This Is Not the Jess Show

by Anna Carey

  And we did imagine ourselves there. Day and night that’s all we imagined or talked about, long after those commercials stopped playing, and we couldn’t find them on any station, ever. Sara wanted to meet Snow White and I wanted to meet Mickey, mostly because he was the big boss, the mouse behind the madness. We didn’t drop it, even when my parents said it was too expensive, and even when that summer came and went. We never stopped asking to go to Disney World.

  One Christmas we got a few presents from Santa, though we were skeptical of him by then. Go-Go My Walking Pup, one or two Littlest Pet Shop toys. And then a box with a slip of paper in it. I was the one who read the note aloud to Sara, the tiny folded scrap with my mom’s handwriting printed in red pen. A TRIP TO DISNEY WORLD!!! We were going in March, over school break, and that night we both pulled down our suitcases and started packing. We didn’t care that it was more than two months away.

  I don’t remember when exactly my dad started talking about being afraid to fly. The story was that he’d only been on a plane once, when he was in high school, and one of the engines had blown out. That was all background noise to us. We were asking our mom to buy us sunglasses and trying to decide which ride we would go on first. It wasn’t until the morning we were leaving that I noticed something was wrong. He didn’t get out of bed. My mom was hovering over him, coaxing him to breathe. She said he’d gotten sick—panic attacks—and we couldn’t go. She was sorry but we’d have to cancel the trip.

  Sara and I had asked the question to each other, a dozen times, but neither of us ever had the courage to ask our mom. Why couldn’t we just go without him? Why couldn’t he stay at home? Why did our dad’s fear of flying prevent us from going anywhere as a family, from ever being able to travel?

  “You’re being so quiet,” Tyler said, glancing sideways at me, then back at the road.

  He’d volunteered to drive me the two miles to the hospital. I didn’t refuse because I was stranded, and I was also acutely aware that we were back on camera, back to everyone watching us. I had to pretend to be normal…at least until I could figure out what to do next.

  It was impossible to focus, though. All the memories were rewriting themselves, taking on new meaning. My dad wasn’t scared of flying, it was another lie they’d made up so I’d never wonder why I hadn’t been on a plane or even seen an airport. My mom had to play the overprotective, nervous type so she could keep a close eye on me. Otherwise I might decide to borrow the car and leave Swickley one night, only to find I couldn’t.

  And then there was Sara. She’d never looked like either of my parents. She had someone else’s square jaw. Someone else’s deep-set brown eyes.

  I kept going back to what happened right after the Disney trip was canceled. I’d gotten up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and heard faint sniffling coming from Sara’s room. When I’d gone in and brushed the hair out of her eyes it was wet. She’d been crying, sobbing really, and the whole top of her nightgown was damp with tears.

  I just really wanted to go, Jess, she’d said through choked breaths. I thought we were really going. Why did they lie to us? Her sadness had felt so real, so intense, that I had to fight off my own tears. I snuggled in beside her and stayed like that, listening to her breaths until she fell asleep. She was only a kid then, she was only ever a kid. I remembered playing with her under our kitchen table before she could even talk. Was it possible she’d had as much choice as I’d had? Had she known Lydia was her mother? If the disease had been made up, if she was pretending to be sick, they must’ve told her the truth at some point…but how? When? And why hadn’t she told me?

  Looking back, it felt like she’d been trying to communicate something lately, but I still couldn’t decipher what. She’d been acting strange. Then she kept talking about that park we’d gone to as kids…

  “Could you just say something?” Tyler asked. “You’re freaking me out.”

  “I just have a lot on my mind.”

  Tyler nodded, as though he understood. “Sorry about Craig. You get why I never have people over, right? You’d think I’d murdered someone, not cut a few classes at the end of the day.”

  I let the silence linger between us. I tried not to be obvious, but my gaze kept returning to the air vent by the car door, to the small, round object just an inch inside it. It almost looked like there was a marble, smooth and glassy, lodged deep in the grate. Was that one of the cameras?

  He turned the corner onto Newton Avenue, a three-mile stretch of shops and office buildings. Swickley had always felt small and quaint, a place where you passed the same white-haired woman in the supermarket that you’d seen coming out of the Lemon Tree that morning. (Her name was Mildred, and she was widowed three years ago when her husband died of a heart attack. Or at least that’s what she’d told me.) I realized now I’d never actually seen a map of the town, but there were so many dead ends and cul-de-sacs on the outskirts, and when I was riding my bike I sometimes got that strange, turned-around feeling, like I was lost in a corn maze.

  Everyone in Swickley loved Swickley, though. It sometimes felt like a prerequisite for living here. They said we were lucky. They said we had everything—culture, nature, a coffee shop that served homemade apple pie and root beer floats. They said our sprawling, man-made lake made it impossible to miss the ocean, and wasn’t it amazing how there was always some fair coming to town, or a concert at the pavilion near the beach?

  I knew the tree in Swickley Square that bent awkwardly toward Town Hall, one branch so low that people sat and ate lunch there. Fortune House, the Chinese restaurant on Arbor Mist Road, that had been shuttered since I was a kid. I’d been to every store in the Willow Creek Mall, knew each body mist in Garden Botanika and every weird contraption at Gadgets & Gizmos. Swickley had always been as familiar as my own face.

