The People We Choose

by Katelyn Detweiler

  Max is silent for a beat, and then: “Yeah. Okay.”

  He tilts his chin toward the yard, and I follow him, jumping down the stairs as he does. He sits on the thickest patch of grass in their meadow, the only part that isn’t just spare blades in awkward overgrown clumps. I sit next to him.

  “Before you ask how I’m doing, can we just skip that?” He’s looking down, away from me, plucking at the grass under his knees. I want to make a joke, tell him that there’s not enough extra grass in this dead yard for him to be so destructive. But I don’t. I’m too sad to joke. Too frustrated. Too exhausted. Too everything.

  “No small talk. Promise. I have a feeling your answer would be pretty much the same as mine anyway.”

  “Okay. So. What did you want to talk about then? You must have come for a reason.”

  “Mostly I wanted to check in. Say hello. Unlike you, I don’t want to be strangers.”

  “I told you,” he says, shaking his head at the ground. “I can’t do this, Calliope. Not today. Maybe not ever. I know this isn’t your fault, I do. And I hate that I’m hurting you. My mom isn’t wrong—I know I’m not handling this well. But I’m still so mad at everything. I’m mad at the whole damn universe.”

  “I’m mad, too, you know. Or at least I was. I’m still sorting it out. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life being bitter and broken.”

  “Me neither. But I don’t know how to let go and move on with you still in my life. And I need to—I need to move on.”

  “I’m your neighbor. This is Green Woods, not Philly. We’re about to start school together. You can’t avoid me forever.”

  “That might not be true. Because… well, because we might not stay.”

  My chest tightens. “What do you mean, not stay?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing definite. My mom hates living out in the woods. She thinks it’s time to finally sell this old house, get an actual fresh start somewhere, maybe a new city. My dad isn’t fighting her that hard on it because it’s his fault we’re all going through this shit. He’s desperate to get back on her good side.”

  It’s like his words have actual heat to them, they burn so hot in my ears. “This shit?” I say, and I’m so outraged, so stunned, that I laugh. “You mean—my existence? Is that shit to you, Max? Because can I remind you that I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him? I would literally not be on this earth. My moms would have had a different baby. You just said this wasn’t my fault, right? Well, it’s not your dad’s fault either. It’s no one’s fault. I’m alive because of what your dad did, and I’m actually pretty damn glad that I’m sitting here right now.”

  He sinks his head even lower, his body folding in on itself. “I know. You’re right. I don’t mean I wish you weren’t born. Never. I just wish… we’d never moved here. I’d never met you. Life would have been much simpler that way.”

  Even with all the anger I’m feeling right in this moment—all the sadness and confusion of this summer—I don’t wish that. Not at all. Maybe life was simpler before the Jackson family came along. But simpler doesn’t mean better.

  Max doesn’t feel that way, though. And I have to accept that.

  I’m about to stand when he says: “My dad told me you two got breakfast this weekend.”

  The change in conversation—the fact that he’s starting a conversation at all—catches me off guard. “We did. I needed to have a real talk with him. Try to wrap my head around the fact that he’s half of my chromosomes. It was good to hear more about his life growing up. His childhood was pretty shitty, not that it gives him an excuse to be a bad dad. But the things he saw, your grandmother dying how she did, your grandfather…” I shiver, glancing up at the house. We are sitting directly in its shadow, darkness that seems to seep like a black fog from the porch, fanning out along the ground.

  “Wait. He told you about that?” He turns his head and looks up at me finally.

  “Uh, yeah. A little.” I want to backpedal. I should have left before this conversation.

  “That’s private.”

  “I know, and—”

  “My mom’s the one who told me about my grandparents. Did he tell you that, too? It was too much for my dad, she said. Too much to tell his own son. But his donor daughter? Yeah, that’s cool. He’ll just run and tell her everything.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. And I am sorry about this. I’m not sorry I had the conversation with Elliot, but it wasn’t my business to bring it up again now, here with Max. “It’s not like that. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger. And that’s what I am to him. You’re his son.”

