I climbed the stairs to the attic.

  The browser was open to my blog. My cursor hovered over the link. Clicked.

  To: chef@gusto.com

  Sorry I missed you. I miss you. Thank you.

  I gnawed my lip over the closing. Sincerely? Always? Love?

  Merry Christmas, I typed at last and hit SEND.

  CHAPTER 24

  Meg

  Go potty,” I said to Lady, the way I did to the twins a dozen times a day.

  The dog stopped rambling around the yard long enough to give me a patient look.

  “Is that some kind of special dog command?” Amy asked.

  “No idea,” I confessed. “This is all new to me. I’ve never had a dog before.”

  “I always wanted a puppy. A little one I could carry around in my bag. Like Kylie Jenner.”

  “Or Aunt Phee.”

  Amy laughed. “I can’t believe she brought her dog to Christmas dinner.”

  Yesterday, after Jo and Dad turned down my invitation, I’d steeled myself to call Aunt Phee. Our great-aunt had arrived on our doorstep at precisely five o’clock, bringing her dog, a box of pralines for me, and board books for the children. Despite her Yorkie’s determination to show the much bigger Lady who was boss, the evening had been surprisingly pleasant.

  “It wasn’t so bad,” I said. “At least she was polite to John.”

  “She also said nice things about the turkey.”

  I bit back a grin. Lady sniffed at the muddy ground. “Potty,” I repeated.

  Miraculously, the dog squatted.

  “She peed, Mommy!” Daisy said, clapping her hands.

  “Good dog.”

  “I pee, too,” DJ said, and, yep, there was a dark, spreading stain on the front of his overalls.

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s okay. Let’s go inside and get everybody cleaned up.”

  Daisy scowled. “No.”

  The twins were tired of rain, bored with playing inside.

  “You go,” Amy said. “I can watch Daisy.”

  “Lady, too!”

  At the sound of her name, the dog waved her plumy tail uncertainly back and forth.

  “And Lady.” Amy smiled. “Don’t worry.”

  It was so nice to have her here, I thought as I took DJ inside. My own sister in my own house for Christmas dinner.

  Last night, after Phee had left, John took the twins upstairs so Amy and I could talk. In my heart, I knew John and I needed to talk, too. But my sister was here for only a short visit. And the sound of my husband putting our babies to bed, wild bursts of giggles, slippered feet running down the hall, lulled me into thinking any heavy discussions of our future could wait. In the end, Amy and I had stayed up to watch White Christmas until Amy fell asleep on the couch.

  As I changed DJ, I caught myself humming the “Sisters” song.

  When I returned to the yard, Amy and Daisy were stacking pinecones into Christmas trees. Well. Amy was stacking, and Daisy was scattering pinecones and laughing.

  “Look at you getting all dirty,” I said affectionately.

  Amy flashed me a quick smile. “It was this or mud pies.”

  “I’m sorry the kids woke you so early.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t get to spend enough time with them.” There were faint purple shadows under her eyes, smudges of jet lag or unhappiness.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked. She bent to the pinecones, not meeting my eyes. “Amy?”

  “Did you ever want something so much that you convinced yourself to see it when it wasn’t really there?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not my secret to tell. I don’t want to make things worse.” She balanced another pinecone on the stack. “There are other people involved.”

  The tiny hairs on my arms prickled. “Do we need to have the talk about good and bad secrets?”

  Amy looked up and saw my face. “No. Whatever you’re imagining, please stop.”

  “All right. But if there’s ever anything you want to tell me . . .”

  She grinned, wrinkling her nose at me. “Are we having a Momma Hen and Little Chick moment, like in the movie?”

  I laughed. “I just want you to know I care.”

  “You’re so sweet. I love you, too.”

  A pickup truck edged to the curb in front of our house. Mom’s truck, with Jo at the wheel. The vehicle door slammed and Jo strode up the driveway.

  “Oh my God,” Amy said. “What happened to your hair?”

  Jo flushed. She met my gaze, her eyes filled with pride and embarrassment, satisfaction and regret. “I cut it.”

  We could see that. Her thick, long, beautiful hair—our father’s hair—had been chopped to jaw level. Even shorter in the back.

  “With what? Hoof trimmers?” Amy said.

  “Sweetie, why?” I asked.

  Jo shrugged. “It was always in my way. In the kitchen. In the barn. I got tired of messing with it.”

  “But to cut it! Your beautiful hair. It’s . . .”

  “Awful,” Amy said.

  “It’s not awful,” I said loyally. “It’s . . .” Words failed me.