  “It kills me to say it,” Tyler started, as he pulled off Newton Avenue, onto that last stretch before the hospital. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe we should just be friends for now.”

  He waited for a response, but I wouldn’t give him one. He was still preoccupied with what was going to happen to him. His role, his storyline.

  “You’re under a lot of stress right now with everything that’s happening with Sara,” he said, throwing the Chevy Blazer into park outside the hospital’s main entrance. I’d never really thought about it before, but the building was much smaller than ones I’d seen on TV. There was only one floor with a dozen or so rooms.

  “I really care about you, Jess,” he went on, and he took my hand again, sandwiching it between his own. “I’m here for you, even if it means we can’t be together right now. I know you have feelings for Patrick, and I’m not going to stand in your way. You deserve to be happy more than anybody.”

  From how he positioned himself, I guessed the main camera was hidden in the Steven Tyler bobblehead on the dashboard. The plastic stand it was on was weirdly transparent. He gazed into my eyes, putting on a decent impression of a caring, best friend type, but he didn’t care about me at all. If he wanted a new story, I would give him one.

  “I don’t think we can even be friends anymore.” I pulled back my hand. “Not after what you said in the bathroom. It was so…disturbing.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  “I…I don’t know what you mean.” Tyler’s voice was pitchy, and the red splotches that always appeared when he was nervous began to spread over his face and neck.

  “You know what you said.”

  There was no turning back now. He could try to explain it away, but it didn’t matter. I’d effectively written him off the show.

  “Jess, don’t do this,” he said, and he was practically begging. “I don’t even know what you’re so upset about. We can figure this out, it’s just…it’s a misunderstanding. A big misunderstanding.”

  I jumped down from the Blazer and stood there, holding the door open just long enough to fi
nish the thought.

  “Seriously, don’t call me. Don’t try to talk to me. I never want to see you again. Ever.”

  Then I slammed the door shut, his voice muted behind the glass.

  * * *

  Knowing didn’t make it any easier. When I walked into the hospital room and saw Sara there, hooked up to all those machines, heat rose behind my eyes. It felt real, no matter how many times I told myself it wasn’t. Sara looked like she was in pain.

  My dad paced in front of the bed. All I saw now was his mess of black hair, which had somehow gotten thicker and darker over the years. He was supposedly fifty but he looked younger, his skin taut and dewy, and he was constantly working out, his shirt stretched over his chest. My mom had been sitting in the armchair beside Sara. She stood to greet me, and it wasn’t until she was coming forward, her arms outstretched, that I realized I’d have to hug her. There was no way to avoid it.

  She clutched me tight, her chin nestling into my shoulder. Helene Hart. It had always been about her, hadn’t it? Every aspect of my life, every choice I thought I’d made on my own, she’d always been behind it. In fifth grade she sent me to a child psychologist when I couldn’t sleep, explaining that I was just worried about starting middle school, that I had a hard time adjusting to change. She’d made a huge deal about my Sweet Sixteen, throwing me a candy-themed surprise party at Bell’s Landing, this fancy banquet hall, even though I’d insisted I wanted something small. The green corduroy shift dress was a costume, one of many, and I was always playing the part of the artistic daughter, whether I realized it or not. She’d made me practice the piano for an hour every single day. She’d insisted.

  And for what? So I’d make better television? Because she wanted me to be more dynamic, more interesting…more worthy?

  Then there was the stolen engagement ring, which was taken during the burglary. That stupid engagement ring, which, looking back, probably wasn’t even real. She had raged at me that night, pacing the kitchen, her eyes bloodshot from hours of crying. How could you do this, Jess? she kept repeating. How could you be so irresponsible? This was a complete betrayal.

  A complete betrayal.

  When I pulled back I couldn’t look my mom in the eye.

  “How’s she doing?” I managed.

  “It’s touch-and-go,” she said, pulling her oversized cardigan tight around her. “They’ve been running all these tests, but…there’s still nothing conclusive.”

  “This damn disease.” My dad gripped the end of the bed. He pounded a fist against it. “Why, goddamn it, why…”

  It was melodramatic, even for the situation. He was huffing a little bit, breathing deep, his eyes fixed on the ground. I’d always thought he was out of touch with his feelings, but now I saw him for who he was: a bad actor. Like, really bad.

  “Can I have a minute alone with her?” I asked.

  My mom didn’t say anything right away. She just dabbed her nose with a tissue, her eyes on the floor as she let out a long, exhausted breath.

  “I guess we could use a little break,” she said. “I think the only thing I’ve eaten today is a blueberry muffin.”

  She hadn’t eaten a blueberry muffin, that was an absolute lie, but I didn’t contradict her. I just let her pull my dad away, her arm tucked around him. I waited until I heard the clink of the lock before I did anything.

  It was impossible to look for the cameras and mics without being obvious. It felt like they could be anywhere, everywhere. My best guess was the black box below the television, which was supposed to be where the cable connected—it had a large front panel with tinted plastic. The sheets seemed too thin to have a mic in them, so I ran my hand along the side of the bed, then rested it on the top, checking if there was something stuck to the frame. I didn’t feel anything, but I couldn’t be sure.

