Jennie was two years younger than me. She was the comedian; I was smart and looked as though I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. She was pretty and knew how to dance. I persisted in learning the steps but always felt I looked like I was lumbering. She was slender and a little bit fragile looking, while I was chubby from the time I was born.
Over our teen years, Jennie was witness to fights between me and my father that were sometimes violent, and to periods of months in which he and I did not speak to each other.
To be fair, not speaking was my father's modus operandi, I just learned it from him. And so did Jennie. When he died, it was inevitable that she would find me at such great fault that she broke off with me completely. My children were four and seven when he died, and it did not take too long before they had lost their aunt, who had been crazy about them.
Underneath it all, I blamed myself, because I knew everybody else did, and because it hurt my kids. But over the years I tried to open up the lines with pictures and short notes. It took her fifteen years to feel ready to reconcile, and it so happened she responded to my letter asking to get together just as my youngest was heading to Harvard. I remember being shocked at how much older they both were, as I'm sure they were toward me, but we talked and laughed during dinner as though those fifteen years and bad feelings had never happened.
She, and my youngest sister Patricia, missed my kids childhoods, and they missed having their two aunts. How ironic and sad that Jennie was only able to reconcile as my youngest was leaving the nest.
And now the burdens of Jennie's death have repeated the process with Patricia. I understood that her loss would be greater than mine, because they had been close all these years. I supported her in her decisions, kept my hurt over some financial decisions to myself as best I could, and only once offered a firm opinion, on property that had been in my family since somewhere around 1900. That was the opening for Patricia to cut me off.
I am glad that my children are working to keep up their relationship with Patricia, that I did not pass on that nonsense about not speaking whenever there is a difference. But when they walked outside to make the Christmas phone call, excluding me because Patricia would not want to talk to me, it pained me. Part of me wished they would defend me, they would be angry at her for hurting me. My mother died so many years ago, and it seems that in my life, in my family, she is the only person who defended me when I was wronged. Not my husband, not my father, not either of my sisters, and not my children.
It would be nice if I did not feel hurt, but I am trying to feel hurt rather than anger. Anger has worked too much disease into my family of origin, and I am so, so proud that my children don't harbor resentments the way I was taught and had to work so hard to unlearn.
But the fact is, I am reeling from Patricia's decision to cut me off. This after my last visit with her, when I felt closer to her than I had ever felt. As we shared letters, pictures and memories, we laughed and cried together. She told me about how she had felt all those years ago that she couldn't talk to me if Jennie wasn't talking to me or risk her wrath, and about how she did not understand what circumstances caused Jennie to finally be ready to reconcile. And yet, here we are, as she repeats that sad history.
And Jennie. She was once a bright and happy girl, who became an insecure and troubled woman. Her friends loved her for her humor and her passion. But she distrusted so many others, and to them she wrapped herself in a cold shell. And I was one of those for so many years.
We were never able to talk about our childhood, except for a handful of superficial stories, even in the last nine years we had together. Too many landmines. Another tragedy because there was so much I wanted to talk to her about. I wanted to hear and see what she lived through in our stormy house, and maybe uncover some warm memories that I had buried under the turmoil.
But what we had over the past years was pretty good. I could call her anytime. When my daughter and I had a rough patch, she listened. On those weekend days when I had spent just a few too many days alone, I knew I could call her, and we could laugh a bit. My daughter just told me that during the four hour flight home after the holidays, my grandbaby pooped three times, requiring three highly odorous walks through the plane to the restroom. I want to call Jennie and tell her about it, so I can hear her laugh.
I know now that Jennie lived with a troubled heart, but would not share it with me. She died alone, but after a day in the sun, just where she wanted to be.
She was my first good-bye in 2018.
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