  “You’re right. I am his son. And my family might be a mess, but they’re my mess. Just because you inherited a few of my dad’s shitty genes doesn’t make you one of us. You’re not a Jackson. And you should be glad about that. Trust me.”

  “Max, please, I—”

  “No. I need you to go. I might be weak or a coward or emotionally immature or all of the above, and I’m sorry. But I can’t do this.”

  “Okay.” I stand up, brushing the dirt and grass from my legs, and walk away.

  I don’t look back.

  When the doorbell chimes and Mimmy calls up for me, I pretend not to hear. I pull my pillow tight around my ears, willing the moment to pass.

  But then Mama is there, at my door. It’s open a crack, my mistake, so she doesn’t have to knock to come in. She edges it open wider, peeks her head into the room. “Sweetheart? You have a visitor.”

  I sigh, throwing the pillow on the floor as I sit up. “I don’t want to see anybody.”

  “It’s Marlow. Max’s sister.” Your half sister, she doesn’t say, but we both feel the empty space at the end of her words. She gives me a sad smile.

  “Marlow?”

  Mama nods. “Marlow.”

  I look down at myself. I’m wearing a neon-pink XXL Hot Mama Flow T-shirt. After my disastrous talk with Max, I was fully planning on spending the rest of the day in bed.

  “Now’s not a great time.”

  Mama takes a step farther into the room, closing the door behind her. “Calliope. I think you should talk to her.”

  “I will. Just not right now.”

  She sits next to me on the bed. “Don’t you think this must be rough on her, too? Everyone is busy thinking and worrying about you and Max. How you’re both coping. But there’s a third child involved here. And she’s younger and probably just as confused. Maybe her heart isn’t broken, not the way yours is, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t suffered a bruising.”

  Mama’s right. Marlow is alone here. No friends. Strange town. Scary house. A brother who abandoned her when he fell in love with the girl next door. And now he’s locked away in his room, grieving over the fact that the girl is his half sister. Her half sister.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to her. Just”—I point at my shirt—“let me change. Does she look flawless? Nice dress, lace-up sandals, model makeup?”

  Mama cocks her head to the side, her brow furrowing. “No? She looked pretty casual to me. I only glanced—Mimmy was talking to her—but I believe she was wearing denim shorts and sneakers. No makeup that I could see. Unless it was an exceptionally natural look.”

  “Huh. Interesting.”

  “What? Is that so odd?”

  “Every time I’ve seen her, she’s all done up with no place to go. She seems like the type to look her best every day. Spend hours prepping. Even if it’s just for bored bedroom selfies.”

  “I see. Well, then maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.” Mama pats my knee and stands up. “I’ll let you change. We’ll entertain her for a few minutes.”

  She leaves, and I throw on a gray T-shirt and black overalls. I slip my feet into my glitter shoes, swipe my hair into a bun.

  I can already picture the scene waiting for me downstairs: sullen Marlow, arms crossed, tapping her manicured nails on the edge of the sofa. Mimmy trying to ply her with iced beverages and sugar-free baked goods. Mam
a making awkward conversation about weather patterns in Green Woods.

  I walk down the stairs, slowly. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

  The three of them are in the living room, not talking. The moms on the love seat, Marlow by herself on the sofa. She has a full glass of lemonade and a plate of lemon rhubarb cookies that appears untouched on the coffee table in front of her.

  Mimmy looks desperately relieved when she sees me. “Oh good, Calliope is here!” she practically sings out, leaping up from the love seat.

  Marlow turns to face me, and if Mama hadn’t told me who was here, it would have taken me a moment to put things together. A long moment. She looks five years younger, at least, without her heavy-lidded eyes and contoured cheeks. I barely know Marlow as it is, but I certainly don’t know this little girl in front of me.

  She looks small. Sad. Weak. Timid. The kind of girl regular Marlow wouldn’t give the time of day. She’d strut right past her empty table in the cafeteria.