  When I touched Sara’s forehead, it was warm and damp.

  “I’m here, it’s me. Jess,” I said.

  The shadows beneath her eyes were a strange purplish color. I put my palm on her cheek and brushed the pad of my thumb against her cheekbone, getting close enough to be certain. I sat down next to her on the bed and waited a few minutes, pretending to just savor those moments with her. Then I stared down at my hand.

  There was a deep-purple smudge on the side of my thumb. Makeup.

  I took her hand in both of mine. The IV was taped down on the back of it, but now that I looked closer there was no needle, no pinprick of blood where it had broken the skin. I swiped my hand across her forehead again and then leaned down, my lips just an inch from her ear. I tried to speak low enough so only she could hear me.

  “I know,” I said. “I found out the truth. Is it safe to talk to you here? Squeeze my hand once if yes, twice if no.”

  She tensed her grip. It was so subtle at first I thought I’d imagined it. I leaned in closer, and brushed the hair away from her face, positioning myself so our hands were hidden between us.

  “You were trying to tell me about that park. Something about what happened that day…”

  Her face was still. She didn’t move, she didn’t squeeze my hand. We’d had so many years together, nights conspiring in the treehouse out back, or sitting in her bed, analyzing the lyrics to every song on the Oasis album. There’d been so much time and now there was none. We couldn’t even talk to each other.

  “Is it too late?” I finally asked. “Are you really leaving? I’ll never see you again?”

  The words caught in my throat. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t want to be left behind.

  I waited, and she squeezed my hand twice. No.

  “So you’re going to be okay?”

  She squeezed my hand again, twice. No.

  That horrible, choking feeling came over me again. I counted the buttons on the machine beside her bed—twelve—and waited until it passed. It was excruciating, not being able to say it out loud, to just tell her everything that had happened at Tyler’s. That I knew now, about the cameras and the strike and my parents constructing this world as an extension of themselves, of some kind of brand. We could finally have a real conversation and instead I just sat there. I had to keep pretending.

  After a long silence she pinched my palm so hard I almost yelped.

  “What?” I whispered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I need you to tell me.”

  Another pinch, and this time she used her nails, digging them into my skin until I had to squeeze back to get her to stop. If we’d been in any other situation I would’ve seriously gone after her. Growing up we’d never fought in that I-punch-you-you-punch-me-back way most siblings did. We were scrappier, more underhanded. I’d once poured a glass of ice water down the back of her tee shirt. She’d once written JESS WUZ HERE on the headrest of my mom’s Honda. Permanent ink.

  “I swear to God, Sar—”

  Then she pinched me a few times in a row, quick and light, and I realized she was trying to get my attention. Desperately trying to communicate one last important message.

  Before I could say anything else, a fast, insistent beep sounded from one of the machines beside her bed. The screens flashed different lights and graphs I didn’t understand, and maybe nobody did. Then the door swung open and a rush of nurses and doctors came in.

  “Get back, back,” one of them yelled.

  A nurse grabbed my arm and led me away from the bed. She was wearing a paper mask over her nose and mouth, but I recognized her wiry gray hair and the checkered scrunchie that held it in place. She was the same actress who’d subbed for Mr. Betts in band.

  “You’re going to have to leave,” she said, barely looking at me.

  The last time I saw Sara, a woman in a long white coat was hovering over her. The crowd of nurses surrounded them, pressing buttons on machines and pulling the blankets off her legs. The doctor laced her hands together, pounding away at Sara’s heart.

 
; 19

  My dad paced the length of the waiting room. We were the only people in there, and with every minute that passed he seemed more agitated. He kept rubbing his hands together, working at the palms with his thumbs.

  “They didn’t say anything?” he said. “Nothing?”

  “No, they just told me to leave.”

  It was the second time he’d asked me. I slumped lower in my chair, letting my head fall back against the wall. It had been at least an hour. My mom was crying, but in an artful way. Every time a tear slipped out of the corner of her eye she swiped at it, then blotted her cheek with the sleeve of her sweater. I had to give her credit…she was good.

  My dad banged his palm against the nurses’ station until a woman came down the hallway. A paper mask covered her mouth, and she pulled it down around her neck to talk to him. She was the same nurse who’d checked us in, the same nurse who’d brought my mom tea yesterday and helped pull the sheets off of Sara just before, when the doctor rushed in. I was starting to think there were only five other people in the entire building.

  “Mr. Flynn, I’ll give you news as soon as I have it,” she said. “You have to sit tight.”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” he grumbled, then he slammed his palm down on the counter again. The nurse gave my mom a simmering look, like you married this person? Then she disappeared back down the hall.

  “I can’t lose her, Jo,” he said to my mom as he kept shaking his head. “We can’t lose her.”

  “We’re not going to.”

  “I just…” he said, pacing again, “I know I haven’t always been there for you and the girls, not in the way I should have been. I know that now. But I deserve a second chance.” He knelt in front of my mom and me and grabbed each of our hands. “I want a second chance.”