“I was very close with my sister before she passed,” she confesses.
A jolt of shock rushes through me. “You had a sister who passed?” She nods. “How long ago?”
“About eight months now.”
“Wow.” It’s all I can say; I can’t believe she lost a sibling as well. In some ways, this explains a lot about what I’ve witnessed of her so far.
“Yeah,” Jenna says quietly.
“Is it too early for me to ask how she passed?” She looks down and nods. I can understand. For the first year of Sean’s death, it was difficult for me to talk about how it happened without it taking an emotional toll on me.
This little confession of hers sparks an idea. I stand from the bench and reach for her wrist. She looks down at my grip, then back up at me. “Come on,” I say. “I want to show you something.”
She doesn’t resist. Instead, she reaches out and places her hand in mine. I hold her small, delicate hand the entire time as I lead her toward a large wooden shed. I leave the doors wide open, just in case she feels uncomfortable, and guide her in. Jenna looks around but doesn’t say a word. She steps toward the first table and our hands lose contact as hers slips away. I kind of wish she’d held on just a bit longer. I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it, because I did. A lot.
Jenna slowly walks past each carved sculpture, lightly brushing her fingers against them as she admires each one.
“Did you make these?” she asks.
“No. Sean did. At first it was a hobby for him. Then he became really good at it. He did it as a way to cope with his depression.” She looks back at me. Her features are pinched but unreadable.
“He suffered from depression?”
“Yeah.” I move forward, standing beside her as I look over each sculpture. “He was dealing with a lot of difficult issues. Issues a regular teenager should never have to go through.”
Jenna crosses her arms, hugging herself as if she’s chilly. “What kind of issues?” she asks.
I swallow, wondering if she’ll act like most everyone else who hears about Sean’s story. “When he was younger, about seventeen years old, he was reckless and out of control. What teen isn’t, right? Well, one night he was underage drinking and driving with a few friends in a car. He accidently ran a red light and hit two people crossing the street—a kid and his mom.”
“Oh my God,” Jenna lets out in a raspy tone.
“Yeah.” I nod, tempted to leave it as that, but I decide to keep going. “He didn’t leave the scene. He pulled over and called an ambulance. He waited there and held the kid in his arms until help came. But by the time they arrived, the kid had lost so much blood he was already dead. The mother suffered severe injuries, but she survived. Sean did some time in jail for it. Once he was released, he was never the same. Mentally. He couldn’t get the image of that scene out of his head and knowing that his irresponsible behavior killed an innocent boy made him insane.”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken about Sean’s history with anyone. Family and close friends who know of the incident never speak of it. When Sean was released from prison at twenty-two, everyone just tried to pretend it never happened. But Sean still lived with it every single day until the day he died.
I went on, staring intensely at one of the pieces—a half angel, half demon full-body sculpture. “Some say that Sean’s death was an accident, that he lost control of his bike and hit the tree. He wasn’t drinking. It wasn’t snowing or raining. It wasn’t dark out. It was a direct hit to the tree. As much as everyone wants to believe it was an accident, I know in my gut that he did it on purpose. It wasn’t the first time he tried to take his life. It was the day before the anniversary of the kid’s death. I think he couldn’t handle it anymore, and I think he thought if all of us believed he died in a motorcycle accident, we wouldn’t feel guilty. Guilty for not trying hard enough to get him help.”
I back away from the table, face Jenna, and look down at her. She stares at me with puffy eyes. But there’s no pity in them, just understanding. “Why are you telling me this?” she asks.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It just feels right. I’ve never talked to anyone about it, but I think knowing you can relate makes it easier.” It does make it easier. Jenna knows how it feels to grow up in a household with someone all your life—your best friend—only to have them taken away from you in the blink of an eye. “I also wanted you to realize that even though the pain will always be there, I’m living proof you can get past this. Right now I know it feels impossible, but one day you’ll look back and see how far you’ve come.”
Jenna lifts her hand to my face and cups my jaw. There’s warmth where she touches. Her eyes stare intensely into mine. I stare back, waiting for her to say something. My gaze drops to her lips—those perfectly pouty, pink lips—which she wets with a stroke of her tongue. She opens her mouth to say something and then shuts it quickly. “Thank you,” she finally whispers as her eyes water. She tries fighting back the tears, but she can’t, and a few escape.
“Come here.” I bring her close, wrapping my arms tight around her. She buries her face in my chest, and I think about the pain we both share. More than anything, I wish Jenna and I were bonding over something else, that she didn’t know what it feels like to lose a sister and I a brother. I rest my chin on her hair and hold her, giving her whatever comfort I can.
After we stand this way for what seems like forever, Jenna looks up at me, her tearstained cheeks flushed. She seems embarrassed by our small connection and pulls away from me. “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cry on you. I’m so very sorry,” she says.
“Don’t be. You needed it. It’s okay to cry sometimes.” I smile. “It’s kind of nice chatting with someone who doesn’t know me and doesn’t judge me for a change.”
She furrows her brow. “Why would I judge you?”
“Because that’s what most people do when they hear what my brother was responsible for or the reason behind his jail time. They look at me with revulsion, or they whisper something like ‘His brother is a murderer.’ They make it seem like I did it.”
Jenna sniffs, brushing her nose with the back of her hand. “You’re not your brother, Logan,” she says with a simple shrug. “And even at that, I’m sure he wasn’t a bad guy. It sounds to me like he was a young kid that made a terrible mistake, and he had to live with that mistake for the rest of his life.”