  But then again, those were all assumptions, weren’t they? Based on nothing but appearance. Ginger likes masks, after all. The bolder, the better. Marlow might like masks, too.

  I wish I’d tried to get to know her before now. Before everything imploded.

  “Hey,” I say, shoving my hands deep in my overall pockets.

  Marlow stands, keeping her eyes on the floor. Her plain black sneakers. “Can we talk somewhere?”

  The moms start to scuttle out of the room, but I put my hand up to stop them. “Sure. Let’s go outside. On the porch. You can bring the lemonade and cookies if you want.”

  Marlow shakes her head. I see Mama immediately eye the plate—lemon rhubarb cookies are her favorite.

  I lead Marlow to the porch, and we settle in the rocking chairs. I let her take mine.

  It occurs to me, sitting here in silence with Marlow, that this is where I first met Max. This is where it all began. I’m not sure what this conversation will be—if it’s some kind of beginning, or another ending.

  “I should have come talked to you,” I start, “but I was selfish, caught up in my own drama with Max. And it also didn’t feel right, intruding in your world like that. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  She doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. Just rocks, her feet only hitting the ground when the chair swings forward.

  “Max was really upset earlier, you know. After you left. He wouldn’t say why.”

  “Yeah. I know.” My family, he’d said. My mess. What would he say about Marlow sitting here with me? “It’s just… difficult right now. I want to still have him in my life. But I shouldn’t have come over today. He needs to do his own processing first.”

  “He loved you, you know. Really loved you. I never saw my brother like that before. It was weird. Kind of gross. But nice, I guess, too. To see him so happy.”

  “Well,” I say, my throat swelling up tight, “I really loved him, too. I’m just trying to rearrange that love. Not erase it. But make it into a different kind.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “I want to believe it is.”

  “I mean, if someone told me my mom wasn’t my mom and I had to stop loving her like she was, I don’t think I could do it. I couldn’t stop loving Max like a brother either.”

  “You wouldn’t have to stop. Ever. I love lots of people like family that don’t have my blood. It’s the being in love that makes it messy. Regular love is easier.”

  “Yeah? Regular love with my dad isn’t so easy. I want to love him. I should love him. Because he’s my dad and all. But he makes me so angry, I—” She stops. I turn to her, and her cheeks are shiny in the sunlight. She makes no sound as she cries. I almost wish she would be loud about it, thrashing and raging. The quiet unsettles me.

  “You’re allowed to be angry,” I say. “And sometimes I think you can love your family even if you don’t always like them. If that makes sense.”

  It hits me suddenly, the full weight of this conversation. This first real moment with my little sister. Half sister. Donor sister. Whatever the proper terminology might be, it all feels the same right now. I’ve maybe felt like a big sister to Ginger sometimes, but this—it isn’t the same, not even close. Anything I say to Marlow today will matter. It will define how she sees me. Our relationship from here on out. If we have a relationship at all.

  “I’m sorry that my digging around made a mess of everything. For you. For everyone. I’ve had such a great life with my moms. It shouldn’t have mattered, really, who my donor was, because I had everything, didn’t I? But I’m glad I did dig. Because we had to know this. As terrible as it might feel right now, it would have been worse if it stayed buried.”

  Marlow doesn’t respond. Doesn’t give any indication that she even heard me.

  There’s a long moment of silence. Too long. But it doesn’t feel like my turn to talk.

  “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do or say now,” she says finally. “Or what I was looking for when I came here to talk to you. I started walking into the woods without really thinking about it. I feel so… confused. Because who are you and what does it mean that my dad is kind of like your dad, too? Is that a good thing? I mean, I always wondered what it would be like to have a sister. But what do we all do now? I don’t know.” She shrugs, frowning. “I guess I just needed to say something to you. Everyone at home’s making this all about Max. But I’m here, too, right?”

  “You’re here, too.”

  She gives a little indignant hmph, crossing her arms over her chest. The tears on her cheeks are drying. I feel hopeful. The old Marlow is coming back. Or maybe not the old Marlow, at least not the one I thought she was. An altogether different Marlow. One I never bothered to really see before now.