  Jo gave a choked laugh. “It is pretty bad.”

  “If you wanted a haircut, why didn’t you tell me? I could have made an appointment for you with my stylist.”

  “Nope. I’ve had the same hair since high school.” She stuck out her chin. “I’m ready for a change now.”

  I would never, ever cut my hair like that. But it was suc
h a Jo thing to do—fearless, impulsive, defiant. I hugged her. “Good for you.”

  “Dad’s gone to D.C.,” she said against my shoulder.

  “What are you talking about?” Amy asked.

  “Some conference,” I said. “Remember? He mentioned it at Thanksgiving.”

  “But he didn’t say good-bye.”

  “I need to talk to Mom,” Jo said. “Do you want to come?”

  I drew back, my Momma Hen sense tingling again. “I’d love to. Oh, but the twins . . .”

  “I can stay with them.” Amy looked at me. “Please tell me they nap.”

  “No nap,” Daisy said. “Play. Play wiv us, Auntie.”

  “Play,” DJ said, grabbing her hand.

  “Right after lunch,” I promised Amy. “They’ll be down for an hour at least.”

  * * *

  We were in my mother’s room, waiting for her transfer to rehab. She held the plastic bag of her possessions on her lap, the T-shirts and sweatpants she needed for PT. The winter sun, slanting through the hospital windows, outlined the strong, clean lines of her face, bleaching the tips of her hair and eyelashes. She’d always been low maintenance. “Beauty is as beauty does,” she liked to say.

  But even she couldn’t fail to notice Jo’s drastic haircut. “Bit sudden, wasn’t it?” she asked.

  Jo ruffled her hair, shoving the longer strands behind her ears. “Clover kept eating my braid. I got tired of fussing with it.”

  “I see.” Our mother’s gaze was sharper than it had been in weeks. “The shorter style suits you.”

  I didn’t see that at all. Jo’s head looked like the goat had kept on grazing. Her hair was shorter than Momma’s now.

  Our mother folded her hands. “Girls, I have something important to tell you,” she said. Which was how she had announced every one of Dad’s deployments, the death of our grandmother, the move to the farm. I felt that warning tickle again.

  “You know,” Jo said with obvious relief.

  Momma raised her eyebrows. “Know?”

  “About the conference.”

  Of course she knew. Honestly, it was too bad Dad was leaving now. But not unexpected. It wasn’t like our mother needed him at home. As far as I could see, his trip wouldn’t make any difference to her care or schedule at all.

  “At least this time we’re sure he’s coming back,” I said.

  Our mother cleared her throat. “Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about. He’s not coming back. Not for a while.”

  “You mean, while you’re in rehab.”

  “And after I get home,” our mother said. “Your father’s not coming back to the farm.”

  My brain stumbled. “I don’t understand.”

  “He left you,” Jo burst out. “I will never forgive him.”

  “No, honey. No. Ash didn’t leave me. And he hasn’t left you girls. I asked him to move out.”

  “What?”

  My world lurched. “Why? Don’t you love him anymore?”

  “Your father is an amazing man,” our mother said carefully. “He does wonderful work, important work, that he loves. I admire his commitment very much. But that’s not enough to sustain a marriage. I told him if he went this time, not to come back.”

  Jo’s face was stormy, her eyes betrayed. “But where will he go?”

  “Aunt Phee has invited him to stay with her at Oak Hill. It’s his heritage, after all. Just as the farm is mine. And yours,” she added. “Your heritage from my side of the family.”

  Our heritage? Like she was dying. How could she do this to our father? To our family?

  “You just had surgery,” I said. “I don’t think you should be making any sudden decisions right now. Wait until you feel better.”

  “No, no.” Our mother half laughed. Wiped her eyes. “I’m fine. I’ve been thinking about this a long time. Now that you’re both here to manage things, it seems like a good time to make a change. I don’t expect you to stay forever, of course. You both are moving on with your lives. It’s time for me to move on with mine.”

  I grasped for words. “But yesterday . . . Christmas . . .”

  Our mother patted my hand. “I wanted to get through the holiday before I said anything to you girls.”

  “What about Beth?” Jo asked.

  “I’ll tell Beth when she comes home in January. I didn’t want to say anything before she left for Nashville.”

  “And Amy?” I said.

  Our mother sighed. “I’ll talk to her. I want to tell them myself. I’m sure they’ll have questions, too.”

  That struck a memory. A lot of memories, actually. Whenever my father was deployed, my parents never sat us down and broke the news together. It was always Momma, explaining and reassuring. If we had fears, we took them to her. If we had questions, she answered them. “We need to be strong for your father,” she always said. “Let’s not worry your father.”