  “You didn’t seem to like me much,” she says, side-eyeing me for a moment before staring out at the trees. “You never tried to talk to me or get to know me. Never asked me to hang out with you and Max or to show me the neighborhood. Not that he ever asked either. He was kind of a crappy brother, too, this summer, if I’m being real with you.”

  “I didn’t not like you,” I say quickly, my cheeks burning. “Honestly? You seemed too cool for me. I was intimidated.”

  Marlow laughs. A real one. Bright and chirpy. It’s a good sound. I want to hear it again. “Please. You were scared of a little thirteen-year-old girl? What could I do to you? You’re like this wholesome forest-goddess girl who seems like she’s never felt out of place in her life.”

  Now I’m the one to laugh. Loudly. “Forest-goddess girl? And you’re way wrong. I feel out of place. All the time. But I guess it sounds silly now. And it’s not that I was scared of you. You just seemed so miserable here.”

  “Well, it gets lonely, you know, only having friends you can text, and they’re always together, busy doing fun things all summer long. They still invite me sometimes, but it’s too far to go much, and I know they’ll stop sooner or later. Bye-bye, Marlow.” She gives the trees ahead a sad little wave.

  “I doubt that. And you’re not that far. You can visit. They can come here.”

  She shrugs. “Not the same. Do you forget being thirteen? You’re old but not that old. I can’t drive, and neither can my friends.”

  “I’ve only ever had two close friends. I’ve always known they were lifers.” Or at least that’s what I thought, before this summer. And hopefully I’m still right. There’s a learning curve to everything. “That’s the rule when you’re pretty much born together.”

  “Well, you’re lucky then. You have true BFFs. And a better family, too.”

  “Not better. Just different.”

  She glances at me, just so I don’t miss her masterful eye roll. “Whatever you say.”

  I do it then, because I want this stronger Marlow to stay—I reach for her hand, clasp my fingers tight around hers. She looks down, frowning at first, but she doesn’t pull away. Our hands stay together.

  “You going all sisterly on me now, or what?” she asks.

 
“Not sisterly. Just—as a neighbor. Maybe a friend even. I want you to know that I’m here. Just a short walk across the woods. If you need anything. At all. I mean it.”

  “A short walk, maybe, but I got so many pricklies scraping at my legs on my way here, and you’re lucky I wore these old shoes I don’t care about. I stepped in two muddy puddles. And nearly fell when I tripped over a stupid old branch. Land mines the whole way.”

  “So, you’re saying you probably won’t be coming over that often?”

  “Probably not.” She looks up at me, and I can’t be completely sure, but I think she might almost be smiling. “Or maybe I’ll ask my mom for some farmer boots. And shin guards or something like that. Keep myself protected. Or I guess I could just use the road.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d like that. Though next time you come, you should try my mom’s cookies. You missed out.”

  “Maybe you can wrap some up for me? I won’t tell Max about them. He ate enough of her treats this summer. He talked about them all the time. Never brought me any, though. So selfish.”

  “I’ll get you those cookies,” I say, letting go of her hand as I stand. “But do me a favor? While you’re not entirely wrong about Max being selfish sometimes, maybe give him a chance to do better? He probably needs you more than ever right now.”

  “Wouldn’t know it. He’s barely said two words to me. He’s been locked away in his room pretty much every minute of the day. Crying and hitting things from what I can tell from listening at the door. It’s not eavesdropping. I’m just making sure he’s okay.”

  I hold back a smile. “He needs time. But I don’t think he’ll want to be alone forever.”

  “Maybe.” She closes her mouth. Then opens it again like she wants to say more, but stops. Bites her lip.

  I turn away and walk inside to the kitchen. I empty the rest of the cookie tin into a plastic bag. Mama will be disappointed, but it’s a good cause. She can have the cookies from the plate Marlow left in the living room, and Mimmy can always make more tomorrow. I hear voices then—the moms stirring in the living room, a few footsteps coming toward the kitchen. “Calliope?”