  She’d spent our whole lives sparing his feelings. Protecting him from ours.

  I sat up straight. “Where is Dad, anyway?”

  “Gone.”

  “Already?”

  “A soldier from his old unit is at Walter Reed hospital. Your father left early to visit him.” Our mother’s smile twisted. “He’s been a great comfort to the young man’s family.”

  “Comfort, my ass,” Jo muttered.

  Momma looked at her sharply, but for once she had no gentle rebuke, no wise saying, no guidance for us.

  Jo was silent in the car going home. My heart wrenched in sympathy. She had always idealized our father. I wanted to do something to make her feel better. To make myself feel better. To fix things, like my mother. But I didn’t know where to begin.

  * * *

  You’re back,” Amy said with relief.

  Lady woofed in welcome.

  “Mommy, Mommy! Auntie Jo!”

  I removed the dog’s nose from my crotch and doled out kisses, one on top of each smooth blond head, Amy, Daisy, DJ. A rush of protective love surged over me. I understood Momma’s desire to tell Amy personally about the separation. But the secret squirmed inside me, seeking to get out.

  “Hello, my little monsters.” Jo snatched up DJ, making gobbling noises into his neck as he squirmed with delight.

  “You look terrible,” Amy said to her.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “It’s the shock,” Amy said sympathetically. “You’ll get over it.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve had the same hairstyle since high school,” our little sister said. “Losing your hair is like losing your identity. It’s like you’re in mourning for your childhood.”

  “Sometimes you’re so perceptive, it’s terrifying.”

  “I’m just saying, you’d feel better with a good haircut,” Amy said.

  “I want haircut,” Daisy said.

  “No haircuts,” I said automatically. What was that smell?

  “But I want—”

  “No haircuts now,” Amy said. “We’re doing pretty fingernails now.”

  Ah. Nail polish, that was it. Daisy waggled her fingers in the air. “Pretty.”

  “So pretty, sweeties,” I said. DJ pulled his thumb from his mouth. Both my babies had rainbow manicures. I eyed the bottles—eggplant, scarlet, navy in some brand I’d never heard of—spilling from Amy’s bag. “Is that . . .”

  “Nontoxic,” Jo said, looking up from her phone. “And vegan. I Googled it.”

  “Good job,” I said.

  “Which one of us?” Amy asked.

  So competitive. “All of you,” I said. Making peace. I started cleaning, tissues, cotton balls, purple smears on the kitchen table.

  Jo made a strangled noise. I looked up. She was staring at her phone, her face red and stunned.

  “What? What is it?”
Amy crowded closer to peer over her shoulder. “Oh, him. The arm-porn guy.”

  “Who?” I asked. “Where?”

  “Eric.” Jo’s voice shook. “He commented on my blog.”

  “I recognized his avatar,” Amy said. “That’s the same photo, right? With the tats.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I said cautiously. Anything that took her attention off our father had to be positive. “Is that good?”

  Jo’s eyes welled with tears. “He posted his mother’s recipe for pfeffernüsse.”

  “Bastard,” Amy said. “What’s pfeffernüsse?”

  “Bat turd,” DJ said.

  Amy shot me a guilty grin. “Oops.”

  Jo snorted.

  I smothered a laugh. “Nothing wrong with his hearing. Come on, my babies.”

  I settled the twins with a video in the family room and returned to my sisters in the kitchen.

  “She wrote about us in her blog,” Amy said, looking up from Jo’s phone. “Like, a story from when we were younger. It’s so weird.”

  Jo sniffed. “But do you like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s cool. It’s good.” She scrolled, still reading. “Was I really such a spoiled brat?”

  “You’re not a brat,” I said.

  Jo grinned. “Just spoiled.”

  Amy stuck out her tongue. “You always did have to play the hero.”

  “Hey, it’s my story,” Jo said. “When you write the story, you can be the hero.”

  “You just wait,” Amy said.

  “So.” I opened the fridge and pulled out a package of chicken thighs. “Eric’s reading your blog now.”

  “I sent him a link. I never expected . . .” Jo got up from the table and started assembling ingredients for a salad. “I guess I thought . . . I hoped he would text me.”

  “You’re disappointed.”

  “No. I mean, this is better, right?” My sister’s eyes were shining. “He commented on my blog.”

  Amy filched a carrot from the cutting board. “Lots of people comment on your blog. I don’t see why that’s so special.”

  “That’s why they broke up,” I explained. “Because of something she wrote.”

  “Oh. So, it’s like a peace offering.”